The Machinery of Light (Autumn Rain, Book 3) by David J. Williams

By David J. Williams

With The equipment of Light, David J. Williams completes his furiously paced, stunningly imagined trilogy—a paintings of imaginative and prescient, attractiveness, and pulse-pounding futuristic action.
 
September 26, 2110. 10:22 GMT. Following the assassination of the yank president, the generals who've seized strength start up global warfare 3, launching a shock assault opposed to the Eurasian Coalition’s forces in the course of the Earth-Moon process. around the orbits, tens of hundreds of thousands of particle beams and lasers blast away at each other. The aim: weigh down the opposite side’s weaponry, paving the way in which for nuclear bombardment of the cities. 

As inferno turns into Armageddon, the rogue commando unit Autumn Rain embarks on one final run. Matthew Sinclair, an imprisoned spymaster, plots his break out. And his former protégé Claire Haskell, able to hacking into either nets and minds, is knowing that every one her powers may possibly purely be enjoying into Sinclair’s plans. For while Claire evades the warriors of East and West amid carnage within the lunar tunnels, the surviving contributors of the Rain converge upon the Moon, one step sooner than the Eurasian fleets yet one step in the back of the mastermind who created Autumn Rain—and his negative ultimate mystery.

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Sample text

Roy Jones? He’s—” Mrs. Jones began. “He’s a tall, pale sort of kid—” “My Roy! ” shrieked the hookers between giggles. A black woman in a blond wig with stardust on her eyelids, did a high five with a white girl wearing a black wig and midnight dust on her eyelids—they took turns mimicking Mrs. Jones’s pensive stance, wringing their hands and chanting, “My Royee! ” She leaned close and implored with her eyes. ” “Ahh, she’ll be taken care of, ma’am,” said Cole, not knowing what else to say. He drew Catz aside, “Hey, Catz, psi this for me.

Cole said, “I’ll see you ladies later,” and walked on, kicking through the refuse of an overturned trash can. A cockroach big as a mouse ran over the toe of his boot; he kicked the insect angrily away, and it rebounded from the windshield of a parked Mini-Cad steamcar. He went to a combination phone booth and news kiosk, sat on the metal stool, inserted his ITF card in the slot, and punched 31 the code for magazines. The directory of available magazines appeared on the vid screen over the phone.

He looked around for something to throw, some way to stop it. But it got a full block’s acceleration behind it before it struck City. This time he gave way and the car passed over him and piled into the corner where concrete stairway met the brick building’s face. It wrenched sideways, its tailfin gouging the brick wall; a shower of concrete dust and a hiss of steam. Then, except for a ticking noise from the car’s engine, all was quiet. All was quiet—for five seconds. Till a police siren sounded and drew near.

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