“So what’d she want you to do with me?”
“She?”
“Uh, Joan of Arc.”
The man curses under his breath, swings his body leftward in his chair. The shaker swerves crazily sideways. Something big slides past the window: massive piles of debris that look to be all that’s left of some maglev train that piled up along the valley floor. The shaker roars past, fires jets, gains height. Ground drops away. Tracer rounds curve overhead. The man laughs.
“She told me to take you to limbo’s driver.”
A grid appears on a screen above him. It shows the Praetorian formation—a wide blue arrowhead slicing forward. A light situated almost at that arrowhead’s point—“That’s where we started,” says the pilot—has almost totally traced a line over to its right. And now that line’s drifting out ahead of the right flank, into the ranks of the forward skirmishers.
“That’s where we rendezvous,” the pilot adds.
“With what?” asks Spencer.
Something flies past the window. It looks like a motorbike, only it’s more fins than wheels. Spencer gets a quick glimpse of a figure hunched on its back—and then the vehicle loops backward, just missing the shaker, disappearing behind it.
“Jesus,” says Spencer.
“No,” says the pilot. “Just one of His servants.” He gestures at a screen that shows a ramp opening in the rear of the shaker—the jet-cycle suddenly materializes out of the darkness beyond and cuts its engines, slamming down onto the floor within. The ramp starts lifting back into place.
“Get down there,” says the pilot.
But Spencer’s already on his way, ducking down, heading through the rearward hatch, moving through a narrow passageway, stepping beneath more hatches that lead to turrets in the ceiling, stepping past Praetorians firing the left- and right-facing heavy guns—and then down a ladder into the cramped cargo bay.
The marine bending over his jet-cycle straightens up, turns around. He’s so close Spencer can recognize his face.
“I’m baaaaaack,” says Linehan.
“Fuck’s sake,” says Spencer.
The pilot’s face appears upon a screen: “Hurry it up and get out there!”
“Shut it, Gramps,” says Linehan. “We’re outta here.”
Spencer looks toward the screen: “Thanks for the lift,” he says.
“Go with God,” replies the pilot.
“We’ll let you know if we see Him.”
Haskell’s still looking for what she’s missing. Because there must be something. There always is. The screens show that she’s now lost a quarter of her forces. And that it’s unlikely there are that many more wayward Praetorians still out there. She’s managed to reassimilate a couple hundred. But most of the rest have been killed. By one another, by the drones, by the Rain …
No. Probably not by the Rain. Same as it always is: they’re using proxies to do their work, wearing down their enemy, waiting for their moment. Which could be here anytime. Because the Praetorian formation is approaching the cylinder’s equator and Haskell still doesn’t have the slightest idea of what’s going on at their ultimate destination: the South Pole mountains and the Aerie that lies beyond them. Anything could be taking place within the corridors of that asteroid. The fighting might be over. The Praetorians within might have been crushed completely.
But somehow Haskell doubts it. The force she’s got out here is a fraction of the force the Aerie contained. Meaning that whatever the Rain have deployed within the asteroid is probably even nastier than it is out here. And as intense as the resistance she’s encountering, she feels that she’s starting to get the better of it. Her attention’s riveted on those distant southern mountains. Drawing ever closer for a second time. Only this time she won’t be denied.
Take a listen to that,” says the Operative. “Christ almighty,” says Lynx, as the feed gets patched in.
“They’re getting taken apart,” says Sarmax.
The frequency’s being used by Eurasian soldiers in the opposite cylinder. Even on the border of valley and window, the sight of that cylinder remains obscured by the mirror hung outside. But the transmission’s wafting in anyway, carrying the sounds of Russian and Chinese. Which is the only thing that’s even halfway coherent about it. Because really it’s just screaming. And cursing. And orders cut off by other orders that in turn get drowned out by somebody shrieking about traitors—becoming ever more hysterical until it all gives way to an earsplitting crunch. Followed by silence.
But only for a moment.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” says Sarmax.
“They’re getting creamed in there,” says Lynx.
“They can’t restore even the semblance of a zone,” says the Operative. “They’re broadcasting in the fucking clear.”
“That’s how bad we’d be getting it if the Hand didn’t have Haskell,” says Sarmax.
“And how bad the Throne might be getting it in the asteroid.”
Which is why they’ve been speeding up. Why they can feel the left flank pressing up behind them. They’re accelerating to stay out ahead of it. Along with the marines the Operative’s retained under his own command. Two squads in all. Bringing the total under him to almost forty men and women, blasting their way forward, following the Operative, doing whatever he tells them.
Which right now is heads up.
Not that anyone really needs the warning. The mirror on their left lights up with such brightness it’s like a sun’s thrusting through it. Translucence shimmers, starts to liquefy.
“Ah shit!” yells Lynx.
“The Helios!” screams Sarmax.
“Trying to bust through,” mutters the Operative.
Not just trying. The Helios intensifies the fusillade, sears straight through the mirror, starts firing directly against the plastic window behind it. The one that connects this valley to the next one. That plastic’s superhardened. It’s ballooning inward all the same.
Spencer sees what’s happening on the external cameras: shards of window dripping, disintegrating as microwaves start burning in above them, streaking across the cylinder, smashing against the far wall. What’s left of the air starts exiting the cylinder posthaste. The fires that have been blazing overhead start to get snuffed out—even as raw microwaves lacerate the drifting debris and dead flesh that’s strewn along the zero-G axis, smash into the valley adjacent to the one they’re in—nailing a few Praetorians outriders—but striking well afield of the main force …
“It can’t reach us,” he yells. “It ain’t got the angle!”
“You’re not thinking!” screams Linehan.
But clearly someone is. Both men are hurled against the wall as the shaker veers sideways, drops downward. The cameras show that the onrushing Praetorian formation’s no longer moving forward—disorder’s hitting it as those suits and vehicles up in the air start plunging back toward the ground. Those already on the ground start finding a way beneath it. They’re looking like animals trying to hit their burrows. They’re looking pretty desperate. And suddenly Spencer gets it.
“Christ,” he says, “rotation.”
“Bingo,” snarls Linehan.
Three men plunge toward the valley floor. The Praetorians they’ve brought back into the fold are swarming after them. No one’s got the slightest intention of hanging around to see the Helios light them up with enough wattage to make their corpses glow for weeks. The Operative leads the way through one of the holes smashed in the valley surface by one of the fuel-air bombs from earlier. They streak into tunnels.
And find themselves in combat with still more drones. But the three men are used to close-quarter tunnel showdowns. Sarmax is in the center, his pulse-rifle on near-continuous spray, almost to the point of overheating. Lynx and the Operative have their miniguns blazing. Euro mining robots get in behind them, but are nailed by the marines bringing up the rear—and now the marines fan out on either side, start maneuvering through rooms and corridors, blasting down
the walls, getting deeper, wondering all the while just how deep they need to go.
• • •
Haskell watches on the screens as her shaker makes a beeline for the surface. Calculations flash through her head. She’d figured the Helios would be too preoccupied bombarding the northern city-spaceports to bother trying to penetrate the cylinders. But maybe whoever’s squeezing the trigger has gotten word of the size of the relief force that’s rolling in toward the asteroid. Haskell doesn’t know. All she’s thinking about now is just the situation: the cylinder rotates every two minutes; each of its three windows is directly opposite a valley—which makes for about twenty seconds during which the Helios will have line of sight onto the valley along which the bulk of the Praetorian force is moving. And now more ground-to-air shots from guns on the ground are rising up toward the Praetorian spearhead. Haskell feels her stomach lurch toward her throat as the shaker climbs, takes evasive action, dodges those shots.
Most of them anyway.
There’s a shriek of imploding metal as a wayward shell rips through one of the engines, rips through the tail-gunner’s position. Metal shards fly past Haskell’s head, eviscerating one of her bodyguards. Part of the wall starts tearing away: a widening crack exposing the bombed-out landscape beyond. Haskell sees other shakers diving past. She feels the minds of her craft’s pilots as they wrestle desperately for control; she lends her own mind to theirs, working frantically to try to get the shaker stable. She’s holding onto the torn edge of metal, looking out at the flickering lights outside while her remaining bodyguard holds onto her—now tightening his grip as the stricken shaker arcs off at an angle, other shakers scattering to avoid it as Haskell frantically searches for some way to jury-rig its systems. Terrain streaks past. Her life starts to flash past her.
• • •
Spencer and Linehan are hurled every which way, flung against the wall—the shaker’s pitching about as the winds of escaping air smash against it. But it’s no longer heading downward—no longer making for the relative shelter of the basements. Which makes exactly zero sense to Spencer.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” he screams at the intercom.
“All of you shut up!” yells the pilot. Apparently the shaker’s gunners are voicing similar concerns. Spencer turns his head as the ramp starts dropping. Nightmare scenery flashes past outside.
“We’re outta here,” says Linehan, pulling himself from the wall where he’s been flung, trying to start up the cycle.
“You’re insane!” yells Spencer.
“That’d be the pilot,” screams Linehan as something hits the roof. “Probably thinks if he kills us all he’ll wake up in heaven. Let’s get out of—” But he stops short. And Spencer sees why: another shaker’s suddenly churning into view, larger than the one they’re in, and way too close—blotting out the view of the valley beyond it, smoke pouring from it, half its side staved in. It looks like it’s fighting just to stay in the air—like it’s about to ram Linehan and Spencer straight through to their own craft’s cockpit.
“Make yourself useful!” screams the pilot.
Which basically amounts to leaning out of the landing bay and firing their suits’ thrusters, shoving against the damaged earthshaker, aiding its pilots as they attempt to hold it steady. Turrets on the vehicle start opening. Hatches start peeling back. Suits start leaping out, vaulting across and into the landing bay. Spencer can’t help but notice that those suits aren’t marines. They’re members of the Core. Three of them are pulling a fourth out of the damaged craft, hauling that figure past Spencer. He gets a glimpse of her face.
Haskell angrily shrugs off her escorts. She doesn’t need their help—they only draw attention to her. She shoves past the Praetorians in the cargo bay moves through into the larger fuselage. She wishes it was bigger. But by the time she regained control of her shaker she was well to the right of the Praetorian spearhead, leaving her with no choice but to board the nearest vehicle. She feels the eyes of its gunners upon her, a feeling she’s starting to get used to. Most of the Praetorian force has already managed to get below. Reports of fighting throughout the basements are already reaching her. She heads through into the cockpit. An aging pilot glances at her.
And does a double-take.
“My lady,” he says.
“The cellars,” she snarls.
“At once,” he replies—and even as she’s strapping herself in, she’s shoved against those straps. Landscape spins past the window. The shaker she was just on plunges past, bereft of crew. Somewhere overhead she can see the window far above starting to glow white-hot as it rotates into the Helios’s field of fire. Remnants of buildings whip by; the shaker starts leveling out, starts touching down, clawing its way through the ground, ripping aside landscape to reveal the infrastructure beneath—and then dropping down amidst the roofless passages, getting in beneath the jagged shards of torn ceiling.
• • •
Roof closes in above the shaker. It’s all Spencer and everybody around him can do to hold on. They’ve entered one of the maglev tunnels. They’re following it deeper. Walls keep on rushing by lit up by flashes from the vehicle’s heavy guns.
“Let’s close this fucking ramp!” yells Linehan.
“The turrets are fucked,” snarls a Praetorian. “We’re the rear guns!”
He’s got a point. Besides Spencer and Linehan, there are four other Praetorians in the cargo bay. It makes for a tight fit. But the construction drones now blasting after them are taking everybody’s mind off any problems involving etiquette. Everybody in the cargo bay starts firing. Spencer watches his shots streak down the tunnel, splinter one of the drones. But behind those drones he can see a larger shape overtaking them.
“Christ almighty,” says Linehan.
“It’s one of the trains,” says Spencer.
“Impossible,” yells someone. “Maglev’s history!”
Apparently not everywhere. High-explosive rounds crash through the train but it keeps on coming. It’s military grade. A slight bend in the track reveals six armored cars. The first of them fires torpedoes that streak in toward the shaker.
“Fuck!” yells Linehan.
But now static’s pouring over their screens. Tiny sparks of lightning chase themselves down the walls. The guidance systems in the pursuing torpedoes go haywire: they slow, bend in toward the walls, slow still further. The train careens off the suddenly defunct maglev, starts folding up at high speeds, catches up with its own torpedoes. There’s a particularly memorable explosion.
• • •
Haskell can see the light of the blast through the cockpit window. And that’s pretty much all she’s seeing. The Helios is shelling the valley floor up above, disrupting a lot of the environment down below. It’s not point-blank—there’s a lot of shielding. Meaning the damage is a long way from total. But even temporary damage could easily prove fatal amidst combat conditions. Shots from drones are flashing past the window and Haskell’s got no way to do anything constructive. She’s leaving that to the man she’s partnered with; he’s clamped onto the outside of the shaker with his bodyguards, firing at everything in sight. Haskell’s trying to think a little more long term. Her mind calculates furiously—no way to stop the cylinder’s rotation save firing the retros … and since the Euro zone’s down, those would have to be engaged manually, from multiple points. And the Praetorians are already more than halfway through the cylinder. They’ve already crossed the equator. They’ve got no time for any diversions.
Meaning that the cylinder’s going to keep on rotating. Meaning that the Helios is going to keep on turning each valley into a shooting gallery every two minutes. Meaning that the ones it’s trying to target are just going to have to deal until they get beyond the windows and reach the southern mountains. Haskell screams at the pilot to take the upcoming off-ramp—but he’s already doing it, his face as rapt as she’s ever seen someone look, swerving the shaker expertly, engaging the afterburners, letting the v
ehicle blast out into the valley overhead.
Which is a total shambles. It looks like a giant flame thrower just hit it. The fires burning along the center axis have gone out, along with every remaining light. The only illumination left is that of the stars visible between shards of mirror still hanging in place … but Haskell can nonetheless see shakers are emerging everywhere, along with cycles and suits. There are far more remaining than she’d hoped. She’s acutely aware they’ve got about another ninety seconds before they’re going to have to do their mole routine again. She’s trying to get the formation back into order as they forge onward toward that southern pole.
The Operative’s team is way ahead of the main force now. He’s not even bothering to resurface—just keeps on blasting forward, streaking through the tangled infrastructure that houses the trains and conveyor belts that serviced the cylinder’s southern half. He’s getting ever lower. The gravity’s slightly in excess of normal now. He wonders if there’s some way to stop the rotation. He doubts it. Not at this point. Which is probably the way it’s been planned.
But the Operative’s leaving the nuances of strategy to others. All he cares about is carrying out his orders, which involve making as much speed as possible. And now he and Sarmax and Lynx and the marines behind them come out into a wider area. One where floors and walls and ceilings have been torn out, along with large chunks of the cylinder’s hull. Stars wheel slowly past.
“Fuck’s sake,” says Lynx.
“Careful with the timing, Carson,” mutters Sarmax.
“I know what I’m doing,” says the Operative.
He’d better. The hole’s the product of the initial bombardment laid down by the Praetorian ships. The trick is to stay clear of such openings when they’re facing the Helios. And now the stars are giving way to the cylinder opposite theirs—and then that view vanishes as they all jet back into the tunnel. But not before the three men have had ample opportunity to take in whatever the Eurasians might be broadcasting.
The Burning Skies Page 11
