“We’re about to find out,” says the president.
Spencer watches as the gunship fires its motors, moves through the opening blast-doors. As it passes beneath, Carson floats onto it. Spencer and the rest follow him, alight on the hull, crouching just behind the forward turret. Walls slide past. Praetorians swarm after them. Carson’s words sound in Spencer’s head.
“I’ll keep this brief. The Throne’s still alive. Our victory up to this point has depended on fooling the Rain as to his real location, and on keeping them too distracted to launch an all-out assault on the Hangar. The Throne and the Manilishi are still out there, and hopefully making straight for this gate. We’re going to get out beyond the perimeter and bring ’em in. It all comes down to us. Fight like you’ve never fought before. Over and out.”
The gunship comes out into a cave. Its lights splash around the chamber, illuminating the tunnel-mouths dotting the walls. There’s no way the ship’s fitting through any of them. The walls are trembling with the force of nearby explosions. The craft fires auxiliary motors to keep pace with the rotation of the asteroid—and starts firing bolts of plasma down one of the tunnels. Praetorians start scrambling into the openings adjacent to that one.
“Fucking bait and switch,” says Spencer.
“So the Hand was the Throne?” asks Linehan.
“Or the Throne was one of the soldiers with the Hand. Fucking Praetorians. Nothing’s ever what it seems.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Heads up.”
“Shit.”
Smartdust is swarming from several of the tunnels, billowing into the cave. Everyone on the ship’s hull starts firing. The ship opens up with all five turrets: one in front, one in back, one on each side, one set within its belly. The walls are a frenzy of light and shadow.
“So did you know all along?” asks Lynx on the one-on-one.
“Been unfolding in my mind as we went,” replies the Operative as he unleashes his minigun. “The Throne plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”
The nano is getting lacerated. More Praetorians enter the room via the main tunnel. Several are riding cycles, towing other suits behind them. They swoop past the ship, head into tunnels, while the soldiers remaining keep firing.
“It’s a paradox,” adds the Operative as he revectors his guns. “The Hand’s responsible for the Throne’s security. But how in God’s name can the Throne delegate such a responsibility? Especially in this day and age—no sane head of state can give a chief of security the power necessary to do that job effectively. Yet taking on the role of the Hand—disguising himself as the Hand—increases the ability of the Throne to evade an assassin’s first blow.”
“But this is nuts,” says Lynx. He momentarily ceases firing a gun to let it cool. “You’re saying the Throne deliberately stepped outside of the asteroid he was doing his best to make invulnerable?”
“Precisely because he knew he couldn’t make it invulnerable. If the Rain were able to pull off anything anywhere near as epic as what they’ve actually gone and done, the Throne wasn’t going to be able to rely purely on firepower.”
Especially when the Rain are so adept at forcing their opponent to fight with only a fraction of his strength,” says Linehan.
“I noticed,” replies Spencer.
Crosshairs and flaring grids: they’re both tracking nano racing along the ceiling. Diving from the walls, soaring in toward them, getting chopped into even finer dust …
“Then you also noticed that this is it.”
“Yeah.”
“The Throne and the Manilishi have run out of tricks.”
“But if they can reach the Hangar they might be able to make it impregnable.”
“What I don’t see is why the Throne didn’t start out there,” says Spencer.
“How could he? He had to start somewhere he didn’t think the Rain would be. And the Rain never dreamed he’d leave this asteroid. They thought they’d pinpoint his exact location by watching where in this dump he drew the Manilishi.”
“It probably never occurred to them that the Throne would dare triangulation remotely.”
“Nor did he,” says Linehan.
He stops firing. Along with everybody else. Nano is no longer in sight. Spencer shakes his head.
“You’re right,” he says. “Too great a risk.”
“In retrospect it seems fucking obvious. He’d have had to trust one of his subordinates with the Manilishi. But say one of the subordinates was Rain?”
“Or was just plain disloyal.”
“Sure,” says Linehan.
“Or was working for that SpaceCom outfit you flew cover on. Christ, when they woke me up on that ship and I learned you were still alive I wondered if the Throne was merely putting you back on the bait-hook in case Szilard or one of his henchmen was still out there trying to nail him—”
“That occurred to me as well.”
“—which he probably was, in a sense.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I doubt you’d have been let inside the Aerie.”
“But here I am anyway.”
“Because the Manilishi’s cleared you,” says Spencer.
“But who cleared the Manilishi?”
“If she was going to turn on the Throne, she’d have done that by now. As it is, she’s the only reason he’s still ticking—only reason he’s even got a hope of making the Hangar.”
“But now they’re going to throw their full strength against him before he gets within the perimeter.”
“Like I said, been nice knowing you.”
Another rumble starts up. This one doesn’t stop.
• • •
Orders start crackling over comlinks. Some of it’s in the clear. It can’t be helped. Everyone starts scrambling from the room—swarming down different tunnels. Only the gunship remains where it is, weapons tracking in multiple directions, a few soldiers continuing to cling to its sides. The Operative leads the way down one of the tunnels. He sends out another transmission.
Linehan, Spencer—you guys get on point again.”
“Christ,” says Linehan. But Carson’s already cut them off. Spencer and Linehan accelerate past him, wending their way into a maze of tunnels using the route that the Operative’s given them, making turns so sharp they’re pushing off the walls. Vibrations are echoing through those walls from multiple directions. Small-arms fire, heavy shells, explosions, not to mention—
“Someone’s busted out some digging machines,” says Spencer.
And realizes immediately that his words aren’t going anywhere. He’s cut off from Linehan. He starts firing with everything except his hi-ex, raining shots past Linehan—who now opens up himself.
The Rain’s jamming the point,” says the Operative.
“We’re right on top of them,” says Sarmax.
“Picking up combat all around us,” says Lynx. He starts to say something else—his voice cuts out. The Operative makes a turn, away from the route that Spencer and Linehan have been taking. About a hundred meters ahead the tunnel bends sharply.
• • •
Machines of every size and shape are crashing in like waves against the Praetorian formation. The flanks are getting forced steadily in toward the center. The rearguard’s pretty much toast. All that’s left is just a dwindling core. But the vehicles within it are staggering on regardless.
“Still softening us up,” she says.
“I realize that,” he replies.
Not that much more’s going to be required. Because this earthshaker’s in shambles. Smoke’s streaming through the cockpit from more than one electrical fire. The side-gunners are dead. All that’s left are those few of the Throne’s bodyguards still remaining: riding on top of the shaker, firing through the holes torn in its side, moving alongside the crippled vehicle as it keeps on plowing its way through the endless tunnels. In her head Haskell can see the route they’ve traversed—her mind traces back past the Window, s
kirting the bombed-out heart of rock, back into the wilderness of smashed stone and metal where the South Pole of the cylinder used to be. All of it keeps on whirling within her, like some siren screaming in her head.
But up ahead is the southernmost point of all. The Hangar itself. The only hope of sanctuary. Ignored by the Rain so far—or so she’s hoping. Holding out from the onslaught—or so she’s praying. She takes in the combat, watches more swarms billow toward her, more drones popping from the wall, unfolding long legs only to get their limbs shorn off by cycles slashing past her. Rock and debris smash against the cockpit window. Something streaks in behind them.
“Heads up,” says the pilot.
Too late: the window shatters. The pilot gets smashed back in his seat. Blood’s everywhere. Her suit’s been hit. She feels her systems starting to go.
Someone grabs her. She feels herself pulled bodily forward—out of the stricken shaker and into the tunnels. She feels a helmet pressed against her, sees tunnel walls flash by. She hears a voice. It’s Harrison. He’s got her in his arms. He’s telling her to hold on. She sees rock flashing past her. She feels like she’s pretty much lost it. She’s sending her own mind out all the same.
Spencer and Linehan blast through into a larger chamber. Nano comes swarming in from the other side. They start firing, but it makes little difference—the waves seem endless. “Fuck,” says Linehan.
An explosion punches out an entire wall. Carson and Lynx and Sarmax come through firing, catching the swarms in a crossfire. Spencer roars out of the way of their trajectory, curves off, veers around the cavern’s ceiling. And sees it.
Caught in the light of the explosions, it’s the same color as the rock. But it’s not rock. It’s a suit—someone clinging to the wall. Spencer hits his jets, whirls. Opens fire. There’s a blinding flash.
Explosions everywhere. Not to mention something that looks to be the flare to end all flares. All the Operative’s picking up is overload all along the spectrum. He’s dampening the inputs toward zero. He’s amping up his optic nerves to the limits of what he can take. All he can see is near-total white—and the suit of Sarmax flying past him in reverse, smoking from the chest, smashing against the wall. But now he sees something else: the vaguest outline of some other suit coming straight at him. He whips his arms up, fires.
Spencer’s blind. A blow hammers on his back. Something slams against his leg. He gets a glimpse of some landscape shot through with way too many colors, watches his own suit smash against a wall, bounce. Rocks close in from all sides. But past them he gets a glimpse of something he’s never seen before … overwhelming light … the very minarets of heaven …
Far too fast: the figure dodges past the Operative’s fire, veers crazily toward him, fires at some other target—slams its boots against the Operative with a force that almost cracks his armor. The Operative tries to grab the boots, finds himself holding nothing. All he can see is blur. He fires his jets in a desperate attempt to stay unpredictable, fires his weapons at where he thinks the target is, lashes out wildly with his razor nodes. But he knows he’s toast. Something clicks through his skull. He figures it’s death.
It’s a woman instead. Haskell—and she couldn’t be that far away, because she’s just made zone contact with him. And suddenly her vision’s his; coordinates upload and all at once the Operative can see the suit he’s fighting. He whirls in one fluid motion—fires on the now-visible figure that’s dancing past him, tossing something in its wake…. The Operative ignites his jets, hurls himself onto his nemesis as an explosion cuts through the wall behind him. He grasps onto the suit’s back, pulls against its helmet; the figure punches upward, smashes its fists against the Operative’s chest, straight through the outer armor—whereupon the Operative starts firing into the figure’s back at point-blank range. He unloads his wrist-guns, unleashing his minigun at the same time as the momentum sends him sailing backward. But the figure’s already fired its own motors, jetting aside, continuing out of sight down a tunnel. The Operative hits his motors, charges in toward the opening—
“No,” says a voice.
From right inside his head. Haskell again. She’s flaming through his brain—and now he sees her, sprawled in the arms of the U.S. president as he surges out of another passageway, along with three bodyguards. The last of the emissions-bombs the Rain set off in here are dissipating—the Operative fires his motors, soars toward the center of the chamber. He sees Lynx moving in to join him.
“Where the hell have you been?” the Operative asks.
“Here all along,” Lynx replies. “Got blinded. Was about to get the chop when suddenly everything kicked back in again.”
“That’s because the Manilishi got within range of us before the Rain did us in. They seem to have fucked off.”
“Guess they didn’t like their odds.”
“Or they’ve got something else planned. Where the hell’s Leo?”
“Beats me,” says Lynx in a tone that says hopefully dead.
Two shakers emerge from the rock-wall like insects boring their way through wood. Jets slung along them ignite even as hatches open in the first one. The Throne pushes the Manilishi within, leaping in behind her. The shakers head for the passage that leads back toward the Hangar. The Operative swoops after them, but spots Sarmax floating near the wall, dips in toward him.
“Leave him,” says Lynx. “Too risky.”
“What’s too risky is thinking we won’t need him for whatever’s next.”
Besides, the Manilishi just green-lighted it. Sarmax’s systems remain intact, despite the pounding his suit’s just taken. The Operative grabs him by the torso, vaults in toward the last of the shakers, and settles on its back. Lynx motors in to join him. The two men perch there while the shaker accelerates. The Operative can see more Praetorians coming into the cave behind him.
“Is he still alive?” asks Lynx.
“Like you care,” replies the Operative.
“Of course I care.”
Just not in the way he’s supposed to. But it looks like Lynx isn’t going to get his wish just yet. Sarmax’s vital signs are holding up. An explosive went off right next to his suit, tore it in a few places, knocked out the suit’s systems, and hit Sarmax with a concussion that rendered him unconscious. Automatic backup seals seem to have kept him alive. Whether he’ll stay that way will need to await a med-scan. Not to mention the resolution of more pressing problems.
“This ain’t over yet,” says the Operative.
“No shit,” replies Lynx.
Bombs are detonating in their wake. The Praetorians back there are firing at something, getting fired upon in turn. But the turret against which the Operative and Lynx are crouching remains silent. And now the shakers are coming out into the cavern in which the gunship’s situated. It’s still there—still firing, too, sending salvos streaking into tunnels. Praetorians clustered around the gunship head toward the shakers.
Which is when a voice sounds in the Operative’s head. It’s not calm. He amps it, broadcasts what it’s saying:
“Stay back. Stay the fuck back!”
The Praetorians turn away. The shakers are vectoring in toward the tunnel that leads back to the Hangar. No one’s trying to follow it. Which the Operative realizes is precisely what the Manilishi and the president want. He’s one of the bodyguards. He’s cleared. The others aren’t. And there isn’t time for the Manilishi to make sure. Too many variables, too far outside the outer perimeter. And the Manilishi would prefer not to indicate which of the shakers she and the Hand are in. Thus the Operative gets to be the voice. It’s okay with him. It means he’s at the Throne’s side as the shakers power out of this room. Behind him he can see the gunship starting to reverse. Ahead of him he can see the rows of gun emplacements. And more Praetorians, cheering, shaking their fists—and getting left behind as the shakers keep on going, moving on through into the Hangar itself. Soldiers scramble as the shakers head straight in toward the outer wall—and the one
remaining large ship.
“Time to fly,” says Lynx.
“Not while the Helios is still laying down the law,” replies the Operative.
“It’s still a factor?”
“Unless you know something I don’t.”
Hatches open along the sides of the ship. The shakers vector in toward them. The Operative hears a voice in his head, with orders he’s been hoping to hear.
“Let’s get Leo to the medstation,” he says, gesturing at Lynx, who grabs Sarmax’s legs. The two men fire their thrusters, carry Sarmax away from the main Hangar and toward a room set into the hangar-wall in which a med-ops unit has taken up position.
“Incidentally,” says Lynx, “what happened to those two expendables we picked up?”
“I think you just answered your own question.”
But sometimes fate takes a funny turn. Because Spencer’s waking up once more. He can see light in the distance. He feels cold all over. He tries to focus. But what’s coalescing out of blur is a face he doesn’t want to see.
“You still there?” says a voice.
It’s Linehan. Spencer doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. Unless the two of them have finally ended up in hell together. Spencer tastes blood in his mouth. He grits his teeth. Exhales.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he says.
“They just dug me out,” replies Linehan.
“The Praetorians?”
“No, the Rain.”
There’s a pause.
Linehan laughs, slaps Spencer’s visor. “Dumb-ass. Had to think about that one, didn’t ya?”
“Not really,” says Spencer wearily.
“The Praetorians have thrown up a new outer perimeter. Turns out we’re inside the latest iteration of the defenses.”
“They must be feeling their oats.”
“Of course. They sent the Rain packing.”
“But we’re still trapped on this fucking rock.”
“And how.”
“And presumably that’s why they bothered to dig us out.”
“Quick as ever, Spencer. Now get up.”
Spencer does—pushes himself off the rock, hauls himself to his feet. He looks around. Praetorians are rigging equipment everywhere. A nasty thought occurs to Spencer.
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