The Machinery of Light

PART II APOGEE

The Operative’s about as furious as he’s ever been. He’s being hustled through the Congreve spaceport, and his escorts are making sure nobody’s getting near him. They’re refusing to tell him where he’s going. Montrose won’t take his calls. The president has clearly decided that there’s no compelling reason to have him anywhere near her HQ. He wonders if he’s being hauled away to execution. He’s looking for the moment to try something along the way.

But they enter another hangar before he can act. A shuttle sits in the center, prepping for launch. He’s hustled in toward it. The pilots are standing on a ramp, conferring with mechanics. The Operative thinks there’s something familiar about those pilots, but it’s not until one of them turns toward him that he knows for sure.

Haskell’s coming to her senses. They don’t amount to much. Her head hurts. She’s on her back, restrained, in another train moving down another track. The only difference is that the heavily armed soldiers standing along the walls are American. An InfoCom colonel stands next to her.

“Awake at last,” he says. “Just in time to see the president—”

“—go fuck herself?”

“She’ll want you to be more articulate than that.”

“She can want all she likes.”

“I’d be careful about pissing her off.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“She’s in a pretty bad mood right now.”

“I can imagine.”

“You don’t need to imagine anything. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

She stares up at him. “What’s your part in all this anyway?”

“I’m a loyal servant of the president.”

“That’s a role that’s going out of fashion.”

He shrugs, turns away.

Carson,” says Riley.

“Been too long,” says Maschler.

“Indeed,” says the Operative. He’s trying not to look surprised. Trying to make it look like he knew this was going to happen—like he knew he was going to run smack into the men who ferried him off Earth all those days ago when that Elevator blew and set this all in motion. “You guys been staying out of trouble?”

“We’ve been staying off Earth,” says Maschler.

“And that’s fine by us,” adds Riley.

They look at one another.

“How soon do we leave?” asks the Operative.

“That’d be now,” says one of the soldiers.

The train’s slowing to a halt. Doors hiss open. Haskell’s guards steer her gurney onto a platform, through more doors and into an elevator. She feels her stomach lurch as she drops at speed through the shaft. She’s estimating she’s now a couple of klicks beneath the level of the train, which was nowhere near the surface to begin with.

The doors open. Haskell’s pushed out, down another corridor, up a ramp to a massive pair of blast doors. More InfoCom soldiers stand in front of them. Haskell’s escorts halt.

“Now what?” she says.

“Now we leave you,” says the colonel.

“You mean you don’t make the cut?”

“I follow orders,” he says in a tone that says maybe it’s time you started doing the same. But Haskell says nothing. The colonel gestures to his soldiers and leads them back down the corridor while the blast-door guards scan Haskell. They wear the uniforms of Montrose’s bodyguards.

“Can’t be too careful,” she says.

They ignore her, standing back as the doors swing open. Haskell watches as the space behind them becomes visible—

“Huh,” she says.

She’s looking down five more meters of corridor, at an even larger set of blast-doors. The bodyguards push her toward them, stop. As soon as the outer doors behind them close, the soldiers go to town, stripping Haskell down to her skin. Their eyes go wide as they see how that skin’s been marred—covered with half-healed scars of endless intricacy.

“Who did this?” asks one of them.

“That’d be me,” she says.

Back when she was trying to map out the vectors of Autumn Rain’s zone attacks. Now she’s got it all figured out. Though maybe it’s too late anyway. The soldiers get busy lacing her with IVs, transferring her to another gurney and rigging her in yet another suit of specialized armor. They position the suit so that now she’s upright.

“Thanks,” she says.

The inner doors slide open.

Congreve’s dropping away. The engines of the shuttle continue to throttle up. The Operative shakes his head.

“You’re InfoCom agents,” he says.

“Imagine that,” says Riley.

“Reporting directly to Montrose?”

Maschler laughs. “And all the time the man thought we were slumming it.”

“Because you do it so well,” says the Operative.

“Easy now,” says Riley. “It’s all just business, right?”

“Going to tell me where we’re going?” asks the Operative.

“L2.”

The Operative furrows his brow. “SpaceCom territory.”

“Sure,” says Riley.

“And if I try anything?”

“Try anything you like,” says Maschler. He smiles—arches one of those bushy eyebrows. “If this ship deviates in its course, it gets taken out.”

“Thought you might say that.”

“So you may as well make yourself comfortable,” says Riley.

The Operative’s got a little too much on his mind for that. He knows that Montrose is moving him as far away from the action as possible. L2’s the last place he wants to be right now. That is, other than in a ship that might blow to hell at any moment …

“Relax,” says Maschler. “If she were gonna do you, she would have just done it back at Congreve.”

“Besides,” says Riley, “you’re too important.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“You’ve got a new mission.”

“Which is?”

They don’t take their eyes off him, but both men are laughing in a way that makes it clear they’re both sharing the same joke. And now the Operative gets it too.

The American command center is a series of rooms that open into one another. Screens line the walls. Equipment’s everywhere. Haskell’s guards wheel her forward, maneuvering her down narrow aisles lined with consoles and seated technicians. No one pays her any attention. Apparently they’ve got other things on their mind. The atmosphere’s thick with tension. Haskell’s feeling the same way herself. She’s wheeled up a ramp and onto a raised area that presides over the lower levels beneath. More bodyguards eye her. Stephanie Montrose turns from a conversation she’s having with a member of her staff and regards Haskell with cold curiosity.

“So this is the famous Manilishi,” she says.

“And this is the woman who stole the presidency.”

“This isn’t about who’s president,” snaps Montrose. “It’s about our country.”

“What’s left of it.”

“Exactly. We’re losing this war.”

“And you’re the one who had to go and start it.”

You want me to bag Szilard,” says the Operative.

“Think of it as your greatest hit,” says Riley.

Lunar horizon’s dropping away from the window. The Operative exhales slowly, getting ready to move fast if he has to.

“So what happened to the real guys?” The asks.

“The real who?”

“The real Riley. The real Maschler.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play stupid with—”

“Relax,” says Riley. “They never knew what hit ’em.”

Maschler scoffs. “And why are you asking such silly questions?”

“Was that you back at the Elevator, or was that them?”

“Us. They’d already been taken care of.”

“You were riding shotgun on me that whole time.”

“We were watching you strut your stuff,” says Maschler.

“Did all the work for us and then some,” adds Riley.

“Fuck,” says the Operative.

“It’s all good,” says Maschler. “We hung around the Moon and did some odd jobs these last few days.”

“Prepping the ground for the chief whore?”

“Ain’t no need to get snippy,” says Riley.

“We just haul the mail,” says Maschler.

“Then you’d better start looking at the big picture. The East is coming to bash your skulls out.”

“We’ve got the high ground, Carson. Those barbarians are about to get blasted back down the well.”

“They’ve won unless you can switch the Manilishi on.”

“Well, see, that’s all on the boss. She’ll find a way.”

“You really think so?”

“She’s a clever one,” says Maschler.

“Not so clever playing with the Lizard.”

“She had to do the dance,” says Riley.

“She’d better know when the music stops,” says the Operative.

“That’d be when you reach L2,” says Maschler.

Montrose gestures at one of the screens behind her. The screen splits in two. Each half shows one of the massive Eurasian ships.

“Take a look at those things,” she says.

Haskell’s looking. “How big are they?” she asks.

“Two klicks long. Tungsten armor. As well as—”

“Pulse-detonation engines,” says Haskell. “Nuclear warheads as fuel.”

Montrose nods. “You see what we’re up against.” She gestures at one of her staff, and the view on the screen expands to take in the larger perspective—a vast armada, rising out of the gravity well. Set against the shadow of the Earth, the ships of the East look almost like phosphorescence glimmering beneath the sea. And it’s almost like Montrose’s voice is a wave rolling in from those depths …

“Our lower orbit position is a total shambles,” she says hollowly. “North America is shattered.”

“And our defenses up in the geo?”

“Won’t last long.”

“So you’ve lost the planet.”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“I’m not sure I can help,” says Haskell slowly.

Montrose gazes at her evenly. “I’ve already had the Praetorians purged. All the president’s men and then some. More than ten thousand executed in the last two hours and you’re welcome to join them.”

“Cut the shit, Stephanie. We both know you’re not going to do that.”

A flicker of a smile. “Want to bet?”

“What’s the point? You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and you’re not going to pass up any opportunity to get yourself off the hook. You’re dreaming if you think I’m going to cozy up to you—”

“But you could do it,” says Montrose, and buried deep in her voice Haskell can hear the faint stirrings of a plea. “Don’t deny it. You could hack them, Claire. You could save our lunar forces—”

“Maybe. If the East’s ships are even hackable. Have you been trying?”

“There’s so much interference we can’t get through.”

“And you think I can?”

“I don’t know what you can do, Claire. And I don’t think you do either. But we can plug you into the systems and see.”

“With your failsafes keeping an eye on me.”

“You won’t even notice them.”

“Damn right I won’t notice them. I’ve been down this road before and I know where it fucking leads. That’s why I’m staying right where you’ve been keeping me. Right inside my skull. Because it sure as shit beats serving you.”

“Goddammit,” says Montrose. “I already told you, this isn’t about me. This is about our nation’s darkest hour—”

“Which happened decades ago when scum like you stuck a knife into the heart of America. Snuffed out what was left of the republic and sold our people down the fucking river—”

“Don’t you dare talk about our people,” snarls Montrose. “Not when you’re willing to stand by while they’re condemned to slavery—”

“They’re slaves already. Slaves of you, slaves of the East—what’s the fucking difference in the end?”

“Just because they couldn’t govern themselves doesn’t mean we weren’t in the right to rule them. To save them. They’re dying, Claire.”

“Let them die,” says Haskell. “All they wanted to do was watch war on the vid. Now war’s hit them where it hurts. Ever hear of the chickens coming home to roost?”

“You’re talking like a traitor.”

“Said the woman who had the president butchered. It’s all total shit, and you’re all going to be swept away when I get out of here—”

“Enough,” says Montrose. She signals to a technician. “We’ll find the lever that moves you or we’ll break you trying.”

“Good luck with that,” mutters Haskell.

The screens within her flare with unearthly light.

And then it’s as though she’s falling down some long dark tunnel, as though she’s been falling all her life and then some, as though she’s never going to be doing anything else, as though she never ever wanted to. Static surrounds her, assails her, beats against her. But up ahead a light’s growing. She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t want to. She’s praying to God that she won’t reach it. She’s cursing God for doing this to her—even though she knows she’s the only one worth cursing. The light’s growing all around her, shredding all the darkness. Thermal bloom blossoms toward the brightness of the sun.

But then static resolves into laughter that doesn’t even sound unkind. She feels a presence close at hand. Even though she still can’t see a thing.

“Show yourself,” she demands.

“That would be tough,” says a voice.

It’s not a voice she’s heard before. It sounds like it’s right next to her. Sounds like it’s amused. She’s anything but.

“Goddammit,” she says. “Tell me who you are.”

“What would be a better question,” says the voice.

“Shit,” she mutters. “You’re—”

“A creature of many names.”

“Name one.”

“We’ll start with Control.”

Moonscape keeps on falling away. Horizon curves past it. Lights keep on flaring out in space. The Operative stretches. He’s doing his best to look more relaxed than he feels.

“So are you man enough to nail him?” asks Riley.

“A loaded question,” says the Operative.

“You’re the best assassin we’ve got,” says Maschler.

“So what if I am?” says the Operative.

“So the boss can’t relax with you prowling around the Moon.”

“I’ve been loyal to—”

“Yourself,” says Riley. “So cut the shit.”

“Though it’s not like we can blame you for playing your own angles,” says Maschler. “Who would have thought a supercomputer would come in such a tasty little package? You could practically wrap a bow on her and—”

“Careful,” says the Operative.

“Easy, Carson.” Riley grins. “It’s just us guys now.”

“And we’ve got some time to kill,” says Maschler.

“Interesting choice of words,” says the Operative.

I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Claire.”

Haskell can well believe it. She’s heard about Control: the machine that’s Stephanie Montrose’s prime razor—and that had more than a little to do with the machinations that brought down Andrew Harrison. Because Control’s specialty is intrigue.

And interrogation.

“I wish I could say the same,” she says.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Control’s voice is smooth. “You’ve got every reason to hold your head high.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve followed your career for a long time. Who would have thought you would execute it with such aplomb?”

“I’m not into rhetorical questions.”

“You’ll miss them when I get to the real ones.”

She nods. She’s thinking fast. Control has her in a zone-lock. If there are any ways out of here, he’s got a hold on them. But she’s not ready to have him turn her inside out. She’s not going to go down without a fight—

“I expect you to,” says Control.

“To what?”

“Fight.”

“You can read my mind?”

“I’m inside it already, aren’t I?”

“But not all of it.”

“That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“So what if I don’t resist?”

“Then I’ll have you all the quicker. This isn’t about resistance, Claire. This is about the puzzle that’s your mind. Which my lady Montrose has charged me with unlocking.”

“You’re not the first to try.”

“I’ll settle for being the last. Shall we begin?”

“I thought we already had.”

Laughter rises up to swamp her.

The shuttle’s risen past the outermost of the Congreve traffic zones. Maschler’s working the controls. The ship lurches as more engines fire. Suddenly the Moon’s moving away at speed.

“Express haul,” says the Operative.

“It’s still going to take a few hours,” says Riley.

“So let’s cut to the chase,” says Maschler. “Montrose knew what you were up to from the start.”

“Did she really.”

“For sure.”

“How?”

“Fuck’s sake man, you were too good to be true. Praetorian traitor willing to turn over the keys to Harrison’s back door and bag the Manilishi while he was at it?”

“It was true.”

“But not the whole story.”

“Is it ever?”

“Look at him,” says Riley. “Like the cat that ate the canary. I think he still thinks he can beat us.”

“Is that true?” asks Maschler. “You still believe that, Carson?”

“I think you guys are getting ahead of yourselves.”

“You’re the one who’s done that. By thinking that the fact that you’re Autumn Rain makes you invincible.”

“I’m not exactly Autumn Rain—”

“You’re not exactly anything,” says Riley.

“Neither fish nor fowl,” says Maschler. “How does it feel to be a prototype, Carson?”

“Never had much to compare it to,” says the Operative.

We’ll start with some control questions.”

“That’s fitting,” says Haskell.

Control ignores the barb. “With whom am I talking?”

“Claire Hask—” but as she says the words, pain boils up from within her, engulfs her in agony. She knows she should be screaming, but she can’t. She can’t even move her jaw. Can’t close her eyes either—all she can do is stare transfixed at the featureless light shimmering around her as fire sears across her nerves.

And subsides.

“Wrong answer,” says Control.

“Fucking bastard,” she says.

“What I am is incidental. What matters is what you are.”

“I’m Claire Hask—”

More pain. Control’s voice seeps slowly through:

“We might agree to call you Claire for the sake of convenience. But what you really are is Manilishi.”

She says nothing.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s right.”

“And what is Manilishi?”

“Isn’t that the big question—”

“I’m not asking for the full answer,” snaps Control. “You don’t know. I realize that. That makes two of us. Just tell me what you do know.”

“I’m a biocomputer able to perform hacks faster than the speed of light.”

“And how do you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Control says nothing.

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “I’ve tried—”

“So what would you guess?”

“I’d guess retrocausality.”

“I’d say we can do more than guess.”

“Signals from the future,” she mutters.

“Could there be another explanation?”

“It’s not much of a fucking explanation.”

“Then perhaps we should think of it as a start.”

So let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” says Riley. “You and Sarmax and Lynx were the first out of the gate, but—”

“What is this, true confessions?”

“Call it what you like,” says Maschler.

“You’re beaming everything I say back to Montrose.”

“So what if we are?”

“Let me speak to her.”

Maschler laughs. “I think you overestimate the smoothness of your tongue.”

“Not to mention our ability to get her on the line,” adds Riley.

“She’s too busy losing the final war, huh?”

“Take it like a man,” says Maschler. “Can’t talk to the judge after she’s handed down the verdict, can you?”

“She’s under no illusions,” says Riley. “She took your measure, Carson. Overmighty subject plotting for the day when—”

“I’m not sure I’d agree with the word subject.”

“And therein lies the problem,” says Maschler. “No one who became the Rain ever did.”

“Only three people ever became the Rain,” says the Operative.

Riley shrugs. “An imprecise term,” he says. “But I think we’re on the same page. The danger of creating the ultimate hit team, eh? Three were modified and the rest were born to it—engineered from the very start—but all of them shared the same lust to dominate all else. And all of them went through a similar process. One that—”

“Linked minds,” says the Operative.

“And how much do you know about the actual process?” asks Riley.

The Operative laughs. “Only one man knows what counts.”

It starts with Matthew Sinclair,” says Haskell.

“Of course it does,” replies Control.

“He set it all in motion.”

“But what was all of it?”

She hesitates. “That’s a control question?”

“I daresay we’re starting to move beyond them.”

She shrugs. The light around her seems to be shifting as though it’s water—like waves rising and receding, but it’s still as opaque as ever. She glances down at her hands and wonders what’s happened to her real body—wonders if she’s being operated on in a far more comprehensive fashion than Carson attempted. Perhaps her flesh has already been disposed of. Perhaps it was never that critical anyway. Maybe Montrose and her AI jackal have managed to figure out the part of her that really matters. Or maybe—

“Sinclair said something to me once.”

“You sure it was him?”

She ignores this. “He told me that every cell of me computes.”

“Are you asking if we’ve carved you up yet?”

“I guess so,” she says.

“We’re keeping our options open.”

“Great.”

“Though perhaps your options are foreclosed, no? With information from the future tossed into the mix, who knows what the ramifications upon the present are?”

“It’s all tactical,” she says. “Short-range. I’ve got maybe a second or so advantage when I’m running hacks and that’s—”

“Still more than enough to allow you to lacerate any normal razor. And yet you protest too much, Claire. Your intuition extends out farther than your hacks, doesn’t it? Glimpses, visions, premonitions—call them what you will. What’s the mechanism in your mind that drives it? What’s the conceptual paradigm behind it? Advanced Wheeler-Feynman waves? Sarfatti’s back-action?”

“If I knew that, then I’d—”

“Nor can we just look at you in isolation,” says Control, ignoring her. “We have to strive for an integrated framework, no? So take it from the top: Sinclair experiments with something that involves, among other things, retrocausality and telepathy. We don’t know the extent to which the processes that underpin these phenomena are related, but you seem to be the primary focus for the former. As to the latter: he takes the three best Praetorian operatives and flatlines them—we don’t know for how long or under what conditions—and then zaps them into life again. Only now they’ve got some kind of connection, albeit not a particularly refined one. They can only coordinate in the crudest of fashions—”

“It’s still mind reading,” she says.

“Of course it is. Even if Carson and Lynx and Sarmax can do little more than sense one anothers’ presence, it’s still mindreading. And yet still nothing compared to what the second batch could do. The core of Autumn Rain. Thirty men and women who were bred in the same vat and who came into the world fully linked. Except for—”

“Me and Marlowe.”

“And now Marlowe’s no longer a factor.”

“Not that he ever really was,” she says ruefully.

“Indeed. He was merely the device via which you were bound to your brethren. Whereas you were the key to the whole situation.”

“The intended linchpin of the Rain’s group mind.”

A momentary pause. “I didn’t realize you knew that.”

“Carson told me.”

Control chuckles. “Not like him to speak the truth.”

We have to tread carefully,” says Maschler.

“I’ll say,” says the Operative.

Most of the farside’s now visible, spiderwebs of craters ringed by mountains. No fighting’s in evidence down there. If any combat’s taking place, it’s confined to mop-up. The Operative looks out into space. Shakes his head.

“Why the hell is Montrose picking a fight with Szilard?”

“We were talking about Sinclair,” says Maschler.

“We still are,” snaps the Operative. “It’s impossible not to. We’re all caught up in his plan.”

“Caught up? Or do you mean you’re still trying to carry it out?”

“I’m not even sure there’s a difference,” says the Operative.

“You’d better start learning,” says Riley.

“Same goes for Montrose,” says the Operative.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Does she?”

“She’s the president,” says Maschler. “And it’s her duty to ensure the integrity of the executive node—”

“Political theory’s my favorite line of bullshit.”

“Screw the theory,” says Riley. “Let’s talk about the practice. Ever seen a beast with two heads? It doesn’t survive. Montrose and Szilard can’t share power and they both know—”

“Nothing,” snaps the Operative. “Neither of them knows a goddamn thing. If they did, they wouldn’t be losing the fucking war. Sinclair’s going to have the last laugh yet.”

Riley coughs. “If the Eurasians win, how the fuck does that help Sinclair?”

“That’s the part I’m still trying to figure out.”

He’s the most dangerous man alive,” says Control.

“Carson’s a close second.”

“Are they working together?”

“Each wants the other to believe that,” she says. “But as to whether they really are—”

“Has Carson told you that he still loves you?”

“What?”

“I’m not talking about how he conned his way into your teenage pants. I’m talking about recently.”

“He’s implied it. It’s still bullshit—”

“Hardly. He may well believe it.”

“It still wouldn’t matter.”

“I’m glad you realize that. Insofar as he’s capable of such emotion, he lives only to betray the objects of it.”

“What does a machine know of such matters?”

Control laughs. “Am I making you anxious?”

“Are you trying to?”

“Naturally. Because now we’re getting into the thick of it. What does a machine know of such matters, indeed. Perhaps I should put that question back to you.”

“I’m flesh and blood.”

“And software. All of it greater than the sum of its parts. Such a complex piece of work. Such a tough nut to crack. This is where it’s going to get painful.”

“Even more so when you have to tell Montrose you couldn’t pull it off.”

Control ignores her. “The key to the problem is memory,” he says. He sounds like he’s giving a lecture. But she’s hanging on his every word. She feels a need to shake him, beg him to hurry up. She knows that’s merely part of whatever it is he’s doing—

“Memory,” she repeats.

“Indeed,” says Control. “And we need to unravel yours.”

“But I remember all of it.”

“Do you really?”

“I already made that breakthrough!”

“With Carson as midwife.”

“With Carson as …” She trails off. “Fuck.”

“You see? You’re walking on quicksand. And even if he led you straight, he may not have led you deep enough.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we have to take this all the way back, Claire. Your memory is the key to you in some manner that we don’t fully understand. It wasn’t just the means via which your would-be masters aimed to control you. It’s bound up in the very essence of your powers.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“It’s very simple,” says Control, and as he talks she can’t help but notice the amorphous light around her is fading. “Your conscious callback accounts for only the merest fraction of what we’re interested in. Your unconscious material is where the real secrets lurk.”

“You’re talking like a fucking shrink,” she says.

“As does any good interrogator.”

She tries to reply, but she’s having difficulty forming words. It’s like the fading light is taking the ground out beneath her—like the gathering dark is sapping her will to resist. She feels herself tossed through the canyons of her own mind and it’s all she can do to hang on—

“Cat got your tongue?” asks Control. “Think, Claire, what a fragile reed even the truest of recollections are. So much seen and yet so little understood. So much that goes down before we even comprehend it. What was done to you back in the vat? Do you have any idea? What happened in those first few hours? What happened in those first few minutes?”

Darkness envelops her.

They’ve been stuck in the dark for a little too long now—crawling through narrow spaces while trying to ignore the clanking and creaking all around them. Generators whining, KE racks humming: this ship’s clearly heavily involved in whatever combat’s going on outside.

“How long has it been?” asks Linehan suddenly.

“Just under an hour,” says Lynx.

“No kidding.”

“Can’t you tell time?”

“Not with any certainty.”

He’s been drugged and rebooted a few too many times for that. Now Linehan’s living in something that approximates the eternal present. Past and future seem to be collapsing in upon him. He feels like he’s been in these shafts forever. But there’s something that’s been growing on his mind—

“So where the fuck are we?”

“This is the Redeemer,” says Lynx. “Registered with the Zurich Space Commission in 2108. Scheduled for the Martian orbits by the year 2115. State-of-the-art colony transport. But all the time she was shaping up to be one of the heaviest gunnery-platforms in the L2 fleet.”

“That’s what covert construction will get you.”

“Sure,” says Lynx. “And now she’s giving all she’s got against the East.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Haven’t a clue. I can’t access the ship’s mainframes.”

“You’re cut off from zone?”

“The parts that count. That’s one of the reasons we’re staying mobile.”

Linehan nods. Spencer had explained it to him once: the zone’s like a series of hills. Different positions give different vantage points. Certain locations are inherent deathtraps. Others allow you to rain shit down upon your opponent. Or just act like you’re not there.

“Do they know we’re here?” asks Linehan.

“Of course they know we’re here. We fucking crash-landed into their goddamn hangar bay.”

“I meant are they on our trail?”

“Presumably.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“Until I get the full zone picture—”

“I’ve heard this already.” Linehan opens a trapdoor; they keep on crawling.

Stabilized at last,” says Spencer.

“And it’s about time too,” says Sarmax.

It’s taken long enough. They’ve been in this elevator shaft doing nothing but hold on while the ship’s been shaking like it’s on the point of falling apart, even as it pulverizes the opposition. The American geo positions were speed bumps and nothing more. The ship’s starting to put the Earth behind it.

“Not a pretty sight,” says Spencer.

It never is when a side of planet gets hit by everything and then some. The atmosphere is still burning. The Eurasian reserves have swarmed through the lower orbits. The only resistance they’ve left is underground, and most of that can be safely bypassed. Doesn’t matter how many American forces are down there as long as their ground-to-space weapons have been eliminated.

“All that counts now is the high ground,” says Sarmax.

And that’s clearly the next stop. Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon have left the rest of their fleets in the dust. Except for—

“Take a look at that,” says Spencer.

“Ballsy,” says Sarmax.

The rear camera feeds aboard this megaship are positioned to capture images between each of the nuclear blasts that keep on propelling the ship ever farther out into space. When those blasts are detonating, armored shutters ensure instrument integrity. And when those blasts aren’t—

“Someone’s getting danger pay,” says Spencer.

Rigid tethers lashed to the sides of both behemoths are splayed out for scores of kilometers into space. Each cable’s towing several ships, which look to be modified corvettes. They’ve obviously received more radiation-shielding than usual. Even so, it looks like they’re taking damage—

“It’s worth it,” says Sarmax.

“I’m sure,” says Spencer.

“The summit of the Earth-Moon system,” continues Sarmax, as though he’s giving a briefing. “The East has nothing up there now. They’ve been cleaned out of their lunar positions and their fortress at L4 is a smoking ruin. But the Americans have fuck-all back on Earth. And now that their geo position has been rolled up they’re reeling. They’re outnumbered. And we’re the mobile spearhead. These two dreadnaughts are getting out ahead of the main fleet so they can strike while the iron’s hot. That’s why we’re towing so many fucking ships—they want to get up there as quick as possible with as big a force as possible.”

“Probably.”

“If you’d managed to hack the Eurasian net we wouldn’t need to be guessing.”

“Easier said than done,” says Spencer.

“Apparently.”

“Look, this is a whole separate net, okay? Totally cauterized from what’s left of the East’s original. Deliberately kept dumbed-down and crude. Oh, and by the way, all external signals reaching us are occuring between nuclear fucking detonations.”

“You sound like you’re making excuses.”

“I like to think of them as reasons.”

“And I don’t like it.”

“Tough shit, Leo. All I can hack is this ship.”

“And not even all of that.”

“Then how about you fuck off and let me get back to it.”

“And the handler’s file?”

“Has taken a backseat to cracking the ship’s cockpit.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t.”

“And you’re being such a big help. Look, the file’s insane. And I can’t work miracles with the Eurasian zone, okay? Same way you wouldn’t be able to take on the whole Eurasian army, all right? So you’re going to have to deal with the fact that so far I haven’t cracked the cockpit, and so far I still don’t know what’s up with the newcomer.”

For a moment there’s silence.

“What newcomer?” asks Sarmax.

“That guy who slipped aboard at the last moment.”

“That guy?”

“Yeah, that guy. You didn’t seem that concerned at the time.”

“He didn’t just head to the cockpit?”

“Why would you assume he’d head to the cockpit?”

“If he’s impervious to hacking, he’s obviously important.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s in the cockpit.”

“Even though it’s basically impregnable?”

Spencer shrugs.

“So where the fuck is he?” asks Sarmax.

“In his quarters.”

“Which are where?”

“Other side of the ship.”

Sarmax looks thoughtful.

“Wait a second,” says Spencer, “you’re not thinking—”

“Why not? Let’s go say hi.”

You’re playing a dangerous game,” says the Operative.

“You’re one to talk,” says Maschler.

“The difference is I’m under no illusions,”

“Name a single one that governs InfoCom.”

“Keeping Sinclair alive is a good idea.”

For a moment there’s silence.

“We already discussed why that’s necessary,” says Riley.

“Have we?”

“He’s the only one who knows the formula that created Autumn Rain.”

“You sure about that?” asks the Operative.

“Who else did you have in mind?” asks Maschler.

“There must have been scientists. Technicians. Lab records.”

“Yeah?” asks Riley. “You seen any?”

The Operative shrugs. “I heard Sinclair had a file—”

“Which went AWOL,” sneers Riley. “As you damn well know.”

“News to me.”

“I can’t believe I’m even listening to this bullshit,” says Maschler. “For all we know you were watching while Sinclair burnt everybody involved.”

“For all we know you were the one who did it,” adds Riley.

“I didn’t have that kind of access,” says the Operative mildly.

“I’d bet you’d like to.”

“Is that an offer?” asks the Operative. “Does this mean you’re turning off the goddamn tape and beaming Montrose back some dubbed bullshit while the three of us get down to business?”

“We’ve already gotten down to business, Carson.”

“Then why don’t you start acting serious, huh? Haven’t you numb-nuts interrogated Sinclair already?”

“Harrison already tried,” says Riley.

“Before you shot him,” says Maschler. “As you well know. Christ, Sinclair’s just fucking gone.”

“Like nothing we’ve ever seen,” snarls Riley. “Fucker taunts us and then he just seems to switch off. Even though he’s still fucking breathing. Chemicals and pain and none of it matters. Not now. He’s beyond our reach.”

“As opposed to me?” asks the Operative.

“Ah, yes,” says Maschler. “Riley, what do we think of what Carson told Montrose about what he’d done to his own mind?”

“I think we think it’s bullshit,” says Riley.

“Though give him points for trying,” says Maschler. “But Carson, even if you really did rig yourself with death-switches to prevent your head from being skull-fucked, what makes you think we’d hesitate to put you to the question anyway?”

“Because it’d be the last question you’d get to ask.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Or maybe you’re just too chickenshit to take the chance and take me apart.”

“Or else we’d rather have you take out Szilard instead.”

The Operative yawns. The ship keeps on motoring toward L2.

She wandered in that desert for forty days and forty nights. The whole time she knew she was just moving through the wilderness of her own mind. It didn’t matter—it was still as real as anything she’d ever seen. Or remembered: She trudged beneath two suns that scattered her shadow into long fragments across the sands—kept on stumbling through the desolation while evening draped around her and morning rose, and all the while she knew that scarcely seconds were going by, that the greatest war in history was still raging on outside, that she was still helpless in the depths of Montrose’s command center with the creature called Control still crawling through her brain. She didn’t dare go to sleep, not even for a moment. She knew as soon as that happened that Control would penetrate whatever was left of her: that he would rule her dreams and subjugate her to everything within her she’d feared and never understood. So she just wandered through those trekless dunes, fighting off that mounting urge through sheer force of will. Her eyes remained open and her spirit remained hers—and by night those suns gave way to starless expanse in which was set a single moon that shimmered in her heart and looked identical to the one that had swallowed her back in the world she’d left so long ago. She felt that moon all around her—felt it calling to her, telling her all the things she already knew and didn’t want to hear. The fortieth dawn rose but there was only one sun now. It wore a face.

They keep on crawling through the industrial plant of the colony ship-turned-warship: an endless maze of crawlspaces and narrow passages. If they’re being pursued, Linehan hasn’t seen a sign of it. Then again, he’s figuring that by the time he does, it’ll be too late anyway. Meaning it’s all coming down to whatever’s going on in Lynx’s head. And Lynx is even more close-mouthed than usual. His standard cock-of-the-walk attitude seems to have faded a little. Linehan thinks about this. He opens up the one-on-one.

“So when do you kill me?” he asks.

“What?” says Lynx.

“You heard me.”

“Why would I want to kill you?”

“Same reason you’re keeping me alive.”

“I told you, you’re making your own decisions—”

“Tell me what you’re planning.”

“I’m making things up as we go.”

“But you must have some idea how we’re getting off this ship.”

“Who said we’re getting off this ship?”

“We’re just going to stay here?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because we’re in the middle of World War—”

“Sure we are,” says Lynx, “but you’re not thinking.”

“Sometimes I have that problem.”

“So let me spell it out for you. We got the drop on SpaceCom by getting onto this fucking ship, right?”

“Right,” says Linehan. “Though it seemed more like luck than skill to me—why the fuck are you laughing?”

“Because luck’s the best kind of skill,” says Lynx.

You really want to pay this guy a visit?” asks Spencer.

“It’s either that, or we have a crack at the cockpit.”

“Which we eventually have to try. So why take unnecessary risks in the meantime?”

“Define unnecessary,” says Sarmax.

Spencer shakes his head, ponders what he can see of zone and all the space that lies beyond. The ship’s still running smooth, putting the Earth behind it at speeds that ought to be illegal as it continues to vector in toward the Moon, taking increasing amounts of fire. It doesn’t seem to be troubled in the slightest.

“Look,” adds Sarmax, “it’s real simple. This guy looks important. And he also looks like he’s a damn sight easier to get to than the cockpit.”

“Which may be the point.”

“Meaning?”

“Could be a trap.”

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, “I thought of that—”

“Well, keep thinking. Because I can’t think of a better way to catch whatever assholes might be lurking in the woodwork—”

Sarmax laughs. “We’ve snuck into a secret weapon that’s gone operational and you’re still clucking about the risks?”

“I’m just trying to calibrate them.”

“Doesn’t change the basic picture. We need to get control of this ship before it hits the Moon, sure. But maybe that guy has part of the key to doing so. Maybe he’s planning the same thing himself.”

“Why the hell would he be doing that?”

“Because the Eurasians are like us, man: they’re divided against themselves. Look at the way the ivans watch the chinks and the chinks keep an eye on the ivans. No one trusts anyone for shit. And with things looking ever worse for Uncle Sam, the tension’s getting cranked up ever higher.”

“You really think the East might succumb to civil war?”

“Let’s just say they wouldn’t be the first.”

The ship keeps on throttling heavenward. The Moon’s now a ball in the window, and the L2 fleet is looking like a starfield preparing to engulf them. The Operative laughs.

“This hasn’t a chance of working,” he says.

“It working and you living are two very different things,” says Riley.

“Touché.”

The most basic rule of assassinations: the shooter is expendable—or better still, marked for disposal. The Operative’s pretty sure that’s how this one is going to go down. Right after he’s managed to kill the Lizard, he’ll be gunned down by either Szilard’s bodyguards or the men he’s talking to right now. That’s why Montrose has sent him up here in the first place. This is a one-way trip. Even so, he can’t see how the hell Montrose is expecting him to take out Szilard. Unless—

“And here we were thinking that you’re the expert in connnecting dots,” says Riley.

“Sometimes I need a little nudge.”

“That’s for sure.” Maschler looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Look, there are three ways to crack a fortress. You either blast your way in, you sneak on through, or else you …” His voice trails off.

The Operative stares. “Or what? You’re telling me we’ve been invited to see Szilard?”

“Why not? We’re all trying to stop the East, aren’t we?”

“He’ll be suspicious as all fuck.”

“Of course he will be.”

“So what’s the angle?”

Riley and Maschler look at each other.

“Well?” repeats the Operative.

“Maybe it’s time to show him the cargo,” says Riley.

The sun’s face is one she recognizes. Even though she doesn’t want to. Even though she hasn’t seen it in so long. She stands in the midst of her own desert, endless wastelands stretching out on all sides as she looks up at what’s leering down upon her.

“Hello Claire,” says Morat.

“That’s not really you,” she mutters.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re dead.”

“Am I really?”

“I saw you destroyed.”

“And yet I live on inside of you.”

“Only in my memory.”

“More than enough. Shall we begin?”

She says nothing. The light of his face is getting ever brighter. The sky beyond it is going black.

“What the hell’s happening?” she mutters.

“Control is forcing its way ever farther inside you.”

“And you’re helping.”

“Except for the fact that I don’t exist.”

“You’re a part of my mind that’s been set against me.”

“I seem to recall I was on your side.”

“You were my worst enemy,” she says.

“Only after you betrayed yourself.”

“I never—”

“Fooled yourself too. You know I speak the truth. You’re Rain. Yet you denied them again and again. In that SeaMech beneath Pacific. At the Europa Platform. And then afterward, when you helped to snuff all your brethren. Thus were the Rain undone by the very weapon built to complete them. Thus was—”

“Not all of them.”

“What?” asks Morat.

“I didn’t kill all of them.”

“Carson and Lynx and Sarmax aren’t in the same league as—”

“I’m not talking about the original trio,” she snarls. She feels she should shut up, but she can’t. Not with Morat’s disembodied head looking down at her like that. “There are still other members of the Rain left.”

There’s a pause. Morat flickers.

“How would you know that?” he asks.

“I’ve felt their minds.”

Morat beams at her. “Oh good,” he says.

So nobody’s getting off this ship,” says Linehan.

“Give the man a hand,” says Lynx.

They’ve come through into a wider set of passages. The lights are few and far between. All they can hear is the continued clanking of distant guns. They’re deep in the interior now.

“And we’re staying in the bowels of this thing.”

“It seems like the prudent thing to do,” says Lynx.

“Because there’s no point in going near the hull.”

“Given that nothing’s leaving: no.”

Linehan nods. He gets it, though it took him long enough. Szilard knows which ship they’re on. It would have been hard to miss. But the commander of SpaceCom can’t afford to blow any more dreadnaughts just to get at rogue elements. He’s way past that luxury now. So all he can do is take precautions. Which is why nothing’s getting off the colony ship. At least until—

“All debts will be settled when the war’s over,” Linehan mutters.

“And a lot of them long before,” says Lynx.

Linehan nods. They keep on moving.

They leave behind the ledges where they rode out the launch and head out into the elevator shafts—riding cables, moving adroitly from one to the next. Spencer syncs up the zone with the topography that’s all around them. Shafts extend down beyond his sight, electric light flickering in the distance. Elevator cars clank past, packed with soldiers. Machinery’s everywhere. Spencer’s view is shot through with the false color of augmented zone-vision. For a moment it seems to him like this ship has become the universe, like everything around him is just the gears of existence turning: the guns raining death out into the beyond; the armor taking fire from the massed batteries on the Moon and at L5; the endless conveyor belts upon which nukes are slotted through the bowels of the ship and spat out into the vacuum beyond. But he’s leading Sarmax in the other direction, moving into the middle areas of the ship, getting extra stealthy.

“We’re almost at the troop quarters,” says Spencer.

“Roger that,” says Sarmax.

Riley leads the way—the Operative follows him, and Maschler trails after. The Operative appreciates the way they move—like the professionals they are—and even though they’re probably not expecting him to try anything, they’re ready for anything he might. He wonders how he could have let them fool him back at the Elevator. He’s guessing it had more than a little to do with the fact that he had a lot on his mind.

He’s got the same problem now. They descend a ladder into the ship’s main cargo hold. Riley hits a switch; lights flicker dimly all around. Auxiliary holds sprout off from the main one. Containers are racked up everywhere, faint vibration washing through them from the engines directly below. The Operative wonders if he’ll end up in one of those boxes. He can’t deny it’d be fitting. He feels like his life has come full circle, that these two men may as well be the ferrymen taking him across the Styx.

“Is this the part where you try to off me?” he asks.

“Even better,” says Riley.

“Right this way,” says Maschler, heading in toward one of the auxiliary chambers.

A desert with a population of one. A woman with the feeling that the face that’s leering down at her is getting a little too close for comfort.

“The Rain’s out there,” she says.

“Where?”

“At L5.”

“With Sinclair?” asks Morat.

“They’re guarding him.”

“I would put it the other way around.” One eyebrow raises. It looks obscene. “He shielded them from you when you were Harrison’s servant. And he thinks we haven’t figured it out since—”

“He’s playing all the angles,” she says. “You can’t hope to beat him, Stephanie, please listen to me, you have to kill him now—”

“Spare me,” snaps Morat. “The president can’t hear you. She doesn’t micromanage interrogations.”

“She leaves that to something even colder than her.”

“If you like,” says Morat. He seems amused. “But I’m pleased to wear this face while I tear your skull apart.”

“So now we see your real one.”

“Oh,” says Morat, “let’s not get all literal here. I’m not Control. His mind’s aware of what we’re saying, but I really am part of you. That’s the point, you see. You think you’re whole, but you’re really scattered piecemeal. Taking you apart is just a matter of putting it all together.”

She says nothing. Wind brushes sand onto her face.

“Can you detect Sinclair?” he asks.

“No,” she says.

“You’re both blind to each other,” says Morat. “As it should be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Once posthumans get into the mix, the whole game changes, no? Especially if what makes them posthuman is mental. Especially if it can be replicated.”

“Isn’t that the big question? A man can be modified, but—”

“Can he beat that which is born into it? He might deceive himself that he could. Lynx and Carson and Sarmax certainly did. In the end they couldn’t even keep their own team together. Who would have thought they would go out so early?”

“They’re dead?” She manages to keep the edge from her voice, but it’s as though Morat has heard it anyway.

“My condolences,” he says. “Carson’s fucked you over for the last time.”

“How did he die?”

“He’s going to kill Szilard for his president.”

“Going to?”

“Or he’ll fail in the attempt while our backup team finishes the job. Either way, he’s dead. And there’s no way off L2—”

“You’re an idiot,” she spits. “You’re a fucking idiot. If you’re going to kill Carson, then fucking kill him. Don’t try to use him. Don’t give him the slightest chance—”

“Sounds like you want him dead.”

“I do want him dead. I want him to live forever. Whatever. He’s far more of a threat to Montrose than Szilard ever could be.”

“Abstract pronouncements. All of Montrose’s enemies now live on borrowed time.”

“As does Stephanie Montrose. The fucking Eurasian fleet’s steaming in toward you, or haven’t you noticed? And for all we know, Leo Sarmax is in control of it by now.”

“Or else he’s dead in the Himalayas,” says Morat. “What does it matter? It’s still the same hardware. Still the reason why Montrose needs to attain control of you—along with total possession of the L2 fleet. The last thing she needs with the East’s spearhead coming straight at her is to not be able to trust her second-in-command—”

“I’m not sure that’s how Szilard sees himself.”

“You summarize the problem nicely.”

“Your real problem’s Sinclair. He’s the one who’s ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

“More than that,” says Morat.

“What are you saying?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying.”

She stares up at that face.

“We both know what Sinclair is,” he adds.

She shakes her head. “Carson said that Sinclair had mapped it all out.”

“Go on.”

“All the possibilities, every which way the game might break. Said he gave him a very specific set of instructions that allowed him to thread his way through the maze.”

“More retrocausality,” says Morat. “Somehow he can see what’s coming—”

“Presumably. But …” Haskell hesitates.

“What is it?”

“I—went through something similar at the Europa Platform. Everything converged on the moment when the combat started.”

“I suspect Sinclair has a slightly wider purview.”

“The question is how far it extends.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told Carson there was a moment coming up past which he couldn’t see.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” says Morat.

“I’ll say,” says the voice of Jason Marlowe.

They’ve come through into a new part of the ship. The ceilings are much higher now, the walls far wider.

“Waste of space,” says Linehan.

“Not really,” replies Lynx.

They’re looking at a vast garage of vehicles. Most of them are crawlers. Rigged for some heavy terrain from the looks of their treads …

“Ready to tame the red planet,” says Lynx.

“I thought this wasn’t really a colony ship.”

“It’s not,” says Lynx. “This is in case it needs to pacify the Moon or something.”

“Or something?”

“Or land dropships on Earth. Give me a fucking break, man. I’m no strategist. I’d thought the sole point of this ship was to rig as many guns as they could fit on it.” He gestures at the vehicles. “What they want with this shit, who the fuck knows. Maybe it was in case of inspections by the Eurasians under some fucking Zurich armaments limitation line-item—”

“Where exactly are we going, Lynx?”

“Told you already. We’re getting away from the hull—”

“Stop bullshitting me. You know more than that.”

“And trust me, you don’t want to.”

They’ve made their way into some high-ceilinged chambers positioned around the spine of the ship. Below them are hundreds of grav-couches. Each one contains a power-suited Russian soldier. Those soldiers have received orders to stay put. Unexpected accelerations could tear through this ship at any time. If that happens, Spencer’s hoping he can hold onto his current perch. He can practically feel hundreds of eyes staring through him. He makes himself as one with the ceiling as possible, gets busy figuring out the next step—hesitates a moment, then leads the way into another duct.

Deja-vu: the auxiliary cargo chamber looks disconcertingly like the cargo hold in the Antares rocket that lifted the Operative from Earth several days back. For a moment, the Operative’s brought up short, thinking about all that’s transpired since—all that scrambling to stay alive, making sure all those others died. He follows Riley to a pressurized door set into the wall. Riley keys codes, breaks the seal—

“You sure you want to do that?” asks the Operative.

Riley says nothing. There’s a hiss as the door slides aside. The room that’s revealed is small. A raised platform is set into its center. Lying on that platform is something that looks like a cross between a suit of powered armor and a sarcophagus. Screens atop it show vital signs.

“Voilà,” says Riley.

“You are shitting me,” says the Operative.

“Not even vaguely,” says Maschler. He’s standing in the open door, his expression wary while Riley leans over the sarcophagus and keys in more codes. A visor slides back. The Operative recognizes the face behind it.

So you made it,” says Haskell.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” says Marlowe.

“Lovers reunited,” says Morat.

“That would be tricky,” says Marlowe, “since I’m dead.”

He looks even worse than that. Another disembodied head—a second sun burning in the leaden sky. But his face is the one she remembers from right before she killed him: that strange mixture of boyish wonder and unreflecting mind. He looks like he’s genuinely pleased to see her. Like maybe he still loves her.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she says.

“I was here all along,” replies Marlowe.

She nods. She feels that Control’s probably almost at her center. Everything’s shifting around her. Desert blooms in fast-forward, becoming jungle. She feels she’s no longer alone—feels the eyes of all too many predators upon her body.

“I can hear them, Jason.”

“Them?”

“The surviving members of the Rain. I can feel their minds.”

“How many triads?”

“That’s your first question?”

“That’s the only question, Claire. What does Sinclair have left? What has he kept in reserve?”

“I can’t tell.”

“You can’t tell?” asks Morat.

“It’s fuzzy,” she says. “There could be one. There could be many.”

“Your powers are still in their infancy,” says Marlowe. “You’ll know soon enough.”

“You’ll be both searchlight and laser when we figure out how to really switch you on,” says Morat. “The rest of the Rain won’t stand a chance against you. And then we can neutralize Sinclair from a distance.”

“But why not execute him right now?” she asks.

There’s a flicker of hesitation up there. Around her, the jungle abruptly starts to wither. She shivers as the temperature plunges, watches as greenery shrivels.

“You can’t, can you?” she asks.

“No,” admits Morat.

“Montrose no longer controls the L5 flagship,” she says.

“Montrose no longer controls the L5 fleet,” says Marlowe.

The temperature keeps dropping. Snow’s falling in sheets. Vast ice sculptures are visible in the middle distance. The suns above her are growing faint.

“Sinclair’s taken over up there,” she mutters.

“Apparently,” says Morat.

“But the L5 ships are still fighting the East?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Still coordinating with the rest of the American fleet. Still firing on the oncoming Eurasians.”

“Normal communication is being maintained,” says Marlowe. “It’s the higher-ups we can’t get through to.”

“Classic Rain takeover,” she says.

“Probably,” says Morat.

“You have to let me out of here.”

“You have to help us,” says Marlowe.

“We need you back in the game,” says Morat.

“So release me.”

“First we need you to allow us control.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’re about to find out. We’ve almost broken through.”

She feels that’s correct, like the final wall in her mind is paper-thin, about to be torn. She feels something bearing down upon her that she can’t hope to avoid. The snow intensifies, swirls against her face. The ground starts to freeze beneath her feet.

“So now we move to the real question,” says Morat.

“Why did you kill me?” says Marlowe.

“Don’t you dare go there,” she says.

But he already has. And it’s already set something in motion that she knows she can’t stop. Some kind of chain reaction going off within her as though she’s nothing but thousands of tiny gears and pulleys now cranking into operation—ten million dominoes toppling in long lines across vast illuminated floors—and she’s powerless to stop it. She’s on the ground now, and it’s all ice beneath her while she lies on her back and snow falls into her open mouth and eyes. Her innermost desires are exposed to the light—and the face of Jason Marlowe is streaking fire as it drops burning from the sky toward horizon …

“I didn’t know what compulsions he’d been rigged with,” she whispers.

“You don’t know what compulsions you’ve been rigged with,” says Morat. “Why didn’t you shoot yourself too?”

“Maybe I should have.”

“Carson might not like that.”

“Who cares what he likes?”

“He thought to enslave you.”

“It’s me who’s enslaved him.”

“Given that he’s the world’s best actor—”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” she says. “He’s only fooling himself. He’s spent his whole life running from his own emotions. If he faces me again, his mind will be in my power. Trust me on that—”

“I don’t need to trust you ever again,” says Morat. “That’s the beauty of all this.”

“That’s what you think—”

“Your psychology is endlessly fascinating, Claire. The more cornered you get, the more arrogant you become. Even though that acrid odor you’re smelling is the core of your own mind burning out.”

She can’t smell a thing. Still can’t move either. She hears sharp cracking noises around her. Turns out that what she’s sprawled on is really pack ice breaking up. She feels herself pulled in all too many directions. Everything beneath her is starting to go.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Claire.” Morat’s voice morphs seamlessly into that of Control. “Take comfort in the fact that you’re the most fascinating challenge I’ve ever faced.”

“You’re done?”

“In ten more seconds.”

“Which is when—”

“You become the world’s most intelligent automaton. A shame you won’t be able to let me know how it feels.”

“Fuck you to the gates of damnation—”

Frigid liquid closes in around her head.

They’ve entered the domain of gravity. Apparently this is the rotating part of the ship. They cross a bridge, and Linehan can’t even see the bottom. Lynx isn’t even looking. Linehan can only imagine how much wider of a purview that man must have. He always thought razors were sad, confined creatures who couldn’t take the world and lived within themselves. Now he’s realizing that they’ve got the only world worth having. Ayahuasca taught him that. That, and Spencer—who told him that for a razor, it was basically altered consciousness every time they jack in, that all life was just a shimmering of maya anyway—endless pixel fragments scattered down some endless well of dark. He can believe it. He’s heard that back on Earth there are tribes that believe that by eating the bodies of their enemies they consume their souls. He feels like maybe that’s what happened to his. He follows Lynx as that man leads the way into a vast chamber.

And then he sees what lines the walls.

“Oh dear God,” he says.

“That’s what they’ll be calling me when this is all over,” says Lynx.

One-third of the way to the Moon, Hammer of the Skies is drawing within range of lunar artillery. It’s starting to take increasing amounts of fire. It’s not bothering to return the favor.

“The whites of their eyes are a long way off,” says Sarmax.

But getting closer. The ship is starting to speed up slightly. Spencer feels his magnetic clamps gripping just a little bit tighter against the wall of the shaft they’re crawling through. They’re getting ever nearer to the hull, approaching a small room set against it, identical rooms set around it. Officer quarters—and Spencer’s looking through the cameras at one officer in particular. He wears a major’s stripes. He’s sitting cross-legged, smiling very faintly. His eyes scare Spencer shitless.

You fucking bastards,” says the Operative.

“We’re just the errand boys,” says Riley.

The opaque visor has slid aside. Sightless eyes stare up at him. The face of Claire Haskell is without expression. Her mouth is slightly open. She’s breathing slowly.

“It’s not her,” says the Operative.

“Believe it or not,” says Riley, “it is.”

She dwelt underwater way too long. But then one day all that sea boiled away in an instant. Leaving only a voice.

That of Matthew Sinclair.

“Claire,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

“I can,” she replies.

She can feel him, too. His mental presence is very clear, totally unmistakable. Her mind can suddenly see straight through the mainframe in which she’s captive, out beyond Montrose’s base—out across the Cislunar, all the way to the L5 fleet and the ship that sits at its center. Sinclair’s brain burns before her with the intensity of a firestorm, but all she can think of is a single question.

“Is this part of the interrogation, too?”

“A better word is by-product.”

What the fuck is this?” asks Linehan.

“What does it look like?” says Lynx.

“I thought this wasn’t a real colony ship.”

“Guess it’s got all the accessories.”

Cryo-bays stretch around them. The sleepers are packed about as tight as possible. Their eyes are open. Their vital signs are checking out. Lynx walks over to one of them, rips a socket out of the wall. One set of vital signs flatlines.

“Let’s get on with it,” he says.

Thirty seconds,” says Spencer. They’re pulling themselves through spaces barely wide enough to accomodate their armor. They’re within the duct-system of the officer quarters now. The man’s still sitting there, staring straight ahead. Spencer’s hoping that this isn’t some image that’s been put there for his benefit. Even so, he’s got a nasty feeling—

“This guy’s Autumn Rain,” he says.

“You know that for a fact?” says Sarmax.

“I’m asking you. I think you know—”

“I don’t know shit,” snarls Sarmax. “Except that we gotta be ready for anything. Are my angles correct?”

He’s referring to the laser mounted on his shoulder; it’s just swiveled, pointed downward at the wall ahead. But Spencer’s the one with the blueprint.

“Burn it,” he says, and Sarmax does just that.

What do you mean it’s really her?” says the Operative.

“Now we got him excited,” says Maschler.

“Now you got me wondering what kind of bullshit you’re trying to fucking pull,” mutters the Operative. “There’s no way that Montrose is so stupid as to turn the Manilishi over to Szilard.”

“Unless?” asks Riley.

“There’s no unless. That’s not the Manilishi—”

“Hold that thought,” says Maschler.

The woman’s eyes open.

I don’t understand,” says Haskell.

“You don’t have to,” says Sinclair.

His face is coming into view now—the one she remembers from four days ago. Its eyes are wide. Its lips are parted. She feels herself being pulled in as though by an undertow—feels like she’s already gone under.

“You broke into the InfoCom systems,” she says.

“On the contrary,” he says. “You broke out.”

Did you just kill that guy?” asks Linehan.

“He didn’t feel a thing,” says Lynx.

Linehan can believe it. None of the people around him seem to be aware of much. The corridor stretches away, sleepers racked every step of the way. Plastic medbeds, looking disconcertingly like trays, are stacked upon one another, ten per each two meters of corridor.

“Easier to think of them as meat,” adds Lynx.

Sarmax vaults into the room; the camera-feed that Spencer’s giving him merges seamlessly with what’s actually sitting in the room, wearing the uniform of a major in Russian intelligence and the smile of a man who’s way ahead of everything. Sarmax brings his guns to bear.

“Don’t fucking move,” he says.

“Glad you could make it,” says the man.

Carson,” says the woman.

The Operative stares at her. She sounds just like Haskell.

“Claire?” he says.

What the hell’s going on?” says Haskell.

“Exactly what I planned,” says Sinclair.

“We’re all just your puppets?”

“More like all just part of the pattern.”

Meet the Martians,” says Lynx, as he starts running jacks into the wires he’s ripped from the walls. Linehan keeps an eye on the corridor while he does so, trying not to think about all those staring eyes …

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks.

“That’s where they thought they were going.”

“What was the point of having them here on a warship, then—of lying to them?”

Lynx shrugs. “To make the overall lie that much more convincing?”

Spencer drops from the duct into the room, takes in the scene. There’s a buzz as Sarmax opens up the one-on-one.

“Who the fuck is this?” he demands. But Spencer says nothing—

“You don’t recognize me?” asks the man.

“Should I?” asks Sarmax.

“Here’s a hint: you killed me once already.”

It’s very simple,” says the woman.

“I’ll bet,” says the Operative.

“I’m Claire,” she says dreamily.

“You’re on drugs,” says the Operative.

“Are those two things so incompatible?”

“You’re a clone,” he says.

“Not quite,” says Riley.

“You really want to discuss this in front of her?”

“Why not?” says the woman. “I’m at peace with it.”

“With what?”

“Being God,” she says.

Anything but that,” says Haskell.

Sinclair laughs. “You think you’re God?”

She’s starting to wonder. Because all of a sudden her purview is stretching all the way to that shuttle in which Carson and Maschler and Riley are approaching Szilard’s lair. The ship that contains the cargo that’s made in her own image—the woman whose mind she’s now inside. She can’t control what that woman’s saying. All she can do is watch.

Though she really doesn’t want to.

“I think I’m going crazy,” she tells Sinclair.

“Crazy enough to believe you’re the one to judge the living and the dead?” He chuckles, and it’s somehow almost obscene. “You’re so much more than that bullshit.”

“I just want to be a normal fucking human being.”

“Your flesh is as close as you get to that.”

“My flesh is locked into a tank while a bodyless machine goes to town on it—”

“Control? Let it keep on flailing away.”

“But it’s about to enslave me—”

“Again, you’ve got it backward.”

Lynx has ripped out a panel of the wall. Wires link him to the electronics behind it. All the bodies around him are breathing except for one.

“So who was he?” asks Linehan.

“Who?”

“That guy you just killed.”

“Luckless.”

I’m Alek Jarvin,” says the man.

“Fuck,” says Sarmax.

“Prove it,” says Spencer.

“The same way you could prove you killed me?”

Spencer gets the dilemma. Nothing’s certain these days. Not when faces are malleable. The man they shot to death in the floor of that safehouse back in Hong Kong, who looked exactly like a rogue CICom handler—he could have been a plant. Could have been hired to play the part—could have been manufactured—without knowing how the role was going to end. There’s no way to know for sure.

Though it’s possible to narrow down the options.

“You stole something from me,” says the man.

“Which you stole from Matthew Sinclair,” says Sarmax.

“Get your facts straight,” says the man. “I stole files from him, which I then compiled into my own. How much progress have you made?”

Spencer coughs. “We’re still working on—”

“We’re asking the questions,” snaps Sarmax. “Listen, asshole, even if you are Alek Jarvin, then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Staying in the game,” says the man mildly.

Hate to break it to you,” says the Operative. “You’re not God.”

“But I will be soon,” mumbles the woman.

“You’re not even in your right mind.”

“I’ll be in your mind shortly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks the Operative. He feels stupid even getting into this conversation. He feels even dumber with Riley and Maschler watching the whole thing. He feels his emotions getting the better of him. It’s not a feeling he’s used to.

“You’re being too hard on her,” says Maschler.

“You guys need to level with me.”

“We already tried doing that,” says Riley. “You wouldn’t listen.”

“Listen to what?” demands the Operative.

“The last words Szilard will ever hear,” says the woman.

Such a thing as biting off more than you can chew,” says Sinclair.

Haskell nods. She feels that’s all she’s ever done. She wonders if Sinclair’s some cancer that took her over long ago. She can still feel Control rummaging around inside her—can sense Montrose somewhere beyond that, eagerly awaiting the results.

“Montrose made her bid too soon,” says Sinclair. “Should have kept Harrison in the picture for just a while longer. Too many players out there still. Too great a chance of getting squeezed.”

Haskell knows the feeling. She’s starting to feel increasing amounts of pressure in her skull. Her awareness is expanding out on all sides. Her head seems to be encompassing so much more. She feels herself gaining in everything.

Save understanding.

“Matthew,” she says.

“Claire,” he replies.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing I don’t already have.”

Apparently the dead have their uses. Lynx has thrust wires into various parts of his head, has slotted more wires into the skull of the man he’s killed. His eyes look like they’re far away. He’s smiling the smile of a man who’s found the thing he’s been seeking.

“Everything you see around you is SpaceCom property,” Lynx says. “These schmucks signed up to go to Mars and here they are months later still stuck in the departure lounge.”

“Sure,” says Linehan, “but I’m still wondering what’s the point of having them here in the first place?”

“I’m starting to think it might have something to do with a master needing servants.”

So you’ve been running us,” says Sarmax.

“Indeed,” says Jarvin.

Sarmax doesn’t even bother to use the one-on-one: “What the hell’s your problem, Spencer?”

Spencer shrugs. “How was I supposed to know he was this good?”

“How the hell else could I have stayed alive in HK?” asks Jarvin. He’s smiling that smile again, and Spencer’s doing his best to ignore it. “Once I cut loose from Sinclair, I was a free agent. In more ways than one.”

“So what’s to stop us from just killing you now?” says Spencer.

“I don’t think you get it,” says Jarvin. “I’ve got Spencer’s whole zone-signature covered. Shoot me and there’ll be nothing to stop the East from seeing you.”

“You played us like a fiddle,” says Spencer.

“Pretty much.”

“You knew what we going to do the whole time.”

Jarvin laughs. “After I fed the Praetorians some dirt on the East’s secret weapon, it wasn’t hard to guess what their next move would be. Straight onto my little square of the board. I let you in first, gentlemen. And I gotta say, you did a nice job running point.”

“Fuck,” says Spencer.

“That’s right,” says Jarvin. He looks around—like he’s glancing through the walls of this vast ship. Spencer suspects that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. Eyes snap back to face them: “Move on me, and the Eurasians will detect you.”

“Come on,” says Sarmax, “we need more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re done with you calling the shots.”

“I realize that. That’s why I let you into this room.”

“We need to team up,” says Spencer suddenly.

“Late to the party as ever,” says Jarvin.

Too late she sees the trap: Sinclair’s claws are reaching for her mind, far beneath any surface that Control or Montrose can perceive. Too late—and yet she slides aside and dodges past, slamming a door she didn’t even know she had. He gazes at her through its translucence.

“Claire,” he says.

“Matthew,” she replies.

“Open this door.”

“I can’t do that, Matthew.”

“What you can’t do is resist me. You’re not capable—”

“I am now.”

And for a moment she sees something in his face—utter animal rage—and she keeps her shields up. Even if she doesn’t know what’s shielding her. Even if this psionic power she has remains almost completely undefined, save for the fact that it has something to do with consciousness. Something to do with mind reading.

“And something to do with time,” says a voice.

There’s a blinding flash.

The woman’s face suddenly spasms. Her eyes shut.

“She’s flatlining,” says the Operative.

“No,” says Maschler, “she’s not.”

Eyes snap open. Haskell stares at the Operative.

“Carson,” she says.

“Claire,” he mutters.

“The lady’s joined us,” says Riley.

“This isn’t really me,” says Haskell. She’s looking around the cramped room. She’s looking like she’s starting to panic.

“Easy,” says the Operative.

“Can you hear me, Claire?” asks Maschler.

Haskell says nothing—her face contorts—

“Can you hear me, Claire?”

“Yes,” says Haskell.

“Your real body is back on the Moon. We’re putting your mind through its paces. Seeing what it’s made of. Do exactly what we say, and you’ll return to your own flesh safely.”

“Who are you?”

“They’re InfoCom agents,” says the Operative.

“Assistants to your interrogation,” says Riley.

“Great,” says Haskell.

“I’m their prisoner,” says the Operative.

“Whose body am I in?”

“It’s yours now.”

“Whose body was it?”

“No one’s,” says the Operative.

She frowns. “I’m wearing my own face, aren’t I?”

The Operative can’t say anything. He just nods. He can see she’s trying not to cry. Then suddenly that face is all resolution.

“Let’s get on with this,” she says.

Master and servants,” says Linehan.

“Yes,” says Lynx.

“This is Szilard’s ship.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s why you steered us here.”

“For sure. It’s his new flagship.”

“And his escape ship,” says Linehan.

Pause. Lynx’s smile cuts out.

“You’re quick,” he says slowly.

“If it all goes to shit—”

“Goes? Try going.”

“Those megaships are still coming on?” asks Linehan.

“Like juggernauts, man. Their speeds are insane—”

“He’ll send the L2 fleet out to do battle with them.”

Lynx gestures. “And be ready to fire this thing’s motors if that fleet gets shattered.”

“They’ll follow him to Mars,” says Linehan.

“They’ll have a lot to keep them busy in the meantime.”

“But eventually—”

“What makes you think he’d stop at Mars? This thing’s got some serious engines. He could go to ground in the rings of Saturn—or make a break for deep space, try to run this all the way out. At least lead them on a good chase.”

“With a fuck-sized entourage keeping him company,” says Linehan.

“And guess who gets to get in there and stop him.”

We need to take control of this ship,” says Jarvin.

“Precisely what we were thinking,” says Sarmax.

“Sure,” says Spencer, “but under what terms?”

Both men look at him. He shrugs.

“It’s a fair question,” he says. “Sarmax here is a member of Autumn Rain. And for all we know, you are, too—”

“I’m not,” says Jarvin.

“You sure about that?”

“Anyone who’s sure about anything is a fool. Same with all this member bullshit you’re on about. Like everyone in the Rain went to the same country club. So Sarmax was part of the prototype. So what? Whose side are you on now, Leo?”

“Mine,” says Sarmax.

“My kind of thinking,” says Jarvin. “You guys up for a three-way partnership?”

“For sure,” says Sarmax.

“So quick to agree.” Jarvin looks amused. “You can always take me out when we’ve hit paydirt, huh?”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“Well, it’s about time you started.” Jarvin gestures at Spencer. “Maybe he and I will take you out.”

Sarmax laughs. “Give me a break—”

“Why should I? It’s not like your track record for team-ups is the best. You and Carson and Lynx sure ballsed up the reunion, huh?”

“That was Carson,” says Spencer. “He pulled the plug—”

“Shut up,” says Sarmax.

“I could have predicted that,” says Jarvin. He turns to Sarmax: “You should have predicted that.”

“I thought he’d at least wait until we’d won before going for the big backstab.”

Jarvin laughs. “Carson’s got a knack for devising schemes so complex you can’t even figure out what his angle is.”

“How do you know so much about us?”

“He’s got the file, doesn’t he?” says Spencer.

There’s a pause.

“And the one we took from you was bullshit?” asks Sarmax.

Jarvin smiles.

“And you still have the—”

“Of course I still have the real one.”

“And we’ve got the fake one,” says Sarmax. “Fuck.”

Spencer shakes his head. “But those schematics of the Himalayan black base were real!”

“Which ought to tell you something,” says Jarvin.

“It tells me you gave us the real scoop on the Eurasian base and the fake scoop on the Rain—”

“No,” says Jarvin.

They look at him.

“I held back nothing.”

Maschler’s drawn a sidearm.

“What’s that for?” asks the Operative.

“To encourage you not to do anything stupid.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’ve been known to around Claire.”

“Just stay calm,” says Haskell. It hadn’t occurred to the Operative to be anything else, but maybe everyone’s way ahead of him. “Let them do what they’re here for,” she adds.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Easy,” says Maschler—a smooth, reassuring cadence the Operative uses himself when he’s about to kill someone. He’s still in the doorway, about four meters from the Operative. Riley’s on the other side of Haskell, punching buttons on a console. The Operative feels his head starting to spin. He feels like he’s having a stroke. He goes down on one knee.

“Carson,” says Haskell.

He drops. He’s kissing metal. Everything’s gone black. All he can hear is Haskell now. Though he’s not even sure about that. Just a faint voice he remembers from so long ago:

“Carson,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“What are you seeing?”

The answer’s nothing. Except—

“You,” he says.

“Because I’m inside your head,” says Haskell.

“But I’m not in yours.”

“And that’s just fine by me.”

I don’t like this,” says Linehan.

“You don’t have to like it,” says Lynx.

“Talk about obsession. You’re fucking crazy.”

“What’s crazy is thinking we can do anything else.”

“We should be thinking about getting off this ship!”

“Got somewhere in mind?”

“Somewhere that’s a little more solid than this fleet.”

“Like the Moon?”

“We should never have left that fucking rock.”

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda—who the fuck cares? We are where we are. This place is in lockdown. Szilard knows we’re aboard, right? So now it’s set up like the Montana was. Nothing’s getting off.”

“Not even him?”

“Why would he want to leave?” asks Lynx.

“He knows rogue agents got aboard.”

“So?”

“So why the hell hasn’t he bailed? Rig a shuttle and scram?”

Lynx laughs. “Sums up why you’re taking orders and I’m giving them. Christ almighty, Linehan. This is a big ship. It’s not like Szilard’s in the next room. He’s camped out somewhere in the rear of this bitch, inside two heavily guarded perimeters, and you’d have him just shit in his pants and run for a shuttle?”

“So he can set up shop somewhere safe—”

“Safe? He knows damn well we’d be aboard that shuttle waiting for him.”

Linehan shakes his head. He looks around at all the sleepers—looks back at Lynx and the wires sprouting from his head.

“Two perimeters, huh.”

“You know you want it.”

So you didn’t crack the files,” says Spencer.

Jarvin looks at him strangely—as though he’s just seeing him for the first time. He adjusts his major’s insignia idly.

“Not the core of it,” he says.

“All those goddamn languages,” says Spencer.

Jarvin nods. “Sinclair’s created a code that may be impossible to crack. Ironic, no? You’ve got what may be the master file on Autumn Rain right in front of your fucking eyes, and you’re still none the wiser.”

“But I know they’re records of the experiments,” says Spencer.

“Yeah? What else?”

“That’s as far as I’ve got—”

“Spencer,” says Sarmax, “shut up—”

“Interesting,” says Jarvin, and he sounds like he means it. “I got deeper than you. And here I was hoping it’d be the other way around. That you could help me.”

“Like we’d do that,” says Sarmax.

“Then you can hardly blame me for not returning the favor.”

“What else is in that goddamn book?” asks Sarmax. “Dammit, we need to know—”

“Nothing,” says Jarvin. “For now. How about we table the rest of it until we’ve taken over the cockpit?”

“You’re the boss,” says Spencer.

“For now,” says Sarmax.

“Nothing’s forever,” says Jarvin.

What the hell’s going on?” says the Operative—and says nothing. His lips aren’t moving. He can’t even feel them. Nor can he feel anything else. He’s out cold on the floor, aware only of Haskell’s voice sounding in his head, a sound far more intimate than the wireless-enabled one-on-one:

“He’s adjusting the controls on my console,” she says.

She sends him the image, too: static, grainy. She’s still flat on her back. Riley’s got his gun trained on the prone figure of the Operative. Maschler’s working the controls again.

The image cuts out. The Operative’s back in black.

“What the hell’s he doing?” asks the Operative.

“Allowing us to do what we’re doing, I’m guessing.”

Which is something he’s never done before, even though he’s lived with its latency all his life. Even after so recently realizing his true nature—when Sinclair restored his memories, reminding him that all his life he’s had intimations of Lynx and Sarmax’s mental patterns; all that time catching glimpses of those other minds—and all of it was nothing compared to what he’s seeing now: Haskell’s burning in his brain. He can’t help but draw back in pure astonishment.

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters.

“Shut the hell up,” she says.

“I mean it.”

“Said the boy who cried wolf and kept on crying. They’re operating on my fucking mind again, and you’re the one who started it.”

“I—wanted to have you for myself.”

“You never will.”

“I get that now.”

“Then you also get that you’re not getting out of this one.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I don’t believe this,” she snarls. “You’re out cold on that floor—Riley just prodded your face with his fucking boot—and you’re still convinced you’re walking out of here.”

“Because they need me,” says the Operative.

“For one last service,” she replies.

And then he’s history,” says Maschler. “He’ll walk into Szilard’s ship while you fly shotgun via your amplifier.”

“My what?” asks Haskell.

“Your body,” says Riley, gesturing at her.

“You mean my new one.”

“Yours all along,” says Maschler. “It’s got your DNA.”

“Who grew it?”

“Montrose,” says Riley.

“How did she get my specifications?”

“She got into Sinclair’s files way back.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“We’re the lords of information. Why act so surprised?”

“Because you’re fucking crazy,” says Haskell. “You’ve only got whatever Sinclair wanted you to—”

“More theories,” says Maschler.

“Said the man whose boss tried to build another Manilishi.”

“Relax,” says Riley. “All we have is you.”

“Why I said tried.”

So how are we gonna do this?” says Linehan

“We’re already halfway there, man.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Them,” says Lynx—waves a languid hand at the sleepers all around.

“I’m not following.”

“That’s ’cause you’re not listening. These guys thought they’d gotten the long ticket, but now they’re our ticket to the real show.”

“How’s that?”

“Their life-support systems are run by this ship’s mainframe.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” says Lynx. He fingers a wire almost lovingly. “From where I sidestep into the security databases.”

“Nice one,” says Linehan.

“Szilard will find it less enthralling,” says Lynx.

So how are we going to hit that cockpit?” asks Sarmax. Jarvin looks at him. “How were you guys figuring on doing it?”

Sarmax looks at Spencer. “How were we figuring?”

“Fucked if I know. There’s no way in.”

Jarvin laughs. “That’s why you had to come to me.”

“All right, asshole,” says Sarmax. “How are we getting in?”

“By staying in plain sight.”

They’re going to have you just walk in there,” she says.

“I realize that,” he replies.

But what he hadn’t realized was the path that InfoCom devised to thread the SpaceCom needle. He only got it just now. He’s going to walk in there, all right. But he’s not going to be alone.

“I’m coming with you,” says Haskell.

“One last time,” he replies.

It’s all he can hope for, really. He’s still out like a light, and her voice is the only contact he’s got with anything outside the island of his own mind. But that voice keeps on wavering in clarity, like a radio signal shifting across frequencies. The Operative thinks of Maschler tuning the dials, thinks of the creature called Control messing with Haskell’s brain.

“They’re killing all their birds with one stone,” he says.

“A page from your playbook,” she replies.

Not that the Operative needs to be informed of that. Uncovering something’s true capabilities means you have to push that thing to its limits. Which presumably is precisely what Stephanie Montrose is doing right now. Her servants are going to turn the Manilishi inside out while Haskell’s mind rides shotgun on the run on Szilard.

“Along with this body,” says Haskell.

Exactly,” says Maschler.

He’s looking down at her the way a doctor might look on a particularly problematic patient. The furrows on his brow are making his eyebrows do strange things.

“You’re Carson’s ticket onto the Redeemer,” he adds. “Szilard’s new flagship.”

“A step down from the Montana.”

“Or a step up,” says Maschler. “The Redeemer’s one of the Class V colony ships.”

She mulls that over.

“One of the fully loaded colony ships,” adds Riley.

“Damn,” she says.

“Szilard’s the man with the plan,” says Maschler.

Riley snorts. “He could be Noah to his own little ark if he had to.”

“Except he’s not going to,” she says.

“He won’t need to,” says Maschler. “Our best estimate is that the combined strength of lunar gunnery and the L2 fleet will take down those Eurasian megaships.”

Riley coughs. “After which we’ll just have to see how much we have left to deal with the rest of the Eastern forces coming up the gravity well behind them.”

“None of which is Szilard’s problem,” says Maschler.

“Given that he’ll be dead by then,” says Riley.

Haskell looks puzzled. “So what’s the story that Montrose has fed Szilard to get him to open up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Carson shows up on a flight from Congreve carrying the Manilishi, along with a little note from Montrose that she’s managed to clone the most powerful weapon ever built and here it is and go knock yourself out?”

Maschler laughs. “Not quite.”

Lynx pulls the wires away from his head in a single stroke. “Let’s go,” he says, gesturing at the panel he’s slid from the wall.

“That looks like a tight fit,” says Linehan.

“Less so for me,” says Lynx, disappearing through the hole. Linehan pulls his way in after him—finds himself in a narrow space that seems to parallel the walls of the room they’ve just left. He follows Lynx, pushing through wires like they’re undergrowth in a jungle.

“The support systems around the sleepers,” says Lynx. “Try not to damage anything. We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

Linehan’s hoping that Lynx has got any alarms covered. The razor’s small enough to sidle through the narrow space. The mech’s a different story. Wires are getting torn. Circuitry’s getting shredded.

“Tell me we’re getting somewhere,” he mutters.

“I am,” says Lynx. “But you’d better pick up the pace.”

But that’s tough when wires are all Linehan can see. He shoves through them, thinking back to some scene in some book some girl told him about a long time ago. Some children were wandering in a closet and came out into some other land. Linehan can relate. He feels like he’s stepped into some other world himself these last few days. Seasoned wet-ops specialist, seen-and-done-it-all, wham-bam-thanks-man Linehan, the legend of the SpaceCom hard corps—and then suddenly he got launched against the Rain and propelled into a brand-new life. Linehan gets that lives like that don’t last. Ayahuasca’s afterglow reinforces the point, confirms it. Existence is moving toward some climax he won’t survive. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to. And now he’s emerging from the wires …

“Holy fuck,” he says.

“It gets even better,” says Lynx.

The special liaison of the Praesidium has left his quarters and is proceeding toward the cockpit of the Hammer of the Skies. He didn’t have a bodyguard when he got on, but he’s got two of them now. Zone is showing they were aboard already. Working undercover, all with the highest possible clearance: Jarvin, Spencer, and Sarmax have gone up three levels of ladders, taken an elevator up another ten floors. Now they’re approaching the elevator banks that are one of only two routes leading to the cockpit. A mixture of Chinese and Russian soldiers cluster around those banks. They’re obviously on high alert. They seem to be as busy watching one another as those who approach.

“Let me do the talking,” says Jarvin.

What are they talking about now?” asks the Operative.

“Maschler and Riley?”

“Who else?”

It’s not like there’s anybody else that matters right now. Unless there are more voices in Haskell’s head. He wouldn’t put it past her. Her signal’s all he’s got—even louder than his internal monologue. He no longer knows what he wants.

“Yes you do,” says Haskell.

“What?”

She says nothing—though it sounds like she’s laughing at him. Or maybe it’s his own mind cackling as it finally goes over the edge. He finds himself grasping at anything that’s solid. He can think of only one thing.

“So what the hell’s the plan?” he asks.

“You already know the plan,” she replies. “Convince Szilard that you stole the Manilishi from Montrose.”

“That’s not the only possibility,” says the Operative.

Haskell nods slowly. “You didn’t steal me—”

“Maschler and Riley did.”

“Right.”

“They’re SpaceCom agents.”

“They’re pretending to be.”

“Christ, Claire, they probably are.”

“I guess we’re going to find out.”

“How close to L2 are we?”

“Like they’d tell me.”

“Ask them anyway.”

She does. Maschler looks at her. “Getting warm,” he says.

“And you’re SpaceCom agents?”

Riley laughs. “Now what would give you that idea?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I doubt we could do it convincingly,” says Maschler.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Szilard thinks we are,” says Maschler. “That’s all that matters.”

“You guys had better—”

Riley laughs. “Like we’d ever cross our lady. She sees everything.”

“Knows it all,” says Maschler.

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah?”

“You guys don’t look like you’re crazy. If you’re working for InfoCom, then you’re about to die. Killing Szilard’s a fucking suicide mission.”

“Not if it succeeds,” says Maschler.

“Even then the assassins will die—”

“That’d be Carson,” says Riley. “He’s the triggerman.”

“Or at least the guy who gets close enough,” says Maschler. “He’s a goner.”

“And you’re not?”

“We draw danger pay for a reason,” says Riley. “And we’re going to torch everybody on the Redeemer who can link this back to Montrose.”

“Me included?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” says Riley. “You won’t feel a thing.”

“Except for now,” says Maschler.

What the hell is this?” says Linehan.

“What does it look like?” asks Lynx.

It looks like ice. Sheets of it stretch away on all sides.

“How big is this place?” Linehan asks. He pulls himself out of the last of the wires and crawls through the hatch that Lynx has opened.

“Couple hundred meters,” says Lynx. “This is the core of the ship. And over there is frozen methane, so we’ve got fuel and water from a single locale, and also the backbone of the sleeper freezing units.”

“And the route past the outer perimeter.”

“You catch on fast,” says Lynx.

They extend crampons, start to rappel out onto the slopes of freeze.

Sir,” says a Russian sergeant, “your codes.”

“Here,” says Jarvin—sends them over. At least, that’s what Spencer is forced to presume. But now the Chinese sergeant steps forward.

“Your codes,” he says. “Sir.”

“Again?”

“I must insist.”

“Don’t you trust your colleague?” says Jarvin, indicating the Russian sergeant.

“I trust my orders.”

“In other words, no.” Sarmax’s voice is coming through loud and clear on the one-on-one in Spencer’s head. “Things must be getting tense in that fucking cockpit.”

“They’ve probably got the balance just so.” Spencer’s thinking fast. “Three more Russians may throw things out of whack.”

“But the Praesidium is supreme authority across the whole Coalition. So they have to let—”

“They don’t have to do shit,” says Sarmax—but the Chinese sergeant nods. The Russian sergeant clears his throat.

“You’re cleared, sirs,” he says. “They’re sending an elevator down now.”

“Very good,” says Jarvin—and now that voice echoes in Spencer’s helmet: “This whole place is in lockdown mode. God only knows what it’s like up there.”

“We’d better be ready for anything,” says Sarmax.

“We’ve got the highest clearance,” says Jarvin. “Theoretically, we can confront the captains and take command of the ship.”

“Theoretically,” says Spencer.

An elevator door opens. Jarvin starts toward it—just as the ship suddenly changes course without warning. Spencer’s hurled toward the wall—along with everyone else.

Fuck, she says.

“What?”

But there’s no answer. He gets a quick glimpse of what might be Haskell’s face, falling away from him as though it’s tumbling through some endless space. And suddenly he’s back in the real one—opening his eyes. A boot is prodding against him.

“Wakey wakey,” says Maschler.

She’s coming ’round,” says a voice.

It’s news to Haskell. She feels like a freight train just ran through her skull. She senses something fading that might be vertigo, but in reverse—as though she’s already hit the ground and is still getting used to that fact. Awareness starts to crystallize all around her—as if all existence is a grid, and she’s sitting at the very center.

She opens her eyes.

“Welcome back,” says Stephanie Montrose.

They’re creeping along sheets of ice. Sensors are everywhere. Linehan can only hope Lynx is dealing with them. He normally doesn’t worry about stuff he can’t control, but this place is giving him the creeps. As extensive as it is, it’s also intensely claustrophobic. The sheets of ice are only a few meters apart at points. Linehan feels like the whole thing could fold up at any moment—like he’s about to end up in a glacier sandwich.

“How much more of this?” he says.

“Carson told me nothing rattled you,” says Lynx.

They crawl over a slope and along its other side. They seem to have left the central portions of the ice behind. The space they’re in is getting even narrower—so cramped now that Linehan can brace himself against both walls. Soon it’s just a tunnel in the ice. He follows Lynx along it, sees the razor opening another hatch. He follows him through.

And finds himself in a small chamber. Looks like some kind of storage space. There’s only one other way out—yet another hatch. But Lynx scarcely spares it a glance. Instead, he sits down in a corner. Linehan looks at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up and take a seat,” says Lynx.

Hammer of the Skies is changing its trajectory. The fact that it’s doing so without warning is causing no little inconvenience for many of those within. Spencer can hear the intercom ringing in his ears, instructing everybody to assume the brace position, but the position he’s already assumed has very little to do with anything he had a chance to brace for. He’s spread-eagled against the wall. So is everyone else. He hears the voice of Sarmax ringing inside his head.

“Must be evasive action.”

“No shit,” says Spencer.

“Wrong,” says Jarvin. “We just got a new destination.”

Haskell struggles to focus. She’s still on that souped-up gurney, back in the InfoCom HQ. The place looks like it’s cranked up to even more frenetic levels of activity. She can see screens showing the megaships. Only they’re no longer heading for the Moon.

“Next stop L5,” says Control. The voice is coming from one of the consoles. She suddenly realizes that’s the console her mind’s held in—that she’s actually in that console too, watching her body watch her, feeling Control’s zone-presence hovering around her. As her zone-view coalesces, so do the InfoCom battle management systems, spread out across hundreds of thousands of kilometers of vacuum. Earth’s a lost cause—entirely Eastern now, along with the rest of the near-Earth orbits. Most of the Eurasian ships are consolidating at the geo. Yet most of the zone-focus is on the East’s advance team—the two megaships. They’ve climbed about half of the distance to the Moon and have just veered off at a sharp angle, attaining even greater speeds as they race toward L5. Haskell can see the lunar batteries flailing away, can see the smaller fleet at the libration point raining fire down upon the approaching dreadnaughts and the ships they’re towing. The battle management computers don’t seem to think it’s looking good.

“Sinclair’s about to get taken off the board,” says Control.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Haskell mutters.

“You’d be advised to avoid them as well,” says Montrose—and as she speaks, Haskell feels something tighten around her in the zone—like a vise that’s constricting all around her, cutting off her energy, starting to suffocate her …

“Fuck,” she says.

“Let’s get some things straight,” says the president.

Get up,” says Maschler.

The Operative staggers to his feet, pain gripping his head as he looks around.

“Same as you left it,” says Riley.

And all too familiar. That cargo chamber, the two InfoCom agents, that sarcophagus-suit—and the woman within it. Unconscious again now.

“So who is she, really?” he asks.

“No one,” says Maschler.

“A temporary receptacle,” says Riley.

“Sure, but what the hell’s the receptacle?”

“Cloned body,” says Maschler. “Implanted with an artificial personality construct. A primitive one.”

“But effective,” says Riley.

“Enough to get us near Szilard?” says the Operative.

“We’re about to find out.”

So when do we start the run?” asks Linehan.

“Earth to Linehan: we already did.”

Yet for now they’re staying put. They’ve been marking time for a few minutes now. Linehan’s starting to get antsy. All the more so as he gets that Lynx has taken him in tow for muscle—and that the razor must be badly in need of that muscle to try to leverage him.

Or else there’s another angle to all this.

“You’ve been using me,” says Linehan.

“Of course I’ve been using you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“C’mon, Linehan. You’re the mech—”

“Who used to work for SpaceCom.”

“Who got rigged with a compulsion by them,” says Lynx.

“Which you reverse-engineered.”

“Which is why I showed myself to you back on the Montana. Right. But—”

“But I’m also your back door into the SpaceCom mainframes,” says Linehan.

Lynx grins. “One among many.”

The megaship’s continuing to accelerate, but now its route has straightened out. Soldiers are pulling themselves off the wall, taking up positions again around the elevator-bank. Spencer steadies himself while Jarvin moves back toward the elevator-banks.

“We can’t let you up there,” says the Chinese sergeant.

“We already had this conversation,” says Jarvin. “Out of my—”

“Sir,” says the Russian sergeant, “we can’t let you up there,” Guns are out now.

“I already gave you my clearance.”

“Sir, they just revoked it.”

So now I’m your slave,” says Haskell.

“You’re alive. You’re not in pain. Count your blessings.”

Haskell studies Montrose from several angles. The president looks as if she’s been under a lot of stress. Though now she seems to be perking up a little.

“You’re the most powerful instrument in creation.”

“Instrument,” repeats Haskell.

“And someone has to wield you.”

“I had myself in mind.”

Montrose throws her head back and laughs—loud enough to make the visors of her nearest bodyguards turn. “Like you have the maturity for that.”

“Fuck you—”

“You see? ‘Fuck this’ and ‘fuck that’—you keep on ranting and all the while all you are is a mind so close to the edge of sanity that you’re only fit to be the tool of the ones who really run the show. Jesus, Claire. I expected better from you.”

“Would you rather I wasn’t strapped to this table taking orders from you?”

“I’d rather you were a little nicer about it. Seeing as how we’re going to have to get used to each other.”

“And how we’ve got work to do,” says Control.

She feels that leash brush up against her throat.

The Operative’s climbing back into the main cargo bay. Maschler and Riley are both following him this time. Both men have their guns out now. The Operative’s head hurts too much for him to even think about trying anything. He winces.

“Not to worry,” says Riley.

“We’ll dose you with some ’dorphs before we set you loose,” says Maschler—snorts with laughter. But the Operative says nothing—just grabs a ladder, starts climbing back into the cockpit. He knows exactly what he’s going to see in its windows. He hears the proximity alert starting up.

Bang on schedule,” says Lynx.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Linehan’s thinking Lynx’s smile is starting to look ever more demented. But the razor just laughs.

“You didn’t think we were going to do this alone, did you?”

“The way you keep talking, I don’t know what to think.”

“All good assassinations are done from all sides.”

“Whatever you say, Lynx.”

“JFK, for example. They—”

“Who?”

“Kennedy.”

“You mean the spaceport?”

“I mean the president.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That’s because you’ve got no education. Grassy knoll, book depository, Secret Service, open season: they got the bastard from every direction.”

“Good for them.”

“For us, you mean. We’re going to do the same to Szilard.”

“With me as expendable?”

“We’re all expendable, Linehan. But if we manage to pull this off, we might yet get out of here in one piece.”

“After which we go where?”

“First things first.”

Fine,” says Jarvin—turns, fires suit-jets to steady himself as he exits the foyer. The other two men follow him.

“So what the hell do we do now?” asks Spencer.

“Figure out another way in,” says Jarvin.

“How the fuck can they deny codes from the Praesidium?”

“Because someone in the cockpit told them to.”

“God only knows who’s in charge there now,” says Sarmax.

“Could be the Rain themselves,” says Jarvin.

“Was wondering that myself,” says Spencer. “Or they could just be taking no chances.”

“Whoever it is,” says Sarmax, “they certainly don’t want any competition.”

Jarvin laughs. “Now that we’re about to hit L5, who would?”

As I anticipated,” says Control.

Haskell can hardly fault that machine for sounding so conceited. Especially now that she’s his humble servant—she’s been slotted in, given access to the full range of his battle-management calculations. Apparently he’s been predicting this move for some hours now—had anticipated that the megaships’ drive on the Moon was a feint, that their real target was L5. There’s decidedly less hardware there than at the Moon, meaning that the megaships have a far better chance of taking the libration point by themselves than they would have of destroying all of the American lunar forces—

“If they take L5, the Moon will be next,” says Montrose.

“Of course,” says Control, “but they’ll need to bring up the rest of their fleet from the Earth orbits. That’ll give us some breathing room.”

But Haskell is barely listening. She’s too busy getting cranked up to new heights. She doesn’t want to go there, but she’s being rushed toward them by Control’s implacable grip. She feels herself opening out toward the universe. Other minds glimmer here and there: Carson in the shuttle that’s almost docked; another mind deeper within Szilard’s flagship. Still other minds seem to be present at L5, but they’re more opaque—as though they’re being shielded. She can guess by what. Even if she can’t see it anymore, she can still feel that monstrous presence lurking out there, practically screaming at her intuition. The heart of L5: and she wonders how Matthew Sinclair plans to deal with millions of tons of Eurasian steel—wonders, too, who’s really in control of that steel now. She feels herself surging ever higher. The parameters for the run on Szilard click in around her, incandescent matrices flaring out toward infinity. She takes the whole thing in—draws back from what’s being asked of her …

“Begin,” says Montrose.

Not bad,” says the Operative.

“That’s all you can say?” asks Maschler.

“Nothing rattles our Carson,” says Riley.

The Operative shrugs. He’s in this way too deep to waste time gawking at the sight in the windows, impressive though it may be: the Redeemer spans almost half a klick, gunnery flaring all along its length. Beyond them the Operative can see a swathe of ships, a blaze of fire—and yet all of it a mere fraction of the fleet that lies beyond.

“The ramparts of L2,” says Maschler.

“For now,” says the Operative—and takes in the aft-bay hangar toward which the shuttle’s descending. Massive doors start to swing open. Light gleams from within.

“Good luck,” says Maschler.

“Fuck you very much,” says the Operative.

You’d better give me data,” says Linehan.

“What kind?” asks Lynx.

“I was thinking the blueprint of this ship.”

Lynx looks at him. Linehan does what he can to meet the man’s stare. Which is tough because Lynx’s eyes keep shimmering. The walls of this tiny room keep getting closer to one another. Linehan’s guessing that has a lot more to do with whatever’s going on in his own head than with anything that passes for objective reality. One more reason why he’s angling to get a better view …

“Why the fuck would I want to give you that?” asks Lynx.

“We’re about to move in on Szilard, right?”

“Fuck, you’re quick.”

“And you’re fucking not,” says Linehan. “Say we get separated? What then?”

“If we get separated, we’re fucked anyway—”

“You mean I’m fucked.”

“So?”

“So why make it easy for them? C’mon, man, you know I’m a one-man wrecking ball. And if the mission’s going south, I gotta have as much data as possible so I can keep doing as much damage as possible. What’s the downside to that?”

Lynx says nothing. Linehan warms to the point.

“At the very least, I’d be creating that much more havoc for you to pull some shit. Why let them trap me in a dead-end—”

“Fine,” says Lynx, “you win.”

“Cool,” says Linehan—data starts pouring into his skull. He watches grids of elevators and passages and crawlspaces coalesce around him, watches as they keep on stacking in upon one another—along with his own position, halfway between the outer and inner perimeters that have been set up around the heart of Szilard’s defenses in the core of the Redeemer. Linehan exhales slowly.

“So where exactly is the big cheese himself?” he asks.

“Patience,” says Lynx.

Three men in one of two Eurasian megaships hurtling toward the libration point that has been an American possession for more than fifty years. They’re moving through the ship’s shafts, away from the elevators that lead to the cockpit, looking for some kind of backup plan, feeling themselves subjected to intense scrutiny. Partially because the only people moving during transit are those who have to. But also …

“I’m surprised the cockpit hasn’t issued a warrant for our arrest,” says Spencer.

“Actually,” says Jarvin, “it just did.”

“Fuck,” says Sarmax.

“What did it say?” asks Spencer.

“That we were American spies.”

“Yikes. You suppressed it?”

“On the zone, yeah. But I can’t do so for much longer. They’ll figure out what’s happening and launch a manhunt.”

“So where are we gonna hide?” asks Spencer.

“In the cockpit,” 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 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 ship shudder as it docks, followed by a muffled clanking as the locks slide into place. The floor beneath him starts to sink. He holds himself steady, then keys the intercom to the cockpit.

“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 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 ship’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 fuck do we get to the cockpit 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. “Ship’s getting it hard.”

“So what?” says Jarvin. “We’re going to crush L5 to rubble.”

“You still think we can take control of this ship?”

“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 shitting me,” says Spencer.

“Wish I was,” says Jarvin.

She’s running sleek and perfect now, maneuvering through the data-grids of the Redeemer, her mind doubling back upon itself as she bypasses security codes and failsafes. She takes in the specs, marvels at the way it’s been rigged for dual purposes: a fully equipped colony ship modified with all the capabilities of a Class A dreadnaught, rigged with DE and KE batteries capable of striking targets in the low Earth orbits. The ship contains several companies of SpaceCom 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 SpaceCom marines. They shove the Operative against the wall and search him while others climb up toward the cockpit. Another moves to the cargo, begins scanning it.

“Easy,” says the Operative. “The admiral wouldn’t want that damaged.”

“Shut the fuck 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 SpaceCom 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 cockpit. A SpaceCom 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 hell’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 passages. 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 SpaceCom 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 assault 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 cockpit,” 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 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 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 SpaceCom 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 passes 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. 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 shit,” says Spencer.

“Shut up,” says Sarmax. He hits the gas and starts piloting the crawler into the 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—

“Ah fuck,” 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 circumstances, 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 ship’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 assumes 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. Space is all around them, sheets of stars wallpapering the sky. Energy is surging past: the DE fusillade that’s aimed at the ship, the bombs that comprise the ship’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 ship 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 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 ship’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 fuck do we get back inside?” asks Sarmax.

“I’m working on it,” 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 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 pushing 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 hell 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 assumes 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.

“I’d like to meet the guy who is.”

“You’re about to.”

They turn the corner and come face to face with a mammoth blast-door.

Now what?” says Linehan.

“Now we hold tight again,” replies Lynx.

They’re still crouched in darkness. Linehan just saw some light in the distance, but now it’s gone. He thinks they’re inside the inner perimeter, but he doesn’t know for sure. He’s starting to wonder if Szilard’s really the target here. Maybe it’s someone else. Or something else. He wonders where that hot bitch of a cyborg got to, wonders whether she’s wrapped up in this somehow. He can’t wait to get something tangible in his sights. He glances at Lynx, but only sees the expression of a man who’s thinking furiously. Linehan starts doing the opposite—just gets ready to respond on reflex.

This may be the hull of the largest ship ever launched, but there’s only so much room for a way-too-fast crawler to crawl. They’re through onto the forward sections. And as they round a curve, close in upon the nose, they can see what the Hammer of the Skies is heading toward—

“We’re running out of margin,” says Sarmax.

“I get that,” says Jarvin.

Spencer can see that Sarmax isn’t kidding. The lights of L5 shimmer in the sky ahead like some kind of nebula. Their guns are firing full-on at the monster that’s roaring in toward them. Spencer looks around for some way out—

“There,” says Jarvin—but Sarmax is already on it, swerving into an indentation, swiveling the craft, hitting the brakes. They shudder to a halt.

“This won’t buy us much,” says Spencer.

“Stop complaining,” says Jarvin. “I need your help.”

“You need my help?”

“Whatever you guys are going to do, do it quick,” says Sarmax.

The inner perimeter,” says Control.

“On it,” she says—and she is, dodging left and right in a million directions with a million limbs. Szilard’s new flagship is falling prey to a whole new bag of tricks. She’s narrowing down his location, too, closing in on the place from which the SpaceCom reins are getting pulled. She can see all the false leads and dead-ends Szilard’s configured. He’s good—she has to give him that. There’s a reason he’s managed to stay alive for so long. But those defenses weren’t designed for the likes of her. She’s becoming acutely aware that Montrose and Control now know things about her that she doesn’t—that they’re operating from a larger play-book she can’t see. They’ve got the strategy. She’s been reduced to tactics. She’s peeling back the Redeemer’s security like the layers of an onion. Everything’s checking out. Running perfectly.

With one exception.

The blast-door swings back. The Operative follows Sullivan through into a room that contains several suited marines lined up in front of a second blast-door. He’s being scanned once more, along with the cart that contains Haskell’s simulacrum. He can’t blame Szilard for all the precautions. He wonders if they’ll be enough. The first blast-door closes. The second opens. Sullivan gestures at the doorway.

“It’s all you,” he says.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Through there. He’s waiting for you.”

“You guys aren’t coming with me?

“We’re not allowed to.”

“He doesn’t trust you?”

“He doesn’t trust anybody,” says Sullivan.

“Fair point,” says the Operative.

Got it,” says Lynx.

As he knew he would. Like crosshairs sliding together in his mind, it’s all coming into focus. He’s got Carson in his sights—Szilard, too. The SpaceCom defenses may as well not be there for all the trouble they’re causing him. He feels the Manilishi’s zone-presence slide in behind him, feels himself glide forward.

Spencer’s mind meshes on the zone with Jarvin’s. He sees the problem immediately. The hull door they’re parked against is only meant to be opened from the other side. It’s rigged with several more failsafes than Jarvin was counting on. And the key to those failsafes is in the—

“Cockpit,” says Jarvin.

“Roger that,” says Spencer—but their minds are already racing along the wires on the other side of what was built to be the escape hatch for the ship’s pilots. Directed energy blasts over their position as the L5 gunners start up a new barrage. Another ten meters forward, and they’d be melted. If the megaship changes up its angle, that’s going to happen anyway. But Spencer’s giving scarcely a thought to that dilemma. He’s just running secondary razor to Jarvin’s primary, twisting in on the underbelly of the cockpit, accessing the evacuation sequences without making them realize they’re being run, telling them to initiate escape procedures—

“Got it,” says Jarvin.

The hatch opens—

It’s like something just swung shut within her mind, as unmistakable as it is strange. Everything else is checking out. The overall pattern remains intact. But there’s one slight problem. It’s within the margin of error—except for the fact that she doesn’t make errors. Nor has Control seemed to notice it. She keeps an eye on the anomaly while she keeps on tightening the noose around Szilard’s position—watching on the cameras as Carson walks down a corridor, pushing a cart that contains a woman who looks a little too familiar—

And it’s all the Operative can do to not look at her face. He knows that if he’s fucked, this woman’s doubly so. Even if it’s not Haskell, he’s falling for her anyway. He’s guessing that’s the point. He wonders what happened to the man he used to be, the man who never gave a fuck about anyone, the man for whom Haskell was just one more assignment. But that was back when he thought he was going to outlast them all. Now that he’s wised up it’s way too late. The corridor bends left, then right, becomes a ramp that steepens to the point where the Operative’s having to hit the brakes on the cart. Some kind of room is just ahead. It doesn’t seem to be small. The woman’s eyes open.

“Hello again,” she says.

Like a flock of birds alighting: Lynx feels something descend out of the zone and into his mind. It’s Haskell—not just on the zone, but full-on telepathy. He thought it couldn’t happen, but here she is anyway, and he hasn’t the foggiest idea how. And right now it doesn’t matter, as she syncs with him on both zone and mind. The final map of the inner enclave of Jharek Szilard clicks into his head. He fires his suit-jets.

“You sure about this?” asks Linehan, as he does the same.

“Prime your weapons,” snarls Lynx.

They’re scrambling out of the crawler and into the shaft as fast as they can. Radiation’s still pouring over them all the same. Their suits are getting soaked. Their flesh is okay so far—they’ve got more immediate problems to contend with.

“Close this goddamn hatch,” snarls Sarmax.

“We’re working on it,” says Spencer.

They’re having to do some serious multitasking. Spencer and Jarvin are damping the sensors along the shaft while they simultaneously check out the approaches to the cockpit and—

“Get rid of it,” snarls Jarvin. Spencer’s already on it, hacking the controls of the crawler they’ve just left, releasing the brakes. The crawler slides past the opening, tumbles off into space. Hopefully it’ll just be written off as one more piece of metal knocked loose from the surface, annihilated in the bomb-blasts that keep flaring beyond the rear-shielding. It’s out of their hands now. The hatch swings shut. The cockpit schematics expand in Spencer’s head.

“About time,” says Jarvin.

She arrives at the core of the Redeemer’s inner enclave. She’s got all their numbers now. Except for that anomaly, which keeps on sprouting new tendrils, keeps on growing, encompassing her while she continues on with the mission. Nothing tangible seems to be affected. She’s still running smooth. She wonders if this is something that Control is doing to gain a more complete mastery of her—the formula through which Montrose unlocks her still further. Maybe she isn’t supposed to have noticed it. Maybe the fact that she has will give her some margin. But suddenly it’s as if she’s being drawn on a string, hauled across vacuum—

Here we are,” says the woman who wears the face of Claire Haskell.

The Operative looks around. The room is as large as it is empty. All it contains is a dais in the center. The walls are cut through three levels, a walkway circling the room halfway up. Several marines stand along that walkway. Several more ring the entrance in a semicircle. They wear the insignia of Szilard’s bodyguard. Their guns are trained on the Operative and the conveyor. He raises his hands.

“I’m unarmed,” he says.

But none of the marines say anything. And as the Operative stares at them, he realizes why.

“They’re dead,” says a voice.

Still rotting too, from the looks of the faces inside the visors. But apparently their armor’s working just fine. The suits immediately in front of the Operative step aside, gesture at him to move forward. A man’s appeared on the dais, though he’s flickering ever so slightly. A holograph.

“Admiral Szilard,” says the Operative.

“Forgive me that it’s not in the flesh,” says Szilard.

We’ve got him,” says Lynx.

“So where the fuck is he?” says Linehan.

In one of about twenty rooms, according to the readouts—a complex on which Lynx and Linehan are now closing. Lynx’s mind centers on the chamber where Carson is, traces back along the signal that’s being projected to that room: the signal that shows the holograph of Szilard—the signal that’s being sent from one of those twenty chambers—now narrowing down to fifteen … ten …

“You are so mine,” says Lynx.

The cockpit of Hammer of the Skies isn’t small. It’s divided into two areas—Chinese and Russian—each of which sweeps back from a central section where two captains monitor events. Pilots and navigators and gunnery specialists man consoles. Soldiers line the walls. There are only two ways in. One’s the elevators. The other’s the escape shaft in which three men are crouching.

“So what now?” says Spencer.

“Now we take over,” says Jarvin.

She’s getting slotted into cranial matter that’s not her own but that’s all too familiar nonetheless. Her mind’s turning in upon itself, wandering through the meat of someone else’s brain while she wrestles with some kind of pattern that’s threatening to overwhelm her. She’s trying to hold steady, but it’s no use. Everything’s collapsing in upon her, and it’s all she can do to keep from getting buried. But in the cacophony that’s sounding all around her she’s starting to get glimpses of what she’s been missing. She opens her eyes—

So this is the Manilishi,” says Szilard.

The Operative can see why people call this man the Lizard behind his back. He’s as tall as he is thin. His tongue keeps on flickering out in a disquieting manner. There’s a scar down the right side of his face that looks fresh. The woman in the cart clears her throat, coughs—

“I’ve come to make you an offer,” she says.

“Are you really in a position to do that?” replies Szilard.

“Do you want to be president or not?”

“Maybe you should let me speak to the man who stole you.”

“Maybe you should both shut up,” says the Operative.

They look at him—her face staring up from her cart, his face blinking as though he’s just been slapped. He knows he’d better talk fast. He can think of only one thing to say.

“There’s a plot against you.”

“Just one?” says Szilard.

“Instigated by Montrose.”

“Oh,” says Szilard, in a tone that says is that all.

“This man’s lying,” says the woman.

“Who cares what you think?” says the Operative.

“Sounds like you two need to get your story straight,” says Szilard.

The Operative laughs. “I’m the one who stole her.”

“My fucking heart, you mean.”

He glances at her. He suddenly realizes she really is Haskell now. That’s when he hears her voice inside his head too.

“You’re doing great,” it says.

“What’s the nature of this plot?” asks Szilard.

“What happened to your bodyguards?” asks Haskell.

“Only people I can trust are those who are already dead.”

“And either you or Montrose are about to join them,” says the Operative.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” says Szilard.

“The president’s one step ahead of you,” says Haskell.

“What do you mean?”

“The only way to get inside your perimeter. Hand you something you have to have.”

“That cuts both ways,” says the admiral.

The Operative nods. He examines that image, examines the lifeless visors of the bodyguards—gets ready to move fast. Szilard laughs.

“You think I don’t know what this is all about? That I don’t know who you are?”

“He’s Strom Carson,” says Haskell. “We know you know it.”

“The leader of the original Rain triad,” says Szilard.

“Leader’s not exactly how I’d put it,” says the Operative.

“So how the hell does Montrose think you’re going to nail me?”

“She doesn’t,” says the Operative.

“You sure?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a captive.”

“But whose captive?” adds Haskell.

“Ah yes.” Szilard’s tongue flashes out again. Another holograph materializes in midair beside him: a camera-view of the interior hangar, looking out along the line of sight of a KE gatling, aimed down on the shuttle that the Operative rode to L2.

“Jon Maschler and Nik Riley,” says Jharek Szilard. “I get it. Really, I do. The idea was to make me think they’d stolen the Manilishi.”

“A story only a fool would buy,” says the Operative.

“Right,” says Szilard. “Because if they really stole the most valuable object in the fucking solar system, why the hell would they bring it to me?”

“Because they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Haskell.

“Of course they’re SpaceCom agents,” says Szilard. “Treacherous ones, too.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t be useful,” says Haskell.

Szilard shrugs. “How else was I to get my hands on the original Rain operative?”

“And the Manilishi,” says the Operative.

“Stop patronizing me,” says Szilard, “I know damn well—even if she’s speaking through it—that’s not the Manilishi.”

“But it was intended to be,” says the Operative.

“More bullshit,” says Szilard. “Lies within lies. Montrose wanted me to believe she’d created a duplicate Manilishi.”

“She almost did,” says the Operative.

“And if she had, she could have switched it on at your very doorstep,” says Haskell. “Checkmated you at point-blank range.”

“Too bad she failed,” says Szilard.

“You don’t know the half of it,” says Haskell.

“But I do,” says Szilard. “Montrose almost ran off the rails completely. In creating a link between you and your would-be doppleganger, she opened the door to Sinclair.”

“You saw that?” asks Haskell.

“Don’t count me out of the game yet,” says Szilard.

Lynx frowns. “Shit,” he mutters.

“What’s up?” says Linehan. Lynx doesn’t even look at him.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“You can’t admit something’s wrong?”

“I’ll admit to anything if you’ll shut the fuck up.”

Run the fucking sequences,” says Sarmax.

Jarvin’s already doing just that. And it’s all Spencer can do to keep up with him; his mind’s getting swept up in Jarvin’s, up along the wires that lead into the cockpit, into the main consoles that contain the executive software for the ship. There are two such consoles. One’s Chinese. One’s Russian. Jarvin’s going for both of them simultaneously, and Spencer’s running backup. He’s starting to get a sense of just how good a razor Alek Jarvin is—how easily that man’s been running rings around him. Now that they’re within the main cockpit firewall, Jarvin’s taking those databases apart—running a blizzard of sequences while Spencer triple-checks them, processes the patterns, scans the implications. The codes necessary to take control of the entire ship are coming into focus. Until—

“Shit,” says Jarvin.

The screens go crazy.

I’m not even Montrose’s biggest problem,” says Szilard. “Sinclair is—”

“—about to get two megaships up his ass,” says the Operative.

“Or else Sarmax is going to hand the Eurasian fleet over to him,” says Haskell.

“Give me a break,” says the SpaceCom admiral. “Sarmax is out of the picture by now—”

“As opposed to you,” says the Operative. “Machinery to register mental emissions? Tracing Haskell’s telepathic signature? Not bad. And yet—”

“Not enough to get in on any conversations,” says Szilard.

“Though that might change if you got your hands on the rest of Sinclair’s files,” says the Operative.

“Are you trying to make a deal?”

“He might if he actually had those files,” says Haskell.

“I hate it when people play stupid,” says Szilard.

Data blurs in Lynx’s mind. He’s bringing all his zone-prowess to bear, triangulating across the decks of the Redeemer. But the static that’s engulfed Szilard’s signal seems to be intensifying. It occurs to Lynx that maybe he’s the one who’s getting punked—that maybe the SpaceCom marines are closing in on his position even now. He wonders if he should just have Linehan charge on in. He scans back over the Redeemer one last time.

Fuck,” says Jarvin.

“What?” asks Sarmax.

“EMP,” snarls Spencer.

“L5’s guns must have nailed the cockpit,” says Jarvin.

Meaning they’ve all got the same problem. The ship’s circuitry just went haywire. Backup comps are coming on, but the hack that Jarvin was running on the cockpit has been lost. The three men crouch in that access-shaft while a backup zone flickers on and Spencer and Jarvin try to get things back on track. Only to find that—

“No gunnery breakthroughs on the forward armor,” says Spencer.

“What?” says Sarmax.

“That EMP,” says Jarvin. “It came from inside the ship.”

Not sure I follow,” says the Operative. “I don’t have—”

“You don’t need Sinclair’s files,” says Szilard. “You fucking wrote half of them anyway.”

“Or you were there while the recorders took dictation,” says Haskell.

“If you want to know what’s driving the retrocausality, you can forget it,” says the Operative. “I don’t know, and the only way to find out is—”

“To take me apart,” says Haskell. “Which Montrose is doing her best to do.”

“Even as you use that amplifier of yours to ransack the Redeemer’s systems,” says Szilard. “Turning me inside out, eh?”

“I already finished,” says Haskell. “Your ship’s mine. And you’re—”

“Full of surprises,” says Szilard.

A massive explosion rocks the ship.

What the hell was that?” yells Linehan.

“All part of the plan,” says Lynx.

Though he’s a lot less confident than he sounds. Nothing was supposed to happen until they reached Szilard. The plan may just have gone belly-up. Or maybe he never understood the plan in the first place. He hopes he’s not getting sold down the river again. He hears something else—close at hand—gunfire—

“Someone’s lighting this place up,” says Linehan.

Inside the ship?” says Sarmax.

“Definitely,” says Spencer.

“Maybe a malfunction,” says Jarvin. “Or maybe—”

“We got combat ten decks down,” says Spencer.

Kill him,” says Szilard—but the Operative’s already moving, leaping at one of the bodyguards, vaulting over its shoulder and landing on its back while Haskell hacks the bodyguard’s armor, handing control off to the Operative—who grasps it with his neural software on wireless, starts riddling the other bodyguards even as they start getting their own shots off. Projectiles are flying everywhere. Szilard’s image has disappeared. An explosion tears away part of the ceiling—

—a long with part of the wall. Lynx and Linehan blast through from different directions, add their guns to that of Carson, catching Szilard’s bodyguards in a crossfire. Linehan dodges a micromissile, smashes into one of the remaining bodyguards, rips its helmet off with jet-enhanced fists—rips off the head as well, screaming obscenities all the while. Haskell starts screaming too.

“What the fuck’s up with her?” yells Lynx.

“It’s not her,” says Carson.

Not anymore. She’s falling away from all of them—tumbling back from L2 as though she’s being hauled back toward the Moon on a tether. Space and time reel before her, reveal that her mind’s back in that tank again. She’s struggling to get her bearings.

Apparently everybody else is too.

“What the hell’s wrong?” asks Montrose.

“We’re still processing,” says Control. For the first time, Haskell hears emotion grip that voice—or more precisely, tension. Same with Montrose:

“Hurry it up,” she snaps.

“The Manilishi’s back online,” says Control. Haskell feels everything stabilize around her—a kind of equilibrium. It’ll have to do.

“Can you hear me, Claire?” asks Montrose.

“I can,” says Haskell. She takes in the confusion that’s starting to grip the war-room. The battle-management computers are still functioning, but not much else is. There’s something wrong. Some kind of—

Anomaly.

“Fuck,” says Haskell.

“We’re under attack,” says Control.

Fighting underway outside the cockpit,” says Jarvin. Spencer wonders whether that’s too fine a distinction. The cameras show that chaos is breaking loose throughout the Hammer of the Skies. Explosions are going off. Firefights are everywhere. It’s total pandemonium. And it looks like commandos are trying to force their way up the elevator to reach the cockpit—

“Americans,” says Sarmax. “Must be.”

“Not a chance,” says Spencer.

He knows there’s no way—not in the numbers that are now wreaking havoc aboard this ship. This involves the ship’s soldiers and crew. And the only Americans aboard are in this shaft.

As far as they know.

“It’s Autumn Rain,” says Jarvin.

“Shit,” says Sarmax.

The last of the lifeless bodyguards collapses against the wall, shredded, busy being deceased again. The woman who’s neither dead nor living keeps on screaming.

“You’ve lost,” she howls. “You’ve fucking lost and your souls are forfeit and Satan’s going to fuck you in the ass—”

“Shut up,” yells Lynx—and puts a bullet through her head, sends chunks of brain flying. The Operative whirls on him.

“Goddamn you—”

“You’ve got bigger problems,” says Lynx.

The Operative can see he’s not kidding. Lynx’s powered armor looks virtually undamaged. The Operative’s got fuck-all. He stares as his erstwhile razor’s guns line him up.

“You were saying?” asks Lynx.

“We need to work together,” says the Operative.

“Feel like I’ve heard that one before.”

“He’s right,” says Linehan. “We need to join—”

“I’m making the decisions,” says Lynx.

“Sure you are,” says the Operative, “but where the fuck’s Szilard?”

“I’m asking the questions!” yells Lynx.

“You’ve lost him, haven’t you?”

They hear more gunfire in the distance.

We’ve got shooting outside the bunker,” says Control.

“What the hell?” mutters Montrose.

The bunker’s emergency blast-doors slide shut. Montrose’s bodyguards take up positions around her, help her into her suit. Haskell notices the command bunker’s been systematically cut off from the zone. She has no idea how that’s happening. She wonders what she’s missing.

“You,” screams a voice.

It’s Montrose. She’s in her armor now. She strides over to Haskell and starts shaking her.

“What the hell are you seeing?” she demands.

“Why don’t you release my fucking bindings and let me fucking find out!”

Montrose shakes her all the harder. “Don’t think you can fucking trick me that easy!”

“Fuck you and your paranoia!” yells Haskell. “I lost the fix on Szilard. I got booted from my amplifier. I—get your fucking hands off me!”

Montrose slaps her across the face—hard enough to turn Haskell’s head, nearly hard enough to snap her neck. Her bodyguards move in as though they’re about to restrain their boss.

“We can still salvage this,” says Control.

One of the blast-doors suddenly bursts inward.

L5’s outer perimeter is breached. The American flanks are turned. The megaships swoop past L5, curve back in toward the libration point. It’s going to be over within minutes. Data on the collapsing defenses keeps on flashing across the screens of the cockpit, and the crew keeps on holding course—

Even as they try to deal with more immediate problems. The automated guns that protect the shafts that lead to the cockpit are getting taken out. On the camera feeds, Spencer catches glimpses of power-suited infantry through a blizzard of static. The two captains are doing their utmost to raise the rest of the ship. They’re not succeeding. That’s when one of them draws a pistol and shoots the other through the head.

“Goddamn,” says Spencer.

“Should have guessed,” mutters Jarvin.

Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just pull this fucking trigger,” says Lynx.

“That’s your reason right there,” says the Operative, gesturing in the direction of the gunfire.

“You already backstabbed me once!”

“For a chance to win it all, you’d have done the same.”

“And look where it got you,” says Lynx. “Standing here with my guns aimed at your head—”

“And nothing in yours,” snarls the Operative. “The Manilishi’s approaching activation. Sinclair’s still at L5. He may have a full triad with him. He may have more. And meanwhile your scam to nail Szilard has gone so far off the rails you can’t even see the fucking tracks—”

Another blast shakes the room. Much closer now. Linehan looks at Lynx—

“Shit or get off the pot,” he says.

“Let’s get the man a suit,” says Lynx.

Power-suited infantry are storming into the InfoCom command bunker, firing at everything in sight.

Explosions start ripping apart consoles. Smoke’s everywhere. It’s pandemonium.

“Get the president out of here!” screams Control.

But the bodyguards are already moving. One of them releases the restraints on Haskell, slides a helmet on her, seals her suit, and pulls her from her berth. Her neck hurts like hell. She flops over the shoulder of the bodyguard while he starts scrambling after the others—vaulting over more consoles toward the emergency exit that’s opening in the wall. She gets a glimpse of oncoming shock troops—sees the insignia on their suits.

“SpaceCom,” she says.

“I noticed,” mutters the bodyguard.

Along with everybody else. Virtually all of the bunker staff are suitless. They’re trying to surrender. They’re being given no quarter. It’s a total massacre. Montrose’s bodyguards charge into the escape passage. Haskell can see the consoles that house Control getting shredded.

The elite of the Chinese Fifth Commando kick down the elevator door and start shooting. Blood and bodies fly.

It looks to be totally out of control.

Though really it’s quite targeted.

“So much for the Russians,” says Spencer.

“Bet you this is going on across the fleet,” says Sarmax.

“Try throughout the Coalition,” says Jarvin.

Certainly throughout this ship. The view’s becoming a lot clearer as the Chinese zone dissolves its Russian counterpart. The EMP surge from earlier was just an opening salvo. Camera-feeds show suited Russian soldiers getting zapped in their armor, suitless technicians getting exposed to vacuum as airlocks open.

“So much for the great partnership,” says Sarmax.

“Had to end sometime,” says Spencer.

And no better time than now. With the East on the brink of winning the war, China’s chosen to get its blow in first. It’s obviously been planned that way. Across the vast fleet in Earth orbit, Russian soldiers and pilots are being purged en masse. A bombardment of the Russian homeland is in progress.

“How’s your Mandarin?” says Sarmax.

They’re moving out of Szilard’s audience chamber at speed. The Operative is wearing one of the less-damaged suits of the bodyguard. The smell of rotting flesh assails his nostrils. He considers himself fortunate that his own isn’t going the same way. He meshes his zone-capabilities with Lynx and they start devising strategies while their suits kill everything that moves.

“Why the hell aren’t we heading for the hangars?” yells Linehan.

“Shut up and keep shooting,” yells Lynx.

The Operative nods. They’ve got enough to do without Linehan demanding to be kept in the loop. Every ship in the Redeemer’s hangar is forfeit. The shuttle the Operative rode in on was the first to get blasted. So now they’re closing in on a very different objective. The Operative’s not surprised that the combat they’re hearing nearby is tracking in the same direction.

“They’re not stupid,” says Lynx.

“We’ll take them all the same,” replies the Operative.

Back out in vacuum: the bunker escape hatch slams shut behind Montrose and her escorts. Haskell’s got a feeling it’ll be opening again soon enough. She’s still slung over the bodyguard’s shoulder—still watching the flames of the suit-thrusters of the man as he holds formation with the rest of them. She has no idea what Montrose intends to do next. She wonders if Montrose knows either. The walls of the passage widen as they come out into a larger chamber—a subrail station. The bodyguards hustle Montrose into the first car of the train that sits in the center of the grooved floor. The bodyguard holding Haskell straps her into one of the seats. For a moment she’s face to face with Montrose.

“You really fucked this up,” says Haskell.

“It’s not over yet,” says Montrose.

The train slides out of the station.

The screens show L5’s inner perimeter crumbling. Hammer of the Skies moves in toward its quarry. The Russians in the cockpit who’ve surrendered are being summarily executed. Vacuum-pumps have been turned on to drain the blood from the zero-G. Chinese soldiers are mopping up.

“They’ll be coming down here next,” says Spencer.

“Not if we convince their bosses they already did,” replies Jarvin.

The garrison of the Redeemer is trying to defend against the incursions now cutting through it, but it’s tough going. All the more so as the attacks are along angles that the original defenders didn’t anticipate—straight out of the off-limits high-security area along its axis. Alarms are sounding throughout the ship. Reserves are scrambling into their suits, all too many of which are getting hacked.

“They’re fucking reeling,” says Lynx.

“It may not matter,” says the Operative.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Linehan.

“Szilard might blow this ship at any moment.”

“Why the hell would he do that if he’s on it?”

“Don’t you love it when you answer your own question?”

“This whole thing was a trick?”

Neither Lynx nor the Operative bothers to reply. Of course the whole thing was a trick. It’s the only possibility that makes sense now. But as to what the Lizard’s game is … they’re still working on it. And right now they’ve got more tactical concerns. Marines block the way ahead—Lynx fucks their suits while the Operative springs open the triple-locked doors behind them. The three men blast on through. The Operative looks around at the room they’ve just reached.

“Made it,” he says.

“Not so fast,” says a voice.

The train abruptly slows, slides to a halt.

“What the hell’s going on?” demands Montrose.

“Not sure,” says a bodyguard.

“Then get out there and find out!” snarls Montrose.

But the bodyguards are already opening the doors of the train, heading out into the tunnel. Lasers and explosions start flaring. One of the bodyguards gets blasted back into the car. The SpaceCom marine who just shot him leaps in, followed by several others.

“President Montrose,” says one.

“You’re under arrest,” says another.

Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon pour fire onto the L5 fortress at point-blank range. They’ve suppressed enough of the defensive fire to start deploying troops: clouds of power-suits billowing across the gigantic central station and its attendant war-sats.

“Impressive,” says Sarmax.

Neither Spencer nor Jarvin reply. They’re too busy trying to keep up with the shifting Eastern zone within this megaship. The Chinese zone continues to consolidate, taking control. But as it does, Jarvin’s mind slides in behind it, Spencer riding shotgun in a maneuver as quick as it is elegant—

“Got it,” says Jarvin.

The last of L5’s guns cease firing.

The room is almost empty. It contains only a single console—and a door, through which Maschler and Riley have just entered, their guns still smoking.

“Figured I’d find you guys here,” says the Operative.

“You always were quick,” says Riley.

“A little too much so,” says Maschler.

“And guess who’s holding your zone-leashes?” says Lynx.

“You’re kidding,” says Riley.

“Try us and see,” says the Operative.

Though he knows they’re figuring it out for themselves. He and Lynx snipped their link back to Montrose all too easily. Whatever shit’s hitting the fan back at the president’s HQ made that move even easier. Meaning that the two men who held his reins the whole way up just got co-opted. And they’re going to find it very difficult to do anything that Lynx and Carson don’t want them to.

Though right now everybody’s got the same objective.

“We’ve been trying to figure out the sequence,” says Riley.

“We’re one step ahead of you,” says Lynx as the Operative starts keying commands into the console.

The SpaceCom soldiers keep their guns trained on Montrose and Haskell while the train reverses back along the tunnel. Montrose is offering them riches beyond their imagination if they’ll let her go. They’re not saying anything in reply. They just let her plead while they keep an eye out of the windows on either side. The train pulls back into the station. Montrose and Haskell are hustled out.

A man’s waiting for them on the platform. He’s so tall his suit’s obviously custom built. His smile’s clearly visible through his visor. He looks down as Montrose and Haskell are thrown at his feet.

“Hi there,” says Jharek Szilard.

The sack of L5 is in full force. There’s a lot of it to bust up. The main structure is a kilometer across. Sections of the Lincoln have melted in the DE bombardment like wax in an oven. The thousands of Chinese soldiers storming through what’s left are meeting with little resistance. Feeds from the suit-cams of the assault troops churn through Spencer’s head as the soldiers close on one section in particular.

The prisons.

“What the hell’s going on?” asks Sarmax.

“We’ve got control of this ship’s net,” says Jarvin.

“Sure,” says Sarmax, “but what about Sinclair?”

“We’ll know in less than thirty seconds,” says Spencer.

The Redeemer’s disaggregation sequence is an absolute last resort. The fact that it needs to be triggered manually is one of several failsafes that keep it from getting activated accidentally. But the Operative and Lynx have already hacked through all the precautions. They’ve won through to this backup control room and killed almost everyone in the vicinity.

And Maschler and Riley were thoughtful enough to take care of the rest. They didn’t know they were working in coordination with the Operative and Lynx. They didn’t need to. All anyone needs to do now is hold on—

“Do it,” hisses Lynx.

The Operative hits the last command. Sirens wail. Airlocks slam shut. Explosive charges throughout the ship detonate.

“On to the next round,” says the Operative.

“Goddamn,” says Maschler.

The Redeemer is breaking into twenty modular pieces. Designed for emergencies that might befall the mother-ship in Mars orbit or beyond, each is a spaceship in its own right. Each starts maneuvering into the L2 fleet on routes already established by the Operative and Lynx. Some of the L2 guns begin firing at the anomaly that’s sprouting in their midst, but most of them hold off in the absence of orders—even as the Redeemer’s fragments close in on them—even as one fragment in particular closes in on—

“That one there,” says Lynx.

“Everybody brace yourself,” yells the Operative.

Still don’t think it’s over?” asks Haskell.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Montrose. “Jharek, this is an outrage. You shoot your way into my headquarters and—”

“Please, Stephanie.” Szilard raises a hand. “No need to make this embarrassing. We both know the game we’ve been playing.”

“I’ve been trying to win this war—”

“And trying to win the war against me while you were at it. Yes. And now you see why you couldn’t. I’m never where anyone expects me to be.”

“You’re a traitor,” says Montrose.

“I asked you not to make this embarrassing.”

“Spare me and I’ll put the InfoCom net at your disposal.”

“It already is at my disposal,” says Szilard. “Except for one thing.”

He gestures at two of his men, who grab Montrose’s suit—she kicks against them, but they ignore her as they rip away the suit’s safety seals. Montrose starts screaming. They haul off her helmet—hold her suit upright while she convulses in the vacuum. It’s over quick—and when it’s done, they drop her back onto the ground in front of Szilard. He turns to Haskell.

“So nice to finally meet you,” he says.