The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  But the real action’s on the screens within Haskell’s mind. The formation’s well into the inner reaches of the asteroid now. The core’s not that far off.

  “It’s a trap,” she says.

  “Of course it is,” says Huselid.

  “And yet we’re still driving on it?”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Absolutely”

  They’re starting to feel a little gravity under their feet. They pull open a trapdoor; Linehan’s light plays along the corridor beneath. It’s ornately furnished. They’ve clearly come through into some of the living quarters. Carpeting’s burnt here and there. Mahogany panels along the walls are largely intact. Linehan lowers himself through, Spencer follows. They move down the corridor, reach oak doors that have been blasted off their hinges. They move through into the room beyond. “Shit,” says Linehan.

  They’ve found some of the Magnates,” says the Operative.

  “In what condition?” asks Sarmax. “Minced,” replies the Operative. “But no Throne,” says Lynx. “I thought I told you to shut up,” says the Operative. “I think Leo needs to hear this.”

  “Hear what?”

  “How you’re taking us way off the beaten path.”

  “Yeah,” says Sarmax, “was wondering about that—Hello.”

  He and the Operative have come into the rooms where Spencer and Linehan just were. The tether trails out the new corridor down which the men on point have gone. Gore is everywhere. Two of the Magnates and their families had their quarters in these suites. They were held in custody by the Throne’s soldiers. Until the Rain’s machinery butchered them.

  “Not a pretty sight,” says Sarmax.

  “Never is when hostages outlive their usefulness.”

  Which is when Lynx enters the room. And almost gets shot by the Operative and Sarmax. Almost shoots them himself. A general standoff ensues.

  “Easy with the guns,” says Lynx.

  “Why the fuck are you leaving your post?”

  “You know why,” snarls Lynx. “You’re taking us away from the main force. They’re cutting deeper. Driving on the core.”

  “So?”

  “So I thought you said we were the advance guard!”

  “Let me be more specific,” says the Operative.

  About two hundred meters out from the core of the asteroid, a switch-up’s in motion. The left; of the Praetorian formation slows while the right accelerates, wheels left as it unleashes a barrage of torpedoes into the tunnels that lead to the Aerie’s center … Aren’t you worried that’ll be too much?” says the pilot. “We know what we’re doing,” says Haskell. At least, the man beside her claims to. Huselid’s clearly gambling that the rock’s integrity will hold despite the tactical nukes about to start blasting away within its heart. Haskell starts plotting the route away from the asteroid’s axis as the pilot starts taking the shaker through a new set of tunnels. Just as shockwaves start tearing through them …

  • • •

  Jesus,” says Linehan.

  “Is right,” mutters Spencer.

  Someone’s pulling out all the stops. The walls are shaking like they’re going to fold up at any moment.

  “That’s off to our right,” says Linehan.

  “Is that the main force?”

  It’s time you started talking sense,” says Sarmax. “Look,” says the Operative. “It’s like this.” He beams grids into the minds of both men. The view of the Helios covering the north end of the Platform collapses in upon the south end of the cylinder they’ve come from, closes on the asteroid they’re in: a rock that’s still rotating around an axis that extends through a core that must have just been completely hollowed out by the blasts. Off to one side—set in a southern-facing overhang along the asteroid’s equator—is the Window, the conduit via which heavy mining equipment is moved into the asteroid. Farther south along the asteroid’s opposite side is a door that bulges slightly outward.

  “The Hangars,” says Lynx.

  “Which is where the Throne originally landed,” says Sarmax.

  “Probably,” says the Operative. “But to the extent that anyone’s still holding out there it’s only because the Rain have had bigger fish to fry.”

  “But that’s where the spaceships are—”

  “Spaceships aren’t what they used to be,” says Lynx.

  “Neither are presidents,” says the Operative. “If the Throne stuck to the game plan, then he set up his HQ at the core, but he didn’t stay there when the combat hit. He was supposed to split for the Window as soon as the fur started flying.”

  “Do the Rain know that?” asks Lynx.

  “I’ve no idea. But what really matters is what they thought we thought. And when the main body of the Hand’s relief force reached this rock, they immediately drove on the core. So that’s where the Rain would automatically figure we still thought the Throne was. They were trying to egg on the Hand, draw the relief force in, and annihilate them accordingly.”

  “So the Rain haven’t found the Throne yet?”

  “Let’s hope not,” says the Operative.

  “But now the Hand’s steaming up behind us,” says Lynx.

  “And we’re way closer to the Window than the Rain know,” mutters Sarmax.

  “Too right,” says the Operative. “Now how about we move.”

  They’re moving at high speed now, charging in toward the Window. Seismic readings keep rippling in from the way they’ve come …

  “Those aren’t just our bombs,” she says.

  “They probably rigged the core with their own munitions,” says Huselid.

  She nods. The Throne’s defenses in the Aerie were clearly overwhelmed early. Haskell can only hope that they kept the Rain as busy as possible while she and the Hand were fighting their way across the cylinder. Huselid’s indicated that the only two places that have a hope of still holding out are the Window and the Hangar. And the relief force just tipped its hand as to which one of those it deems as more important. Haskell’s working feverishly to keep her forces coordinated in the wake of the formation’s switch-up. Some of the outlying units have been cut off—swarmed by dust and drones like jungle creatures being brought down by army ants. She can’t do anything for them once they fall out of contact. In these tunnels, all she can reach is what’s available to her along a chain of vehicles and suits.

  But now suddenly her mind’s reaching out much farther than that.

  The words flash into Spencer’s helmet: hurry the fuck up. He passes it on to Linehan. Who laughs. “Easy for them to say” he says.

  They’re deep into an industrial area, about thirty meters down a very narrow chute. The gravity’s intensifying the farther into it they go. Spencer and Linehan are all too conscious of the nature of the tube they’re crawling in. And they know exactly what’s going to happen if it gets put to use …

  “Easy or not,” says Spencer, “we got to hurry this up.”

  “No shit.”

  It’s a tough passage. Linehan’s got his neck and shoulders against one wall of the chute, his feet against the other. There’s just enough room for him to lower his gun arm past his legs. The light on the end of the gun casts a beam that vanishes into the darkness below. But not before illuminating a hatch.

  “Okay,” he says. “I see it.”

  “About time,” replies Spencer.

  They work their way along those last few meters, pry the hatch open. The mass-driver tube they’re now exiting extends straight through half the asteroid. It can fling chunks of rock and metal at speeds well in excess of orbital velocity. It’s a useful shortcut for anyone who’s feeling lucky.

  “Now those fucks get to try it,” says Linehan.

  “They’ll probably use their thrusters,” replies Spencer. “Now that we’ve paved the way.”

  “Pussies.”

  “For fuck’s sake, focus. We’re getting close.”

  They crawl
along what looks like a maintenance tunnel built to service the mass-driver. It’s very narrow. They move along it, slide a door open, go through into a much wider corridor.

  Just as the floor beneath them starts to shake again.

  “Ahead of us this time,” says Linehan.

  “And way too close,” mutters Spencer.

  It’s unmistakable. Huge explosions are going off in close proximity up ahead. Triangulation with Lynx establishes pretty quickly where.

  “Things are getting hot at the Window,” says the Operative.

  “Small wonder.”

  “The Rain’s trying to shatter the Throne before the cavalry arrives.”

  “The cavalry that’s now about five minutes behind us.”

  “Hold on,” says the Operative. He and Sarmax step into the mass-driver chute, ignite their thrusters. They blast down to the hatch that’s still open, turn into the maintenance corridor, turn off their thrusters while Lynx descends after them. The explosions are closer, intensifying. Rockdust starts drifting from the walls.

  “We’ve got to get in behind the Rain’s assault,” shouts the Operative. “Find a way to fuck them up the ass.”

  “Find a way to get their dick out of ours,” mutters Sarmax.

  They descend down ladders, move through a series of air-locked hatches that have been blasted open. They head through a cave that’s filled with derelict mining vehicles—edge past them, down a corridor that’s shaking so hard it feels like it’s right inside their helmets.

  But then it stops.

  “Huh,” says Sarmax.

  “My thoughts exactly” says the Operative.

  He releases the tethers, tells the guys on point to start running. He and Sarmax are doing the same, throwing caution to the wind, taking advantage of the fact that they’re now in gravity to sprint. They’re still holding off on their suit-thrusters, though, since that would raise their heat-signature to unacceptable levels. They race down a stairway that seems like it has no bottom, head through a series of interlocked galleries, emerge into another passageway. Spencer’s voice sounds in the Operative’s skull.

  “Movement,” it says.

  “Where?”

  “Right on top of us.”

  It’s burning in her fucking brain. She can sense the Rain out there, at the Window. Not as precisely as before—she can’t detect their zone through all the rock. But she knows they’re there all the same. That sixth sense again, telling her that the Rain have done what they came for. But she’s just beginning. Her formation’s tearing its way through low-G factory levels now, coming in through torn rails and storage units, fighting Euro security robots and mining droids—not to mention things that seem to have been created by the very factories that her forces are now destroying. In her mind, calculations slide together in a dawning realization. She’s not surprised in the slightest when Huselid’s voice echoes in her helmet. She suddenly realizes that she’s been expecting this all along.

  “Change up coordinates,” he says, reeling off numbers. “Entire formation.”

  “Away from the Window?” asks the pilot.

  “Just do it,” snarls Haskell.

  • • •

  They’re pressed up against the walls. They’ve got their camouflage going. They’re looking at so me kind of flame down the farther reaches of this tunnel.

  “Don’t move a goddamn muscle,” says Spencer.

  That’s what Carson’s just ordered. And Linehan’s obeying. He’s already switched off his light. He and Spencer keep their weapons trained on the thing that’s now approaching: a suit that’s been nailed almost beyond repair, thrusters so gone it’s a wonder it’s still flying. It hurtles in toward them.

  “It’s Praetorian,” breathes Spencer.

  “You mean it looks Praetorian.”

  It’s got the Praetorian colors, that’s for sure. It sears past them, rounds a corner.

  Now!” yells Sarmax. He and the Operative fire simultaneously as the suit flashes past them. The thrusters on its back explode: the suit skids against the floor, smashes against the wall. The Operative rushes into the blind spot of its weapons, shoves a gun against its visor. A man’s face stares up at him. Sarmax risks a tightbeam transmission.

  “We’re Praetorian,” he says. “Same as you.”

  “It’s over,” says the soldier. “We’re fucked. We’re fucked. We’re—”

  “Shut him up,” hisses the Operative.

  Sarmax lowers his gun, fires, grazes the soldier’s helmet with a shot that melts the man’s comlink. He shoves a tether into a jack on the soldier’s shoulder.

  “Now talk,” he says.

  And keep it together,” adds the Operative. “You’re a Praetorian for fuck’s sake.”

  “Not anymore,” mutters the soldier.

  “What?”

  “The Throne’s fucking gone.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The Rain collapsed our perimeter in nothing flat. They executed him in front of my eyes. Jesus—”

  “So how come you made it out?”

  “Saw it happen from an observation platform,” says the soldier. “Saw only one way out.”

  “You mean this?” asks the Operative. He fires a single shot through the soldier’s visor. Blood and bone churn inside that helmet. Sarmax whirls on the Operative.

  “What the fuck’s your prob—”

  “Shut up, Leo,” snarls the Operative. “Anyone who leaves the Throne’s side is forfeit.”

  “The Throne’s gone. The executive node—”

  “Is up for grabs. Let’s get in there and take it.”

  Spencer’s head whips back as Carson starts screaming at him. In the distance he can see Carson’s thrusters igniting. He hits his own, yells at Linehan.

  “Let’s go! This is fucking it!”

  They surge forward. Apparently there’s no point in stealth now. Nor is there any further sign of fighting up ahead. He and Linehan roar down the corridor, down another tunnel, up another shaft, throttling up to breakneck speeds. He’d like to take it a little slower. But he knows better than to question Carson. Especially when the man’s got his guns trained on Spencer’s back.

  Or maybe he doesn’t. Spencer suddenly realizes he can’t even see Carson and Sarmax on the rear screens anymore. Apparently they’re letting him and Linehan get out ahead. Letting them get in there first. Because—

  “We’re history,” says Linehan.

  “In a moment,” replies Spencer.

  They blast down a staircase, blast past Praetorian corpses, tear past vents that have popped open and out of which something seems to have emerged. Signs of firefight are everywhere.

  “The outer defenses,” says Linehan.

  They charge into an elevator shaft, drop down it like meteors. They break through more doors, streak into a huge chamber where a power plant’s been scattered all over the walls, along with too many Praetorians. The tunnels that lead away from here have the remnants of heavy weapons protruding from them.

  “The inner defenses,” says Spencer.

  They roar past the last guns, down the last tunnels, hurtle out into a vast space.

  They’ve sidestepped away from Linehan and Spencer. They’re running full throttle—Lynx on rearguard, the Operative and Sarmax on point. They’re taking their own route in: a passage that cuts straight in from the tunnels that honeycomb the area beyond the outer defenses. A passage that leads to the edge of the Window. A passage off all the maps.

  Or so they hope.

  “What the fuck’s going on up there?” asks Sarmax.

  “We’re about to find out,” says the Operative.

  “Hey, are you picking up anything weird with that relief force?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” He patches Lynx in. “Lynx, are you—”

  “Yeah,” says Lynx. “The cavalry’s changing it up.”

  “Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.

  The Operative meshes the data, sends it over.
/>   “What the fuck,” says Sarmax.

  “They’re wheeling right. And moving away at speed.”

  “The Rain’s intercepted them,” says Lynx.

  “Doubtful,” says the Operative.

  “Especially when the Rain were just here,” says Sarmax.

  “They’ve got a way of moving fast,” says Lynx.

  “So do we,” mutters the Operative.

  They crash on out into the vicinity of the Window: a mammoth cave carved into the asteroid’s side, a quarter-klick wide in places, shards of translucent plastic jutting out across its mouth. Space drifts beyond. Broken bodies and shattered machinery are everywhere. There’s no sign of life.

  Except for Spencer and Linehan. They’re over on the far side, checking things out.

  “Glad you could join us,” says Linehan.

  “Save it,” says the Operative. “What’ve you found?”

  “A real fucking mess.”

  “Split up,” says the Operative. “Search this place. Find the president.”

  The place is in shambles. But the search doesn’t take long. It’s reasonably clear where the defenses were concentrating. Where the attackers closed in. Where the last stand went down.

  “Got it!” yells Sarmax.

  “Everyone hold their positions,” says the Operative.

  He blasts in toward Sarmax while Linehan and Lynx and Spencer vector outward, sweep the vast room on a covering pattern. Sarmax is standing on a ledge that overlooks most of the cave. A smaller cave leads back into the rock. Several of the Praetorians sprawled on the ground wear officers’ uniforms.

  “Where is he?” asks the Operative.

  “Back there,” says Sarmax.

  All the way back. A man in armor without insignia.

  He’s been shot repeatedly through the chest. His helmet’s been pulled off. His skull’s been opened up by a laser scalpel. But his face is intact, and clearly recognizable. The Operative whistles.

  “That’s Harrison alright,” he says.

  “Minus his software,” says Sarmax.