David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“Going where?”

“Great question.”

“And why the hell would he blow up his own flagship in the middle of the ultimate smackdown?”

“Because we’re kicking Eurasian ass. So he can afford to write it off.”

Linehan shakes his head. “Fuck,” he says.

“Textbook power play,” says Lynx. “Szilard’s luring everyone in his suspect file aboard this crate—all those other SpaceCom factions and anybody else who even might be trying to plot against him. All of them got assigned aboard the Montana . Seven out of nine of his generals, all the key prisoners, several of his less-reliable wet-ops squads: everyone’s gonna get it good. Gotta admit, Linehan, we really got outplayed by him. Though he still would have gotten fucked if—”

“—you and Carson had managed to stick together.”

“Yeah. Exactly. Look, we need to get off this ship.”

“There’s still a way?”

Lynx nods. “And it ain’t even by way of heaven.”

The codes get transferred; the authorization gets transmitted. The train starts up again, accelerating down the tunnels. Walls flick past as two men struggle to figure out how to deal with a third.

“So what happens to us?” asks the engineer.

“Nothing.”

“You’re going to kill us,” says the driver.

“Keep driving and you’ll keep living.”

“You’re an American agent,” says the engineer.

“What gives you that idea?”

“Why else would you have that gun out?”

“I could be Chinese.”

“He could be Chinese,” says the engineer.

“Doesn’t look it,” says the driver.

“Doesn’t matter,” says the man. “Not these days. Anyone could be anyone.”

The seismic tremors are starting up again, with renewed intensity. The major glances at the controls.

“And now I need you to ditch this train,” he adds.

“You mean get off it?” asks the driver.

“No,” says the man, “sever our link to the rest of it.”

The driver stares at him. “But it’ll stop—it’s not authorized—”

“I don’t feel like arguing.”

Neither does the driver. There’s a bump, then a lurch. The car accelerates markedly as the cars behind them go into automatic shutoff, disappearing in the rearview. The engineer pulls himself to his feet, stares at the major.

“We just dumped twenty fucking cars,” he says.

“And I’ll dump you if you breathe another word,” says the major. “Now floor it.”

“That was our freight,” mutters the driver.

“I’m your freight,” says the man.

The driver nods, doesn’t take his eye from the rail ahead of him. It lances out, not bending for at least the next twenty kilometers. The train builds speed toward the supersonic. The driver exhales slowly.

“So who are you?” he whispers.

“I’m here to make sure we win this war.”

“How?”

“The Americans are killing us,” says the driver.

“Just proceed along the following routes.” The major hands the driver a sheet of paper.

“This is paper.”

“Indeed. Now tell your engineer to sit the fuck down.”

“Sit the”—but the engineer already has.

“And don’t dwell on the baggage we just lost,” says the man. “Tunnel control has already been notified of a breakdown. And no one’s going to believe that the engine disappeared, so they’ll just leave that out of their reports.”

“Someone will think someone’s mainlining vodka,” says the engineer, laughing in a tone that’s just a little too shrill.

“But this is taking us off the maps,” says the driver suddenly.

“Your point being?”

“We should slow down. We’re heading way beneath the Himalayas.”

“Best place to be right now,” says the man.

Hanging in a shaft in the machine to end all machines: Spencer lets his mind expand out into the world around him. Not that it gets very far—he’s stopped at the confines of this vehicle within its microzone, completely shorn from any larger zone. But he can see everything he needs to all the same.

“What the hell’s going on?” asks Sarmax.

“Boarding,” says Spencer—and transmits pictures to the mech’s helmet, letting him take in the shuffle of boots through corridors, the syncopated beat of marching suits. For over a half-kilometer above them, passages are filling with Russian soldiers. The wider galleries beyond that are filling with treaded vehicles.

“Fourth Mountain Division,” says Sarmax.

“You know them?”

“Of them, sure. They’re special forces.”

“They’re just the half of it,” says Spencer, sending more images—these from the half-kilometer of corridors above the Russians. Sarmax laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head.

“Chinese,” he mutters. “Fifth Commando.”

Looking like they’re ready for the fight of their lives and then some. Their suits shuffle forward almost languidly, sit down and start strapping in while swarms of mechanics bolt their vehicles to the walls.

“Time to get this show on the road,” says Sarmax.

“I’m working on it,” says Spencer.

“Work faster,” says Sarmax, as the elevators above them slide into motion.

Haskell becomes dimly aware of faint vibrations. She’s lying on her back, strapped down. She opens her eyes, finds she’s in yet another train. Soldiers stand around her, their guns on her as they make signs to ward off the evil eye. She’s wishing she could find some way to live up to her reputation.

But the soldiers have something else to worry about. Someone more senior is entering the car—the soldiers are saluting, clearly ill at ease. Haskell can see the newcomer only by craning her head inside her helmet—which is abruptly yanked off her. Someone strikes her over the head. Someone puts a metal clamp on the back of her skull. It hurts.

“Fuck,” she says.

“The Manilishi,” says a voice.

She’s looking up at the newcomer—a Chinese officer. His suit’s insignia’s that of colonel. His English is perfect.

“I’m Colonel Tsien,” he says.

“Chinese Intelligence.”

“Of course.”

“And this whole incursion was for my benefit?”

“So to speak,” he says.

“I’m useless to you.”

“No need to be so modest.”

“You know I’m not going to help you.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you to decide.”

“Don’t be so sure. A lot could happen between now and Tsiolkovskiy.”

He smiles. “What makes you think we’re going there?”

“Don’t bullshit me. It’s the closest base you’ve got.”

“Tsiolkovskiy’s getting overrun.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s true,” he says. “We just got word. Your accursed Stars and Stripes will be raised over what’s left of it within a quarter-hour. Something that even these soldiers around you don’t know. See how I confide in you, Claire?”

“So where the hell are we going?”

“Somewhere we can hide.”

“You mean somewhere you can interrogate me.”

“I mean somewhere we can finish up.”

“What?”

But Tsien just snaps his fingers—a soldier grabs her head while another slides a new helmet onto her. They lock it into place. She stares up at Tsien as his voice echoes inside her head.

“One chance,” he says.

“Let’s talk this over.”

“We don’t want to damage you.”

“You’ll have to take that risk.”

“This will be painful.”

“Like you care.”

“Of course I care,” he says—his smile increasing. “My people are fighting for their lives. You’re a monstrosity built to destroy them. Such irony if you could be harnessed.”