David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“How’s it feel to be president?” says Lynx.

Aman could ask for better circumstances,” says a woman’s voice. Sarmax and the Rain triad blast into the chamber, take up positions above the mechs, point their weapons—

“Sarmax gets to be the prez,” adds Velasquez.

“You really think it matters?” says Lynx.

“It’s our only chance of fending off whatever the fuck’s coming up from the Room,” says Sarmax. “We need to combine minds far more seamlessly than we’ve done so far. One of us is going to have to step up and be the focal node.”

“And you really think that should be you?” says Lynx.

“I don’t know what to think,” says Sarmax.

“But Indigo does,” says Carson. “Fuck, talk about upward mobility. We give this thing to you, and she’ll be running things.”

Velasquez shrugs. “I’ve got the strongest mind of anyone here.”

“Bullshit,” says Carson.

“I’m the last leader of the last real Rain triad.”

“And I sat at the right hand of Matthew Sinclair while we cooked you fucks up.”

“And you both never knew when to settle,” says Sarmax. He feels like existence itself is beating against his face. The force that’s surging in from the Room seems to be taking on an almost physical form, it’s that strong. Sarmax looks at Velasquez. “Kid, let him have the fucking node. We’ve got no time—”

“That’s for sure,” says Claire Haskell.

She steps into the cavern and she can see the effect she’s having on them—can see that at least some of them can see the auras she’s radiating. She can see that they get it—that what they thought were psychic shockwaves emanating from the Room was actually her approaching their position. She stares for a long moment around the cavern—the shattered vehicles, the corpse of Szilard, the suited figures awaiting her next move. Her mind leaps out from there to encompass all the Moon beyond that, flitting past the Eurasians sweeping in from every direction upon the disintegrating American perimeters to focus in upon one remote corner of the nearside where Spencer and Jarvin are arriving in a room that contains the equipment they’ve been seeking. Her mind drops directions into Spencer’s head even as she notices Linehan dropping to his knees.

Get the fuck up,” says the Operative.

Linehan gets up, backs away. His face looks ashen. The Operative wonders whether the ayahuasca has made him more or less able to accept everything that’s going on. He wonders what Haskell must be feeling right now—if it’s even Haskell they’re dealing with—

“So what’s this about you being president?” she asks.

“That’s what we were discussing,” says Velasquez.

“There’s nothing to be president of,” says Haskell evenly.

“Surely someone has to run the resistance,” says Lynx.

“That’d be me,” says Claire Haskell. The Operative can feel her reaching into his head, activating the executive node, sending out the orders—her mind racing out to all the fragments of the zone in the American forces now fighting across the lunar environs—

MY NAME IS MANILISHI. THE RUMORS OF MY EXISTENCE ARE TRUE. I LEAPT INTO SOUTH POLE WHILE ALL YOUR CAMERAS WATCHED AND ALL YOUR GUNS COULD DO NOTHING. I FOUGHT AT THE SIDE OF PRESIDENT HARRISON. I’M HERE TO RALLY ALL AMERICAN FORCES. I CALL UPON ALL WHO ARE STILL ALIVE TO COMBINE—THOSE WHO SERVED HARRISON, THOSE WHO SERVED MONTROSE OR SZILARD—TO REMEMBER THAT WE ARE STILL THE UNITED STATES. FIGHT THE EAST WITH EVERY MEANS AT YOUR DISPOSAL WHILE I TEAR THEM APART WITH MY MIND, WHICH GOD HIMSELF SENT TO LIGHT UP OUR DARKEST HOUR. FIGHT ON, FOR OUR CAUSE IS JUST. FIGHT ON, AND MAY THE HEAVENS FIGHT FOR US.

I thought you said there was nothing worth being president of,” says Lynx.

“There isn’t,” says Haskell.

They stare at her.

“It’s just a rearguard action,” she says. “Buy us some time to get back to the Room; keep the Eurasians from that door as long as possible.”

Velasquez looks confused. “Your mind can’t—”

“—stop the Eurasians in their tracks? I’m not that good.”

“Not yet,” says the Operative.

She shrugs. “I could probably drive the first hundred thousand of them nuts, but the odds have become overwhelming. We’re outnumbered by at least ten to one. And as the bulk of their fleet lands they’ll eventually just send in waves of robots shorn from zone.”

“No one has an angle on the Eurasians?” asks Sarmax.

“I assumed that someone was controlling them,” says Lynx.

“That someone being Sinclair?”

“Or one of the other Rain triads,” says Sarmax.

“The Eurasians no longer matter,” says Haskell.

What about us?” asks Linehan. He’s daring now to look at this woman who seems so familiar—realizes now he’s seen her before, but how he failed to see her for real he has no idea. Because now there are colors dripping off her, and some kind of energy glowing in her that’s a pale fraction of something that’s emanating from the rock below. Linehan realizes his mind’s come totally apart. And if it hasn’t, then he’s probably died and has reached the afterlife for real. He knows how afterlifes work, too—one false step and you’re fucked for all eternity. Only by following this woman can he hope to stay true. She’s giving orders now, and everyone’s scrambling to carry them out—powering up their jets, following her ever deeper into Moon—

Where the hell are we going?” asks the Operative.

“You really think I’m going to talk to you ?” says Haskell.

He figured it was worth a try. They’re heading down a series of ramps, moving through ground that’s obviously already been prepared. Szilard’s advance guard deployed here during the last hour. Haskell herself came this way less than ten minutes ago. The remainder of the SpaceCom marines in this sector fan out on either side, letting their new mistress pass through, along with her entourage—

—she figures she’d better revel in her moment of power, because she’s about to go up against the ultimate foe. Why Sinclair didn’t confront her directly back in the Room, she doesn’t know. Perhaps he figured Control would be enough to stop her. Perhaps he doesn’t need her after all. She rounds a corner to see the shimmering transluscence of the membrane blocking the way ahead.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” she says—starts to give commands. And they’re doing exactly what she tells them—bunching together, getting in close. She can tell that goes against all their instincts—that the last thing any of them want is to be so near that their armor’s touching. But she needs to envelop them all with her mind’s shield. She’s giving last orders to the SpaceCom marines, telling them to defend to the end. She knows that ultimately the Eurasians will be able to reach this point anyway. But unless she screws up, they won’t be going any farther. And if she’s right about what’s about to happen, none of it will matter anyway. She synchronizes everyone on the zone that’s all her own and gives the orders to get moving into that membrane—