“Of course it is.”
“You’re fucking with my mind.”
“Of course I am. But not with that image.”
“But what the hell am I seeing?”
“The Eurasian superweapon. Obviously.”
She keeps on staring at the image in her head. It’s a structure that would be regarded as large were it standing on the Earth’s surface. The fact that it’s beneath the ground makes it pretty much unprecedented. Haskell looks down toward it. She takes in the platforms that jut out to encompass it, the doors here and there along its vast sloping wall …
“No,” she says. “Spencer’s right. That’s not the weapon. That’s a fortress. Which contains the weapon.”
He stares at her. Almost as though he expects her to continue. Yet she’s got nothing more to say.
But then she realizes she does.
“And the Rain,” she whispers.
Alarms are howling, but Lynx can barely hear them. Vibration’s pounding through the walls, but he can barely feel it. All he’s got is his own mind, lancing out in all directions and gathering everything in under its sway. The mainframes of the Montana are giving up the ghost. The ship’s defenses are going down before him.
And Linehan as well, who’s blasting his way through strongpoint after strongpoint and none of the defenders even see him coming. All their sensors show the threat’s coming from some other angle. They show Linehan as friendly. By the time they realize otherwise it’s way too late. Linehan’s leaving only mangled flesh drifting in his wake.
Though he’s getting more than just a little help. Lynx has unleashed viruses through the armor of everyone who’s standing in Linehan’s way. The only thing that’s out of reach is this station’s own inner enclave. Which is where Szilard’s holding out. Linehan’s heading there as fast as he can shoot. Lynx is doing the same, along a different route. He’s taken off his armor. He’s taking one hell of a risk. But that’s the only way he’s going to be able to squeeze through the spaces he needs to.
Though it’s still a tight fit. Even the larger maintenance shafts aren’t intended to be serviced by humans. They’re accessed instead by a whole taxonomy of robots that double as sentinels. Clawed drones, welders, moving drills—they’re hurling themselves from out of the dark and onto Lynx, doing their best to cut him to ribbons.
Only they can’t. They’re getting stopped just short of him. They’re getting out of his way. It’s not their fault. Lynx has reached into their brains, giving them a little twist, making them forget just why the hell they were getting so agitated. He’s the one thing in these tunnels that’s managing to stay focused. He keeps on moving.
And now he’s in the inner area. He can see the blueprints of this section stretching all about him. All twenty levels of it. All of the Montana beyond it, and the whole fleet stretched out beyond that. The word’s spreading among the closest of those ships that something’s going down on the Montana. But they’re also getting word that the situation’s under control. That any attempt to land forces on the Montana will be seen as insubordination. An attempt to seize Szilard’s power. It’s all playing out as Lynx intended. All he’s doing is taking advantage of the underlying contours. This fleet is as divided against itself as the whole fucking country—as the whole fucking world. Leaving the game wide open to those who can play every end against the middle. Lynx crawls down one last shaft, wedges down one last vent. He kicks a metal grille aside.
And leaps feet-first into the Montana’s control center.
They’re dangling on a tether that’s feeling ever more precarious, descending toward a sheer wall of metal that drops down into eternity. Their camo is put to the ultimate test as they close in on the structure’s summit. Neither man says anything. They’re preserving absolute radio silence.
Though Spencer can sense the Manilishi in his head anyway, echoing through his software. He still has no idea how the fuck she’s doing it. And he’s got other things to think about anyway. Because the curve of the dome wall’s stretching in toward him. They’re close enough to make out lettering painted upon it. Cyrillic and Mandarin, telling the ones who read it absolutely nothing other than where the doors are. There aren’t that many. They’re so airtight they’re almost impossible to spot. Spencer’s praying he is too. Most of the activity he can see is confined to the labyrinth of catwalks that obscure the foundation of this gigantic building. But there are eyes and sensors everywhere. Spencer’s pretty confident about the ones out here. He’s far less certain about whatever lies inside. He’s managed to get a tentative grip on the zone within—managed to pry his fingers through a crack in the defenses. But only barely. He can’t make out what’s going on. He’s figuring he’s going to get busted at any moment. He’s figuring he needs help.
And suddenly he’s got it. From the Manilishi. She’s showing him what he needs to see—exactly what pressure to apply as he alights on the surface of the structure, right at the point where the dome starts to really slope toward the vertical. He activates his magnetic clamps, starts crawling down the metal like an insect toward the nearest door. Sarmax is right behind him. And the Manilishi’s right beside him, encroaching through the circuitry of the door, toward the comps that crouch within. The door is barely discernible, but it seems real enough. As is the hack he’s now running on the pneumatic equipment on its other side. He’s streaking through endless wires, forestalling fail-safes, fending off countless counter-commands from deeper within the building. He’s ignoring the commands without them even knowing it. He’s sending in his own instructions.
The door slides open.
Spencer slides in. Sarmax follows. The door shuts behind them.
“Weirder by the second,” says Spencer.
They’re standing in a chamber. Each wall contains another door. One of them is open. Sarmax starts toward it, just as it slides shut and a panel in the wall beside it swivels aside. A wicked-looking barrel protrudes from within. It’s aimed directly at Sarmax’s visor. Sarmax leaps to one side. The gun tracks him.
“Fuck,” he says.
“It’s okay,” says Spencer. “I got control.”
“So tell it to point somewhere else.”
“Tell me what the fuck’s going on and I just might.”
Two people in a room that’s no room. The woman’s sitting. The man’s starting to look more than just a little tense. “Don’t you control Spencer?” he asks. “You tell me.”
“I thought—”
“You thought wrong. Someone got to him.”
“You don’t know what I was about to say.”
“Oh yes I do.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m reading minds now, aren’t I?”
And even as she speaks, the room fades out. To be replaced by the room she started in. She’s back in that chair, strapped in again. Only now she’s encased within a suit, staring at Carson through a sealed visor. He’s dressed in battle harness. The room’s shaking as the engines of the president’s ship fire. The forces of acceleration are pressing against the walls.