David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“But I can’t see why,” he adds. “Haskell’s the one who—”

“She may not even be alive,” says Sarmax. “He may have already processed her—”

“Doesn’t matter,” says the Operative. “All that matters is that it’s all converging. That’s why the East’s shock-troops are heading deeper as fast as they can deploy onto the lunar surface. That’s why Szilard is—”

“—at the bottom,” says Lynx.

A pause. “You sure about that?”

“His advance-guard’s reached the fucking labyrinth.”

Through the doors and membrane of the Room and that’s where she is, too. Sinclair’s fucking labyrinth. A maze of impossible deathtraps that guard the main entrance to the Room, nestled in between the two perimeters—waves of zone and psychic signals assail her brain, and she can barely tell where the walls are. It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s plowing ahead anyway, her suit-jets flaring as she dives between hyper-sharp filaments that spring out toward her, but she’s maneuvering on pure future now—a moment ahead of all of it as she dodges past the first of the traps, ascending away from the Room ever farther into the maze to end all mazes.

They’re plunging downward at unholy speeds, pressed up against the ceiling as they accelerate. Turns out this elevator’s state-of-the-art maglev. They’re rapidly closing the distance between them and Moon’s core …

“Does this bypass the front door?” says Spencer.

“I sure as shit hope so,” says Jarvin. “His labyrinth’s a killing zone. Nothing’s getting through there.”

Spencer gestures at the elevator. “So how do you know about this?”

Jarvin shrugs. “A file I cracked and never wrote down. Sinclair’s special entrance so he could bypass all the crap.”

“So we might run into him en route.”

“Sooner or later, we’re going to run into him. And when we do, we’re going to give him a little surprise.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I want you to promise me something, Spencer: if it doesn’t work—do not let me fall alive into his hands.”

“If what doesn’t work?”

“I was one of his handlers , Spencer. And no matter what I’ve been telling you, the truth is that I know way too much about what he’s trying to do.”

“More than this? More than the fucking download we just got from the AI? We’re talking about the ability to fuck with everything— ”

“And even that’s nothing. He’ll show no mercy to me. So if it all goes wrong—I need you to promise me you’ll kill me before that happens.”

“I might kill you long before that happens.”

“Now we’re talking,” says Jarvin.

All their minds are linked now. They’re maneuvering in upon the center of the SpaceCom position—Lynx and Linehan streaking in from the rear, the Operative and Riley and Maschler about to hit the flank. Sarmax and the Rain triad are getting out in front of where they think Szilard is. The plan’s simplicity itself: take Szilard from every direction and take him out, take over his forces and use them as cannon fodder against the labyrinth and Room. Their firepower is a mere fraction of Szilard’s elite marines, but they’ve got the upper ground on zone. And their minds are now operating at a level that nothing within the SpaceCom ranks can touch. They can’t nail the minds of the Com troops. They’re not that good. But they can put them under pressure all the same …

And she can feel it—the emanations of those Rain minds like smoke wafting high above her, shimmering through the endless mist of labyrinth, spreading fear and confusion among the SpaceCom ranks. It’s as she expected. No single one of the players is strong enough to stay alive solo, but combined their minds comprise a factor. As opposed to the minds of those now stumbling into the farside of the labyrinth—the SpaceCom advance forces. She can feel their spirits winking out like lights being extinguished as they make it barely inside the labyrinth before being liquidated, and it’s all she can do to avoid the same fate herself; she twists and turns and pushes herself off walls and prays she won’t hit one of the thousand dead ends or any of the ten thousand traps—prays that she wasn’t seeing the faceless visage of Control looming before her. But God died a long time ago.

Pursuit,” says Jarvin, and his voice has gone all taut.

Spencer picks it up too. Several kilometers back.

Another maglev car.

“Who the fuck is that?” he mutters:

“Could be Sinclair himself,” says Jarvin. For the first time he’s starting to look less than calm …

“Or guardians of this shaft,” says Spencer. He and Jarvin are doing what they can to get in on the strange zone that constitutes this whole route, running their hacks to commandeer the car they’re in and keep the electricity running as they shoot down rails toward the depths of Moon. But that other car’s making good progress all the same. It’s several klicks back, and there’s something more than a little strange about its zone-signature … to the point where it’s almost like it’s not there …

“Oh fuck,” says Jarvin.

Lynx and Linehan sweep in between the units guarding Szilard’s inner position, heading straight toward it, exchanging fire, then drawing off—a feint that pulls a good chunk of Szilard’s flank with it. Tunnels are folding up around them as the marines give chase. Lynx and Linehan start to double around, back toward Szilard’s command post—

What the fuck are you doing?” yells the Operative.

“Going for it,” says Lynx.

The Operative can see he’s not kidding. The plan was for Lynx and Linehan to make the feint and then let the rest of them get in there. But Lynx has never been one for playing second fiddle. And the Operative figures maybe that’s just as well. If Szilard’s still got anything up his sleeve, then maybe Lynx can be the one to find out first. The Operative signals to Riley and Maschler to get out on the hull as he maneuvers their vehicle in on the heart of the Com defenses …

Still playing their fucking games,” says Velasquez.

“They can’t stop,” says Sarmax.

Apparently. The final twenty klicks, and it’s total chaos. Lynx and the Operative are veering around Szilard’s mobile strongpoint like wolves around a campfire. Half the Com forces are fighting one another as their minds go. But the inner enclave of Szilard’s handpicked marines are holding steady, defending their president, their ranks still unbroken. They’re continuing to forge their way down toward the labyrinth. Which the advance guard has already penetrated—

“And gotten annihilated,” says Velasquez.

“Takes a special kind of maniac to go in there.”