The Machinery of Light

PART V AUTUMN RAIN

What’s your problem?” asks the Operative.

It figures. Alone of all of them, he’s already processed the Room’s vast contents—takes them in with a single glance and the expression of a man who resolved long ago never to be surprised. He’s thus the only one to notice the expression on her face.

“Sinclair’s no longer here,” she says. “Neither is Control.”

“Be more precise.”

“I can’t detect them.”

“That’s more like it,” says the Operative.

She nods—starts giving orders. The group starts to deploy onto parallel elevator-trains. Riley, Maschler, and the Operative in one; Sarmax, Velasquez, and her triad in another; Linehan, Lynx, and herself in the third. They drop down toward the inner Room, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing—

We’re in the kingdom of heaven,” says Linehan.

“Shut up” says Lynx.

But it’s true all the same. Even if Lynx is too blind to see, Linehan’s not … and all he can do is thank God for sending him this—for giving him this life, for taking him to this place where all paths converge. He sights his guns on those terrariums sprawling past—vast shimmering walls that contain more greenery then he’s ever seen.

So the stories were true,” says Velasquez.

“Every last one,” says Sarmax.

This is just gone,” says Maschler.

“It’d be even better if someone explained it,” says Riley.

“Just keep your eyes peeled,” says the Operative.

The Room’s stretching out all around her in the panoply of false color and she can’t see any movement anywhere. But the Operative’s right: Sinclair’s still here. Where else could he be? Especially with the Room continuing to power up. Behind her, she can sense the membrane’s energy reaching the critical threshold. The voice of the Operative drifts in past her.

“No way anything’s getting through that now,” it says.

“When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,” she snaps—cuts him off. She gets what he’s driving at, though. Sinclair could have stopped her from leaving the Room. Or maybe not … maybe he hadn’t throttled up the Room’s engines enough by that point. Truth of the matter is that she no longer knows. It’s like she’s driving full tilt into black. She’s on the cusp of future now, can no longer see anything in front of her. She hasn’t felt this way since before she knew she was Manilishi. She figures it’s only fitting—that she’s come full circle. She starts to get glimpses of the inner Room gleaming in the distance.

What in fuck’s name is that?” asks Riley.

“The end of the road,” says the Operative.

“We got movement,” says Maschler.

No one fire,” she says.

No one is. They’re just looking at the two insectlike figures standing on the very surface of the sphere that’s now coming into view. Those two figures are looking up at them.

“You made it,” she says.

Wasn’t easy,” says Spencer.

But the directions the Manilishi gave him were enough to do the trick, using one of two teleport chambers with the ability to reach the Room directly. All the others were just sideshows. But all that matters now is—

“We were being followed,” he says.

“By who?”

“They were Rain. Couldn’t tell beyond that.”

“But you blew the rig behind you?”

“Yeah. There’s no way they could have—”

“Assume nothing,” she says.

“Yes ma’am.”

“This man you have with you?”

“Alek Jarvin—”

“High time I talked to him.”

You were Sinclair’s man,” she says as she scans his mind.

“I was cut off in HK when he was arrested.”

“I know.”

“He wants to make himself God Almighty.”

“He may already have,” she says. “Who was following you?”

“His final triad.”

She nods. She’s presuming it was the same one that pursued her. But why it would still be operating outside the Room makes no sense to her. The only thing that counts now is in here. Meaning she has to assume that somehow that triad got in too. Thus the dilemma: it’s imperative to destroy your teleportation devices behind you, yet you can never be totally sure you’ve done it. The fact that Sinclair still has servants is one more reason why she’s sought to acquire her own—one more reason why she’s not going in alone. The metal to which Spencer and Jarvin have affixed their armor starts to slide aside. The inner Room’s opening once again, in accordance with her zone-instructions. She gives more orders, watches as everyone starts to scramble from the elevator cars.

Seb Linehan,” says Spencer.

Linehan looks at him with eyes that seem to have gone hollow. “Spencer,” he whispers slowly.

“Good to see you again, man.”

“I’m not the man you remember,” says Linehan.

“Let’s move,” says the Operative.

The inner Room’s as she left it. Except for the fact that there’s no longer any presence looming here. She stares through the maze of ramps and girders at the innermost sphere of all. She can detect nothing within. But there’s only one way to be sure. The ceiling of the inner Room slides shut above them as they close in on the hub that sits astride the very center.

You’ve got to listen to me,” says the Operative.

“I know what I’m doing,” she says.

“He’s in here somewhere.”

“I realize that.”

“He could be one of us.”

But she just nods. That’s one scenario she’s playing—that when she first showed up maybe Control had been assigned to hold down the place with deceptions and that Sinclair has only arrived in this Room just now, disguised as somebody else. In which case he undoubtedly thinks he’s got her where he wants her. She welcomes any such thinking. She’s in the final stages of a duel she’s been fighting all her life. Even if she’s only just waking up to that fact. The doors to the core of Room slide open.

Oh Jesus Christ,” says Lynx.

Better than any drug he’s ever ridden: glow pours out at him as though the thing in the depths of Moon is really a captured sun. But as his visors adjust, he can see that’s merely a function of the lights and mirrors he’s descending through. Vast pipes run down the walls, shimmering as though through heat. Screens everywhere show views throughout the Earth-Moon system: the Eurasian legions consolidating their hold, the first power in history to achieve total domination of humanity. But now those screens are starting to blur with static—

“We’re getting cut off,” says Haskell.

Anondescript interface on just one more piece of piping: the controls at the very hub of the Room are exposed for all to see. She expected as much—expected, too, to see the pod that hangs above them, the door that hangs open, the form-fitted couch that she’s sure is contoured for her exactly. But what she hadn’t expected to see are the three canisters hanging around it—three more pods sprouting out, almost as though they’re the legs of a tripod. Each pod’s doors are partially open, giving them the look of metal flowers. She turns to Carson.

“You know I have to do this,” she says.

Just you? What about—”

“Just defend my flesh.”

He nods. Perhaps she’s scanned him to her satisfaction. Perhaps his betraying her is merely one scenario among many. He knows that he’s no longer capable of lifting a hand against her knowingly. But he also knows he wouldn’t be the first in whom compulsions arose from out of the depths of past. He watches for a moment as Haskell climbs out of her armor, her strangely inked skin visible on all the places her clothes don’t cover. She climbs into the machine at the Room’s center. He turns, starts giving the orders for a perimeter to be established.

She pulls herself into the pod while the rest scramble to take up their positions. All but one. Haskell isn’t surprised to see who. Velasquez looks at her—

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks.

“Throwing the last switch.”

“He wants you to do that, Claire.”

“How the fuck else am I going to draw him out?”

Velasquez takes the meaning. “None of my triad—”

“Keep a close eye on them all the same,” snaps Haskell.

The canopy closes around her.

What the hell’s going on?” asks Linehan.

“Shut up and get ready to fight,” says the Operative. He wasn’t expecting things to get so complicated tactically. Especially because now he sees that everybody’s starting to get it. Everybody knows everybody else is suspect. Just like everybody’s always been …

“Let’s hope it’s that simple,” says Lynx on the one-on-one—

—though he’s not surprised when Carson refuses to respond to him. He gets it—the less said the better. He watches the contours of the Room all around him—watches Carson give orders as everyone takes up positions, spreading out along a quarter-klick radius around the Room’s hub. Lynx doubts that whatever happens next is going to be pleasant. Especially because he’s heard enough about this Room to know that there’s a lot more to it than meets the eye. That no normal blueprint could possibly encompass all the spaces it contains. He watches as the machinery throttles up all around him.

She’s doing the same. It’s all swirling in toward her now and it’s all she can do to keep up with it. Her DNA sequences and brainwaves are interfacing directly with the Room now. The machinery is revving up along its final sequence, approaching the point of no return. Her mind flashes out through the minds of all those around her; she sees even deeper within, still doesn’t see what she’s looking for as she scans every meter of the Room, searching for the pockets and folds of the Room that are beyond all normal scans. She watches the external membrane blaze into critical mass as the energy from those dying outside keeps on pouring into it, keeps on dripping down toward her, surging her awareness to ever greater heights as she suddenly realizes the nature of Sinclair’s servants—

The Operative’s already on it. He’s whirling to confront them as they open fire. Everyone starts shooting. Riley and Maschler are getting knocked back by fire from every direction. They’re giving as good as they get—focusing on Velasquez and her triad, taking one of that team out as shots rock the core of the Room. The Operative finds himself wondering for a moment about the redundancy of the machinery around him—and then he and Linehan are catapulting into Maschler, knocking his already-damaged suit against the wall, smashing through the visor, watching blood spill down the man’s face.

Maschler’s eyes are still open, though. “Manilishi busted you,” says the Operative.

Maschler winces—looks over to where Riley’s dead body is getting dragged out of his suit. “Whatever happened to asking questions first?” he mutters.

“You happened,” says the Operative. “Where’s Sinclair?”

“Think I know that?”

The Operative reaches out with a fist, starts applying pressure to Maschler’s skull. “What do you know?” he asks.

And even as Carson asks the question, she knows what Maschler’s going to say. Something funny about the consciousness she’s revving through right now—taking the retrocausality that defines her to the next level, effect preceding cause … fucked if she knows how that’s happening, but right now she’s got a couple of answers she hadn’t bargained on. Maschler and Riley weren’t just everyman pilots—weren’t just InfoCom agents either. They were Sinclair’s henchmen all along. And they showed their hand because—

“She’s got a nuke,” mutters Maschler as his eyes close.

The Operative realizes immediately who he’s talking about, Haskell’s mental command redundant as he whirls to confront—

“What are you doing?” says Sarmax.

“Begging your woman not to do it,” says the Operative.

Indigo Velasquez looks at them both. Her remaining Rain commando has his guns out. Lynx has drawn as well. Spencer, Jarvin, and Linehan have positioned themselves between the stand-off and Haskell. Velasquez looks around—laughs.

“So I brought in a bomb,” she says. “So what?”

“So what the fuck did you do that for?” demands Sarmax.

“Because this place is accursed,” she says. “We need to—”

“Defuse that bomb,” snarls the Operative. “Indigo, we’re going to win through yet. You don’t need to—”

“I do,” she says—looks at him with a strange expression—

And Haskell recognizes its meaning all too well. Indigo’s already made up her mind—already decided that humanity’s better off without this Room. And Haskell’s not even sure she can disagree. Even if America’s been lost, even if the Chinese are going to rule mankind for ten thousand years, even if all is pain and suffering from here on in, it might still be better than living on the sufferance of those within this chamber. Especially if that domination passed to Matthew Sinclair. But Haskell’s seen enough to wonder if Sinclair’s actually counting on that nuke being detonated. Maybe that’s the energy that’ll propel her through the real barriers she’s here to break. Even though those barriers seem to be coming down anyway. The membrane that surrounds the Room has gone white-hot. Her mind’s not far behind—

Either she hits the brakes or I hit this,” says Velasquez, holding up a fist-sized device.

“She can’t hear you anymore,” says the Operative. “Indigo,” says Sarmax, “don’t do this.”

“I have to,” says Velasquez. “All of you—you all might be Sinclair’s slaves. He’s played us all and I don’t even know what to call his fucking game—”

“Save that it involves playing you even now,” says the Operative.

“You really believe that?” asks Sarmax.

The Operative shrugs. His mind is racing with no way out. By the time he fires, Velasquez can detonate. She probably has a dead-man switch anyway. She probably has it all taken care of. She’s made her decision. Sarmax will have to make his. The Operative gets ready to move quicker than he ever has before. He braces himself—

—just as the three pods around Haskell glow; a suited figure steps from within one, firing as it emerges, catching Velasquez and the Rain commando in a hail of hi-ex rounds, blasting them both into the walls. The nuke tumbles down, bounces off Haskell’s faceplate—doesn’t go off. If it even was a nuke—the Operative’s already rocketing in toward Velasquez. Sarmax scrambles past him—throws himself onto Velasquez—

“Goddamn you,” says Sarmax.

“Everyone stay where you are,” says a voice.

She’s the only one who’s still moving—dropping away at right angles to all reality, her last glimpse of the Room is of those three figures who have just emerged onto the scene—their visors opaque, but there’s something all too familiar about them—then her mind punctures through all barricades, leaving only blankness in its wake—

She’s done it,” says the voice.

The Operative stares at the figure that seems to be the leader of these three—the other two taking up positions. One of them strides over to where Velasquez is laying—to where Sarmax is bending over her. The visor of that suit goes transparent.

Revealing the face of Jason Marlowe.

Bullshit,” says Lynx.

“Hardly,” says Marlowe.

“A clone,” says Carson.

The triad’s apparent leader raises his fist. “Spoken like a true Praetorian. Seen some files, convinced he knows the answer. But some answers are way beyond anyone’s guessing.”

“You can’t die,” mutters Sarmax. “You just can’t—”

“She didn’t have to,” says the third figure.

“Sinclair?” asks Carson.

The figure turns, smashes him across the head with a single blow. It must be on zone as well—because Carson’s armor is seizing up, sparks chasing themselves across it. His helmet’s come off. The figure looks down at him.

“The name’s Morat,” he says.

What the fuck is going on?” says Linehan. He’s trying to target his guns on these three, but he can’t seem to pull the trigger. Something seems to be fucking with his armor. Something he can’t fight. He no longer feels Haskell’s presence in his mind. He hears Jarvin muttering to him about not calling attention to himself. But apparently it’s too late. The lead figure is turning toward him.

“Linehan,” it says.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Friend of your old pal Spencer’s.”

Spencer’s staring. “Wait a second—”

No need for it,” says the figure.

“You’re not—you can’t be—”

“All this time, and that’s all you can say?”

“You’re Control.”

“Of course.”

Fuck,” mutters the Operative, pulling himself off the floor, taking in the scene. Control, Morat, Marlowe—a triad if ever there was one. Though none of it makes any sense. Unless—

“So where the fuck’s Sinclair?” he mutters.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” says Control.

Everyone out of your armor,” says Morat.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck’s going on,” says Linehan.

“We’re giving the orders,” says Marlowe.

And Linehan’s armor’s starting to shut down. Control apparently has the high ground on zone. And Haskell seems to have withdrawn from the picture, enclosed expressionless within that pod as the machinery goes nova. Linehan blows seals, starts taking off his armor. Everyone else is doing the same.

“What about Indigo?” asks Sarmax. Tears streak his face. Linehan never could understand how any man could shed them. But now he gets it. He realizes he’s crying himself—tears for all those he killed, all those whose lives he took, all those dying outside right now …

“Who cares?” says Marlowe.

“It’s the rest of you that matter,” says Morat.

You guys are rebel angels,” says the Operative.

“Aren’t we all?” says Control.

“Sinclair charged you with running shit behind the scenes.”

“And all the while I was simply getting in behind him.”

The Operative nods. He can’t help but admire how state of the art Control’s suit is. He wonders at the software packed within—wonders whether Control was ensconsed within it this whole time. He thinks about all that this Room contains—struggles to contain himself. He looks at Haskell through that pod’s window, feels his heart overflowing. Everyone’s stripped down to vests and pants now. Everyone looks strange. The three who still remain in armor look even more so. Especially because at least one of those suits encases no flesh whatsoever.

And now we’re down to bedrock,” says Control. “Either one of you is Matthew Sinclair or else the man’s in hiding somewhere in the folds of Room. And here’s how we’re going to find out—”

“The ‘folds of Room’?” asks Lynx.

Morat laughs. “Don’t play stupid with us, Stefan. We all know this thing’s a fucking tesseract.”

“And it’s about to be so much more,” says Control.

“Except you guys miscalculated,” says Carson.

“Why did you betray him?” mumbles Velasquez.

“Why did you?” Control moves over to where Velasquez is laying, Sarmax trying desperately to shield her—

“I realized what he was trying to do,” she mumbles.

“And that didn’t fill you with a longing to take it for yourself?”

“It filled me with a longing to somehow stop him.”

“And thus your nuke. So we can rule you out as the old man—”

“Unless she’s being particularly tricky,” says Morat.

“She’s not,” says Control—fires a single bullet through her head.

The Operative watches as Sarmax hurls himself at Control—watches while he gets punched in the face for his troubles, falling half-conscious across Velasquez’s still-twitching body.

“The picture of romance,” says Morat.

“Careful,” says Marlowe.

“So, Jason, let me guess,” says Lynx. “Mr. Cyber promised you Claire when it was all over.”

“So what if he did?”

“He already rescued her once,” says Morat. “Kept her on schedule. Back at Leo’s place, got his heart all a-patter—”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Marlowe.

“Hang on,” says the Operative, “how the fuck do we know you’re Jason anyway? What the hell are you, really?”

“Your worst nightmare,” says Marlowe.

“A clone,” says Lynx.

“No,” says Control.

“A download,” says the Operative.

“Nope,” says Marlowe.

“I’m the download,” says Morat.

“Leaving only one possibility,” says Spencer.

They all look at him then, and he knows he’d better talk fast. They’ll be suspecting he’s Sinclair next—shooting him through the head on pure suspicion. But he’s got to stand fast—got to get past this somehow. He can see there’s still maneuvering room between the players—can see only one way to get the party started—

“Marlowe’s from a parallel reality,” he says.

“No,” says Marlowe, “you are.”

Spencer shrugs. “What are your memories?”

“I—what do you mean?”

“Did you kill Claire Haskell in your world?”

Marlowe looks like he’s just been shot—like he’s about to gun Spencer down. But Control just laughs: “Both of you calm down. You’re not so different, really. You were all prepared. All your memories—all the focus on memory—and so many of those memories the recollections of your other selves. Thus the infinitely-reprogrammable agent. Thus the culmination of what those of you who survive might become—under my supervision, of course. Could there be a higher calling?”

“I’d like to think so,” says Jarvin.

“You of all people should be on my side,” says Control.

“You’d merely accomplish the abomination the old man was seeking.”

“But with so much more aplomb, Alek. You’re professional enough to admit that, no?” Control gestures at Haskell. “Sinclair prepared the ultimate bride—the end-of-all-flesh—and how can he be blamed for not seeing that the groom had to be silicon? Haskell’s half synthetic herself anyway—receiving full-on transmissions from the beyond throughout both meat and circuitry. But it requires the machinery of the Room to exit the universe entirely. Powered by—”

“The minds of those dying outside,” says Jarvin.

“You’re joking,” says Linehan.

“Wish I was,” replies Jarvin.

“Sinclair should have had you terminated,” says Control.

“He would have had he known about the file I was assembling.”

“Which is where?”

“In my head. And you’ve damaged the software beyond repair—”

“I deliberately stopped short of that. So download the file before I remove it the old-fashioned—”

“It’s yours,” says Jarvin—a moment passes—

“This isn’t complete,” says Control.

“Spencer figured out the rest of it,” says Jarvin.

Control steps away from Velasquez, moves in toward Spencer—who feels the scans within his body increasing—

“Sinclair’s files,” says Control. “Give them to me.”

Spencer knows that Jarvin must be wondering if he’s going to rat him out in return. He’s severely tempted. It might redirect some of the pressure. Then again, it might prevent him from driving this conversation in the only direction that matters—

“You’re a quantum computer,” he says.

“The first,” says Control.

“The last,” snarls Carson. “This thing means to rule all futures—”

“I am all futures,” says Control. “Calculations done across the multiverse—”

“That’s all theoretical,” snaps Sarmax.

“The theory’s standing before your eyes,” says Morat.

And Sinclair thought he could control it,” says Lynx. He sees what the others are doing now, gets where the game to stay alive is going. But if you want to play, you’ve got to stick your neck out—

“Those teleporters out there,” he says.

“What about them?” says Control.

“They aren’t remote duplication, are they? They’re point-to-point connections sliced through dimensional folds—”

“Thereby enabling travel faster than the speed of light,” mutters Sarmax.

“One implication among many,” says Spencer.

“Let’s not overstate it,” says Carson. “You’d still need to get out there the old-fashioned way—cross the fucking empty to build each gateway first. And that’s assuming it wasn’t remote—”

“This is pathetic,” says Control. “You think to keep me prattling while Haskell breaks through. Gentlemen, she’s already there. And I’m riding her mind all the way while we speak. And the only reason I’m even tolerating this conversation is so I can take Matthew Sinclair alive—”

“And learn something along the way,” says Spencer.

“So hand over the goddamn files,” says Morat.

Spencer deploys what’s left of his skull’s software, beams the files to Sarmax instead. Who starts from where he’s cradling Velasquez, whirls around—

“What the fuck did you just do?” he asks.

“You’ve got copies of the files now,” says Spencer.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Sarmax, “I already know the—”

“Mathematics?” Spencer laughs. “The blueprints for Control?”

“How about giving me a taste?” says Lynx.

“I’ll give you a little more than that,” says Control.

“Otherwise you can’t seal off Sinclair’s escape route,” says Spencer. “Right?” He looks at that sightless face, tries to see behind those eyes-that-aren’t-eyes. He feels a strange buzzing on the edge of his awareness—feels the Room starting to somehow shift around him. The others seem to sense it too.

“It’s starting,” says Morat. “We don’t have time for—”

“We don’t have time period,” says Control. “It’s all an illusion. We’re standing outside it all. And what’s happening around us is par for the course when a being like me closes upon its origins. The armadas of the East batter at the door, the creatures of the West barred beyond their reach. None of us in here need give two shits. By now those fleets have melted away into a fucking wave-function.”

“Existence ends at that membrane,” mutters Sarmax.

“The Room’s a no-room,” says Linehan suddenly.

“The man nails it,” says Lynx.

Linehan takes in Lynx’s glance, realizes that everyone else is looking at him now, too. And no one had even thought twice about what was in his head till now. He shakes that head, knows he’s got to clear it. He gets that he’s been too much the brute to be the object of much suspicion. But disguise is all about surprise …

“Seb Linehan,” says Control.

“Sure,” says Linehan. “We met before.”

“But now you’ve been down ayahuasca alley.”

“Now I’ve—” and suddenly Linehan gets it: Control’s the demon he’s been running from this whole while, the beast that sits at the end of time and laps up all pretenders. All futures flow through this thing. That’s the way this thing wants it. That’s what Linehan’s got to somehow stop. He glances at Haskell’s form hovering above him. Or below. He can’t tell. Time’s doing the same thing space has already done, spreading out in all directions. All perspectives …

“As always, the man with the least training is the best trained.” Linehan realizes that each word Control’s speaking is a musical note intended to call up something from deep within him. “Ironic, no? What we’re conscious of plays so little real role in riding the raw moment. Give a man drugs to awaken doors within him; you can’t argue with the result. Ayahuasca, peyote, mushrooms, LSD—whatever it takes: There’s a reason shamans worldwide all did the same damn thing—tuned the nervous system to get in touch with the source. And yet modern society forgot. Even as its physics moved in directions that undermined the very assumptions that society was based on. There’s infinite worlds out there. Infinite spaces beyond this one. And all of it only a vibration away. Sensitives know this. And with the right preparation, anyone can climb those gradients—”

“I didn’t ask to be here,” says Linehan.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Control.

“You’ve got something special planned for me.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not Sinclair!”

“It doesn’t matter”—and as Control says this, Morat sidles toward Linehan, who backs away from the oncoming suit.

“What the fuck is this?”

“We need what’s in your brain.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“You don’t have to,” says Control. “Not when you’ve still got the files that Autumn Rain stashed on you back in Hong Kong.”

“Bullshit,” says Carson.

“Those were cleaned out of me a long time back,” says Linehan.

“The surface ones, sure. They thought they’d given you the fake ones. Thought they were just a decoy. And everyone who busted you open thought they’d gotten to the bottom of it. Turns out they just weren’t going far enough. Because the only way to the bottom of what’s planted in your mind is via surgery.”

“You guys are crazy,” says Linehan.

“That’s the least of your problems,” says Morat—a buzzsaw emanates from his glove. Linehan keeps on backing up, backs into a corner—finds himself staring at Morat’s implacable visor even as he wonders what the fuck’s really going on, even as he realizes he’s never going to find out—but now Morat suddenly staggers back—

“We’re under attack,” says Control—turns to Spencer—

Give me what you’ve got or you are dead.”

“Ask Sarmax.”

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

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

“Not looking good,” says Carson.

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

“What are you doing?” yells Morat.

“Can’t have you turned against me.”

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

“Everyone stay where you are,” he yells.

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

“Don’t do it,” he says anyway.

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

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

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

“Leo?” says Carson.

“Watch out!” yells Sarmax—

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

“Let’s get out of here,” says Lynx.

“Nowhere to run,” says Sarmax.

Jarvin tosses what’s left of Control aside.

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

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

“Welcome to the endgame,” says Matthew Sinclair.

Fuck,” says the Operative.

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

“You fucking bastard.”

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

“What the fuck have you become, Matthew?”

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

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

“You … ate Control,” he says.

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

“Fucking digesting him,” mutters Lynx.

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

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

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

“When did you replace Jarvin?” asks Lynx.

“Long before he could do any damage.”

So there was a Jarvin?” says the Operative.

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

“That’s why he died,” says Lynx.

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

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

“My only student worth the name.”

“Other than Claire,” says Lynx.

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

“God damn you,” says the Operative.

“That would be tough,” says Sinclair.

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

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

“Steer,” says the Operative.

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

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

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

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

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

“Or the next best thing,” says Sinclair. “Plucked from another world with almost the same memories. Albeit perhaps a slightly different set of loyalties. But she’d be as real to you as—”

“But what about the other Sarmax?” asks Lynx.

“What?” says Sarmax.

“Your evil twin,” says Lynx. “Some poor fuck who would just end up missing her as much as you ever did—”

“Shut up,” says Sarmax.

“To be sure,” says Sinclair. “The tyranny of randomness—some of you live with her, some of you live without. We’re all just specks caught in the blast of fate—”

“Except for you,” says Carson.

“The advantage of the first-mover.” Sinclair laughs at his own joke, but no one else seems to be in the mood. “Once someone is able to tune his mind into other realities, he’s no longer confined to a single universe. That’s when the game gets interesting.”

“He breaks out into the multiverse,” says Lynx.

Sinclair gazes at him. “And there you go thinking too small again.”

What the hell do you mean?”

“I’m sure Carson can fill you in.”

“Think about it, Lynx.” The Operative wonders if Sinclair is testing him—wonders if he might actually survive this. “This isn’t about any one multiverse. Each one is myriad parallel worlds but—”

“Not even parallel,” says Sarmax faintly. His voice drifts among them, sounds almost hollow. “More like intertwined. Interfering with each other constantly. The whole idea of ‘universe’ is an absurdity, because they’re all—”

“Connected,” says the Operative. “And if you roll them back to the Big Bang that kicked them all off, all you find is that we’re on just one branch of something much larger. Something that—”

“So what’s outside these walls right now?” asks Linehan.

“Nothing,” says Sarmax.

“Or everything,” the Operative shrugs. “Same difference in the end. The walls of the Room constitute a barrier on space-time—an envelope sustained by the aetheric fluid of those culled in the slaughter that’s going on outside—and then harnessed by the generator-membranes and channeled through the primary node itself—”

“Haskell,” mutters Sarmax.

“Wait a second,” says Lynx, “you’re saying this really comes down to human sacrifice? To the burning up of souls—”

“That’s a loaded word,” says Sarmax.

“So strip it of its baggage,” says the Operative. “Sanskrit calls it prana. The Taoists know it as chi. It’s the aura that Kirlian photography captures. The life force within each of us. Absurd that science for so long thought it absurd—”

“A totally surface understanding,” says Sinclair. “We’re harnessing the consciousness of all that cattle. The assimilation of their quantum viewpoint to augment our own, allowing us to manipulate the cosmos—handing us the reins of aggregated decoherence to shape reality the way no individual observer-effect ever could. The conveying of mere psychic energy to the Room’s engines is just one source for the turbines cranking up around us—”

“In another age they’d have called you a magician,” says Sarmax.

“A black one,” says Linehan. “He wields the dark arts—”

Sinclair laughs. “You just don’t get it, do you? Science and magic are merely different sides of the same coin. Newton worked on his Principia by day, his alchemy by night—struggling against more than a thousand years of superstition while he did so. Never underestimate the impact that religion had on science—how much it deadened it, made it crave orthodoxy, gave it such a narrow view of all that’s possible even among those who thought they’d escaped faith’s baggage. The greatest tragedy in history was the triumph of monotheism—of ideologies that claimed a monopoly on magics while they engaged in mass hypnosis to prop up texts written in the fucking Bronze Age. Someone had to restore sanity before—”

“But God exists,” says Linehan. “He’s real.”

“Have you spoken with Him?”

“I’ve felt Him—”

“Real trick’s getting an answer,” says Haskell.

Her voice is coming from all around—from every screen that’s hung about the inner Room. The face of Claire Haskell sits on all of them. Each one’s saying the same thing.

“Nice to see you again, Matthew.”

Linehan’s already clocked it—Haskell’s body’s still contained within that pod. Sinclair isn’t even bothering to look. Presumably he’s already taken it all in. He’s just gazing at one of those Haskells on one of those screens—smiling as he does so—

“So glad you could join us, Claire.”

“But you weren’t counting on it, were you?”

“Such assumptions don’t—”

“Your future-sensing ended when you got to the Room.”

Sinclair says nothing. And suddenly Haskell’s voice sounds in Carson’s head—

get ready to move fast

The Operative shakes his head violently as though to clear it—can’t seem to establish any kind of return communication. He has no idea what the hell she’s planning—no idea if it’s even her anymore. Maybe Sinclair doesn’t either. Because Haskell’s voice has taken on what might almost be a certain wary confidence—

“I’m right, aren’t I? You knew exactly what would happen up until the point you stepped within. But you can’t postulate the condition of a structure cut off from all space. Nor could you anticipate what course your creation would take when cut off from all time, a bubble universe adrift amidst the sea of—”

“But there you go again,” says Sinclair. “With your assumptions. A luxury the trapped can’t afford.”

Some of the Haskells laugh. “You think I’m trapped?”

“I have your flesh, don’t I?”

“You of all people should know that meat means nothing—”

“We’ll see if that’s true when I burn it.”

The Operative notices something. Sinclair’s eyes are tracking on some of the screens, ignoring others. He wonders if any of the others have noticed this. But everybody else seems just too intent on trying to keep up—

“Do that and you won’t find your way home,” says Haskell.

“Home?” Sinclair laughs. “Why would I want to go home?”

“How else are you going to rule humanity—”

“And go back in time to change it,” says Lynx.

“I’m not,” says Sinclair.

“What?” asks Lynx.

“You can’t go back,” says Sinclair. “Travel to the past is travel to a parallel past by definition. Thus do the laws of quantum gravity sidestep paradox. And as to going back to the future of the world we left, Claire: a better question is, why would I want to?”

That last one seems to catch her off guard. “You—don’t—?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but Earth really went to the dogs these last few days.”

“Thanks to you—”

“Can’t make an omelette without … well, what can I say? There are only so many ways to hammer a hole into the next dimension. Mass killing was always one of the more direct routes—”

“That was just one part of it,” she says coldly.

“Sure. First we had to get a bridgehead established.”

“Me,” she says.

“Us,” says Sarmax.

All of them, and he’s been left to live with it all: his role as the original prototype, his part in the creation of the ultimate hit-team, his days training those who would take his place, his nights with the woman whose body sprawls in front of him—

“Exactly,” says Sinclair. “The Rain. And only Leo here had any idea what he was getting into.”

“I was young enough to be into masochism.”

“A vice that failed to fade with time.”

“Fuck you, Matthew.”

“Do you want to see Indigo again or don’t you?”

“I see her in my mind right now, you bastard.”

“That might be all you ever do.”

“Didn’t you once tell me that memory is real?”

“Everything in the mind is real,” says Sinclair. “Though it got a lot more complicated once I’d remixed your head with all the histories of your other selves—”

“I thought Control was lying when he said—”

“He wasn’t. How else do you think I got a duplicate Marlowe into the mix? Took a shell and charged it with emissions seeping in from—”

“Fuck,” says Sarmax. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He notices Carson and Lynx seem to have the same reaction—

“This is bullshit,” says Lynx.

“I’m sure you wish it was.”

“But—they—the memories of those years—they were all consistent,” says Sarmax.

“Consistent at any given instant. Not necessarily across instants, though—”

“Jesus,” says Lynx, “that’s why it’s been such a head trip.”

Lynx’s mind’s spinning, but it’s finally all starting to make sense. Sinclair reprogrammed them with the real memories of others, left so much latent—and tapped so much else to enable telepathy among his agents, breaking down the walls that are—

“Everywhere,” says Lynx.

Sinclair nods. “Space-time riddled with bubbles; quantum foam that pervades us, each bubble a momentary wormhole, and all of it entangled. And once you postulate that Einstein’s hidden variable is actually consciousness, then the mind’s real significance in driving nonlocality becomes apparent. Unless, of course, your civilization is so dysfunctional it’s based on blinding itself to the obvious. Of course minds can link. Animals do it all the time. Just watch flocks of birds changing direction. Or the hive minds of bees and ants. But the human animal shackled itself in chains of language—language that opened up new possibilities even as it foreclosed others—”

“I thought you said you blamed religion,” says Linehan.

“‘In the beginning was the Word’: what the fuck do you think language is? How else do we label the universe?—and so much of that labeling is the papering-over of things we don’t understand. Why do humans have to be so fucking certain about everything even when they know nothing?”

No one says anything.

“I’ll tell you why. They don’t have the strength to gaze into abyss.”

“Unlike you,” says Haskell.

His eyes snap toward her, and she’s wondering if he’s realized what’s up with the screens. Or if he’s way ahead of her …

“I’m going to find you,” he says.

“You can try,” she says.

“But she’s right there,” says Linehan.

“I’m talking about her awareness,” says Sinclair. “On what sunless seas is she traveling? What stars gleam in the spaces through which she’s soaring? Is she even now beachcombing the shores of inflating universes?”

“She is,” she whispers—he’s right. They stretch all about her, whole hierarchies of dimensions, endless grids of no-grids, vast innation fields, pure information begetting endless chains of existence ripping past her, each one described by a wave-function that in itself describes a whole multiverse within it, infinite possibilities of some larger megaverse, the myriad paths stretching out on all sides and she can only see just a fucking fraction of it all. She takes in the plight and promise of infinite humanities, sees too—

“Tell me we’re not the only ones,” says Sinclair.

“We’re not,” she replies—sees in his eyes that he gets it, knows he can’t wait to see it—the limitless forms of life that populate existences—so many of those worlds just life and nothing more and some of them rising up toward intelligence, and some of that intelligence becoming starfaring—

“But what about in here?” says Sinclair.

“I see nothing,” she says.

“Nothing’s managed to slip between the cracks of time?”

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

“I’m talking about the competition,” says Sinclair.

“You mean aliens?” asks Linehan.

“They wouldn’t even have to be that,” says Sarmax. “Could be any other humanity that’s managed to crack the code—”

“We have to assume others have done it,” says Sinclair. “Have to assume that they’re out there, maybe maneuvering against us even now—”

“Other Sinclairs,” says Sarmax.

“Other Haskells,” says Lynx. “Infinite numbers who have accomplished—”

“There are,” she says. “They’ve converged.”

“Meaning what?” asks Carson.

“They’re all me.”

Linehan’s the only one I might be able to get to

The voice rings out clear within him, but it’s not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. Sarmax is going to side with Sinclair rather than face a life without the woman he lacked for so long. Lynx will play the chameleon to the end. And the Operative can only wonder if Sinclair has planted some last trick within his head. He glances at him again—sees that he’s focused only on Haskell now—

“So you’re really a nexus,” says Sinclair.

“There must be others—”

“Presumably. That’s what makes this so exciting.”

“That’s why you said you didn’t want to go back.”

“And now you see what I mean. It’s like we’re on a ladder. All we can do is climb the rungs. All this talk about world-conquest, and all it signifies is how small everybody’s been thinking. The whole point of the eternity-game is to get out there and stretch your legs.”

“Eternity?” asks Lynx.

“Every last one of them,” says Sinclair.

“You can make me live forever?”

“Been wondering when you’d get around to asking that.”

“Stefan,” says the Operative, “back off.”

“What do you mean?” asks Lynx.

“I mean he’s tempting us with whatever we most desire.”

“More than just tempt,” says Sinclair.

“You can really deliver?” asks Lynx.

“Haskell’s already cheated death. No reason the rest of us can’t either.”

“Has it occurred to you that might be a bridge too far?” says the Operative.

“No need to get all mystical,” says Sinclair. “Death is merely the ultimate event horizon. And Claire’s already crossed it. She’s seeing things that no one has a hope of seeing until they expire. Access to states of consciousness that one typically has to give up the body to get to—”

“I did give up my body,” she says.

“But I have yet to cut the cord,” he replies.

Which you’d be a fool to do.”

Except she’s nowhere near as confident about that as she’s trying to sound. Even though her body seems just like a fiction to her now, she’s under no illusions that it gives Sinclair advantage. She feels like a balloon on a tether that he’s controlling—feels like all her purview is merely a function of his sufferance, that everything that’s happened is still part of the way he intended it. She takes in the Room, an anchor far beneath her—takes in the way it hangs amidst nothing, superimposed against the core of the Moon of one universe in particular, superimposed against all those other Moons in all those other universes—all of them resolving themselves into Sinclair’s face. She can see he’s only looking at a few of the images on those screens now—that many of the remaining screens are starting to wink out. That he’s almost narrowed down her coordinates. That as soon as that happens—

“You’re mine, child. You can’t escape that—”

“But whose are you?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

But she doesn’t. Not when the real question is how this all began. Did Matthew Sinclair become the tool of some entity that reached in from beyond to give him guidance as part of some unholy barter? Or did he accomplish this all on his—

“What makes you think there’s a difference?” he asks.

“What?”

“Whatever I summon, I consume.”

“Just like he did with Control,” says Carson.

“I thought you built Control,” says Lynx.

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

“And those versions of the Rain that didn’t?” asks Sarmax.

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

“A singularity,” says Haskell.

any moment now

The Operative breathes out slowly, relaxing his body, preparing his flesh. It seems to him that Lynx and Sarmax are doing the same thing—like they know what’s about to happen even though they don’t know which way everybody’s about to jump. Linehan seems to be off in a world of his own. Most of the screens are blank now. There are only a few left. And Sinclair just seems focused on whatever duel he’s waging with the thing that Haskell’s become—

“Exactly,” he says. “A real singularity. Not the low-rent kind they envisioned back at the dawn of the networked era. Paltry imaginations capable only of conceiving some kind of mass-uploading—like we’d ever take the masses—some silicon version of the Heaven they’d been conditioned to think of as their birthright—or some machine overmind to act as the God they’d been promised as children and which their subconscious was still bleating for. Infantile’s the only word to describe any of it.”

“What was infantile about it was the conflation of the fate of the self with the fate of the species,” says Haskell. “The lust for personal immortality. The same thing you’ve been offering—”

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

“But that’s not the real reason you brought us here,” says the Operative.

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

“Save your own,” snaps Lynx.

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

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

“I think I already do,” says the Operative.

“Then how about spelling it out?” says Lynx.

“We climb aboard and ride it,” says Sarmax.

“More like get plugged in,” says the Operative.

She straining at the tethers, but the Room’s not coming with her. It’s still attached with part of herself—Sinclair’s still got her in lockdown. She increases her energy, grinds against the shoals of limitless ocean, but all she’s doing is expanding her purview and not her power—

“Too bad,” says Sinclair. “You’ve got the world’s best view, but you just can’t seem to get to grips with it.” He gestures at the three pods on the tripod that sprouts off around her, looks at everyone else. “Sentimentality’s a bitch: I’d like it to be the original triad, but—”

“And why the fuck would we be stupid enough to climb inside?” says Carson. “We’d be your playthings—your pets—”

“Earth to Carson,” says Sarmax. “We’ve been that all along.”

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

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

“But he still needs us why?” asks Lynx.

“Buffers,” says Carson.

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Sinclair.

He doesn’t need any of you,” says Haskell. “Not anymore.”

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

“Consumed,” says the Operative.

“Transformed,” says Sinclair. “Into godlings.”

“Under your direction,” says Lynx.

“The alternative being I butcher you all right now.”

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

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

“I don’t think so,” says Haskell—she reaches out—

“I do,” says Sinclair—flicks his wrist. A dart whips toward the Operative’s head—

—who ducks out of the way. Shakes his head.

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

“Take him,” says Sinclair.

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

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sinclair asks.

“Fucking your whole day up,” says Linehan—

—by doing what Haskell’s telling him to. She’s managed to shield his mind with hers, managed to convince Sinclair that he’ll do whatever he asks. But the cat’s out of the bag now. And Sinclair’s coming right after him—will be on him in seconds. He starts grabbing at the piping around Haskell’s pod, ripping it straight out of the paneling—

The Operative’s scrambling up the side of the inner Room, Sarmax and Lynx in hot pursuit. A knife thrown by Sarmax just misses his head. A dart flung by Lynx whips past his leg, skitters past him. He snatches it from the floor as he clambers up. They’re down to basics now. Behind him he can hear Linehan going to town on Haskell’s equipment—can hear the belching of pneumatic pipes torn asunder while something presses in upon his mind—

“You can’t escape us,” says Lynx.

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

Hide-and-seek: Linehan’s on one side of the pod, Sinclair’s on the other. Linehan’s doing his best to keep it that way, moving back and forth to prevent Sinclair from coming to grips with him. He knows the only reason he’s still sane is because Haskell’s offering some protection. But this is a game that can have only one ending. So he’s smashing against the equipment with his bare fists, rending metal as Sinclair starts bellowing like a wounded animal and Haskell’s mind starts convulsing—

The Operative feels it too: a mind in meltdown, flailing against him as Lynx and Sarmax close in from both directions. It’s like all surfaces are twisting around him now—mentally and physically—more darts flung by Lynx and Sarmax slicing past him as he struggles to breathe and the walls along which he’s climbing seem to be somehow bending—

“What the fuck is going on?” yells Lynx.

“The no-room’s crashing,” mutters Sarmax.

The Operative shoves off one of the screens, straight back toward his pursuers—Lynx draws a knife, slices it in toward him—

—just as Linehan doubles back again—wrong way this time. Sinclair’s right there, scuttling in toward him like some kind of demented crab, hands looking more like claws—and Linehan does the only thing he can do: leaps at him, burying his teeth in Sinclair’s neck—

—as the Operative ducks in under Lynx’s killing blow, smashing his fist into Lynx’s face, puncturing the skin with a fingernail that hides a needle that extrudes—

“Fuck,” yells Lynx—the last coherent thing he says as the poison enters his brain and he starts frothing at the mouth—

“Good riddance,” says Sarmax.

“Just us now,” says the Operative.

“Like it should be.”

Teeth tearing through flesh that’s really something more—Linehan feels Sinclair’s claws rending him but he’s still pushing the man-who’s-no-man backward, shoving him up against the canopy-door as Sinclair’s blood gushes into his mouth, turning to acid as it does so—burning, overwhelming him with pain even as his teeth clash together, even as the thing he’s fighting keeps on rending him—

—even as Sarmax feints left, goes right, then lashes a kick against the Operative—who pulls his leg out of the way as the blade that’s extending from Sarmax’s ankle just misses hamstringing him.

“Oldest trick in the book,” he mutters, as he stabs Lynx’s dart at Sarmax’s face—

“This one’s even older,” says Sarmax, knocking the dart flying as he unleashes an almost impossibly strong punch—but the Operative ducks, grabs that arm, hauls Sarmax in as they start to grapple—

“Like we’re back in the ice,” he says.

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

“Over soon enough,” says Sarmax.

“Like right now,” says the Operative—he shoves backward, smashing Sarmax through one of the screens. Shards of plastic fly. Blood’s all over the back of Sarmax’s head. But—

“Won’t save you,” says Sarmax.

“Think again,” says the Operative—he’s grabbing one of those shards, twisting his arm as he plunges it through Sarmax’s eye—

He’s blind now, Sinclair gouging out both eyes, but still Linehan fights on, pure dying adrenaline pumping as his opponent starts crushing his skull with fingers that may as well be drills. As the bone cracks, the brain within processes images: temples opening into universes that unfold onto the ramparts of all the heavens, all of it falling past him like myriad shooting stars, far-flung patterns somehow coalescing into the face of the woman he’s giving his life for and even with his ruined mouth he’s still going out smiling—

—whereas Sarmax just stares at the Operative for a moment with the one eye he’s got left. The shard protrudes from the other—

“Bastard,” he says.

“You just won,” says the Operative. “You’ll see her now—”

“Always …” mutters Sarmax—trails off, his remaining eye rolling upward in his head. The Operative springs to his feet, whirls—takes in Sinclair standing at the base of the pod, facing him—

“Time for your final lesson,” he says—just as Claire Haskell leaps from the pod—

—her body manipulating gravity itself as she throws herself onto his back like some kind of wildcat, biting and scratching and clawing while his mind reels back before her and she tells him exactly what’s on hers—

“Didn’t count on me getting out of jail, huh?”

“Whatever it takes to tame you,” he mutters, but the battle between them isn’t really a function of what’s going on between their bodies. Their minds surge into each other—hers billowing in from every direction, his coalescing around the core of Control that he’s absorbed—straining against each other, seeking even the most momentary of advantages as they navigate endless quantum architectures of no-space and no-time, begetting infinite numbers of progeny minds that swarm in upon one another, a growing cloud of probabilities as the no-room goes ever further out of control and the multiverses start to blur. Somehow Sinclair’s staying focused. She’s not. It’s as though he planned for this. Her mind’s unraveling through labyrinthine chains of universe, infinite regressions prior to the one she’s left, each universe a chunk of false time that hangs in the true reality, each one a fragment of some greater picture that’s still blurry. But through that haze she can see the Operative moving in—

“Stay back,” she mutters, knowing he won’t—

—can’t—as he grabs a piece of piping and swings it with all his might down upon the rear of Sinclair’s head—yet as it impacts with that skull, there’s a blinding flash as untold energies run along the pipe back into the Operative’s body; he’s blasted backward, vision collapsing in upon him, the last thing he sees is those two inhuman figures grappling—

—and it’s just the fraction of the merest instant, but she’s taking all she can get at this point—Sinclair’s distracted momentarily and she’s threading in through a wilderness of worlds to take advantage of that fact, diving in toward his center as—

—he sees what she’s doing and—

—shifts—

—gets past her—

—their positions reversed—

—her mind dropping back into her flesh—

—his accelerating out into the infinite—

—receding jaws snapping at her and missing—

—her brain blasting his body—

—which catches fire. What’s left of his meat is going up in smoke. She’s scarcely had time to process this when the entire no-room shudders—

—a force so great that even the Operative becomes aware of it, drifting back from death’s door, holding onto the writhing floor—

“Carson?” says a voice.

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

Except it’s not Haskell. It’s something that wears the face of every woman. Yet somehow all of them are the Claire he’s always known—

“Fuck,” he says.

“Easy,” she mutters.

“What’s happening?”

“Ever heard of a crash landing?”

She’s staggering out of the realms of no-space and it’s all she can do to maintain any kind of structural integrity as the wave-functions collapse and the membranes burn away and everything around her gets back to the business of being real, guiding this bubble universe back into the one that spawned it, infinite vectors all around and nearly all of them leading to the total destruction of her and everything else the Room contains. Her intuition’s now the only way out as she steers her own way back, all those existences flashing by until finally—

Fuck,” screams the Operative—a huge muffled boom that seems to pervade his very soul. He stares up at the eyes of Haskell, sees the screens flicker back to life all around—sees something on them that he just can’t even begin to comprehend—

“What the fuck,” he mutters.

“We’re back,” she says.

With a bang. As they reoccupy the space within the depths of the Moon—or rather, become that space again—compressed energy flows outward, the disintegrating membranes channeling a force that, thanks to her guidance, has almost no impact on what’s inside the Room. But as to what’s beyond—

“Fuck,” whispers Carson.

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

Fuck,” he says again.

It’s really all he can muster. Because now he gets it. Sinclair planned for everything. He set up the Room as something that could become a bubble moving past realities. But he also configured it as something that could wreak havoc in any real world it dropped into—

“We’re in a fucking spaceship,” he says.

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

“What’s wrong?” Carson asks.

“You’re dying,” she says.

“I know that,” he says.

“Jesus Christ, Carson. Jesus fucking Christ—”

“What happened to Sinclair?”

“I think he pulled it off.”

“Becoming God?”

“Going off to find Him.”

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

Then again, so is she.

“It’s going dark,” mutters Carson.

“I’m still here,” she says.

He reaches out with his arm, pulls her head slowly down upon his chest. She doesn’t resist, just lets herself lay there for a moment—and another—and another as his breathing gets shallower and the ship rains fire and brimstone into the Eurasian fleet. He’s struggling to form words—

“I know,” she says. “I know.”

“Took me way too long to admit,” he whispers.

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

“Everyone,” he says.

“I never thought it would be like this.”

“You’ll take care of them, won’t you?”

“They’re all I’ve got left.”

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