The Machinery of Light.

by David J. Williams.

SKETCHES OF THE AFTER.

How then to do justice to such sketches? Start by saying that they were imperfect representations of imperfect things. They were flesh that wants to live reduced to ink or keystrokes-or just to memory ground beneath the mill of time. Yet those images, they might survive that flesh ... that memory may yet evade the oblivion of eons, become instead the foundation for the tales that flow from old to young to ancient in endless migration across the chains of generation all the way to when the arks of the third planet scatter before the ravaging sun, when the descendants of apes watch the very concept of the years melt in flame behind them. Phrase the words just so, write them just right, and maybe they'll make it that far. Maybe they'll do justice to what really went down: the two twenty-second-century superpowers that watched each other across endless steppes and ocean-that feared and hated each other, that built a.r.s.enals that spanned the globe and more, looking down upon our planet from on high in s.p.a.ce. s.p.a.ce s.p.a.ce. For even as the radio signals from the first Cold War echoed on the fringes of the Milky Way and sped toward the galaxy's heart-even as the transmissions from Sputnik and Soyuz raced out into the endless pa.r.s.ecs to join forever with those of Gemini and Apollo ... the spark of conflict that set those vessels in motion flared anew in an hour when our race's promise and and our race's tragedy surged together in a collision that shattered across the shards of time, leaving in its wake only this poor subst.i.tute for the real thing, babbled by a madman long gone on the sheerest midnight, riding astride that which might comprise the story of Autumn Rain, tales of pandemonium and glory, sketches of the after to end all others, liquid words flung down from the sky, absorbing all tears, frozen in the ground for all of winter, yet pregnant with the possibility of coming forth one day someday into eternal spring ... our race's tragedy surged together in a collision that shattered across the shards of time, leaving in its wake only this poor subst.i.tute for the real thing, babbled by a madman long gone on the sheerest midnight, riding astride that which might comprise the story of Autumn Rain, tales of pandemonium and glory, sketches of the after to end all others, liquid words flung down from the sky, absorbing all tears, frozen in the ground for all of winter, yet pregnant with the possibility of coming forth one day someday into eternal spring ...

INFOCOM.

INTELLIGENCE.

22:05 GMT 10.01.2110FROM: CONTROL CONTROLTO: ALL SENIOR HANDLERS ALL SENIOR HANDLERSCC: PRESIDENT STEPHANIE MONTROSE PRESIDENT STEPHANIE MONTROSEFLASH PRIORITY FLASH PRIORITY FLASH PRIORITY> PRESIDENT HARRISON IS DEAD PRESIDENT HARRISON IS DEAD> PRESIDENT MONTROSE HAS a.s.sUMED COMMAND OF ALL U.S. FORCES PRESIDENT MONTROSE HAS a.s.sUMED COMMAND OF ALL U.S. FORCES> PREEMPTIVE STRIKE AGAINST EURASIAN COALITION UNDERWAY PREEMPTIVE STRIKE AGAINST EURASIAN COALITION UNDERWAY.

TEXT AS FOLLOWS:.

While we have every confidence that the integrity of our zone/net infrastructure will be maintained intact during the destruction of the Coalition's military capability, each of you must be prepared to operate in isolation should the eventuality arise. It is therefore necessary to familiarize you with the overall contours of our calculations. Three factors are paramount.

The Eurasian Coalition: We antic.i.p.ate that our DE/KE strikes will combine with our superior zone capabilities to deliver rapid and overwhelming advantage against the East. Establishing control of the Moon early will be critical, along with all libration points. In addition, the Coalition itself is just that: a coalition, and this can be turned to our advantage, as substantial fault lines exist between the Russian and Chinese nets, along with much mutual suspicion. We antic.i.p.ate that our DE/KE strikes will combine with our superior zone capabilities to deliver rapid and overwhelming advantage against the East. Establishing control of the Moon early will be critical, along with all libration points. In addition, the Coalition itself is just that: a coalition, and this can be turned to our advantage, as substantial fault lines exist between the Russian and Chinese nets, along with much mutual suspicion.

s.p.a.ceCom: The partnership between InfoCom and s.p.a.ceCom has been instrumental in Montrose's securing of the presidency/the zone's executive node. That said, we must regard this alliance as temporary at best. All s.p.a.ceCom agents within your respective purviews should be monitored in antic.i.p.ation of eventual termination; orders for this could come at any time, possibly before the cessation of combat with the Eurasians. The partnership between InfoCom and s.p.a.ceCom has been instrumental in Montrose's securing of the presidency/the zone's executive node. That said, we must regard this alliance as temporary at best. All s.p.a.ceCom agents within your respective purviews should be monitored in antic.i.p.ation of eventual termination; orders for this could come at any time, possibly before the cessation of combat with the Eurasians.

Autumn Rain: As of a few hours ago, the core of this commando group was intact; while their individual situations vary (see attached ANNEX), all should be regarded as highly dangerous. They should be used if possible, but ultimately they must be disposed of. Information on any member of the Rain should immediately be reported to me, pursuant to further instructions. The Rain's spymaster/creator, As of a few hours ago, the core of this commando group was intact; while their individual situations vary (see attached ANNEX), all should be regarded as highly dangerous. They should be used if possible, but ultimately they must be disposed of. Information on any member of the Rain should immediately be reported to me, pursuant to further instructions. The Rain's spymaster/creator, Matthew Sinclair Matthew Sinclair, remains imprisoned at L5, and our agents are currently taking custody of him. However, it is believed that various doc.u.ments of Sinclair's remain at large; regaining such files is a task of utmost urgency.

ANNEX: KEY RAIN AGENTS/a.s.sETS.

RAIN TRIAD (PROTOTYPE):.

Carson, Strom (RAZOR-MECH): Now working directly for President Montrose and responsible for recovering the rogue supercomputer Now working directly for President Montrose and responsible for recovering the rogue supercomputer Manilishi Manilishi, which has escaped into the Congreve sub-bas.e.m.e.nts beneath the lunar farside. Members of Montrose's own bodyguard corps are accompanying Carson, and if necessary will ensure his liquidation subsequent to the Manilishi's recapture. (It should be noted that Carson was one of the Manilishi's trainers ten years ago, and as such, undoubtedly maintains considerable emotional sway over her.) Sarmax, Leo (MECH): Partnered with InfoCom razor Partnered with InfoCom razor Lyle Spencer Lyle Spencer to terminate fugitive U.S. handler to terminate fugitive U.S. handler Alek Jarvin Alek Jarvin and then investigate a Eurasian black-ops base beneath the Himalayas. Nothing has been heard from either Sarmax or Spencer since crossing into Eurasian territory some hours ago. Though Carson is the ostensible "leader" of the Carson-Sarmax-Lynx triad, Sarmax held that role in the years after the unit's initial formulation and then investigate a Eurasian black-ops base beneath the Himalayas. Nothing has been heard from either Sarmax or Spencer since crossing into Eurasian territory some hours ago. Though Carson is the ostensible "leader" of the Carson-Sarmax-Lynx triad, Sarmax held that role in the years after the unit's initial formulation (SEE FILE LG-340038AZ) (SEE FILE LG-340038AZ), when all three men held senior ranks in Praetorian intelligence. Sarmax retired soon after the non-prototype triads went rogue, when his lover-Rain agent Indigo Velasquez Indigo Velasquez-joined the rebel Rain units. (We have reports that Velasquez was executed by Sarmax himself, which might explain the isolation/retirement from which he has only now emerged.) Lynx, Stefan (RAZOR): Led ex-s.p.a.ceCom mech Led ex-s.p.a.ceCom mech Seb Linehan Seb Linehan in an attempted a.s.sa.s.sination run on s.p.a.ceCom commander in an attempted a.s.sa.s.sination run on s.p.a.ceCom commander Jharek Szilard Jharek Szilard at the orders of the now-deceased President Harrison. Since Szilard remains alive, Lynx and Linehan must be presumed dead. The s.p.a.ceCom flagship at the orders of the now-deceased President Harrison. Since Szilard remains alive, Lynx and Linehan must be presumed dead. The s.p.a.ceCom flagship Montana Montana is still in lockdown, and no further reports have been received. Whether Szilard is still using that ship as his actual base remains unclear, and we are working to ascertain his exact location. is still in lockdown, and no further reports have been received. Whether Szilard is still using that ship as his actual base remains unclear, and we are working to ascertain his exact location.

RAIN TRIADS (NON-PROTOTYPE):.

Subsequent to the surgically altered prototype triad, at least ten more triads were developed via genetic acceleration. A significant portion of the Rain perished during their attempted insurrection. The remainder went underground and only recently resurfaced, destroying the Phoenix Elevator and setting in motion the current crisis. It is believed that all remaining members of all remaining triads are now deceased, subsequent to their defeat at the Europa Platform (SEE FILE LG-340489AZ) (SEE FILE LG-340489AZ), but we have yet to confirm this.

MANILISHI:.

Haskell, Claire (RAZOR): Supercomputer/cyborg capable of running superluminal hacks (SEE FILE LG-340527AZ) (SEE FILE LG-340527AZ). Haskell was originally handled/run by Sinclair's handler Morat Morat, and maintained a romantic liaison with Rain agent Jason Marlowe Jason Marlowe. Both Morat and Marlowe are believed to be deceased at the hands of Haskell herself, and this history could be exploited when we take custody of the Manilishi. Acquiring control of her is our top priority.

MESSAGE TERMINATES MESSAGE TERMINATES MESSAGE TERMINATES.

PART I.

INCANDESCE.

A woman listens to the world burn. woman listens to the world burn.

It's hard to miss. It's on every channel. Reports rendered in toneless staccato, attack sequences confirmed by unseen machines, horrified civilian newscasts that suddenly go silent ... the woman's jaw hangs loose while her mind surfs the signals reaching the room in which she's riding out the storm, as far away from this craft's hull as possible. Vibrations pound through the walls as energy smashes into the ship from the vacuum beyond. The woman hears shouts as the soldiers in the corridors around her react to the blast-barriers starting to slide shut. She hears the m.u.f.fled boom boom of each one closing, growing ever closer, the succession of walls parading past her and echoing in the distance. of each one closing, growing ever closer, the succession of walls parading past her and echoing in the distance.

She's locked into one of the modular sections now, along with ten other guards-and the prisoner in the high-security cell they're guarding. She looks just like the rest of those sentinels, though really she's nothing of the kind. She's not sealed in either; she may be confined behind these doors, but she's still in touch on zone, her razor awareness reaching out to the rest of the ship. Nearly half a klick long, the Lincoln Lincoln sits at the heart of the L5 fleet's defenses, on the libration point itself. The whole fleet turns around it. Beyond that is a sight like nothing ever seen ... sits at the heart of the L5 fleet's defenses, on the libration point itself. The whole fleet turns around it. Beyond that is a sight like nothing ever seen ...

World War Three began ten seconds ago, with a sudden U.S. attack on the Eurasian Coalition's forces across the Earth-Moon system. A cacophony of light hit the East-and within a second the East hit back with everything it had left. A myriad of guns keep on flaring like there's no tomorrow. For many millions, there won't be. The war to end all wars is underway in style. Way behind the speed-of-light weapons come the kinetics: hundreds of thousands of hypersonic missiles, projectiles, railgun-flung rocks-all of it swimming through s.p.a.ce and streaking through atmosphere. And right now most of it's way too slow in the face of ma.s.sed particle beams and lasers: directed-energy batteries that flail against incoming targets even as they triangulate on one another. On the screens, the woman can see the Earth glowing as portions of the outer atmosphere reach temperatures they really shouldn't. Chunks are coming off the Moon's surface. The room in which she's sitting starts to shake even harder. She hears one of the guards praying-his words audible only inside his helmet, but she's hacked into that helmet, getting off on every f.u.c.king word-and every word is just one among so many ... because now she's honing in on Earth, sifting through the traffic that's getting through the swathe of energy that's bathing the planet. It's so bad she has to take one of the mainline routes in; riding on the command frequencies, she plunges through air that's shimmering with heat, drops deep beneath the Rocky Mountains and into the command bunker within which America's planetside generals are monitoring events.

Those generals are exclusively InfoCom and s.p.a.ceCom. All the other ranking officers have been purged, or have sworn to obey the new order. The death of the president has been announced to the armed forces, along with the order to take revenge upon the Eurasian foe whose a.s.sa.s.sins struck him down in his hour of triumph. There's a new president now, and everyone's getting in line fast. They're too busy dealing with the blizzard of death blazing through the sky to do anything else. But so far the cities in both East and West are being left untargeted. Neither side can afford to bother with them. Both sides are bringing every resource they can to bear upon the challenge of breaking down the def-grids of the other, def-grids largely consisting of DE cannon arrayed in strategic perimeters, shooting at the waves of projectiles heading in toward them. It looks to be the mother of all free-for-alls.

It's anything but. The woman can detect an initial pattern already. The American preemptive strike has drawn blood. The Eurasians are reeling. She's studying the planetside portion of the Eurasian zone now, watching the webwork of nodes that stretch from Romania to Vladivostok, from the wastes of Siberia to the Indian Ocean. She takes in the Eastern def-grids as they struggle to adjust to the onslaught. She's looking for an opening, following the routes she's been instructed to take. Moving beneath the American firewall and through a back door into the neutral territories-into a data warehouse in London, from there to Finland and across the Arctic Circle and through long-lost phone lines beneath the tundra, straight into the Eastern zone ... straight into Russia. She's never worked the zone like this before. She's running codes that make her virtually unstoppable, swooping in across the steppes, closing upon a target.

The target's a man. He's sitting in the sixth car of a Russian train, several hundred klicks east of the Caspian Sea, going at several thousand klicks an hour: full-out supersonic maglev, heading southeast. The train just went below the surface, and there's palpable relief aboard at getting underground before the rail got pulverized. It looks to be a normal transit train-the last ten cars of the train are packed with equipment, the first ten cars with specialists and staff officers, bound for various bases and various locales. There's nothing aboard that's even remotely atypical.

Except for the man the woman's tracking.

He's one of the staff officers, sitting in a compartment all his own, staring at the wall that's rushing past the window. She can see him quite clearly on the train's vid, but somehow she can't seem to get near him on zone. His codes are too good. She can trace the route they've taken, though. Doesn't surprise her in the slightest that he's come from the very center of Moscow, from cellars deep beneath the Kremlin itself.

And yet he's undercover. No one else aboard this train has the slightest clue he's anything but what his ID says he is: a medium-range gunnery officer, attached to somebody's staff in Burma. But the woman has been told this man is key-has been told she has to watch him closely. She expects she'll find out what that's all about soon enough. In the meantime, she's tracing some signals he's sending-riding alongside them as they flick out ahead of the train, along the rails and through a maze of tunnels, heading beneath the Himalayas, diving down toward the root of the mountains- Down here there's nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Nothing going on at all. It's just the two of them now, waiting in this room. The lights of zone went off fifteen minutes ago.

"Too long," says Sarmax.

As he speaks, the mech triggers a light in his helmet. His face is two-day stubble and half a century's worth of lines. The only warmth his grey eyes hold is some kind of distant amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I don't think so," says Spencer.

"Who cares what you think? It's already begun."

"Probably."

"Definitely."

"So why haven't they switched this thing on?"

"I presume," says Sarmax, "that they're waiting for their moment."

Spencer nods. He figures that moment will come soon enough. The two men are deep inside something that was separated from the exterior zone to begin with, machinery that's situated in a mammoth cave beneath several klicks of rock, cut off from the rest of this black base, with all systems shut off as an additional precaution. Because you can never be too careful.

"Failsafe after failsafe," mutters Spencer.

"Hostile razors could be inside already," says Sarmax.

"Imagine that."

"We'll need to keep a close read on the politics when it all lights up."

And that's putting it mildly. The Eurasian Coalition is like two bodies sewn together. There's a reason its zone felt so jury-rigged-why it was so difficult to line up all the operational hierarchies. Spencer's wishing he had paid more attention to them on the way in, before they left the zone behind and reached this compartmentalized microzone deeper in the Earth than he's ever been before. Parts of it were opaque to him even then-the inner enclaves, presumably, but now the entire thing's been turned off, and he's blind. He doesn't like it.

Apparently Sarmax likes it even less. The mech's blind by definition, and it wasn't hard for Spencer to get him to agree to stay here until things clarify. So they've remained in this chamber for the last quarter-hour-just them and the unholy amount of nuclear warheads that line the walls around them.

"What do you think the total count is?" says Sarmax.

"About fifty thousand."

"Gotta be more than that-"

"I'm talking about the ones we've seen," says Spencer.

"I'm asking you to guess about the ones we haven't."

"We're more than a klick deep into this b.i.t.c.h," says Spencer. "How the f.u.c.k am I supposed to guess-"

But that's when he feels something clutch at his mind- And retract. Sitting here at L5, she can't reach that deep. She knows someone's down there, though. Right now that's all she needs to know. She hauls her mind back to the borders of the zone-lets herself slot through that zone, out of the Himalayas, out beneath China-and back into the U.S. zone, back out into s.p.a.ce. Earth is getting closed off to her now anyway. The carpet of directed energy has become too thick. It's all interference now-all satellites spitting light and plasma at one another in a web that's starting to look almost solid. Earth's upper atmosphere blooms incandescent. The lower orbits are a chaos of wreckage.

It's only slightly cleaner higher up. There's more s.p.a.ce, though, and so far both sides are maintaining the integrity of their positions. The woman routes her signal through the American flagship Roosevelt Roosevelt, in the center of the perimeters at the American geosynchronous...o...b..ts. From their ramparts, she looks back upon the Earth ... and either the air down near the surface is shimmering too, or else the oceans are starting to boil. Maybe both. But the overall picture in the Roosevelt's Roosevelt's battle-management computers is clear: the terrestrial Eurasian grids can't withstand much more of the battering they're taking. The woman sets various codes to work aboard the battle-management computers is clear: the terrestrial Eurasian grids can't withstand much more of the battering they're taking. The woman sets various codes to work aboard the Roosevelt; Roosevelt; she shrinks the Earth in her purview, and collapses back upon the she shrinks the Earth in her purview, and collapses back upon the Lincoln Lincoln and her own body in the room somewhere near its center, her mind taking in the duel that's raging between the American fleet at L5 and the larger Eurasian one at L4. They're going at each other hammer and tongs, feeding in all reserve power, generators cranking and solar panels sucking in every drop of the Sun that washes across them so they can surge that much more energy into their guns. The shaking in the room the woman's in has gotten so bad it's like she's in the throes of an earthquake. Her visor's vibrating right in front of her. But she's not worried. She won't die. That's what the prisoner told her. He explained to her the reasons why, and they were utterly persuasive. She's staring at him now, on a screen that looks in on a room scarcely ten meters away, separated from her by still more locks. She's the nearest human being to that room. and her own body in the room somewhere near its center, her mind taking in the duel that's raging between the American fleet at L5 and the larger Eurasian one at L4. They're going at each other hammer and tongs, feeding in all reserve power, generators cranking and solar panels sucking in every drop of the Sun that washes across them so they can surge that much more energy into their guns. The shaking in the room the woman's in has gotten so bad it's like she's in the throes of an earthquake. Her visor's vibrating right in front of her. But she's not worried. She won't die. That's what the prisoner told her. He explained to her the reasons why, and they were utterly persuasive. She's staring at him now, on a screen that looks in on a room scarcely ten meters away, separated from her by still more locks. She's the nearest human being to that room.

Or she would be, were she human.

She certainly looks it. Same way she looks looks like a guard. She's more of a guardian, and she worships the man who's not really a man and certainly not a prisoner-worships him with all her heart. Nor is her worship based on something so narrow as faith. It's based on what he's told her-on what he's shown her. Before he was arrested as a traitor and taken to this place he's in now; before she even knew the full extent of where this was all going-back when he told her that she'd come to a room someday and sit there and watch him take in the universe, both of them hiding in plain sight at the heart of all networks, observing everything unfold. The war's almost a minute old, and it's looking better by the second for the Americans-and almost perfect for their positions arrayed around the Moon. The extreme flanks of the L2 fleet are starting to scramble from their positions behind that rock, commencing runs that are clearly intended to get the drop on the Eurasian lunar positions. They're flinging out directed energy while they're at it, bouncing beams off the mirror-sats strung in orbit around the Moon for just this purpose, impacting the Eurasian ground-to-s.p.a.ce artillery dug in along the nearside. like a guard. She's more of a guardian, and she worships the man who's not really a man and certainly not a prisoner-worships him with all her heart. Nor is her worship based on something so narrow as faith. It's based on what he's told her-on what he's shown her. Before he was arrested as a traitor and taken to this place he's in now; before she even knew the full extent of where this was all going-back when he told her that she'd come to a room someday and sit there and watch him take in the universe, both of them hiding in plain sight at the heart of all networks, observing everything unfold. The war's almost a minute old, and it's looking better by the second for the Americans-and almost perfect for their positions arrayed around the Moon. The extreme flanks of the L2 fleet are starting to scramble from their positions behind that rock, commencing runs that are clearly intended to get the drop on the Eurasian lunar positions. They're flinging out directed energy while they're at it, bouncing beams off the mirror-sats strung in orbit around the Moon for just this purpose, impacting the Eurasian ground-to-s.p.a.ce artillery dug in along the nearside.

Which surprises the woman. She would have thought that the L2 fleet would have joined with L5's guns to catch the Eurasian L4 fortresses in a crossfire. But it looks like the American high command has elected to allow the duel between L4 and L5 to continue to play out. It's not what the prisoner told her he expected. She wonders at that, wonders if he was deliberately misleading her, wonders if he's engaged in unseen battles of his own. But she sees the logic in the American move. They're gambling that they can shut down the Eurasian forces on the Moon before the L4 guns break through L5's defenses. So now she focuses on the Moon; her vantage point at L5 gives her a partial look at the farside-but she needs more than that. She routes herself through to the farside's center-Congreve, the main American base there-whips past its dome, drops through the city and into its bas.e.m.e.nts and on into the sub-bas.e.m.e.nts. The traffic is thinning out along with the wires, but she keeps on threading deeper all the same, honing in on the activity that she's detecting. Some kind of chase is in progress. She's almost at the limits of the sub-bas.e.m.e.nts now, at the edge of the natural tunnels that honeycomb so much of the Moon-lava tubes that bubbled through ancient magma, some of them rigged with zone and used for mining, so many left unexplored even to this day. The woman drops in around the pursuers. An elite InfoCom squad ... and she can't see what it's pursuing. She doesn't need to. All she needs to do is hack in and do what she does best.

Listen.

Somewhere deeper down, Claire Haskell is listening too. Not that it's doing her much good. The team that's hunting her is composed of experienced trackers. They're locked into a tightbeam mesh less than half a klick back, trailing in her zone-wake via some machination of the one who's leading them. Haskell can practically feel feel that man who's pulling the strings-his mental signature a blend of detachment and antic.i.p.ation that makes her shudder. She feels like she should shut down all her ties with zone, but knows that if she did, they'd be on her even quicker. So she's just trying to go that much faster, her suit's camos working overtime as she drops through shafts, races down stairways, trying to calibrate her position against the maps she's got-trying to put distance between her and the surface where Armageddon keeps on raging. Zone's camera-images flare on her screens; she takes stock of the carnage as she probes for the American command nodes. High above her, in the L2 fleet, she can see that a portion of the zone within the flagship that man who's pulling the strings-his mental signature a blend of detachment and antic.i.p.ation that makes her shudder. She feels like she should shut down all her ties with zone, but knows that if she did, they'd be on her even quicker. So she's just trying to go that much faster, her suit's camos working overtime as she drops through shafts, races down stairways, trying to calibrate her position against the maps she's got-trying to put distance between her and the surface where Armageddon keeps on raging. Zone's camera-images flare on her screens; she takes stock of the carnage as she probes for the American command nodes. High above her, in the L2 fleet, she can see that a portion of the zone within the flagship Montana Montana has been shut down-presumably to keep out pesky razors-she flits from there back down to Montrose's command center beneath Korolev crater, west of Congreve. She can't get in there either, but she can see the commands blasting out from within. The American attack intensifies across the Earth-Moon system, probing relentlessly for Eurasian weakness while Haskell keeps on racing deeper into rock. has been shut down-presumably to keep out pesky razors-she flits from there back down to Montrose's command center beneath Korolev crater, west of Congreve. She can't get in there either, but she can see the commands blasting out from within. The American attack intensifies across the Earth-Moon system, probing relentlessly for Eurasian weakness while Haskell keeps on racing deeper into rock.

On screens within his head, a man orchestrates the pursuit. The Operative is several levels up, but he's got the target right where he wants her. The target he's been pursuing all his life, though he's only just waking up to that fact. She isn't going to escape, though he knows d.a.m.n well that's not going to stop her from trying. That's why she's the Manilishi-the foremost razor in existence, off-the-charts battle management capabilities merely the tip of the iceberg. That's why he needs her-to get her involved in the showdown with the East.

But first he has to catch her.

"Sir?"

The Operative looks at the bodyguard.

"Sir, the president wants an update."

And for just the briefest of moments the Operative thinks the bodyguard's talking about Andrew Harrison. The man who ruled the United States for more than twenty years before he was shot dead by the Operative about twenty minutes ago. There's a brand-new boss now-the one who orchestrated the death of the old one and blamed the whole thing on the Eurasians. She's on the line, and the Operative can guess what she wants to talk about.

"Put her through," he says.

"Carson." The voice of Stephanie Montrose is clipped, terse. There's a lot of background noise. Her image is fuzzy. She's clearly looking into a live feed rather than using a cranial implant. The Operative clears his throat.

"Madam President," he says.

Static. Then: "Carson. Can you hear me?"

"I can."

"Do you have her?"

"Not yet."

"What's taking so long?"

"What's taking so long is that she's h.e.l.l on wheels."

Montrose says nothing. "How's it looking up there?" the Operative adds.

"We're winning."

"But not yet won."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"Just the facts," says the Operative.

"Spare me," snaps Montrose. "Their def-grids are collapsing. Their cities lie helpless before us."

"I don't believe in counting chickens."

"What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?"

"The Eurasians may have some tricks up their sleeves."

Her hawklike face looks at him almost curiously. "Do you know that for a fact?"

"Not even vaguely."

"So leave the contingency planning to me." Montrose shifts her head; the Operative gets a glimpse of the war room behind her: rows of screens and consoles, a.n.a.lysts pacing through narrow pa.s.sages between them. "What the East is facing is the heaviest zone-attack ever mounted. Whatever last-ditch games they want to play can't matter. I'll rule the Earth-Moon system within the hour."

"You and Szilard."

"Again, I detect sarcasm."

"And again, I plead innocence."

"Szilard doesn't have the executive node software," says Montrose. "He's the junior partner."