David Williams - The Machinery of Light

The Operative’s already on it. He’s whirling to confront them as they open fire. Everyone starts shooting. Riley and Maschler are getting knocked back by fire from every direction. They’re giving as good as they get—focusing on Velasquez and her triad, taking one of that team out as shots rock the core of the Room. The Operative finds himself wondering for a moment about the redundancy of the machinery around him—and then he and Linehan are catapulting into Maschler, knocking his already-damaged suit against the wall, smashing through the visor, watching blood spill down the man’s face.

Maschler’s eyes are still open, though. “Manilishi busted you,” says the Operative.

Maschler winces—looks over to where Riley’s dead body is getting dragged out of his suit. “Whatever happened to asking questions first?” he mutters.

“You happened,” says the Operative. “Where’s Sinclair?”

“Think I know that?”

The Operative reaches out with a fist, starts applying pressure to Maschler’s skull. “What do you know?” he asks.

And even as Carson asks the question, she knows what Maschler’s going to say. Something funny about the consciousness she’s revving through right now—taking the retrocausality that defines her to the next level, effect preceding cause … fucked if she knows how that’s happening, but right now she’s got a couple of answers she hadn’t bargained on. Maschler and Riley weren’t just everyman pilots—weren’t just InfoCom agents either. They were Sinclair’s henchmen all along. And they showed their hand because—

“She’s got a nuke,” mutters Maschler as his eyes close.

The Operative realizes immediately who he’s talking about, Haskell’s mental command redundant as he whirls to confront—

“What are you doing?” says Sarmax.

“Begging your woman not to do it,” says the Operative.

Indigo Velasquez looks at them both. Her remaining Rain commando has his guns out. Lynx has drawn as well. Spencer, Jarvin, and Linehan have positioned themselves between the stand-off and Haskell. Velasquez looks around—laughs.

“So I brought in a bomb,” she says. “So what?”

“So what the fuck did you do that for?” demands Sarmax.

“Because this place is accursed,” she says. “We need to—”

“Defuse that bomb,” snarls the Operative. “Indigo, we’re going to win through yet. You don’t need to—”

“I do,” she says—looks at him with a strange expression—

And Haskell recognizes its meaning all too well. Indigo’s already made up her mind—already decided that humanity’s better off without this Room. And Haskell’s not even sure she can disagree. Even if America’s been lost, even if the Chinese are going to rule mankind for ten thousand years, even if all is pain and suffering from here on in, it might still be better than living on the sufferance of those within this chamber. Especially if that domination passed to Matthew Sinclair. But Haskell’s seen enough to wonder if Sinclair’s actually counting on that nuke being detonated. Maybe that’s the energy that’ll propel her through the real barriers she’s here to break. Even though those barriers seem to be coming down anyway. The membrane that surrounds the Room has gone white-hot. Her mind’s not far behind—

Either she hits the brakes or I hit this,” says Velasquez, holding up a fist-sized device.

“She can’t hear you anymore,” says the Operative. “Indigo,” says Sarmax, “don’t do this.”

“I have to,” says Velasquez. “All of you —you all might be Sinclair’s slaves. He’s played us all and I don’t even know what to call his fucking game—”

“Save that it involves playing you even now,” says the Operative.

“You really believe that?” asks Sarmax.

The Operative shrugs. His mind is racing with no way out. By the time he fires, Velasquez can detonate. She probably has a dead-man switch anyway. She probably has it all taken care of. She’s made her decision. Sarmax will have to make his. The Operative gets ready to move quicker than he ever has before. He braces himself—

—just as the three pods around Haskell glow; a suited figure steps from within one, firing as it emerges, catching Velasquez and the Rain commando in a hail of hi-ex rounds, blasting them both into the walls. The nuke tumbles down, bounces off Haskell’s faceplate—doesn’t go off. If it even was a nuke—the Operative’s already rocketing in toward Velasquez. Sarmax scrambles past him—throws himself onto Velasquez—

“Goddamn you,” says Sarmax.

“Everyone stay where you are,” says a voice.

She’s the only one who’s still moving—dropping away at right angles to all reality, her last glimpse of the Room is of those three figures who have just emerged onto the scene—their visors opaque, but there’s something all too familiar about them—then her mind punctures through all barricades, leaving only blankness in its wake—

She’s done it,” says the voice.

The Operative stares at the figure that seems to be the leader of these three—the other two taking up positions. One of them strides over to where Velasquez is laying—to where Sarmax is bending over her. The visor of that suit goes transparent.

Revealing the face of Jason Marlowe.

Bullshit,” says Lynx.

“Hardly,” says Marlowe.

“A clone,” says Carson.

The triad’s apparent leader raises his fist. “Spoken like a true Praetorian. Seen some files, convinced he knows the answer. But some answers are way beyond anyone’s guessing.”

“You can’t die,” mutters Sarmax. “You just can’t—”

“She didn’t have to,” says the third figure.

“Sinclair?” asks Carson.

The figure turns, smashes him across the head with a single blow. It must be on zone as well—because Carson’s armor is seizing up, sparks chasing themselves across it. His helmet’s come off. The figure looks down at him.

“The name’s Morat,” he says.

What the fuck is going on?” says Linehan. He’s trying to target his guns on these three, but he can’t seem to pull the trigger. Something seems to be fucking with his armor. Something he can’t fight. He no longer feels Haskell’s presence in his mind. He hears Jarvin muttering to him about not calling attention to himself. But apparently it’s too late. The lead figure is turning toward him.

“Linehan,” it says.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Friend of your old pal Spencer’s.”