The Burning Skies (29 page)

“It’s a paradox,” adds the Operative as he revectors his guns. “The Hand’s responsible for the Throne’s security. But how in God’s name can the Throne delegate such a responsibility?
Especially in this day and age—no sane head of state can give a chief of security the power necessary to do that job effectively. Yet taking on the role of the Hand—
disguising
himself as the Hand—increases the ability of the Throne to evade an assassin’s first blow.”

“But this is nuts,” says Lynx. He momentarily ceases firing a gun to let it cool. “You’re saying the Throne
deliberately
stepped outside of the asteroid he was doing his best to make invulnerable?”

“Precisely because he knew he
couldn’t
make it invulnerable. If the Rain were able to pull off anything anywhere
near
as epic as what they’ve actually gone and done, the Throne wasn’t going to be able to rely purely on firepower.”

E
specially when the Rain are so adept at forcing their opponent to fight with only a fraction of his strength,” says Linehan.

“I noticed,” replies Spencer.

Crosshairs and flaring grids: they’re both tracking nano racing along the ceiling. Diving from the walls, soaring in toward them, getting chopped into even finer dust …

“Then you also noticed that this is it.”

“Yeah.”

“The Throne and the Manilishi have run out of tricks.”

“But if they can reach the Hangar they might be able to make it impregnable.”

“What I don’t see is why the Throne didn’t start out there,” says Spencer.

“How could he? He had to start somewhere he didn’t think the Rain would be. And the Rain never dreamed he’d leave this asteroid. They thought they’d pinpoint his exact location by watching where in this dump he drew the Manilishi.”

“It probably never occurred to them that the Throne would dare triangulation remotely.”

“Nor did he,” says Linehan.

He stops firing. Along with everybody else. Nano is no longer in sight. Spencer shakes his head.

“You’re right,” he says. “Too great a risk.”

“In retrospect it seems fucking obvious. He’d have had to trust one of his subordinates with the Manilishi. But say one of the subordinates was Rain?”

“Or was just plain disloyal.”

“Sure,” says Linehan.

“Or was working for that SpaceCom outfit you flew cover on. Christ, when they woke me up on that ship and I learned you were still alive I wondered if the Throne was merely putting you back on the bait-hook in case Szilard or one of his henchmen was still out there trying to nail him—”

“That occurred to me as well.”

“—which he probably was, in a sense.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I doubt you’d have been let inside the Aerie.”

“But here I am anyway.”

“Because the Manilishi’s cleared you,” says Spencer.

“But who cleared the Manilishi?”

“If she was going to turn on the Throne, she’d have done that by now. As it is, she’s the only reason he’s still ticking—only reason he’s even got a
hope
of making the Hangar.”

“But now they’re going to throw their full strength against him before he gets within the perimeter.”

“Like I said, been nice knowing you.”

Another rumble starts up. This one doesn’t stop.

• • •

O
rders start crackling over comlinks. Some of it’s in the clear. It can’t be helped. Everyone starts scrambling from the room—swarming down different tunnels. Only the gunship remains where it is, weapons tracking in multiple directions, a few soldiers continuing to cling to its sides. The Operative leads the way down one of the tunnels. He sends out another transmission.

L
inehan, Spencer—you guys get on point again.”

“Christ,” says Linehan. But Carson’s already cut them off. Spencer and Linehan accelerate past him, wending their way into a maze of tunnels using the route that the Operative’s given them, making turns so sharp they’re pushing off the walls. Vibrations are echoing through those walls from multiple directions. Small-arms fire, heavy shells, explosions, not to mention—

“Someone’s busted out some digging machines,” says Spencer.

And realizes immediately that his words aren’t going anywhere. He’s cut off from Linehan. He starts firing with everything except his hi-ex, raining shots past Linehan—who now opens up himself.

T
he Rain’s jamming the point,” says the Operative.

“We’re right on top of them,” says Sarmax.

“Picking up combat all around us,” says Lynx. He starts to say something else—his voice cuts out. The Operative makes a turn, away from the route that Spencer and Linehan have been taking. About a hundred meters ahead the tunnel bends sharply.

• • •

M
achines of every size and shape are crashing in like waves against the Praetorian formation. The flanks are getting forced steadily in toward the center. The rearguard’s pretty much toast. All that’s left is just a dwindling core. But the vehicles within it are staggering on regardless.

“Still softening us up,” she says.

“I realize that,” he replies.

Not that much more’s going to be required. Because this earthshaker’s in shambles. Smoke’s streaming through the cockpit from more than one electrical fire. The side-gunners are dead. All that’s left are those few of the Throne’s bodyguards still remaining: riding on top of the shaker, firing through the holes torn in its side, moving alongside the crippled vehicle as it keeps on plowing its way through the endless tunnels. In her head Haskell can see the route they’ve traversed—her mind traces back past the Window, skirting the bombed-out heart of rock, back into the wilderness of smashed stone and metal where the South Pole of the cylinder used to be. All of it keeps on whirling within her, like some siren screaming in her head.

But up ahead is the southernmost point of all. The Hangar itself. The only hope of sanctuary. Ignored by the Rain so far—or so she’s hoping. Holding out from the onslaught—or so she’s praying. She takes in the combat, watches more swarms billow toward her, more drones popping from the wall, unfolding long legs only to get their limbs shorn off by cycles slashing past her. Rock and debris smash against the cockpit window. Something streaks in behind them.

“Heads up,” says the pilot.

Too late: the window shatters. The pilot gets smashed back in his seat. Blood’s everywhere. Her suit’s been hit. She feels her systems starting to go.

Someone grabs her. She feels herself pulled bodily forward—out of the stricken shaker and into the tunnels. She feels a helmet pressed against her, sees tunnel walls flash by. She hears a voice. It’s Harrison. He’s got her in his arms. He’s telling her to hold on. She sees rock flashing past her. She feels like she’s pretty much lost it. She’s sending her own mind out all the same.

S
pencer and Linehan blast through into a larger chamber. Nano comes swarming in from the other side. They start firing, but it makes little difference—the waves seem endless. “Fuck,” says Linehan.

An explosion punches out an entire wall. Carson and Lynx and Sarmax come through firing, catching the swarms in a crossfire. Spencer roars out of the way of their trajectory, curves off, veers around the cavern’s ceiling. And sees it.

Caught in the light of the explosions, it’s the same color as the rock. But it’s not rock. It’s a suit—someone clinging to the wall. Spencer hits his jets, whirls. Opens fire. There’s a blinding flash.

E
xplosions everywhere. Not to mention something that looks to be the flare to end all flares. All the Operative’s picking up is overload all along the spectrum. He’s dampening the inputs toward zero. He’s amping up his optic nerves to the limits of what he can take. All he can see is near-total white—and the suit of Sarmax flying past him in reverse, smoking from the chest, smashing
against the wall. But now he sees something else: the vaguest outline of some other suit coming straight at him. He whips his arms up, fires.