Which turns out to be nothing.
“Not a thing?” The Operative sounds puzzled.
“Nothing I can pick up,” says Lynx.
“Not without a fucking spirit medium,” says Sarmax.
“They’ve been wiped off the map,” says the Operative.
“At least in the cylinder,” says Lynx.
“I doubt it’s much better in their Aerie.”
“We need to pick up the pace,” says the Operative.
Time to go,” says one of the Praetorians. Spencer looks at him. Looks at the ground that’s sweeping by. Looks back at the Praetorian.
“Fine,” he says—starts pushing the cycle into launch position—starts climbing on—
“Not so fast,” says Linehan.
“What?”
“Get your ass off that thing,” says Linehan.
“Are you fucking nuts?” Spencer’s transmitting on the one-on-one. “The fucking Hand’s aboard this thing. Not to mention his prize razor. These guys want us out of here pronto.”
“Sure,” says Linehan, “but you’ve got my seat.”
“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters. He slides backward, turns around so that he’s facing rearward—slots the cycle’s rear gun into position. Linehan climbs on. The two men strap themselves in. The Praetorians unlock the struts that hold the cycle in place.
“Ready,” says Spencer.
“Believe it,” says Linehan.
“Later,” says a Praetorian, giving the cycle a hard shove. The cycle slides down the ramp—and then they’re plummeting away from the shaker. Spencer watches the ground spin in toward them. He catches a glimpse of far-off mountains lit up by nearby explosions. And then there’s an explosion that’s even nearer, as the cycle’s engines come to life and Spencer’s flung backward, grabbing onto the straps out of sheer reflex as the vehicle’s front lifts and it accelerates forward. “This,” says Linehan, “is where it gets interesting.”
Haskell’s head is really starting to spin. The constant play of light within her mind is less a function of the explosions flaring in the window and more a matter of the surrogate microzone she’s midwifed and that she’s just trying to prop up somehow, some way. Any way. It’s that much more difficult now that the most powerful weapon remaining in the Earth-Moon system has managed to extend its reach inside this cylinder, forcing everybody to hit the basements at regular intervals. Haskell’s compensating as best she can. She’s sending out commands regarding the new criteria: draw in the flanks, blow down as many walls as possible, clear out space insofar as can be achieved, choose warehouses over corridors, galleries over tunnels, large spaces over small … and above all, keep the comlinks open—keep the transmissions coming so that everyone’s connected to some piece of the formation, and all the pieces ultimately link back to her. No one gets cut off. No one gets left alone. Save for those who have to be.
The Operative’s on a mission to get his team to that rock ASAP. He’s guessing he’s not the only one who’s received orders to get out ahead of the main formation, which can only move as fast as its heaviest vehicles. Grids of the approaching mountains crystallize within his head. He beams them into the skulls of his colleagues, focuses on the conduits that connect mountains to the Aerie. There are fifteen in all. Nine are intended for personnel. And some of those that aren’t look a little narrow …
“No way are we fitting through one of those,” snarls Lynx.
“Wanna bet?” says the Operative.
Ain’t what you think we can do, Lynx,” says Sarmax. “It’s what the Rain think that counts.”
And the Operative knows all too well that they might run into them at any moment. Maybe the Manilishi is counting on him to do just that, to weaken the Rain a bit before he gets taken out. But somehow he doubts it. He’s guessing they’re deep in the Aerie, busy with the Throne.
“They’re counting on their proxy forces in the cylinder to hold us off,” says the Operative.
“Not to mention blowing every bridge to that rock and then some,” says Sarmax.
“Now why do you have to go and say a thing like that?” mutters the Operative.
Mountains loom in the distance. Stars gleam between blackened valleys. They’re moving out ahead of the main formation, well in front of the right flank, which seems to have drawn level with the center as it overhauls it. Linehan’s singing to himself. He seems to be having a blast.
Spencer isn’t.
“Will you shut the fuck up,” he says. But Linehan just laughs. “We’re both going to shut up forever in a few more minutes,” he says.
“The sooner the better,” grumbles Spencer. “Says the guy who’s already missed all the fucking fun. You should have seen this place when it all got going, man. We got fucking fried.” Shots streak past from somewhere far above them. Linehan doesn’t alter course. “Ain’t never been part of any outfit that got fucked so hard. I think I’m the only one from my dropship left.”
“How’d you make it through?”
“You know how, man. By being a chickenshit. We were right on top of one of those Rain triads. We had it pinned down every which way. But when the zone went, I didn’t wait. Got the fuck out of there while drones carved everybody up; ended up in that valley while it went from green to black. Sat in a park while the world went to shit: put my legs up on a goddamn bench and watched New London burn like a fucking roman candle. Figured that’d be it. It nearly was. Until the Hand showed up with his bitch-queen razor.”
“And bailed you out.”
“If that’s what you’d call this.”
Spencer nods. The Manilishi’s ordered him to head south as quickly as possible, outpacing the main force. The center vehicles that are aboveground are visible a little farther back, down near the floor of the valley. They’ve got about forty seconds before the Helios gets the angle on them again.
“Check that out!” yells Linehan.
Spencer turns, sees it: several klicks farther south of them, though not as far on the right flank as they are—flames of thrusters darting in and out of valley forest.
“More of our cycles,” he says.
“More meat,” says Linehan. “The Throne’s fucked. The Rain turned his trap inside out. They’re butt-fucking him in that asteroid. We get close enough, we might even hear the squeals.”
“You sound like you’re getting turned on.”
“Only thing that turns me on is the idea of getting out of this fucking shooting gallery.”
“We’re almost at the rock.”
“Hate to break it to you, but we’ll never make it.”
“You don’t think—shit!” Suddenly Linehan turns the bike so sharply that Spencer’s almost thrown off, despite the magnetic clamps. It’s like the whole of the approaching mountains have come alive with lights. Shots start searing past them. Explosions blast nearby bikes to hell. Debris flies everywhere. Linehan accelerates, dives groundward. “Guess that answers that question,” he snarls.
It looks like the Euro guns situated throughout the southern mountains are still operational. Apparently they’d been holding back. But now they’re opening up on the onrushing Praetorians and the foremost units are getting hammered. Everybody’s forced to hit the deck, get back into those cellars. Haskell watches as the pilot works the controls and the shaker descends below the curtain of shots, drops down into a riverbed that’s been stripped of its river by the vacuum—and from there into subterranean waterways now bereft of any liquid. Other shakers roar in after her: other cycles, other suits. Basement combat starts up again, even as microwaves and lasers surge through the spaces overhead, unleashing fury that’s becoming almost reassuring to Haskell. Almost familiar. And why not? The universe has shrunk to nothing save the Europa Platform and the thing that’s orbiting it, controlling it, pinning down all those who exist within it. The Helios has attained the status of some kind of inscrutable god.
But its reign is coming to an end. Because once the force gets past the windows and
in amidst the mountains it’ll just have to gnash its teeth in the vacuum. Haskell’s concentrating on those mountains now. They’re frozen in her mind’s eye even as tunnel walls flash by, even as some kind of awareness builds within her. She feels herself giving way before it.
• • •
Taking corners and roaring past turns and it’s all the Operative can do to keep on breaking through. He’s changed up the formation a little. He’s got the marines out in front of him now. The odds keep on getting steeper: walls that suddenly collapse inward, floors that blast themselves into the ceiling, mines and drones and droids that keep on springing in from out of nowhere …
“The terrain’s narrowing,” says Sarmax.
“I realize that,” says the Operative.
But he still hasn’t figured out how to handle the implications. They’ve left the valley behind. The exterior wall of the cylinder is curving in toward the southern pole—letting the defense stack itself up pretty thick, depriving the Operative of room to maneuver. Which is the one thing he can’t afford to lose.
“We need more space,” says Sarmax.
“The surface,” says the Operative.
He signals to the marines around him, and swerves on his jets while everybody follows. They blast through metal corridors and into stone-lined tunnels. Gravity slowly subsides as they catch glimpses of lights flaring up ahead. They accelerate, emerge amidst the foothills.
Can’t turn around!” screams Linehan. Spencer gets the feeling he would if he could. But any craft or suit that deviates too far from the attack vectors is going to stray into the field of fire of the ones behind it. What’s left of the flanks are struggling forward, desperately trying to reach the sloping mountains. Linehan keeps whipping the bike from side to side. Spencer watches valley and window slide past his visor. He catches quick glimpses of the wraparound mountains up ahead, of vehicles flying everywhere behind him. He watches as the guns of the shakers in the center open up against the artillery rigged into the rocks. He wonders how this could get any worse.
They’re on the verge of off-world mountains, and Haskell’s no longer fooled. It’s as though every cell in her is suddenly flaring into life. Her conscious mind’s swallowed in the vortex of the unknown—of her unknown—and she’s not even trying to keep pace. She feels her head tilting back in her seat, feels the pilot glance at her nervously, feels him recede from her along with everything else. She sees the lives of all those around her on some grid from which infinite axes sprout. Space-time’s just one piece of something larger: something that’s now blossoming through her, shooting her through with rapture, seizing her with ecstasy beyond any she’s ever known—life lived between the two singularities of birth and rebirth and skirting all the little deaths in between. Her mind catapults out on the zone, leaps in toward those mountains.
Shots hurtle all around the Operative. Plasma hurtles overhead. Debris is going everywhere. He’s seeking whatever cover he can find. Those around him are doing the same. They’re right at ground level, smashing through groves of stubby trees, whipping past rocks. Towering overhead are endless mountains, wrapping above them and onto the ceiling, converging upon the South Pole. “The place of reckoning,” says Sarmax. “Or near enough,” replies the Operative—and starts screaming at those behind him to keep up the pace. They hold course, streak in over the foothills.
“Which conduit are we making for?” yells Sarmax. “We feint there,” yells the Operative. “We hit here.”
“And our marines?” asks Lynx.
“Let’s play that one by ear,” says Sarmax.
“Exactly” says the Operative.
Meaning that maybe those marines will end up just piling in toward that diversion while the three who pull their strings swing the other way at the decisive moment. It’s all going to depend on how the next few minutes unfold.
Or the next few seconds.
Because suddenly the Manilishi’s shoving herself into the Operative’s head, pushing him beyond his skull, making him one with the mountains. The Euro guns that became Praetorian that became the Rain’s are blasting past him; the whole cylinder’s turning around him as his mind dives deep into the rock, slicing through the wreckage of the Euro zone. There’s no zone left in there now.
Only there is. Although he’s not even sure it is a zone. It’s more like the intimation of one. He’s got no idea how to hack it. Not even with her doing the hacking. He’s not even sure that matters.
Linehan’s screaming at him but Spencer no longer hears. Guns keep on firing but he no longer sees them. He’s bound up in something far stronger than himself. He’s the tracks over which the whole train’s rolling. His mind’s ablaze with the insight of another.
Because Haskell finally gets it—finally sees the pattern she’s been searching for. The one that was right under her nose: she triangulates through the eyes of all her razors, all along the battle line, zeroing in on the one thing that only she can. She’s looking at the most customized zone in existence. Zone that’s probably not even capable of hacking anything outside itself. Zone that’s not designed to. It’s just a tactical battle mesh. One that’s supposed to be invisible—and it has been up until now. But now she sees that the Rain are going to do their utmost to prevent her from crossing to the asteroid. At least one of their triads is preparing to make a stand. Has it figured out a way to hold off the whole Praetorian force? Or is it just going to try to bloody the formation’s nose, before falling back into the asteroid, blowing the conduits as it goes? Now she’s got the chance to draw some blood herself. She’s sending out the orders almost before she’s thought of them.
How many?” yells Sarmax. “Manilishi thinks a full triad,” replies the operative.
“Same as us,” says Lynx.
Sarmax laughs. “They learned from the best.”
The Operative orders the marines forward. They surge in on their thrusters, scrambling up cliff faces and flitting over peaks. Ten seconds, and they’re out of sight. They swarm forward, steadily closing in on where the Manilishi believes the Rain to be.
“Nothing like a little cannon fodder,” says Lynx.
“What the fuck would you call us?” asks Sarmax.
He gestures on the collective heads-up at the main force behind them, now moving out of the valley at maximum speed. The Operative can appreciate that those who direct it are anxiously watching the results of the combat that’s about to take place. But what he can’t understand is why the Rain’s even making a stand here in the first place.
Sarmax’s voice is in his ear: “The party in the asteroid’s over.”
“Wrong,” replies the Operative. “It’s just begun.”
• • •
They’ve almost left the land of valley and window behind. The mountains fill the screens. Spencer and Linehan are right near the edge of the window. They’re not about to get any nearer to it. But even as Linehan eases the bike away from the window, something else becomes visible—out in space amidst the flashes of light, reflected off the edge of a wayward shard of mirror …
“Shit,” says Linehan.
“Just keep driving,” says Spencer.
It’s just a fraction of the whole thing. It’s all they can see. It’s all they really want to. It’s the asteroid itself: sun-scorched rock to put the faux mountains in the cylinder to shame. What’s now known as the Aerie was harnessed by the Euro Magnates, towed across the vacuum, tunneled through, and studded with engines. And at least a few of those motors must be firing right now, because judging from the view in the mirror, the whole rock is swinging steadily in toward the cylinder.
“That’s a trick of the eye,” says Linehan.
“I don’t think so,” replies Spencer.
What the fuck was that?” yells Sarmax.
“They’re blowing the fucking conduits!” screams Lynx. “Let’s take them,” says the Operative—and Lynx moves left while Sarmax goes right. The Operative fires his thrusters, steams up the center, steering
toward the peaks in which the Rain lurks. He feels the Manilishi’s presence descending in over him. He hears explosions as the Rain triad opens up on the marines. Why the Rain are blowing the conduits when they’ve still got a presence in the cylinder is beyond him. But he no longer cares. His team’s going to turn this triad into mincemeat. After which they’ll leap to the Aerie and seize a bridgehead there. The Hand’s engineers will be able to get another bridge going. Death or glory—and it’s all going down in the next few seconds.
Until another message changes everything.
Get us the fuck out of here!” screams Spencer. But Linehan needs no urging. He swings the bike leftward, starts roaring away from what’s swelling in those mirror-shards like some impossible battering ram. And yet all that’s visible is just a tiny portion of what must be about to hit the southern mountains. “Inform the Hand!” yells Linehan. “Already did,” replies Spencer.
Reverse thrust,” screams the Operative. Same thing Haskell’s screaming at him. He’s pushing off the rock even as he feels that rock hum beneath him. He blasts backward, watches Lynx and Sarmax do the same. The mountains seem to be swaying like leaves in a breeze. The whole landscape’s undulating, and then ballooning outward in an awful slow motion. The peaks that conceal the Rain fold in like closing jaws. This whole end of the cylinder is imploding, collapsing in upon itself. The valleys that extend away from it are corrugating like so much cheap metal. Something’s shoving its way through the mountain—ripping slopes asunder as it bludgeons through. Something impossibly huge—God’s own wrecking ball—pieces of cylinder and mountain slicing into it, sliding off it. Its edges aren’t even visible. Debris’s flying in from all sides. The walls of the Platform are coming apart and show no sign of stopping. “Only one way to do this,” says Sarmax.
“You got that right,” says the Operative. They reverse direction once more, hurtle toward the on-rushing wall.
The orders flash out from Manilishi: take that fucking rock. The whole of the Praetorian wedge steams straight in even as the ground starts to buckle beneath it. The outlying riders hit their jets, race in through what’s starting to look like a full-scale asteroid field. “No choice,” screams Spencer.
The Burning Skies Page 12