David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“I am all futures,” says Control. “Calculations done across the multiverse—”

“That’s all theoretical,” snaps Sarmax.

“The theory’s standing before your eyes,” says Morat.

And Sinclair thought he could control it,” says Lynx. He sees what the others are doing now, gets where the game to stay alive is going. But if you want to play, you’ve got to stick your neck out—

“Those teleporters out there,” he says.

“What about them?” says Control.

“They aren’t remote duplication, are they? They’re point-to-point connections sliced through dimensional folds—”

“Thereby enabling travel faster than the speed of light,” mutters Sarmax.

“One implication among many,” says Spencer.

“Let’s not overstate it,” says Carson. “You’d still need to get out there the old-fashioned way—cross the fucking empty to build each gateway first. And that’s assuming it wasn’t remote—”

“This is pathetic,” says Control. “You think to keep me prattling while Haskell breaks through. Gentlemen, she’s already there . And I’m riding her mind all the way while we speak. And the only reason I’m even tolerating this conversation is so I can take Matthew Sinclair alive—”

“And learn something along the way,” says Spencer.

“So hand over the goddamn files,” says Morat.

Spencer deploys what’s left of his skull’s software, beams the files to Sarmax instead. Who starts from where he’s cradling Velasquez, whirls around—

“What the fuck did you just do?” he asks.

“You’ve got copies of the files now,” says Spencer.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Sarmax, “I already know the—”

“Mathematics?” Spencer laughs. “The blueprints for Control?”

“How about giving me a taste?” says Lynx.

“I’ll give you a little more than that,” says Control.

“Otherwise you can’t seal off Sinclair’s escape route,” says Spencer. “Right?” He looks at that sightless face, tries to see behind those eyes-that-aren’t-eyes. He feels a strange buzzing on the edge of his awareness—feels the Room starting to somehow shift around him. The others seem to sense it too.

“It’s starting,” says Morat. “We don’t have time for—”

“We don’t have time period,” says Control. “It’s all an illusion. We’re standing outside it all. And what’s happening around us is par for the course when a being like me closes upon its origins. The armadas of the East batter at the door, the creatures of the West barred beyond their reach. None of us in here need give two shits. By now those fleets have melted away into a fucking wave-function.”

“Existence ends at that membrane,” mutters Sarmax.

“The Room’s a no-room,” says Linehan suddenly.

“The man nails it,” says Lynx.

Linehan takes in Lynx’s glance, realizes that everyone else is looking at him now, too. And no one had even thought twice about what was in his head till now. He shakes that head, knows he’s got to clear it. He gets that he’s been too much the brute to be the object of much suspicion. But disguise is all about surprise …

“Seb Linehan,” says Control.

“Sure,” says Linehan. “We met before.”

“But now you’ve been down ayahuasca alley.”

“Now I’ve—” and suddenly Linehan gets it: Control’s the demon he’s been running from this whole while, the beast that sits at the end of time and laps up all pretenders. All futures flow through this thing. That’s the way this thing wants it. That’s what Linehan’s got to somehow stop. He glances at Haskell’s form hovering above him. Or below. He can’t tell. Time’s doing the same thing space has already done, spreading out in all directions. All perspectives …

“As always, the man with the least training is the best trained.” Linehan realizes that each word Control’s speaking is a musical note intended to call up something from deep within him. “Ironic, no? What we’re conscious of plays so little real role in riding the raw moment. Give a man drugs to awaken doors within him; you can’t argue with the result. Ayahuasca, peyote, mushrooms, LSD—whatever it takes: There’s a reason shamans worldwide all did the same damn thing—tuned the nervous system to get in touch with the source. And yet modern society forgot. Even as its physics moved in directions that undermined the very assumptions that society was based on. There’s infinite worlds out there. Infinite spaces beyond this one. And all of it only a vibration away. Sensitives know this. And with the right preparation, anyone can climb those gradients—”

“I didn’t ask to be here,” says Linehan.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Control.

“You’ve got something special planned for me.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not Sinclair!”

“It doesn’t matter”—and as Control says this, Morat sidles toward Linehan, who backs away from the oncoming suit.

“What the fuck is this?”

“We need what’s in your brain.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“You don’t have to,” says Control. “Not when you’ve still got the files that Autumn Rain stashed on you back in Hong Kong.”

“Bullshit,” says Carson.

“Those were cleaned out of me a long time back,” says Linehan.

“The surface ones, sure. They thought they’d given you the fake ones. Thought they were just a decoy. And everyone who busted you open thought they’d gotten to the bottom of it. Turns out they just weren’t going far enough. Because the only way to the bottom of what’s planted in your mind is via surgery.”

“You guys are crazy ,” says Linehan.

“That’s the least of your problems,” says Morat—a buzzsaw emanates from his glove. Linehan keeps on backing up, backs into a corner—finds himself staring at Morat’s implacable visor even as he wonders what the fuck’s really going on, even as he realizes he’s never going to find out—but now Morat suddenly staggers back—

“We’re under attack,” says Control—turns to Spencer—

Give me what you’ve got or you are dead.”

“Ask Sarmax.”

“Man doesn’t care if he’s alive. You do. Two seconds—”

“Fine,” says Spencer—beams it all over. Morat and Marlowe’s suits are starting to smoke while they look around wildly—

“Not looking good,” says Carson.

“Out of your suit,” Control snarls at Marlowe. He leaps down to Morat, grabs him by the head—

“What are you doing?” yells Morat.

“Can’t have you turned against me.”

“For the love of God,” says Morat—but Control’s already tearing at Morat’s head, ripping it off, tossing it past Haskell. What’s left of Morat’s smoking chassis flares out. Marlowe is climbing out of his suit, wearing the look of a man who’s glad he still has a body. He grabs a weapon from a rack on his suit’s leg—an automatic rifle—and points it at the others arrayed about.

“Everyone stay where you are,” he yells.

Control leaps past him, lands in front of Spencer—who’s wondering how he’s going to get out of this one. The razor looks up into that visor-that’s-no-visor, sees no mercy.