The Burning Skies (24 page)

“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.”

T
hey’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.”

• • •

I
t’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.

M
ore 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.

T
hanks 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.”

T
hey’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.

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”

T
hey’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.

T
hey’ve found some of the Magnates,” says the Operative.