The Burning Skies (30 page)

S
pencer’s blind. A blow hammers on his back. Something slams against his leg. He gets a glimpse of some landscape shot through with way too many colors, watches his own suit smash against a wall, bounce. Rocks close in from all sides. But past them he gets a glimpse of something he’s never seen before … overwhelming light … the very minarets of heaven …

F
ar too fast: the figure dodges past the Operative’s fire, veers crazily toward him, fires at some other target—slams its boots against the Operative with a force that almost cracks his armor. The Operative tries to grab the boots, finds himself holding nothing. All he can see is blur. He fires his jets in a desperate attempt to stay unpredictable, fires his weapons at where he thinks the target is, lashes out wildly with his razor nodes. But he knows he’s toast. Something clicks through his skull. He figures it’s death.

It’s a woman instead. Haskell—and she couldn’t be that far away, because she’s just made zone contact with him. And suddenly her vision’s his; coordinates upload and all at once the Operative can see the suit he’s fighting. He whirls in one fluid motion—fires on the now-visible figure that’s dancing past him, tossing something in its wake…. The Operative ignites his jets, hurls himself onto his nemesis as an explosion cuts through the wall behind him. He grasps onto the suit’s back, pulls against its helmet; the figure punches upward, smashes its fists against the Operative’s chest, straight
through the outer armor—whereupon the Operative starts firing into the figure’s back at point-blank range. He unloads his wrist-guns, unleashing his minigun at the same time as the momentum sends him sailing backward. But the figure’s already fired its own motors, jetting aside, continuing out of sight down a tunnel. The Operative hits his motors, charges in toward the opening—

“No,” says a voice.

From right inside his head. Haskell again. She’s flaming through his brain—and now he sees her, sprawled in the arms of the U.S. president as he surges out of another passageway, along with three bodyguards. The last of the emissions-bombs the Rain set off in here are dissipating—the Operative fires his motors, soars toward the center of the chamber. He sees Lynx moving in to join him.

“Where the hell have you been?” the Operative asks.

“Here all along,” Lynx replies. “Got blinded. Was about to get the chop when suddenly everything kicked back in again.”

“That’s because the Manilishi got within range of us before the Rain did us in. They seem to have fucked off.”

“Guess they didn’t like their odds.”

“Or they’ve got something else planned. Where the hell’s Leo?”

“Beats me,” says Lynx in a tone that says
hopefully dead
.

Two shakers emerge from the rock-wall like insects boring their way through wood. Jets slung along them ignite even as hatches open in the first one. The Throne pushes the Manilishi within, leaping in behind her. The shakers head for the passage that leads back toward the Hangar. The Operative swoops after them, but spots Sarmax floating near the wall, dips in toward him.

“Leave him,” says Lynx. “Too risky.”

“What’s too risky is thinking we won’t need him for whatever’s next.”

Besides, the Manilishi just green-lighted it. Sarmax’s
systems remain intact, despite the pounding his suit’s just taken. The Operative grabs him by the torso, vaults in toward the last of the shakers, and settles on its back. Lynx motors in to join him. The two men perch there while the shaker accelerates. The Operative can see more Praetorians coming into the cave behind him.

“Is he still alive?” asks Lynx.

“Like you care,” replies the Operative.

“Of course I care.”

Just not in the way he’s supposed to. But it looks like Lynx isn’t going to get his wish just yet. Sarmax’s vital signs are holding up. An explosive went off right next to his suit, tore it in a few places, knocked out the suit’s systems, and hit Sarmax with a concussion that rendered him unconscious. Automatic backup seals seem to have kept him alive. Whether he’ll stay that way will need to await a med-scan. Not to mention the resolution of more pressing problems.

“This ain’t over yet,” says the Operative.

“No shit,” replies Lynx.

Bombs are detonating in their wake. The Praetorians back there are firing at something, getting fired upon in turn. But the turret against which the Operative and Lynx are crouching remains silent. And now the shakers are coming out into the cavern in which the gunship’s situated. It’s still there—still firing, too, sending salvos streaking into tunnels. Praetorians clustered around the gunship head toward the shakers.

Which is when a voice sounds in the Operative’s head. It’s not calm. He amps it, broadcasts what it’s saying:

“Stay back. Stay the fuck back!”

The Praetorians turn away. The shakers are vectoring in toward the tunnel that leads back to the Hangar. No one’s trying to follow it. Which the Operative realizes is precisely what the Manilishi and the president want.
He’s
one of the bodyguards.
He’s
cleared. The others aren’t. And there isn’t time for the Manilishi to make sure. Too many variables, too far
outside the outer perimeter. And the Manilishi would prefer not to indicate which of the shakers she and the Hand are in. Thus the Operative gets to be the voice. It’s okay with him. It means he’s at the Throne’s side as the shakers power out of this room. Behind him he can see the gunship starting to reverse. Ahead of him he can see the rows of gun emplacements. And more Praetorians, cheering, shaking their fists—and getting left behind as the shakers keep on going, moving on through into the Hangar itself. Soldiers scramble as the shakers head straight in toward the outer wall—and the one remaining large ship.

“Time to fly,” says Lynx.

“Not while the Helios is still laying down the law,” replies the Operative.

“It’s still a factor?”

“Unless you know something I don’t.”

Hatches open along the sides of the ship. The shakers vector in toward them. The Operative hears a voice in his head, with orders he’s been hoping to hear.

“Let’s get Leo to the medstation,” he says, gesturing at Lynx, who grabs Sarmax’s legs. The two men fire their thrusters, carry Sarmax away from the main Hangar and toward a room set into the hangar-wall in which a med-ops unit has taken up position.

“Incidentally,” says Lynx, “what happened to those two expendables we picked up?”

“I think you just answered your own question.”

B
ut sometimes fate takes a funny turn. Because Spencer’s waking up once more. He can see light in the distance. He feels cold all over. He tries to focus. But what’s coalescing out of blur is a face he doesn’t want to see.

“You still there?” says a voice.

It’s Linehan. Spencer doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. Unless the two of them have finally ended up in hell together. Spencer tastes blood in his mouth. He grits his teeth. Exhales.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he says.

“They just dug me out,” replies Linehan.

“The Praetorians?”

“No, the Rain.”

There’s a pause.

Linehan laughs, slaps Spencer’s visor. “Dumb-ass. Had to think about that one, didn’t ya?”

“Not really,” says Spencer wearily.

“The Praetorians have thrown up a new outer perimeter. Turns out we’re inside the latest iteration of the defenses.”

“They must be feeling their oats.”

“Of course. They sent the Rain packing.”

“But we’re still trapped on this fucking rock.”

“And how.”

“And presumably that’s why they bothered to dig us out.”

“Quick as ever, Spencer. Now get up.”

Spencer does—pushes himself off the rock, hauls himself to his feet. He looks around. Praetorians are rigging equipment everywhere. A nasty thought occurs to Spencer.

“We’re not part of this dump’s garrison, are we?”

“Nope,” says Linehan. “Apparently they got more plans for us back at the Hangar.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Crazy ones, I hope.”

T
he room is dark, though that doesn’t matter to its occupant. She’s plugged into everything anyway. She sits strapped into a chair positioned along a wall. The lights of the zone play within her—the one she’s concocted to make up for the paralysis of the real one. It’s not much of a substitute. But unless she can reverse that paralysis, it’ll have to do. Wireless is safe only on short-range line of sight. And wires lead only so far. No farther than the perimeters, in fact.

The perimeters are less than half a klick out, encompassing a tenth of the Aerie. Almost three hundred Praetorians are within. God knows how much firepower lurks without. Haskell’s assuming that in the three hours since she got here the Rain have moved most of the rogue weaponry from the cylinder into the asteroid, and have brought up all remaining smartdust. They have the Hangar under siege from all sides, except for space. But that’s covered by the Helios. It was laying down a cannonade against the Hangar doors a couple of hours ago, but it failed to break through. Then it fired its
engines and fucked off. In Haskell’s mind is a grid that shows its current position: eighty klicks off the Platform’s north end, no longer in line of sight of the asteroid, but poised to annihilate anything trying to leave …