David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“We’re heading to Tsiolkovskiy,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Is the East still holding out there?”

“Who knows?”

“Then why the hell are we going that way?”

“No one’s going to see us coming.”

The view is almost overwhelming. The Moon’s just backdrop to frenzied space warfare. Ships are strewn all around, firing at will. The L2 fleet is locked in combat with an unseen foe. The DE isn’t on the visible spectrum. It’s lighting up their screens all the same, a barrage of every type of energy weapon imaginable.

“Any idea how it’s going?” says Linehan.

“We’re destroying ’em,” replies Lynx.

Though the East is clearly putting up a fight. Parts of some of the larger ships look like plastic when it’s hit by a blowtorch. A lot of the smaller ships just aren’t there anymore. Clouds of missiles start emanating from a nearby dreadnaught—firing motors, they streak off into space.

“Probably aimed at incoming Eurasian ones,” says Lynx.

There’s a flash: an entire section of another dreadnaught suddenly gets pummeled by long-range laser. Debris and bodies pour from the ship’s interior. As quickly as it began, the flow stops.

“Sealed,” says Linehan. “They’ve cauterized what’s left.”

“Heads up,” says Lynx.

The hangar doors beside them are sliding open.

What the hell …?”

“What’s your problem?” asks Sarmax.

“Someone else just got aboard,” says Spencer.

“What difference does it make? We’ve got a few thousand assholes on this crate already.”

“Seems a little strange to be so last minute.”

Sarmax shrugs. He seems lost in his own thoughts. Spencer’s running zone on the last man aboard this ship—the last door having slid shut right as he got in. An exterior camera shows a train’s engine car reversing away along a bridge. The countdown moves under ninety seconds, and Spencer can’t find anything on the newcomer.

At all.

“This doesn’t add up,” says Spencer.

“So get some hard data,” says Sarmax.

A tremor ripples through the room they’re in. The platforms and catwalks nestled up against the largest spaceship ever built peel away in a single fluid motion.

“Here we go,” says Spencer.

They go supersonic in one easy burst, motoring down the tunnel toward Tsiolkovskiy. It’s going to take them all of twenty seconds—assuming the lines aren’t blocked. On the zone it looks good. But there’s a lot of interference around their destination …

“I’m going to need your help here,” says Carson.

“To enslave me?”

“To live through the next two minutes,” he says, firing a bracket of missiles ahead of them. She watches those missiles go hypersonic, streak into the distance. She knows he’s got a point—knows, too, that he’s got her right where he wants her: siphoning off the requisite processing power, filtering it through his own software. She tries to turn it around, but he knows what he’s doing. Especially with the help of the restraints the Eurasians placed upon her. The cage of his mind closes around hers. The missiles ahead of them start exploding. What’s left of the maglev rails starts to disintegrate as Carson detaches the car they’re in and fires its rockets. They roar toward Tsiolkovskiy’s cellars.

“Shouldn’t we be slowing down?” she asks.

“Yeah right,” he says.

They’re making their move as the first of the corvettes slides out. Their suits’ thrusters flare gently, floating them down onto the hull of that corvette even as Lynx takes the hacks he’s been running to the next level. A hatch opens in the side of the ship, and they drop within. It’s that easy. Though …

“Something just occurred to me,” says Linehan.

“Hold on a second,” says Lynx.

The hatch slides shut and the airlock chamber pressurizes. Lynx looks around at the tiny room, then extends razorwire from his suit and plugs into the wall, tightening his grip on the ship’s computers as that craft draws away from the Montana .

“Look,” says Linehan, “there’s something we should be—”

“I’m sure there is, but will you shut up—”

“Think about it, Lynx.”

“Jesus Christ! Think about what?”

“This isn’t just a matter of getting off the Montana . Szilard won’t just have rigged his flagship. He’ll have these corvettes rigged too.”

Lynx raises an eyebrow. Linehan starts cursing: “Fuck’s sake man! Otherwise, some of the assholes he’s trying to nail might sneak aboard and—why are you laughing?”

“Because I’m way ahead of you.”

Whoever he is, he’s got some kind of special clearance,” says Spencer.

“We’re inside the Eurasian secret weapon, man. What the hell does special clearance mean now?”

“It means I can’t crack him!”

“Because?”

“He’s got some kind of souped-up zone-shield …” But Spencer’s voice trails off as he becomes aware of something else. Something that’s echoing through the ship. With under a minute to go, the countdown’s been patched through onto the loudspeakers. Both men can hear the chanting of the soldiers all around them as they join in. Sarmax nods his head in time with the rhythm.

“This is going to be fun,” he says.

Rocket-powered railcar.

Way too fast.

They roar through Tsiolkovskiy’s maglev station and into wider passages. Carson engages the ship’s guns, slinging shots out ahead of them. Haskell feels him shove her mind even farther out than that as the grids above them click into place. She can see that most of the Eurasians they’re killing are dying because they’re looking the other way—fighting desperately against the American commandos who have occupied the base’s upper levels and are now pushing deeper. The train’s coming in behind a set of last-ditch defenses. Carson’s trying to coordinate with the Americans above. It doesn’t look like he’s succeeding. The Yanks aren’t taking any calls. Up ahead, she can see the rearmost Eurasians turning to face them. Some of them are shoving a makeshift barrier into place. Looks like it’s some kind of wrecked crawler, blocking the tunnel up ahead.

“Fuck,” she says.

“I see it,” he replies—accelerates still further.

“We’re gonna crash,” she yells.

“And how,” he grins.

Szilard’s stacked the whole game,” says Linehan. He’s starting to feel like the walls of this little chamber are closing in—like the man who’s crammed up against him is enjoying this way too much.

“That’s how he plays,” says Lynx.

“So how come you don’t seem concerned?”

“Because I’ve thought of it all already. Of course Szilard would rig this ship. Standard tactic—and it doesn’t matter. It’s still the only possible way off the Montana . Which, by the way, is about to go up like a fucking roman candle.”

“After which we do the fucking same, huh?”

“Charges are rigged just aft of the corvette’s cockpit. They’ll get detonated by wireless transmission.”