None at all. He’s got no idea why someone’s fired whatever motors are left on the asteroid, set it to swing against the cylinder to which it’s linked. And right now it doesn’t matter. They can’t swerve any farther to the left lest they risk collision with the nearest bikes. They can’t turn around—the only bike to do that got taken out with a long shot from an earthshaker. Two more bikes were just smashed into oblivion by flying debris. Linehan’s taking the vehicle through evasive maneuvers that owe more to guesswork than to planning. He’s going way too fast for much else. Spencer can see mountain flapping in toward them like so much paper. Pushing in behind that mountain is what looks like the surface of some planet: craters and caves and gullies decked out with shorn-off pylons and ripped-up wire. It seems to Spencer that this world’s the one he’s been looking for the whole time. He’s been yanked all over the Earth-Moon system like a puppet on a chain—and yet all of it was really leading up to the thing that was built to be the sanctuary of the Euro Magnates. He watches a wire snap from a pylon, curve in like a monstrous whip toward them as Linehan steers past it, rockets into the nearest of the caves.
• • •
It’s rushing in toward them, a fissure in the rock, crisscrossed by platforms and sprouting the remains of torn-up bridges. The Operative dodges past those bridges, cuts between the platforms, blasts through to find a shaft that’s been cut into the bottom of the canyon. Sarmax and Lynx swing in behind him. Walls enclose them on all sides. Debris piles in to fill the opening behind them.
“Made it,” says Sarmax.
“Made what?” says Lynx.
They race deeper into the Aerie. The walls buckle around them, but don’t break. The rock shifts about them. The shaft becomes a corridor, the corridor a labyrinth. Sarmax activates the one-on-one.
“Carson, do we have a plan?”
“End this fucking war.”
“Got it.”
“The Throne had his best shock troops in here, right?” asks Sarmax.
“Half an hour ago, Leo. God only knows what’s left.”
“And the Rain?”
“They started out with three triads.”
“One of which is now a mountain sandwich.”
“Let’s hope they’ve suffered more casualties than that.”
“Wonder how many drones they’ve got in here,” says Sarmax.
Way too many, the Operative’s thinking as they roar onward. The topography of the Aerie clicks into view within his head; he beams it over to Lynx and Sarmax. Several klicks in diameter, the asteroid is a honeycomb of passages and chambers. Most of it’s given over to industry, mining, and R&D, though the private quarters of the Euro Magnates also lie within.
“Fuck,” says Sarmax, “what a maze.”
The Operative isn’t about to disagree. They come through into a vast gallery—one that must have backup generators nearby, because lights are flickering here and there. Whatever original function the place had is no longer clear, thanks to the firefight that’s taken place within it. Dead Praetorians and shattered equipment are everywhere. The three men soar past them. But even as they do …
“Hey,” says Sarmax. “That’s—”
“Look at those bodies,” hisses Lynx.
“I see it,” replies the Operative.
There’s no way she could miss it—it’s all coming in straight toward her. Wreckage smashes through vehicles, crushing them like tin cans and turning suited figures into bloody pancakes. Her pilot’s hurling his body this way and that, taking the shaker through turns it wasn’t designed for, firing jets and motors, even pushing claws off a smaller chunk of metal that’s coming in at an oblique angle—and bouncing off with a resounding clang that feels like it’s shaken her brain loose inside her skull. Scorched earth’s behind her and shattered stone’s in front. The forward units are either inside that rock or in hell. The main force is heading in to join them. She gets glimpses of the other shakers coming in behind her. Her pilot moves their ship into the spearhead of the formation. The main rock’s coming in like a wall. She estimates they’ve got less than thirty seconds till they reach it.
“One choice, m’lady” says the pilot.
“I realize that,” she snarls.
“No point in firing piecemeal,” says the Hand.
“I’m syncing the whole formation,” she replies. “Stand by.”
He acknowledges as the calculations flash through her head.
• • •
Thruster-flames play upon the walls. Their own shadows chase them through the tunnels. Garbled transmissions reach their ears from somewhere deeper within the catacombs.
“Can’t hear a word they’re saying,” says Linehan.
“That’s because you’re not listening,” mutters Spencer.
Or just not processing them properly. Because Linehan’s no razor. There’s no zone in here to speak of anyway, save the fraction that now resides within Spencer’s skull. But that’s all he needs to figure out what these transmissions contain. Which isn’t much.
“Well?” demands Linehan.
“Death trap.”
“What?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“I mean that’s the message.”
“It says nothing else?”
“You think it fucking needs to?”
Everyone in here got fucked,” says Lynx. “Stay a way from the bodies,” snarls the operative.
“We don’t have time for this,” says Sarmax. “We need to keep moving.”
“What we need is more data,” says the Operative. “These Praetorians must have taken out some of them. Scan the walls. Scan this place. Has to be some debris somewhere.”
“Nanotech,” says Lynx. “Fuck.”
“Not quite that small,” says Sarmax. “More like micro—”
“Close enough,” says the Operative. “The Throne slung the asteroid into the cylinder to make sure the Rain couldn’t blow the conduits. To keep alive the hope that the Hand could get across and bail him out of this mess.”
“Hey,” says Lynx. “We’ve got heat signatures—”
“Yeah,” says the Operative, “I’m picking it up too.”
“Coming this way,” says Lynx. “Fast.”
Spencer’s the first to notice. The shadows cast by the flames of the bike’s thrusters are starting to look a little strange. They’re flickering in ways they shouldn’t. They’re …
“Linehan,” screams Spencer, “step on it!” Linehan hits the gas. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I said fucking step on it!” Linehan floors it; Spencer grabs onto his seat, engages the rear gun, opens up on what’s starting to overtake them. He can’t tell if he’s hitting anything—or if there’s even anything to hit. But the flames are shifting in ways that flames don’t shift. It’s almost as though he’s viewing them through layers of static. He stares. He magnifies the view. And then he gets it.
Let’s get out of here,” says Sarmax. “Out as in exit?” asks Lynx. “Don’t be a fucking retard,” snaps the Operative. “Out as in the place on this rock we need to get to.” He gestures at the corpses drifting all around. “Look, these fucks died by surprise. Before we start running, let’s rig one of our own—”
But Sarmax and Lynx are already scrambling to take up positions.
• • •
It’s unmistakable now, right on their heels, swarming in toward them. Spencer’s spraying shots at the onrushing cloud. He’s failing to get discernible results. “Any idea where the fuck we’re going?” screams Linehan. “Just make it fucking faster!” yells Spencer. Linehan’s clearly trying, but they’ve got neither maps nor plans. All they’ve got is speed. And that’s no longer at a premium. The tunnel walls rip past. Ahead of them are lights, getting brighter. And the intimations of some larger space …
The three men start firing almost before the Praetorian cycle flashes past them. Sarmax’s pulse-rifle dispenses plasma on ful
l auto. The Operative ignites the fuel that’s floating all across the tunnel mouth. Lynx sprays flechettes like they’re going out of style. Nozzles atop their helmets unleash flame. They’ve got their targets in a crossfire. They keep on firing, making everything as hot as possible, shooting hi-ex up that tunnel for good measure. The tunnel mouth is glowing as though it’s in the throes of supernova. The bike is turning, braking behind them as the two men riding it leap off.
“You fuckers stay where you are!” shouts the Operative. Which is when the room starts shaking like it’s coming apart.
The Praetorians’ only hope for survival lies in motion—and the massive shape-charges they’re now slinging into the disintegrating side of an asteroid at point-blank range. Explosions flare all along the line—and the shakers, suits, and cycles are roaring in behind them, making for the places where Haskell estimates they’ll be able to break through. But all those estimations are just guesses—just long lines of probabilities whipping through her head—and maybe she’s staying on the right side of those odds because she’s still breathing. Space gets cut off on all sides by shattered mountain and blasted rock; Haskell’s ship starts maneuvering through tunnels. Cycles whip in ahead of her to ensure that the Hand’s ship isn’t the one on point. Rock rips past on all sides. Maps click on overlays in her head. Tunnel walls streak past as she dives in among those grids.
The room’s rocking like it’s in the throes of an earthquake. The Operative pours on the flame, keeping the two who rode that bike in the crosshairs of his rear-screens while he keeps on shooting. Suddenly his enhanced vision is obscured by what looks like some kind of whirlwind: it rips in toward him, patters like rain against his suit.
“Carson!” yells Sarmax.
“Keep firing,” replies the Operative, and turns his own flame on his suit. For a moment he’s a human torch. He watches the temperature readings climb, compounds their effect by clamping his hand against his chest and extruding acid from the fingers of his suit-glove. He burns off a large chunk of his suit’s outermost skin, along with all the material that’s managed to cluster on him—and then switches off his burners. Deprived of oxygen, the flame cuts out. The Operative smears acid neutralizers across his suit’s front torso.
At the same time, Sarmax and Lynx stop firing, because there’s nothing left to fire at. The target area’s a total shambles. The tunnel mouth looks a lot wider. Dust drifts through the zero-G. But there’s not much of it. And that’s all it’s doing: drifting.
“Okaaaay,” says the Operative as he takes stock. This room’s clear. And the seismic readings from the direction of the main force have dropped away to nothing. Suddenly it’s all too quiet. Sarmax covers the newcomers while Lynx covers the exits. The Operative does the talking.
“Praetorian cycle serial number X seven three five G. Which must make you … Spencer and Linehan. Now how about you transmit the codes and prove it.”
He’d already seen Spencer—earlier, back on that ship that hit the cylinder. But the Operative isn’t about to give anyone the benefit of any doubt. Not now. Not in here.
“How the fuck do we know—”
“Linehan,” says the Operative. “How about you shut your mouth?”
“Or I can do it for you,” says Sarmax.
Spencer transmitted his codes almost as soon as the Operative started speaking. Now Linehan follows suit. Both sets of codes check out against the cypher the Manilishi’s given the Operative. He syncs Spencer and Linehan with his tactical mesh. Locks them in.
And grins.
“Okay, now listen up. The guy with the fuck-sized gun is Sarmax. The guy with one hand’s Lynx. I’m Carson, one of the Throne’s bodyguards. The main force is probably about a half a click behind us. We’re the advance team. Next stop’s the Throne’s sanctuary.”
“Yeah?” asks Linehan. “How the hell do you propose we get past all the nanoshit?”
“Not to mention the Rain hit teams,” says Spencer.
“By redefining the word stealth,” replies the Operative.
“And you’ll never guess who’s taking point,” adds Sarmax.
• • •
I? don’t like this one little bit,” says Linehan.
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” asks Spencer.
“I wasn’t asking.”
It’s a minute later. They’re moving through a narrow crawlspace. They’re making as much speed as they can muster without turning on their thrusters. Neither are using active sensors save for an occasional light.
“That fuck of a bodyguard is going to hang us out to dry,” says Linehan.
“Earth to Linehan: he already did.”
The two men are attached to each other by a hyperfine tether, specially designed to avoid snagging and containing a wire that serves as their comlink. Another such tether’s attached only to Spencer; it trails behind him, disappears in his wake. Meaning that in theory Carson’s no more than fifty meters behind them.
“Gotta hand it to the guy,” says Linehan, “he sure knows something about how to play a weak hand.”
Spencer laughs. “The problem for the Praetorians is that the better they get at that—”
“The shittier their cards keep getting? I noticed.”
They’re about seventy meters behind the men on point. The tether is slightly longer than those men were told. It allows the Operative and Sarmax to see the perspective of the ones on point without having to maintain line-of-sight or risk a broadcast. To say nothing of the peace of mind that comes from having somebody else go first …
“The Rain have really been pushing the tech envelope,” mutters Sarmax.
“They’ve got a real nasty talent for surprise.”
“Speaking of, what’s this about you being a bodyguard?”
“Funny Lynx was just asking me the same question.”
“And did you answer him?”
“If fuck off is an answer, then yeah, I did.”
Lynx is about thirty meters farther back, connected to the Operative via yet another tether, bringing up the rear. He’s been instructed to limit all further transmissions to mission-critical developments.
“But I’m not him,” says Sarmax.
“No,” replies the Operative, “thank fuck for that. I’ve been one since the beginning of the year.”
“So, newly promoted.”
“Yeah. I think the Throne was doing a reshuffling in the wake of Zurich. Rethinking who he could trust.”
“That’s a good one,” snorts Sarmax.
“Hey he’s got to trust somebody.”
“And your handler’s the Hand himself?”
“Huselid. Yeah. He’s changed it up a little these last few months. He’s got about five operatives who never leave the Throne’s side and about ten of us in the field riding herd on all the other agents.”
“A one-to-two ratio? That’s—”
“Risky? That’s the point. Best defense’s a good offense.”
“And it’s backfired on him big time.”
“Not if I can help it.” As the Operative transmits those words, he starts picking up a new vibration coming through the rock. He keys Lynx immediately.
“Lynx.”
“Yeah?”
“You got that?”
“Yeah.” Lynx sends over the seismic data. The Operative combines, triangulates.
“What’s up?” says Sarmax.
“What’s up is that the shit’s saying hi to the fan.”
• • •
It’s all Haskell can do to keep up with it. She’s got the Praetorian force spread out along about ten interlocking routes, heading in toward the heart of the Aerie. She’s got hostiles coming through the walls. She’s chewing through them on overdrive …
“No wonder we got fucked,” says Huselid.
He’s back inside the shaker now, sitting right behind her and the pilot, watching things spray against the windshield. Things that she’s just nailed. Smartdust’s reliance on a zone makes it
pretty easy for a razor to fuck with. Which is part of why it never really caught on for combat operations. But a situation where the defenders suddenly lost their zone is a different story. Particularly if those defenders got caught by surprise, hit from every side in a labyrinth that had suddenly become a killing ground … but Haskell’s doing her utmost to prevent a repeat performance. Her mind’s dancing among her vehicles and razors, leaping down passages and tunnels she’s got no line of sight into, out to the flanks where the small fry’s making some headway. And all the while she’s taking stock.
And realizing something.
“They’re not really trying to stop us,” she says.
“They’re drawing us deeper,” Huselid replies.
“What are your orders?” says the pilot.
“Hold course for the center,” says Haskell, as Huselid nods.
More combat,” says Linehan.
“Way behind us,” says Spencer.
“Somebody’s throwing some shit around back there.”
It’s hard to miss. The walls of the room through which they’re moving are trembling again. The pipes that jut out here and there are like reeds in a storm. Linehan shines his light around, starts down the next corridor that Carson’s prescribed.
“Way too quiet in our neck of the woods,” Spencer mutters.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Linehan replies.
Thanks for the news flash,” says the Operative. “Christ almighty,” says Sarmax, “is he still on the line?”
“Spencer? I just cut him off. He’s not saying anything we don’t already know.”
“Those two are just anxious ’cause they’ve figured out they’re bait.”
“Probably.”
“We could stumble upon the Rain anytime.”
“Can’t wait.”
They’re really getting into the swing of things, forging ever deeper toward the heart of this whole damn mess. Microtacticals plow the way before them, taking out smartdust along with mining droids and Euro mil-bots. Shit’s flying everywhere. Walls keep folding up, taking out Praetorians wholesale. But that’s the price they’re paying to keep moving. And now they’re coming out onto the greenhouse levels, though Haskell can see that it’s all just burnt-out florae and twisted trunks now. There’s not a single living plant left. What happened before they showed up saw to that.
The Burning Skies Page 13
