David Williams - The Machinery of Light

“What?”

“Whatever I summon, I consume.”

“Just like he did with Control,” says Carson.

“I thought you built Control,” says Lynx.

“I did,” says Sinclair. “In my own image, I might add. Same with all of you. Endlessly scheming, endlessly rebelling, and all of it really just furthering my own purpose. But in the end, everyone here is going to have to make a choice. A genuine one. I was born human like all of you, but we’ve broken beyond all frameworks now. The lives you left behind were plotted through one particular universe. That’s what made the Autumn Rain hit-teams so unstoppable. They made the right choice every time—threading their way through the most advantaged world-line, navigating the forking paths of multiverse to get the drop on their enemies.”

“And those versions of the Rain that didn’t?” asks Sarmax.

“Got left behind in the dust,” says Sinclair. He shrugs. “You have to shift your thinking. Multiverse is a matter of probabilities. Everything happens. Some things happen more than others. Once we had a mind that could ride existence like a water-strider rides liquid—that was when things got interesting. That was what laid the groundwork for steering one universe in particular toward—

“A singularity,” says Haskell.

any moment now

The Operative breathes out slowly, relaxing his body, preparing his flesh. It seems to him that Lynx and Sarmax are doing the same thing—like they know what’s about to happen even though they don’t know which way everybody’s about to jump. Linehan seems to be off in a world of his own. Most of the screens are blank now. There are only a few left. And Sinclair just seems focused on whatever duel he’s waging with the thing that Haskell’s become—

“Exactly,” he says. “A real singularity. Not the low-rent kind they envisioned back at the dawn of the networked era. Paltry imaginations capable only of conceiving some kind of mass-uploading—like we’d ever take the masses —some silicon version of the Heaven they’d been conditioned to think of as their birthright—or some machine overmind to act as the God they’d been promised as children and which their subconscious was still bleating for. Infantile’s the only word to describe any of it.”

“What was infantile about it was the conflation of the fate of the self with the fate of the species,” says Haskell. “The lust for personal immortality. The same thing you’ve been offering—”

“And the prize which everyone here can claim. We’ve already broken through all the barriers humans were never meant to cross. This meat we inhabit is of no more significance than flea-bitten clothing. And I’ll have need of servants as I explore the ultimate. Why would I deny them attributes worthy of their station?”

“But that’s not the real reason you brought us here,” says the Operative.

“You’re the ones who’ve done that,” says Sinclair. “Came here under your own power, of your own initiative—the strongest members of the Rain—the survivors … all of you converging upon this point along a precise sequence of events in which you mirrored each others’ actions, ebbing and flowing against one another, running point and counterpoint in games of byzantine complexity played out across the Earth-Moon system, patterns so intricate no single mind could possibly divine the probability clouds that define them—”

“Save your own,” snaps Lynx.

He can barely follow the conversation, but he can see that things are coming to a head. He’s aware, too, of these creatures in his mind, and they don’t seem to be able to make up theirs. One’s struggling to absorb the infernal machine. The other’s not coming through too clearly. It sounds like the woman from earlier, though. Even though Linehan can barely hear her. He can remember even less. But there was a woman. It’s her face—on the screens in front of him. And on the vast screen beyond all of that …

You really want to know that price,” says Sinclair.

“I think I already do,” says the Operative.

“Then how about spelling it out?” says Lynx.

“We climb aboard and ride it,” says Sarmax.

“More like get plugged in,” says the Operative.

She straining at the tethers, but the Room’s not coming with her. It’s still attached with part of herself—Sinclair’s still got her in lockdown. She increases her energy, grinds against the shoals of limitless ocean, but all she’s doing is expanding her purview and not her power—

“Too bad,” says Sinclair. “You’ve got the world’s best view, but you just can’t seem to get to grips with it.” He gestures at the three pods on the tripod that sprouts off around her, looks at everyone else. “Sentimentality’s a bitch: I’d like it to be the original triad, but—”

“And why the fuck would we be stupid enough to climb inside?” says Carson. “We’d be your playthings—your pets— ”

“Earth to Carson,” says Sarmax. “We’ve been that all along.”

Everyone looks at him. He can feel energy pulsating through the Room—practically radiating from the screens. He can only assume they feel it too. He struggles to keep his mind off Indigo, struggles to stay focused.

“Matthew intends to absorb Haskell the same way he absorbed Control,” he says.

“But he still needs us why?” asks Lynx.

“Buffers,” says Carson.

“Let’s not get carried away,” says Sinclair.

He doesn’t need any of you,” says Haskell. “Not anymore.”

“It just makes it easier,” says Sinclair. “Think of it as outriggers on a canoe. Helps keep the balance. I’ve prepped your minds since inception to be the amplifiers in the grid I’ve formed around Claire. Even one of you would be useful, but all three would be just peachy—as specialized a set of neurotransmitters as I could orchestrate, and Linehan’s chowed down enough psychedelics to qualify as a spare tire. In return, you’ll get—”

“Consumed,” says the Operative.

“Transformed,” says Sinclair. “Into godlings.”

“Under your direction,” says Lynx.

“The alternative being I butcher you all right now.”

“Butcher?” says Haskell. She’s making one last effort now. She can feel something start to give way. “Butcher? If you absorb me—the amount of energy—the psychic backwash when the Room breaks free of its last moorings will kill every living thing back within the Earth-Moon system—probably wipe the slate clean out beyond the radius of Mars— ”

“And it’s all just fuel for the engines,” says Sinclair. “Necessary to attain our Archimedes point on all else. You came through a labyrinth to get in here, but the real labyrinth is everything that’s beyond: all of it just interlocking computations . And your last-ditch efforts are merely strengthening my hand. So you better take a good look, Claire, because it’s the last you’re going to get with eyes that aren’t fucking mine—”