The Burning Skies (27 page)

“Which doesn’t add up.”

“No,” says Sarmax. “It doesn’t.”

“These guys were dug in. They knew all about the nano. They knew what to expect. How did the Rain take down the perimeter so quickly?”

“They found another way in?”

“Sure,” says the Operative. “Where? These guys had every approach covered.”

They look at each other.

“Except for one,” says Sarmax.

“Shit,” says the Operative, and starts screaming orders.

S
pencer hears the instructions, hits his jets even as he sees Lynx and Linehan do the same. The wall soars in toward him; the Window wafts away from him. He surges into the nearest cave—the one that Sarmax and the Operative entered. He can see them crouched against the far wall.

And then everything goes black. And white. And all the colors that ever were and might ever be invented: he’s hurled against the wall while his screens blast static and his heart surges to the point of explosion. Electricity chases itself across him. He lies there twitching. The Operative bends over him, stares into his visor.

“Still alive?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” says Spencer. He feels like he’s been stuck into a socket—like his body just got aged past the point of no return.

“Helios nailed us again,” he mutters.

“And how,” says Sarmax.

“But I thought—”

“That it didn’t have the angle?” The Operative laughs mirthlessly. “You weren’t the only one. Looks like the thing’s got more mobility than we thought. They must have moved it round to the Platform’s south side and opened up.” Spencer hears a click as the Operative keys in everybody else. “The party’s over here. The Throne’s out for the count. The Rain
ran off with the crown jewels. If they can restart the zone with that, they win. If they can’t—”

“Then they’ll need the Manilishi,” says Sarmax.

“Who seems to be racing toward the Hangar like her life depends on it,” says Lynx.

“Not that it matters,” says Linehan. “Carson, no disrespect, but we’re
out
of this. We trail them on stealth and we’ll never catch up. We fire all jets and we’ll get eaten by the Rain.”

“Or some nano booby trap,” says Spencer.

“That’s why we’re going to cut some more corners,” says the Operative. “Beat them all to the Hangars in one fell swoop.”

Lynx clears his throat. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“Sure I do.”

O
ne final race to go. Shakers and suits and cycles are all surging forward, smashing their way ugh the resistance, blasting through a series of elevators and chutes—opening up the terrain with the remaining microtacticals. They tear their way into a series of industrial levels, peel back ceilings, carve through floors. The gravity’s starting to lessen.

Even as the pursuit’s starting to gain. And she knows why. Because the Rain’s no longer fooled. They know what they’ve got. They know what they’re missing. They’re coming after her with a vengeance. She can feel them as surely as she’s ever felt anything. She’s content to sit back and let it happen.

• • •

T
hey drop past torn bodies and shattered machines. Drop past the last of the cave walls, shoot through what’s left of the Window.

Space opens up around them. Stars gleam. The Operative turns in one smooth motion, starts sidling along the side of the rock. The others follow him through a landscape of impossible contrasts. Horizon crowds up way too close. It seems like they’ve reached the end of the world—the world that streams below them in all its incarnations: hatches, metal panels, struts, wiring, pylons, all set within the same unending rock. The Window vanishes in their rearview They get out into the thick of the hostile landscape. There are no transmissions between them now. They’re just following the Operative as he darts forward, staying as close as possible to the surface while detouring as little as possible. Screens within the Operative’s helmet show vectors that trace around the Aerie—show him, too, the rock’s rotation putting ever more mass between him and Helios. He can’t believe how bad this has gotten—can’t believe there’s still a chance of pulling it off. The screens show him almost at the edge of the place he’s seeking.

But they also show him the last thing he wants to see.

“We got company,” says Sarmax, breaking radio silence.

The five men activate conduits, lock in the tactical grid. Blurring mars the horizon, as though the stars in front of them are getting swallowed by a wayward nebula. It’s swarming in toward them, blocking their way forward.

“On our left, too,” says Spencer.

“And the right,” says Linehan.

As if they weren’t fucked enough. The Operative realizes too late that he was an idiot to think they could make it across the surface. That of course the Rain would have everything covered. The Hangar’s probably been overrun anyway. They’re now on the cusp of what should be the outermost of its perimeters, but the turrets jutting along the horizon show
no sign of any guns, just scorch-marks where energy’s been hurled against them, unleashed by the Helios, which is going to get the drop on the Operative’s group if they retreat from the onrushing swarm or if they try to hold their positions on the asteroid while it rotates. Though they’re being forced to do that anyway: halting, taking up positions, covering all directions. “Fire at will,” snarls the Operative.

T
he vise is tightening around them. The mined-out areas through which they’re passing are alive with dust and drones. And more besides: suited figures are appearing around corridor corners, emerging from cave mouths, opening up on Haskell’s force.

“Jesus,” says the pilot. “Those are—”

“I know,” she says.

Praetorians. Who got swarmed in the initial combat. And repurposed, with a new lease on life. They may be dead, but their suits are fighting on. Haskell catches glimpses of lifeless eyes behind visors as suits hurl themselves at her shaker, go down beneath its treads.

“Not easy,” says Huselid.

She says nothing. She doesn’t know whether he’s talking about the resolution required to shoot at former colleagues or offering a more general assessment of the whole situation. All she knows is that the hunters are overtaking them. She urges her pilot to pour on the speed.

• • •

T
he five men open up, tearing swathes in the swarms heading in toward them. Explosions rip across the rock. Flashes light up the horizon all around.

But the opposition’s playing it like a numbers game, darting out of the blast-radii of the nukes; hugging the surface; getting in between the nooks and crannies of the rock, then rushing forward again.

“Jesus,” says Spencer.

“Behind us too,” says Lynx.

“We got to get off the surface!” yells Sarmax.

“Agreed,” says the Operative.

He’s blasting the nearest hatch, which spins off into space. More dust pours out of the opening.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“At least let’s make ’em pay,” says Sarmax.

It’s all they can hope to do. The shit’s coming in from every direction now. They’ve got no more hi-ex. The clouds close in on them. Beyond them the Operative can see still more shapes rising from the horizon, wafting into the black above.

And raining fire down on everything below.

Jets of plasma. Whole racks of minitacticals. Light overwhelms the Operative’s screens, even as he fires point-blank at what’s gotten past the firing zone. As the flashes fade, he sees Praetorian gunships overhead, their engines glowing molten, their guns flaring.

Another hatch pops open. The Operative doesn’t hesitate; he starts blasting in toward it, and the others follow him while shredded nano wafts everywhere. The gunships soar past, drop back toward the horizon.

And the Operative knows the reason why. Because the world’s still turning. And the Helios is about to come up over the horizon like a demented sun. The hatch swings shut. The five
men find themselves enclosed in a tiny elevator-like chamber, which starts moving along an unseen shaft within the asteroid.

But then the chamber stops. An interface in the wall transmits. The Operative hears a voice.

“Carson,” it says.

“Yeah?” he replies.

“What the fuck’s going on out there?”

“And what kind of street trash have you brought in with you?” asks another voice.

“Fuck you guys,” says the Operative. “How about reloading us and letting us go kick some ass?”

“Give us some codes and sure.”

“You mean to say you actually have a zone in the Hangar?”

“We brought a cauterized mainframe online. It’s a long way from perfect. Now how about those codes?”

All yours,” says the Operative, beaming them over. “Now how about you tell me who the fuck’s in charge.”

“Us,” says the first voice.

“Now tell us who we are,” says the second.

“Give me a break—”

“Just do it.”

“Murray,” says the Operative. “And Hartnett. And I can’t believe you guys are fucking
it
—”

“We’ve taken a beating, Carson. Is that Leo you’ve got with you?”

“Who the fuck else would it be?”

“Patch him in,” says Hartnett.

The Operative wants to argue—wants to tell the two men who are now in command of the Hangar just how urgent the situation is. But he knows they’ve got to do their due diligence. Voiceprint and retina sampling, not to mention a little conversation—he’d do the same if he were them. Nothing’s conclusive. But every little bit helps.