The Burning Skies (23 page)

“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?”

E
veryone 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.”

S
pencer’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.

L
et’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.

• • •

I
t’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 …

T
he three men start firing almost before the Praetorian cycle flashes past them. Sarmax’s pulse-rifle dispenses plasma on full 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.

T
he 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.

T
he 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?”