David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“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.