The Burning Skies

PART II HEAVEN'S RUNNER

Waking up. Pain washing against you. Vibration rumbling through you. Visor pressed up against your face, your back pressed up against some wall, your mind feeling like it’s coming apart: Where are you? How did you get here?

And what the hell are you going to do next?

Spencer opens his eyes. It doesn’t help. Everything’s still dark. Everything hurts. But at least he’s breathing. Vibration keeps on shaking the surface beneath him. He switches on his suit-lights—realizes they aren’t working. He turns on his comlinks, finds only static. He figures he’s somewhere in the remains of the Larissa V. Which, judging by the gravity, must have crashed onto the cylinder. He tries to access zone, but he can’t find a trace of it.

So he starts crawling forward, tracing his way along the wall. He pushes his way through debris, stumbles into something that feels like a shattered suit. He slides through something slick—crawls past it, hits another wall: a corner. He starts tracing his way along the new wall, which ends suddenly, in some jagged edge. Somewhere past that edge is a flickering light. Spencer moves through the hole, crawls carefully toward that light. He’s got one hand out in front of him, probing to make sure there’s still a floor beneath him.

He’s in luck. There is. The light keeps swelling. As he gets closer he can see it’s somewhere past the edge of yet another tear in yet another wall. He’s starting to see a bit more of the environment he’s in. It’s one of the ship’s interior hangars. The hole’s not that far ahead now, a glow framed by metal walls. Spencer crawls off at an angle, gets against that wall, makes his way along it. He reaches it, peers through.

And wishes he hadn’t.

He’s looking up through darkness toward the central axis of the cylinder—staring at thousands of burning bodies scattered about. Euro civilians caught in the crossfire that’s raged through this part of the cylinder—or who just got blasted into limbo from whatever surface they were trying to escape over. Apparently there’s still enough oxygen left up there to keep the fires going.

For now at least. But as Spencer pulls himself out of the hole and onto the top of the spaceship’s hull, he can see all too clearly that’s not going to last very long. It’s the biggest fucking mess he’s ever seen. Artificial ground’s piled up all around where the Larissa V plowed through it. Twisted metal structures in the middle distance conceal all function they once had. Past them is more fire—or rather, images of those overhead flames flickering on the remains of some shattered, kilometer-long shard of mirror. Beyond that’s only darkness. Spencer’s pretty sure that’s the direction of the cylinder’s South Pole and the Aerie. He remembers the asteroid being on their right as they made their final run toward the Platform.

Meaning New London should be on his left. But if it’s still there, there’s no sign of it. There’s every sign of combat, though. Most of which looks to be several klicks away. It’s spread out on a broad front across the width of the cylinder: flashes of lasers and flaring explosions that cast shadows reaching all the way to the valleys far overhead. It’s like some giant elongated cloud, moving toward Spencer at speed. He ponders this.

But then he sees movement that’s much closer.

Terrain whipping by. Shots flying everywhere. Tactical overlays adjusting as data pours in from all sides. The view from the Operative’s visor is framed by at least a hundred screens. He’s moving at just under 200 klicks an hour, streaking through the suburbs of the city that’s now fading in the rearview. Above him’s a chaos of light.

“Tighten up,” yells Sarmax.

“No,” replies the Operative, “mind the fucking gap.”

They’re responsible for a wide swathe of terrain. They’re charging through it at street level, dipping into the basements just often enough to stay unpredictable.

“What’s past this?” says Lynx.

“You don’t want to know,” mutters the Operative.

Not that he has much of a clue himself. The usual battlefield intel is nonexistent. Zone’s just a function of what the Manilishi’s propping up. And he’s receiving her signals only intermittently—relayed in by tightbeam laser from what seems to be about a klick or so behind him and somewhere off to the right. But he’s not exactly sure. And that’s fine by him.

“They’re pressing on the rear,” says Lynx.

“Trying to get in behind our left wing,” says Sarmax.

“They’re going to have to catch us first,” says the Operative.

Which won’t be easy. The Praetorian formation is spread out along a triangular wedge almost two klicks across. The spearhead of that wedge is aimed straight at the far end of the cylinder. The Operative’s unit is well out on the left flank. A rearguard’s covering the wedge’s base. And the Manilishi and the Hand have their own inner perimeter somewhere in the center of it all …

“Sniper,” says Sarmax.

“Triangulate,” says Lynx.

The Operative says nothing, just takes evasive action as shots streak past him. A micromissile unleashed by Lynx rockets past him off to his left, veers downward, disappears among the buildings. Next instant, the flash of a minitactical lights up everything; the Operative’s already firing his thrusters, the bombed-out buildings falling away from him as he rises to a vantage point where he can lay down covering fire as Sarmax streaks amidst the streets to where Lynx’s missile has just hit. There’s nothing there now, just a big gaping hole—and the Operative rains shots into that hole to forestall whatever might be lurking down there. He catches a quick glimpse of targets getting flayed by his suit’s minigun—sees very clearly off to his right some of the vehicles in the Praetorian spearhead—and then he’s plunging back toward the surface. He drops below the level of the buildings, his path curving as he rockets down those streets. Another explosion flares as Sarmax dumps a microtactical down that hole.

“Drones,” confirms Sarmax.

“What else?” yells Lynx.

A lot else, thinks the Operative. As always, Autumn Rain has rigged proxies to do the dirty work. Thousands of miniature drones, hundreds of Euro police robots, scores of heavy-equipment droids—all of it making for one big problem for anyone trying to cross the cylinder as fast as possible. How many of these things were brought in by the hit teams, how many of them were rigged in advance by remote artifice, the Operative doesn’t know. He scarcely cares.

“They hacked everything,” says Sarmax on the one-on-one.

“So kill everything that’s not us,” snarls the Operative.

“This is getting hot!” yells Lynx.

“So let’s get lower!” screams Sarmax.

Sarmax on the right, Lynx on the left, the Operative in the center, scores of meters separating them—they streak forward over those fields, descend into a grove of trees, start roaring up depressions in the ground within them. The whole Platform shakes—and shakes again as microwave bolts smash against it. As long as the Helios is out there, nothing can get off the Europa Platform.

“That fucking thing,” says Sarmax.

“Reminding us who’s boss,” says the Operative.

“That’d be the devil,” says Lynx.

Flames erupt through the dark, shapes dimly visible through smoke as the Praetorian formation steams forward, keeping low, crushing everything in its path. What’s visible through her vehicle’s camera feeds is like nothing Haskell’s ever seen. Fire lights up the valleys overhead. She can see bodies burning all along the center axis.

But the real data’s on the screens within her mind; she’s obtaining that data in the most judicious way possible, routing most of the traffic through a neighboring vehicle in order to keep the Rain guessing the same way she’s guessing—trying to work out the nature of whatever zone they’ve got going, trying to work out the location of their triads. Which would be tough enough given Autumn Rain’s megahack. But it’s even tougher as the electrical systems in the cylinder collapse, along with everything else. Haskell estimates the place is down to about 30 percent oxygen. Millions of civilians are dead. All she can do is write them off as collateral. Because the only casualties that mean anything now are those of the Praetorians in her formation. A percentage that’s already well on its way into the double digits.

“Unacceptable,” says a voice.

The man who’s calling the shots. Huselid’s taken up position in the cockpit. He’s scarcely a few meters from where she’s crouching with her bodyguards, just aft of the forward gunners, as far away from all the windows as possible. They’ve already argued about that. She felt she should be in another vehicle altogether—that putting them both together was too great a risk. He pointed out that if one of them got hit the other would be pretty much fucked anyway. And that they were too likely to lose contact with each other in the maelstrom now unfolding. Looking at what’s going on outside, she’s starting to think he’s probably right.

“We’ve got no choice but to accept it,” she says. “We’re taking fire from every direction.”

“I can see that!”

“Then you can also see there’s no way out of this save forward.”

“Which we’re going to lose the ability to do unless we make good our losses.”

“With reinforcements,” she says.

“Of course.”

“Can’t go fishing for those without taking a risk.”

He laughs. “What the hell would you call this?”

Movement close at hand. Spencer sees figures climbing up what’s left of the spaceship hull. They’ve clearly seen him and are making straight for him. All he’s got is a sidearm.

They’ve got a lot more than that. They’re Praetorian marines in full armor, their guns pointing right at him.

They’re almost on him. Spencer’s comlink buzzes. He activates the receiver. Uncoded transmission echoes in his head.

“Give us one good reason why we should let you live.”

“I suck a mean dick,” replies Spencer.

The suit jams a weapon right up against Spencer’s visor. “How’d you survive the crash?”

“You’re Autumn Rain,” says someone else.

Spencer laughs. “If I was, think that I’d be sitting around waiting for you assholes?”

The suit pauses for a moment. The others gesture. It looks like they’re arguing among themselves. Spencer can understand their dilemma. They don’t know what’s going on. Everything’s gone wrong. They need information. They suspect everybody who might have it. Spencer decides not to wait for them to make up their minds.

“Look,” he says, “I’m a razor from the ship’s bridge crew. The Rain brought down the zone and then hosed down the fleet with that DE megacannon outside—”

The marine cuts him off. “If you’re a razor, motherfucker, you’re definitely Rain. Only way you could be alive.”

“Tell him what happened to Petyr,” says another voice.

“I can guess,” says Spencer wearily.

“He’s a fucking vegetable. We left him laying in his own shit about half a klick back.”

“The Rain wiped him out.”

“They wiped all the razors out.”

“I wasn’t in the primary node,” says Spencer. “That’s how come they missed me. I was secondary razor—”

“Doesn’t mean shit to me, fuckface.”

“Enough of this.”

“Kill him and let’s go.”

“Where?” asks Spencer.

They glance at each other. They don’t have a great answer for that. And at that moment more vibrations shake the ship beneath them. The Praetorians are looking at what’s over Spencer’s shoulder. It’s clearly making an impression on them. He tries to take advantage of that fact.

“And by the way” he says, “the gang now approaching is going to face the same problem with you as you’ve got with me. If you start killing survivors from this crash out of hand, you’ll just be answering their question for them.”

“We should go,” says someone.

“Start running from our own side?” asks someone else. “That’s going to get old fast.”

“How do we know it’s our own fucking side?”

“Look at those things,” says someone. “Those are fucking earthshakers coming up that valley.”

“And a shitload of cycles on the flanks.”

“If that shit ain’t Praetorian, we’re fucked anyway.”

“Jesus Christ,” says someone else. Spencer sees flaring reflected in his visor. He turns to face what’s coming.

The Praetorian triad’s going full throttle, punching out ahead of the main formation. The bulk of the combat’s now behind them. Which isn’t to say they’ve left it in the dust altogether. Sarmax starts unleashing his pulse rifle at long range on some wayward drones. The three men roar at ground level up and over a hill. The crashed ship is just ahead of them, half protruding from the gash it tore through the cylinder’s side. There’s some kind of activity atop what’s left of it. The Operative starts broadcasting on what’s left of the Praetorian frequencies.

“This is for anyone who’s still in the fight. What’s coming up behind us is the Throne’s own Hand. We’re going to storm the Aerie and rip the Rain apart. Tune into the following frequency and stand by for new downloads. Anyone who doesn’t can die right here.”

“How do we know you’re not the Rain?” says someone. Sarmax fires his pulse rifle, takes off that someone’s head. The body topples.

“Any other questions?” yells the Operative as he hurtles in.

There aren’t. He knows these marines could just open up on him en masse. But he also knows they know they’re within range of the long-range guns atop the heavy vehicles. That they’re just going to have to roll the dice. The three men roar past the ship’s wreckage: the Operative to the left, Sarmax to the right, Lynx straight above. They keep on going, broadcasting that same message. The area of heaviest drop-ship deployment is just ahead of them.

But now the Operative feels something descend through his mind—something that suddenly drops in from above him in the jury-rigged zone, wraps him in its endless folds, commandeering his suit and his brain, propelling the latter out into the minds behind him and wiring over downloads. They’ve tuned into the frequency he stipulated. Ten Praetorian marines, one Praetorian officer, one Praetorian razor—

Not a Praetorian razor.

Something else. The Operative feels something click within his skull. He hears a voice. It’s Haskell, along with the Hand’s own codes.

“Carson,” she says. “Leave this one to me. Keep going. Keep gathering the lost under our banner.”

He acknowledges, and accelerates as Lynx and Sarmax keep pace.

• • •

Spencer watches the suits swoop past—watches as those suits are blotted out by a woman’s face that expands in from what seems to be some suddenly activated zone. The face curves about him, envelops him in endless eyes. And now a woman’s voice enfolds him within some endless hollow:

“Interesting. Wheels within wheels.”

“Who are you?”

“You’re InfoCom,” replies the voice.

“Listen, I don’t know why they put me here,” says Spencer. He’s transmitting as rapidly as he can. “I serve Montrose and she serves the Throne and—”

“That’s why. The Throne covers all his bases. You were a counterweight against possible treachery within the Praetorian ranks. A conduit to sniff out possible treachery within InfoCom itself. None of which matters now. I need every razor I can get. These marines will stay with you until my vanguard reaches your position.”

The voice cuts out. Spencer shakes his head as though to clear it. The marines are looking at him.

“Sir,” says one.

“About fucking time,” replies Spencer.

“What are your orders?”

Spencer looks around. There’s combat on the far left. But the armored earthshakers roaring up the valley seem to have broken through whatever resistance they were encountering. They’re making straight for the wreckage on which Spencer and the soldiers are standing. At the rate they’re going, they’ll be here in less than a minute.

“My orders,” says Spencer, “are to do whatever the guys driving those things tell us.”

• • •

Haskell disconnects as her mind swoops up to take in the overall situation. It’s bleak. Seven of the eight Praetorian ships managed to unload their soldiers in drop ships along the cylinder. Two of those ships were the ones that docked at the New London spaceport. The troops within those were the ones that she started out with. The other five got deployed all along the cylinder, in drop-zone patterns calculated to pin down and destroy the two Rain triads that were lurking there. But the overthrow of the zone has thrown those Praetorians into chaos. They’re scattered, their chains of command shattered and their ability to tell friend from foe smashed. With the inevitable result that they’re fighting each other, letting the drones and robots of the Rain clean them up piecemeal.

But Haskell hasn’t given up. As her shaker gains height, she searches for the zone through which the Rain’s orchestrating all this. She’s getting glimpses of fragments here and there: clouds of what may or may not be communications flying back and forth. But everything she can discern is well south of the cylinder’s equator. She’s starting to suspect that the Rain triads are nowhere near the onrushing Praetorian wedge, and that all these drones have been prepped to operate without a zone, deliberately dumbed-down and programmed to just get in there and do as much damage as possible to anything that looks like organized opposition. Haskell knows damn well that by now the force that bears the Hand’s standard is the only thing that’s even capable of looking the part.

Which is why he’s ordered her to take such a chance with the Praetorian stragglers. Integrating their rewritten nodes into the zone she’s bootstrapped requires that she make herself vulnerable to hacks from Rain units wearing false colors. And that she risk exposing her physical location. So she’s working through proxies insofar as possible. The few razors under her command are now well out in front of the main formation, taking heavy casualties. But she’s hoping that the influx of reinforcements they’re bringing in is worth the trade-off.

“As long as we keep them on the formation’s edges,” he says.

“I’ve cleared them,” she replies.

“I don’t care.”

And she can’t blame him. Not when every calculation has fallen short. Not when the Rain has proven the equal of every contingency. Not when God only knows what the next twenty kilometers have in store.

They’re hugging the ground, well into the area where the main drops went down. They’re broadcasting the codes they’ve been given—the codes that override the Praetorians’ blocked systems, tell them to rally to the Hand. And from the remnants of buildings in which they’d taken shelter, from basements where they’d destroyed the droids within, from armored drop-pods they’d never left: Praetorians are returning the signals.

Not that they need that much convincing. Most of their razors are dead. Their world’s been torn apart. They can see the size of the force that’s bearing down upon them. They’re swarming in toward the Operative.

“Because now they’ve got a reason to live,” he says.

“You mean a reason to die,” says Lynx.

It’ll have to do. Because there’s plenty of fighting to be done. Most of which now seems to be occurring in the center: behind them, far to the right—distant flashes denoting fresh fighting at the spearhead of the main formation.

“Must be a whole mess of the fuckers still in front of us,” says Lynx.

“Not to mention the Rain’s hit teams,” says Sarmax.

“Who are inside the Aerie working out on the Throne,” says the Operative. “That fucking asteroid is where it’s at. These fucks are just trying to delay us.”

“And the Manilishi wants you to send all these marines back to the main force?” asks Sarmax.

“She gave me discretion.”

“So use it.”

“I intend to.”

Spencer watches as the earthshakers sweep in toward him. Each is several meters long, covered with guns and turrets. One’s churning past the ship on treads. Another’s running on legs that are a blur. Another roars past on its jets. Another suddenly leaps; Spencer ducks involuntarily along with the soldiers standing next to him as it sails past them, hits the ground running on the other side of the ship. Another stops close to one of the fissures from which the ship is protruding. Its forward cockpit swivels, tilts upward like some misshapen head. Sensor-clumps that look disconcertingly like eyes regard Spencer.

“You the razor?” says a voice.

“I’m a razor,” replies Spencer.

“Then get in.”

A hatch opens just behind that forward cockpit. Spencer stares at it.

“Better do what he says,” says one of the Praetorians standing next to Spencer.

“What about you guys?”

“Never mind those guys,” says the voice. “Get down here.”

Spencer clambers down from the ruined ship—slides along panels, using ripped cables to steady himself—and grabs onto the edges of holes torn in the ship’s side. He soon reaches the level of the shaker, which edges carefully forward until he can step over to it. He reaches out, grabs the hatch, pulls himself inside. The hatch swings shut behind him.

“Hold on,” says a voice—and in the next moment Spencer’s thrown to the floor as the shaker reverses at speed. He rolls against the wall, activates magnetic clamps as the vehicle starts to race forward. The space he’s in looks like the interior of a fuselage. A hatch leads rearward. Most of what’s further forward is cockpit. Windows are slits amidst instruments. A man’s working the controls. His hands are a blur as they play across the dials. He glances back at Spencer. His hair’s white. His eyes are hollow.

“One-way ticket to Ragnarok,” he says. “Sit back. Enjoy.” Lights flash outside the window. Something crashes against the shaker’s left side, bounces off with a dull clang. Spencer’s audio feed howls as one of the turrets farther back discharges on full auto. A rumbling rolls through his bones as the earth-shaker’s gears shift.

“Protected my Throne against the East for years,” mutters the pilot. “Now we fight to save him from demons.”

“You mean the Rain,” says Spencer.

“I mean the false Christ,” says the pilot. Lights streak past the window. Off to the right there’s an explosion that lights up torn terrain and shattered mirrors. Several other shakers are visible in the near distance. Those that are flying are keeping low. One’s on fire—still surging forward all the same. “God’s own messenger leads us through the gates of hell tonight. She’s Joan of Arc. She’s beautiful. I saw her face, you know.”

“So did I.”

“So rejoice.”

Spencer’s not so sure about that. But the pilot keeps on talking, keeps going on and on about the hinge of the cosmos and the fate of the universe and the final judgment. Spencer suspects that he’d be carrying on just as eloquently even if he didn’t have an audience. He realizes this man’s mind is processing a situation he can’t understand as best he can. But Spencer knows he wasn’t picked up by this craft to get up to speed on its pilot’s metaphysics. So he cuts in as tactfully as he can manage:

“So what’d she want you to do with me?”

“She?”

“Uh, Joan of Arc.”

The man curses under his breath, swings his body leftward in his chair. The shaker swerves crazily sideways. Something big slides past the window: massive piles of debris that look to be all that’s left of some maglev train that piled up along the valley floor. The shaker roars past, fires jets, gains height. Ground drops away. Tracer rounds curve overhead. The man laughs.

“She told me to take you to limbo’s driver.”

A grid appears on a screen above him. It shows the Praetorian formation—a wide blue arrowhead slicing forward. A light situated almost at that arrowhead’s point—“That’s where we started,” says the pilot—has almost totally traced a line over to its right. And now that line’s drifting out ahead of the right flank, into the ranks of the forward skirmishers.

“That’s where we rendezvous,” the pilot adds.

“With what?” asks Spencer.

Something flies past the window. It looks like a motorbike, only it’s more fins than wheels. Spencer gets a quick glimpse of a figure hunched on its back—and then the vehicle loops backward, just missing the shaker, disappearing behind it.

“Jesus,” says Spencer.

“No,” says the pilot. “Just one of His servants.” He gestures at a screen that shows a ramp opening in the rear of the shaker—the jet-cycle suddenly materializes out of the darkness beyond and cuts its engines, slamming down onto the floor within. The ramp starts lifting back into place.

“Get down there,” says the pilot.

But Spencer’s already on his way, ducking down, heading through the rearward hatch, moving through a narrow passageway, stepping beneath more hatches that lead to turrets in the ceiling, stepping past Praetorians firing the left- and right-facing heavy guns—and then down a ladder into the cramped cargo bay.

The marine bending over his jet-cycle straightens up, turns around. He’s so close Spencer can recognize his face.

“I’m baaaaaack,” says Linehan.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Spencer.

The pilot’s face appears upon a screen: “Hurry it up and get out there!”

“Shut it, Gramps,” says Linehan. “We’re outta here.”

Spencer looks toward the screen: “Thanks for the lift,” he says.

“Go with God,” replies the pilot.

“We’ll let you know if we see Him.”

Haskell’s still looking for what she’s missing. Because there must be something. There always is. The screens show that she’s now lost a quarter of her forces. And that it’s unlikely there are that many more wayward Praetorians still out there. She’s managed to reassimilate a couple hundred. But most of the rest have been killed. By one another, by the drones, by the Rain …

No. Probably not by the Rain. Same as it always is: they’re using proxies to do their work, wearing down their enemy, waiting for their moment. Which could be here anytime. Because the Praetorian formation is approaching the cylinder’s equator and Haskell still doesn’t have the slightest idea of what’s going on at their ultimate destination: the South Pole mountains and the Aerie that lies beyond them. Anything could be taking place within the corridors of that asteroid. The fighting might be over. The Praetorians within might have been crushed completely.

But somehow Haskell doubts it. The force she’s got out here is a fraction of the force the Aerie contained. Meaning that whatever the Rain have deployed within the asteroid is probably even nastier than it is out here. And as intense as the resistance she’s encountering, she feels that she’s starting to get the better of it. Her attention’s riveted on those distant southern mountains. Drawing ever closer for a second time. Only this time she won’t be denied.

Take a listen to that,” says the Operative. “Christ almighty,” says Lynx, as the feed gets patched in.

“They’re getting taken apart,” says Sarmax.

The frequency’s being used by Eurasian soldiers in the opposite cylinder. Even on the border of valley and window, the sight of that cylinder remains obscured by the mirror hung outside. But the transmission’s wafting in anyway, carrying the sounds of Russian and Chinese. Which is the only thing that’s even halfway coherent about it. Because really it’s just screaming. And cursing. And orders cut off by other orders that in turn get drowned out by somebody shrieking about traitors—becoming ever more hysterical until it all gives way to an earsplitting crunch. Followed by silence.

But only for a moment.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” says Sarmax.

“They’re getting creamed in there,” says Lynx.

“They can’t restore even the semblance of a zone,” says the Operative. “They’re broadcasting in the fucking clear.”

“That’s how bad we’d be getting it if the Hand didn’t have Haskell,” says Sarmax.

“And how bad the Throne might be getting it in the asteroid.”

Which is why they’ve been speeding up. Why they can feel the left flank pressing up behind them. They’re accelerating to stay out ahead of it. Along with the marines the Operative’s retained under his own command. Two squads in all. Bringing the total under him to almost forty men and women, blasting their way forward, following the Operative, doing whatever he tells them.

Which right now is heads up.

Not that anyone really needs the warning. The mirror on their left lights up with such brightness it’s like a sun’s thrusting through it. Translucence shimmers, starts to liquefy.

“Ah shit!” yells Lynx.

“The Helios!” screams Sarmax.

“Trying to bust through,” mutters the Operative.

Not just trying. The Helios intensifies the fusillade, sears straight through the mirror, starts firing directly against the plastic window behind it. The one that connects this valley to the next one. That plastic’s superhardened. It’s ballooning inward all the same.

Spencer sees what’s happening on the external cameras: shards of window dripping, disintegrating as microwaves start burning in above them, streaking across the cylinder, smashing against the far wall. What’s left of the air starts exiting the cylinder posthaste. The fires that have been blazing overhead start to get snuffed out—even as raw microwaves lacerate the drifting debris and dead flesh that’s strewn along the zero-G axis, smash into the valley adjacent to the one they’re in—nailing a few Praetorians outriders—but striking well afield of the main force …

“It can’t reach us,” he yells. “It ain’t got the angle!”

“You’re not thinking!” screams Linehan.

But clearly someone is. Both men are hurled against the wall as the shaker veers sideways, drops downward. The cameras show that the onrushing Praetorian formation’s no longer moving forward—disorder’s hitting it as those suits and vehicles up in the air start plunging back toward the ground. Those already on the ground start finding a way beneath it. They’re looking like animals trying to hit their burrows. They’re looking pretty desperate. And suddenly Spencer gets it.

“Christ,” he says, “rotation.”

“Bingo,” snarls Linehan.

Three men plunge toward the valley floor. The Praetorians they’ve brought back into the fold are swarming after them. No one’s got the slightest intention of hanging around to see the Helios light them up with enough wattage to make their corpses glow for weeks. The Operative leads the way through one of the holes smashed in the valley surface by one of the fuel-air bombs from earlier. They streak into tunnels.

And find themselves in combat with still more drones. But the three men are used to close-quarter tunnel showdowns. Sarmax is in the center, his pulse-rifle on near-continuous spray, almost to the point of overheating. Lynx and the Operative have their miniguns blazing. Euro mining robots get in behind them, but are nailed by the marines bringing up the rear—and now the marines fan out on either side, start maneuvering through rooms and corridors, blasting down the walls, getting deeper, wondering all the while just how deep they need to go.

• • •

Haskell watches on the screens as her shaker makes a beeline for the surface. Calculations flash through her head. She’d figured the Helios would be too preoccupied bombarding the northern city-spaceports to bother trying to penetrate the cylinders. But maybe whoever’s squeezing the trigger has gotten word of the size of the relief force that’s rolling in toward the asteroid. Haskell doesn’t know. All she’s thinking about now is just the situation: the cylinder rotates every two minutes; each of its three windows is directly opposite a valley—which makes for about twenty seconds during which the Helios will have line of sight onto the valley along which the bulk of the Praetorian force is moving. And now more ground-to-air shots from guns on the ground are rising up toward the Praetorian spearhead. Haskell feels her stomach lurch toward her throat as the shaker climbs, takes evasive action, dodges those shots.

Most of them anyway.

There’s a shriek of imploding metal as a wayward shell rips through one of the engines, rips through the tail-gunner’s position. Metal shards fly past Haskell’s head, eviscerating one of her bodyguards. Part of the wall starts tearing away: a widening crack exposing the bombed-out landscape beyond. Haskell sees other shakers diving past. She feels the minds of her craft’s pilots as they wrestle desperately for control; she lends her own mind to theirs, working frantically to try to get the shaker stable. She’s holding onto the torn edge of metal, looking out at the flickering lights outside while her remaining bodyguard holds onto her—now tightening his grip as the stricken shaker arcs off at an angle, other shakers scattering to avoid it as Haskell frantically searches for some way to jury-rig its systems. Terrain streaks past. Her life starts to flash past her.

• • •

Spencer and Linehan are hurled every which way, flung against the wall—the shaker’s pitching about as the winds of escaping air smash against it. But it’s no longer heading downward—no longer making for the relative shelter of the basements. Which makes exactly zero sense to Spencer.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” he screams at the intercom.

“All of you shut up!” yells the pilot. Apparently the shaker’s gunners are voicing similar concerns. Spencer turns his head as the ramp starts dropping. Nightmare scenery flashes past outside.

“We’re outta here,” says Linehan, pulling himself from the wall where he’s been flung, trying to start up the cycle.

“You’re insane!” yells Spencer.

“That’d be the pilot,” screams Linehan as something hits the roof. “Probably thinks if he kills us all he’ll wake up in heaven. Let’s get out of—” But he stops short. And Spencer sees why: another shaker’s suddenly churning into view, larger than the one they’re in, and way too close—blotting out the view of the valley beyond it, smoke pouring from it, half its side staved in. It looks like it’s fighting just to stay in the air—like it’s about to ram Linehan and Spencer straight through to their own craft’s cockpit.

“Make yourself useful!” screams the pilot.

Which basically amounts to leaning out of the landing bay and firing their suits’ thrusters, shoving against the damaged earthshaker, aiding its pilots as they attempt to hold it steady. Turrets on the vehicle start opening. Hatches start peeling back. Suits start leaping out, vaulting across and into the landing bay. Spencer can’t help but notice that those suits aren’t marines. They’re members of the Core. Three of them are pulling a fourth out of the damaged craft, hauling that figure past Spencer. He gets a glimpse of her face.

Haskell angrily shrugs off her escorts. She doesn’t need their help—they only draw attention to her. She shoves past the Praetorians in the cargo bay moves through into the larger fuselage. She wishes it was bigger. But by the time she regained control of her shaker she was well to the right of the Praetorian spearhead, leaving her with no choice but to board the nearest vehicle. She feels the eyes of its gunners upon her, a feeling she’s starting to get used to. Most of the Praetorian force has already managed to get below. Reports of fighting throughout the basements are already reaching her. She heads through into the cockpit. An aging pilot glances at her.

And does a double-take.

“My lady,” he says.

“The cellars,” she snarls.

“At once,” he replies—and even as she’s strapping herself in, she’s shoved against those straps. Landscape spins past the window. The shaker she was just on plunges past, bereft of crew. Somewhere overhead she can see the window far above starting to glow white-hot as it rotates into the Helios’s field of fire. Remnants of buildings whip by; the shaker starts leveling out, starts touching down, clawing its way through the ground, ripping aside landscape to reveal the infrastructure beneath—and then dropping down amidst the roofless passages, getting in beneath the jagged shards of torn ceiling.

• • •

Roof closes in above the shaker. It’s all Spencer and everybody around him can do to hold on. They’ve entered one of the maglev tunnels. They’re following it deeper. Walls keep on rushing by lit up by flashes from the vehicle’s heavy guns.

“Let’s close this fucking ramp!” yells Linehan.

“The turrets are fucked,” snarls a Praetorian. “We’re the rear guns!”

He’s got a point. Besides Spencer and Linehan, there are four other Praetorians in the cargo bay. It makes for a tight fit. But the construction drones now blasting after them are taking everybody’s mind off any problems involving etiquette. Everybody in the cargo bay starts firing. Spencer watches his shots streak down the tunnel, splinter one of the drones. But behind those drones he can see a larger shape overtaking them.

“Christ almighty,” says Linehan.

“It’s one of the trains,” says Spencer.

“Impossible,” yells someone. “Maglev’s history!”

Apparently not everywhere. High-explosive rounds crash through the train but it keeps on coming. It’s military grade. A slight bend in the track reveals six armored cars. The first of them fires torpedoes that streak in toward the shaker.

“Fuck!” yells Linehan.

But now static’s pouring over their screens. Tiny sparks of lightning chase themselves down the walls. The guidance systems in the pursuing torpedoes go haywire: they slow, bend in toward the walls, slow still further. The train careens off the suddenly defunct maglev, starts folding up at high speeds, catches up with its own torpedoes. There’s a particularly memorable explosion.

• • •

Haskell can see the light of the blast through the cockpit window. And that’s pretty much all she’s seeing. The Helios is shelling the valley floor up above, disrupting a lot of the environment down below. It’s not point-blank—there’s a lot of shielding. Meaning the damage is a long way from total. But even temporary damage could easily prove fatal amidst combat conditions. Shots from drones are flashing past the window and Haskell’s got no way to do anything constructive. She’s leaving that to the man she’s partnered with; he’s clamped onto the outside of the shaker with his bodyguards, firing at everything in sight. Haskell’s trying to think a little more long term. Her mind calculates furiously—no way to stop the cylinder’s rotation save firing the retros … and since the Euro zone’s down, those would have to be engaged manually, from multiple points. And the Praetorians are already more than halfway through the cylinder. They’ve already crossed the equator. They’ve got no time for any diversions.

Meaning that the cylinder’s going to keep on rotating. Meaning that the Helios is going to keep on turning each valley into a shooting gallery every two minutes. Meaning that the ones it’s trying to target are just going to have to deal until they get beyond the windows and reach the southern mountains. Haskell screams at the pilot to take the upcoming off-ramp—but he’s already doing it, his face as rapt as she’s ever seen someone look, swerving the shaker expertly, engaging the afterburners, letting the vehicle blast out into the valley overhead.

Which is a total shambles. It looks like a giant flame thrower just hit it. The fires burning along the center axis have gone out, along with every remaining light. The only illumination left is that of the stars visible between shards of mirror still hanging in place … but Haskell can nonetheless see shakers are emerging everywhere, along with cycles and suits. There are far more remaining than she’d hoped. She’s acutely aware they’ve got about another ninety seconds before they’re going to have to do their mole routine again. She’s trying to get the formation back into order as they forge onward toward that southern pole.

The Operative’s team is way ahead of the main force now. He’s not even bothering to resurface—just keeps on blasting forward, streaking through the tangled infrastructure that houses the trains and conveyor belts that serviced the cylinder’s southern half. He’s getting ever lower. The gravity’s slightly in excess of normal now. He wonders if there’s some way to stop the rotation. He doubts it. Not at this point. Which is probably the way it’s been planned.

But the Operative’s leaving the nuances of strategy to others. All he cares about is carrying out his orders, which involve making as much speed as possible. And now he and Sarmax and Lynx and the marines behind them come out into a wider area. One where floors and walls and ceilings have been torn out, along with large chunks of the cylinder’s hull. Stars wheel slowly past.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Lynx.

“Careful with the timing, Carson,” mutters Sarmax.

“I know what I’m doing,” says the Operative.

He’d better. The hole’s the product of the initial bombardment laid down by the Praetorian ships. The trick is to stay clear of such openings when they’re facing the Helios. And now the stars are giving way to the cylinder opposite theirs—and then that view vanishes as they all jet back into the tunnel. But not before the three men have had ample opportunity to take in whatever the Eurasians might be broadcasting.

Which turns out to be nothing.

“Not a thing?” The Operative sounds puzzled.

“Nothing I can pick up,” says Lynx.

“Not without a fucking spirit medium,” says Sarmax.

“They’ve been wiped off the map,” says the Operative.

“At least in the cylinder,” says Lynx.

“I doubt it’s much better in their Aerie.”

“We need to pick up the pace,” says the Operative.

Time to go,” says one of the Praetorians. Spencer looks at him. Looks at the ground that’s sweeping by. Looks back at the Praetorian.

“Fine,” he says—starts pushing the cycle into launch position—starts climbing on—

“Not so fast,” says Linehan.

“What?”

“Get your ass off that thing,” says Linehan.

“Are you fucking nuts?” Spencer’s transmitting on the one-on-one. “The fucking Hand’s aboard this thing. Not to mention his prize razor. These guys want us out of here pronto.”

“Sure,” says Linehan, “but you’ve got my seat.”

“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters. He slides backward, turns around so that he’s facing rearward—slots the cycle’s rear gun into position. Linehan climbs on. The two men strap themselves in. The Praetorians unlock the struts that hold the cycle in place.

“Ready,” says Spencer.

“Believe it,” says Linehan.

“Later,” says a Praetorian, giving the cycle a hard shove. The cycle slides down the ramp—and then they’re plummeting away from the shaker. Spencer watches the ground spin in toward them. He catches a glimpse of far-off mountains lit up by nearby explosions. And then there’s an explosion that’s even nearer, as the cycle’s engines come to life and Spencer’s flung backward, grabbing onto the straps out of sheer reflex as the vehicle’s front lifts and it accelerates forward. “This,” says Linehan, “is where it gets interesting.”

Haskell’s head is really starting to spin. The constant play of light within her mind is less a function of the explosions flaring in the window and more a matter of the surrogate microzone she’s midwifed and that she’s just trying to prop up somehow, some way. Any way. It’s that much more difficult now that the most powerful weapon remaining in the Earth-Moon system has managed to extend its reach inside this cylinder, forcing everybody to hit the basements at regular intervals. Haskell’s compensating as best she can. She’s sending out commands regarding the new criteria: draw in the flanks, blow down as many walls as possible, clear out space insofar as can be achieved, choose warehouses over corridors, galleries over tunnels, large spaces over small … and above all, keep the comlinks open—keep the transmissions coming so that everyone’s connected to some piece of the formation, and all the pieces ultimately link back to her. No one gets cut off. No one gets left alone. Save for those who have to be.

The Operative’s on a mission to get his team to that rock ASAP. He’s guessing he’s not the only one who’s received orders to get out ahead of the main formation, which can only move as fast as its heaviest vehicles. Grids of the approaching mountains crystallize within his head. He beams them into the skulls of his colleagues, focuses on the conduits that connect mountains to the Aerie. There are fifteen in all. Nine are intended for personnel. And some of those that aren’t look a little narrow …

“No way are we fitting through one of those,” snarls Lynx.

“Wanna bet?” says the Operative.

Ain’t what you think we can do, Lynx,” says Sarmax. “It’s what the Rain think that counts.”

And the Operative knows all too well that they might run into them at any moment. Maybe the Manilishi is counting on him to do just that, to weaken the Rain a bit before he gets taken out. But somehow he doubts it. He’s guessing they’re deep in the Aerie, busy with the Throne.

“They’re counting on their proxy forces in the cylinder to hold us off,” says the Operative.

“Not to mention blowing every bridge to that rock and then some,” says Sarmax.

“Now why do you have to go and say a thing like that?” mutters the Operative.

Mountains loom in the distance. Stars gleam between blackened valleys. They’re moving out ahead of the main formation, well in front of the right flank, which seems to have drawn level with the center as it overhauls it. Linehan’s singing to himself. He seems to be having a blast.

Spencer isn’t.

“Will you shut the fuck up,” he says. But Linehan just laughs. “We’re both going to shut up forever in a few more minutes,” he says.

“The sooner the better,” grumbles Spencer. “Says the guy who’s already missed all the fucking fun. You should have seen this place when it all got going, man. We got fucking fried.” Shots streak past from somewhere far above them. Linehan doesn’t alter course. “Ain’t never been part of any outfit that got fucked so hard. I think I’m the only one from my dropship left.”

“How’d you make it through?”

“You know how, man. By being a chickenshit. We were right on top of one of those Rain triads. We had it pinned down every which way. But when the zone went, I didn’t wait. Got the fuck out of there while drones carved everybody up; ended up in that valley while it went from green to black. Sat in a park while the world went to shit: put my legs up on a goddamn bench and watched New London burn like a fucking roman candle. Figured that’d be it. It nearly was. Until the Hand showed up with his bitch-queen razor.”

“And bailed you out.”

“If that’s what you’d call this.”

Spencer nods. The Manilishi’s ordered him to head south as quickly as possible, outpacing the main force. The center vehicles that are aboveground are visible a little farther back, down near the floor of the valley. They’ve got about forty seconds before the Helios gets the angle on them again.

“Check that out!” yells Linehan.

Spencer turns, sees it: several klicks farther south of them, though not as far on the right flank as they are—flames of thrusters darting in and out of valley forest.

“More of our cycles,” he says.

“More meat,” says Linehan. “The Throne’s fucked. The Rain turned his trap inside out. They’re butt-fucking him in that asteroid. We get close enough, we might even hear the squeals.”

“You sound like you’re getting turned on.”

“Only thing that turns me on is the idea of getting out of this fucking shooting gallery.”

“We’re almost at the rock.”

“Hate to break it to you, but we’ll never make it.”

“You don’t think—shit!” Suddenly Linehan turns the bike so sharply that Spencer’s almost thrown off, despite the magnetic clamps. It’s like the whole of the approaching mountains have come alive with lights. Shots start searing past them. Explosions blast nearby bikes to hell. Debris flies everywhere. Linehan accelerates, dives groundward. “Guess that answers that question,” he snarls.

It looks like the Euro guns situated throughout the southern mountains are still operational. Apparently they’d been holding back. But now they’re opening up on the onrushing Praetorians and the foremost units are getting hammered. Everybody’s forced to hit the deck, get back into those cellars. Haskell watches as the pilot works the controls and the shaker descends below the curtain of shots, drops down into a riverbed that’s been stripped of its river by the vacuum—and from there into subterranean waterways now bereft of any liquid. Other shakers roar in after her: other cycles, other suits. Basement combat starts up again, even as microwaves and lasers surge through the spaces overhead, unleashing fury that’s becoming almost reassuring to Haskell. Almost familiar. And why not? The universe has shrunk to nothing save the Europa Platform and the thing that’s orbiting it, controlling it, pinning down all those who exist within it. The Helios has attained the status of some kind of inscrutable god.

But its reign is coming to an end. Because once the force gets past the windows and in amidst the mountains it’ll just have to gnash its teeth in the vacuum. Haskell’s concentrating on those mountains now. They’re frozen in her mind’s eye even as tunnel walls flash by, even as some kind of awareness builds within her. She feels herself giving way before it.

• • •

Taking corners and roaring past turns and it’s all the Operative can do to keep on breaking through. He’s changed up the formation a little. He’s got the marines out in front of him now. The odds keep on getting steeper: walls that suddenly collapse inward, floors that blast themselves into the ceiling, mines and drones and droids that keep on springing in from out of nowhere …

“The terrain’s narrowing,” says Sarmax.

“I realize that,” says the Operative.

But he still hasn’t figured out how to handle the implications. They’ve left the valley behind. The exterior wall of the cylinder is curving in toward the southern pole—letting the defense stack itself up pretty thick, depriving the Operative of room to maneuver. Which is the one thing he can’t afford to lose.

“We need more space,” says Sarmax.

“The surface,” says the Operative.

He signals to the marines around him, and swerves on his jets while everybody follows. They blast through metal corridors and into stone-lined tunnels. Gravity slowly subsides as they catch glimpses of lights flaring up ahead. They accelerate, emerge amidst the foothills.

Can’t turn around!” screams Linehan. Spencer gets the feeling he would if he could. But any craft or suit that deviates too far from the attack vectors is going to stray into the field of fire of the ones behind it. What’s left of the flanks are struggling forward, desperately trying to reach the sloping mountains. Linehan keeps whipping the bike from side to side. Spencer watches valley and window slide past his visor. He catches quick glimpses of the wraparound mountains up ahead, of vehicles flying everywhere behind him. He watches as the guns of the shakers in the center open up against the artillery rigged into the rocks. He wonders how this could get any worse.

They’re on the verge of off-world mountains, and Haskell’s no longer fooled. It’s as though every cell in her is suddenly flaring into life. Her conscious mind’s swallowed in the vortex of the unknown—of her unknown—and she’s not even trying to keep pace. She feels her head tilting back in her seat, feels the pilot glance at her nervously, feels him recede from her along with everything else. She sees the lives of all those around her on some grid from which infinite axes sprout. Space-time’s just one piece of something larger: something that’s now blossoming through her, shooting her through with rapture, seizing her with ecstasy beyond any she’s ever known—life lived between the two singularities of birth and rebirth and skirting all the little deaths in between. Her mind catapults out on the zone, leaps in toward those mountains.

Shots hurtle all around the Operative. Plasma hurtles overhead. Debris is going everywhere. He’s seeking whatever cover he can find. Those around him are doing the same. They’re right at ground level, smashing through groves of stubby trees, whipping past rocks. Towering overhead are endless mountains, wrapping above them and onto the ceiling, converging upon the South Pole. “The place of reckoning,” says Sarmax. “Or near enough,” replies the Operative—and starts screaming at those behind him to keep up the pace. They hold course, streak in over the foothills.

“Which conduit are we making for?” yells Sarmax. “We feint there,” yells the Operative. “We hit here.”

“And our marines?” asks Lynx.

“Let’s play that one by ear,” says Sarmax.

“Exactly” says the Operative.

Meaning that maybe those marines will end up just piling in toward that diversion while the three who pull their strings swing the other way at the decisive moment. It’s all going to depend on how the next few minutes unfold.

Or the next few seconds.

Because suddenly the Manilishi’s shoving herself into the Operative’s head, pushing him beyond his skull, making him one with the mountains. The Euro guns that became Praetorian that became the Rain’s are blasting past him; the whole cylinder’s turning around him as his mind dives deep into the rock, slicing through the wreckage of the Euro zone. There’s no zone left in there now.

Only there is. Although he’s not even sure it is a zone. It’s more like the intimation of one. He’s got no idea how to hack it. Not even with her doing the hacking. He’s not even sure that matters.

Linehan’s screaming at him but Spencer no longer hears. Guns keep on firing but he no longer sees them. He’s bound up in something far stronger than himself. He’s the tracks over which the whole train’s rolling. His mind’s ablaze with the insight of another.

Because Haskell finally gets it—finally sees the pattern she’s been searching for. The one that was right under her nose: she triangulates through the eyes of all her razors, all along the battle line, zeroing in on the one thing that only she can. She’s looking at the most customized zone in existence. Zone that’s probably not even capable of hacking anything outside itself. Zone that’s not designed to. It’s just a tactical battle mesh. One that’s supposed to be invisible—and it has been up until now. But now she sees that the Rain are going to do their utmost to prevent her from crossing to the asteroid. At least one of their triads is preparing to make a stand. Has it figured out a way to hold off the whole Praetorian force? Or is it just going to try to bloody the formation’s nose, before falling back into the asteroid, blowing the conduits as it goes? Now she’s got the chance to draw some blood herself. She’s sending out the orders almost before she’s thought of them.

How many?” yells Sarmax. “Manilishi thinks a full triad,” replies the operative.

“Same as us,” says Lynx.

Sarmax laughs. “They learned from the best.”

The Operative orders the marines forward. They surge in on their thrusters, scrambling up cliff faces and flitting over peaks. Ten seconds, and they’re out of sight. They swarm forward, steadily closing in on where the Manilishi believes the Rain to be.

“Nothing like a little cannon fodder,” says Lynx.

“What the fuck would you call us?” asks Sarmax.

He gestures on the collective heads-up at the main force behind them, now moving out of the valley at maximum speed. The Operative can appreciate that those who direct it are anxiously watching the results of the combat that’s about to take place. But what he can’t understand is why the Rain’s even making a stand here in the first place.

Sarmax’s voice is in his ear: “The party in the asteroid’s over.”

“Wrong,” replies the Operative. “It’s just begun.”

• • •

They’ve almost left the land of valley and window behind. The mountains fill the screens. Spencer and Linehan are right near the edge of the window. They’re not about to get any nearer to it. But even as Linehan eases the bike away from the window, something else becomes visible—out in space amidst the flashes of light, reflected off the edge of a wayward shard of mirror …

“Shit,” says Linehan.

“Just keep driving,” says Spencer.

It’s just a fraction of the whole thing. It’s all they can see. It’s all they really want to. It’s the asteroid itself: sun-scorched rock to put the faux mountains in the cylinder to shame. What’s now known as the Aerie was harnessed by the Euro Magnates, towed across the vacuum, tunneled through, and studded with engines. And at least a few of those motors must be firing right now, because judging from the view in the mirror, the whole rock is swinging steadily in toward the cylinder.

“That’s a trick of the eye,” says Linehan.

“I don’t think so,” replies Spencer.

What the fuck was that?” yells Sarmax.

“They’re blowing the fucking conduits!” screams Lynx. “Let’s take them,” says the Operative—and Lynx moves left while Sarmax goes right. The Operative fires his thrusters, steams up the center, steering toward the peaks in which the Rain lurks. He feels the Manilishi’s presence descending in over him. He hears explosions as the Rain triad opens up on the marines. Why the Rain are blowing the conduits when they’ve still got a presence in the cylinder is beyond him. But he no longer cares. His team’s going to turn this triad into mincemeat. After which they’ll leap to the Aerie and seize a bridgehead there. The Hand’s engineers will be able to get another bridge going. Death or glory—and it’s all going down in the next few seconds.

Until another message changes everything.

Get us the fuck out of here!” screams Spencer. But Linehan needs no urging. He swings the bike leftward, starts roaring away from what’s swelling in those mirror-shards like some impossible battering ram. And yet all that’s visible is just a tiny portion of what must be about to hit the southern mountains. “Inform the Hand!” yells Linehan. “Already did,” replies Spencer.

Reverse thrust,” screams the Operative. Same thing Haskell’s screaming at him. He’s pushing off the rock even as he feels that rock hum beneath him. He blasts backward, watches Lynx and Sarmax do the same. The mountains seem to be swaying like leaves in a breeze. The whole landscape’s undulating, and then ballooning outward in an awful slow motion. The peaks that conceal the Rain fold in like closing jaws. This whole end of the cylinder is imploding, collapsing in upon itself. The valleys that extend away from it are corrugating like so much cheap metal. Something’s shoving its way through the mountain—ripping slopes asunder as it bludgeons through. Something impossibly huge—God’s own wrecking ball—pieces of cylinder and mountain slicing into it, sliding off it. Its edges aren’t even visible. Debris’s flying in from all sides. The walls of the Platform are coming apart and show no sign of stopping. “Only one way to do this,” says Sarmax.

“You got that right,” says the Operative. They reverse direction once more, hurtle toward the on-rushing wall.

The orders flash out from Manilishi: take that fucking rock. The whole of the Praetorian wedge steams straight in even as the ground starts to buckle beneath it. The outlying riders hit their jets, race in through what’s starting to look like a full-scale asteroid field. “No choice,” screams Spencer.

None at all. He’s got no idea why someone’s fired whatever motors are left on the asteroid, set it to swing against the cylinder to which it’s linked. And right now it doesn’t matter. They can’t swerve any farther to the left lest they risk collision with the nearest bikes. They can’t turn around—the only bike to do that got taken out with a long shot from an earthshaker. Two more bikes were just smashed into oblivion by flying debris. Linehan’s taking the vehicle through evasive maneuvers that owe more to guesswork than to planning. He’s going way too fast for much else. Spencer can see mountain flapping in toward them like so much paper. Pushing in behind that mountain is what looks like the surface of some planet: craters and caves and gullies decked out with shorn-off pylons and ripped-up wire. It seems to Spencer that this world’s the one he’s been looking for the whole time. He’s been yanked all over the Earth-Moon system like a puppet on a chain—and yet all of it was really leading up to the thing that was built to be the sanctuary of the Euro Magnates. He watches a wire snap from a pylon, curve in like a monstrous whip toward them as Linehan steers past it, rockets into the nearest of the caves.

• • •

It’s rushing in toward them, a fissure in the rock, crisscrossed by platforms and sprouting the remains of torn-up bridges. The Operative dodges past those bridges, cuts between the platforms, blasts through to find a shaft that’s been cut into the bottom of the canyon. Sarmax and Lynx swing in behind him. Walls enclose them on all sides. Debris piles in to fill the opening behind them.

“Made it,” says Sarmax.

“Made what?” says Lynx.

They race deeper into the Aerie. The walls buckle around them, but don’t break. The rock shifts about them. The shaft becomes a corridor, the corridor a labyrinth. Sarmax activates the one-on-one.

“Carson, do we have a plan?”

“End this fucking war.”

“Got it.”

“The Throne had his best shock troops in here, right?” asks Sarmax.

“Half an hour ago, Leo. God only knows what’s left.”

“And the Rain?”

“They started out with three triads.”

“One of which is now a mountain sandwich.”

“Let’s hope they’ve suffered more casualties than that.”

“Wonder how many drones they’ve got in here,” says Sarmax.

Way too many, the Operative’s thinking as they roar onward. The topography of the Aerie clicks into view within his head; he beams it over to Lynx and Sarmax. Several klicks in diameter, the asteroid is a honeycomb of passages and chambers. Most of it’s given over to industry, mining, and R&D, though the private quarters of the Euro Magnates also lie within.

“Fuck,” says Sarmax, “what a maze.”

The Operative isn’t about to disagree. They come through into a vast gallery—one that must have backup generators nearby, because lights are flickering here and there. Whatever original function the place had is no longer clear, thanks to the firefight that’s taken place within it. Dead Praetorians and shattered equipment are everywhere. The three men soar past them. But even as they do …

“Hey,” says Sarmax. “That’s—”

“Look at those bodies,” hisses Lynx.

“I see it,” replies the Operative.

There’s no way she could miss it—it’s all coming in straight toward her. Wreckage smashes through vehicles, crushing them like tin cans and turning suited figures into bloody pancakes. Her pilot’s hurling his body this way and that, taking the shaker through turns it wasn’t designed for, firing jets and motors, even pushing claws off a smaller chunk of metal that’s coming in at an oblique angle—and bouncing off with a resounding clang that feels like it’s shaken her brain loose inside her skull. Scorched earth’s behind her and shattered stone’s in front. The forward units are either inside that rock or in hell. The main force is heading in to join them. She gets glimpses of the other shakers coming in behind her. Her pilot moves their ship into the spearhead of the formation. The main rock’s coming in like a wall. She estimates they’ve got less than thirty seconds till they reach it.

“One choice, m’lady” says the pilot.

“I realize that,” she snarls.

“No point in firing piecemeal,” says the Hand.

“I’m syncing the whole formation,” she replies. “Stand by.”

He acknowledges as the calculations flash through her head.

• • •

Thruster-flames play upon the walls. Their own shadows chase them through the tunnels. Garbled transmissions reach their ears from somewhere deeper within the catacombs.

“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?”

Everyone 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.”

Spencer’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.

Let’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.

• • •

It’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 …

The 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.

The 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.

The 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?”

“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.”

They’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.”

• • •

It’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.

More 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.

Thanks 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.”

They’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”

They’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.

They’ve found some of the Magnates,” says the Operative.

“In what condition?” asks Sarmax. “Minced,” replies the Operative. “But no Throne,” says Lynx. “I thought I told you to shut up,” says the Operative. “I think Leo needs to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“How you’re taking us way off the beaten path.”

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, “was wondering about that—Hello.”

He and the Operative have come into the rooms where Spencer and Linehan just were. The tether trails out the new corridor down which the men on point have gone. Gore is everywhere. Two of the Magnates and their families had their quarters in these suites. They were held in custody by the Throne’s soldiers. Until the Rain’s machinery butchered them.

“Not a pretty sight,” says Sarmax.

“Never is when hostages outlive their usefulness.”

Which is when Lynx enters the room. And almost gets shot by the Operative and Sarmax. Almost shoots them himself. A general standoff ensues.

“Easy with the guns,” says Lynx.

“Why the fuck are you leaving your post?”

“You know why,” snarls Lynx. “You’re taking us away from the main force. They’re cutting deeper. Driving on the core.”

“So?”

“So I thought you said we were the advance guard!”

“Let me be more specific,” says the Operative.

About two hundred meters out from the core of the asteroid, a switch-up’s in motion. The left; of the Praetorian formation slows while the right accelerates, wheels left as it unleashes a barrage of torpedoes into the tunnels that lead to the Aerie’s center … Aren’t you worried that’ll be too much?” says the pilot. “We know what we’re doing,” says Haskell. At least, the man beside her claims to. Huselid’s clearly gambling that the rock’s integrity will hold despite the tactical nukes about to start blasting away within its heart. Haskell starts plotting the route away from the asteroid’s axis as the pilot starts taking the shaker through a new set of tunnels. Just as shockwaves start tearing through them …

• • •

Jesus,” says Linehan.

“Is right,” mutters Spencer.

Someone’s pulling out all the stops. The walls are shaking like they’re going to fold up at any moment.

“That’s off to our right,” says Linehan.

“Is that the main force?”

It’s time you started talking sense,” says Sarmax. “Look,” says the Operative. “It’s like this.” He beams grids into the minds of both men. The view of the Helios covering the north end of the Platform collapses in upon the south end of the cylinder they’ve come from, closes on the asteroid they’re in: a rock that’s still rotating around an axis that extends through a core that must have just been completely hollowed out by the blasts. Off to one side—set in a southern-facing overhang along the asteroid’s equator—is the Window, the conduit via which heavy mining equipment is moved into the asteroid. Farther south along the asteroid’s opposite side is a door that bulges slightly outward.

“The Hangars,” says Lynx.

“Which is where the Throne originally landed,” says Sarmax.

“Probably,” says the Operative. “But to the extent that anyone’s still holding out there it’s only because the Rain have had bigger fish to fry.”

“But that’s where the spaceships are—”

“Spaceships aren’t what they used to be,” says Lynx.

“Neither are presidents,” says the Operative. “If the Throne stuck to the game plan, then he set up his HQ at the core, but he didn’t stay there when the combat hit. He was supposed to split for the Window as soon as the fur started flying.”

“Do the Rain know that?” asks Lynx.

“I’ve no idea. But what really matters is what they thought we thought. And when the main body of the Hand’s relief force reached this rock, they immediately drove on the core. So that’s where the Rain would automatically figure we still thought the Throne was. They were trying to egg on the Hand, draw the relief force in, and annihilate them accordingly.”

“So the Rain haven’t found the Throne yet?”

“Let’s hope not,” says the Operative.

“But now the Hand’s steaming up behind us,” says Lynx.

“And we’re way closer to the Window than the Rain know,” mutters Sarmax.

“Too right,” says the Operative. “Now how about we move.”

They’re moving at high speed now, charging in toward the Window. Seismic readings keep rippling in from the way they’ve come …

“Those aren’t just our bombs,” she says.

“They probably rigged the core with their own munitions,” says Huselid.

She nods. The Throne’s defenses in the Aerie were clearly overwhelmed early. Haskell can only hope that they kept the Rain as busy as possible while she and the Hand were fighting their way across the cylinder. Huselid’s indicated that the only two places that have a hope of still holding out are the Window and the Hangar. And the relief force just tipped its hand as to which one of those it deems as more important. Haskell’s working feverishly to keep her forces coordinated in the wake of the formation’s switch-up. Some of the outlying units have been cut off—swarmed by dust and drones like jungle creatures being brought down by army ants. She can’t do anything for them once they fall out of contact. In these tunnels, all she can reach is what’s available to her along a chain of vehicles and suits.

But now suddenly her mind’s reaching out much farther than that.

The words flash into Spencer’s helmet: hurry the fuck up. He passes it on to Linehan. Who laughs. “Easy for them to say” he says.

They’re deep into an industrial area, about thirty meters down a very narrow chute. The gravity’s intensifying the farther into it they go. Spencer and Linehan are all too conscious of the nature of the tube they’re crawling in. And they know exactly what’s going to happen if it gets put to use …

“Easy or not,” says Spencer, “we got to hurry this up.”

“No shit.”

It’s a tough passage. Linehan’s got his neck and shoulders against one wall of the chute, his feet against the other. There’s just enough room for him to lower his gun arm past his legs. The light on the end of the gun casts a beam that vanishes into the darkness below. But not before illuminating a hatch.

“Okay,” he says. “I see it.”

“About time,” replies Spencer.

They work their way along those last few meters, pry the hatch open. The mass-driver tube they’re now exiting extends straight through half the asteroid. It can fling chunks of rock and metal at speeds well in excess of orbital velocity. It’s a useful shortcut for anyone who’s feeling lucky.

“Now those fucks get to try it,” says Linehan.

“They’ll probably use their thrusters,” replies Spencer. “Now that we’ve paved the way.”

“Pussies.”

“For fuck’s sake, focus. We’re getting close.”

They crawl along what looks like a maintenance tunnel built to service the mass-driver. It’s very narrow. They move along it, slide a door open, go through into a much wider corridor.

Just as the floor beneath them starts to shake again.

“Ahead of us this time,” says Linehan.

“And way too close,” mutters Spencer.

It’s unmistakable. Huge explosions are going off in close proximity up ahead. Triangulation with Lynx establishes pretty quickly where.

“Things are getting hot at the Window,” says the Operative.

“Small wonder.”

“The Rain’s trying to shatter the Throne before the cavalry arrives.”

“The cavalry that’s now about five minutes behind us.”

“Hold on,” says the Operative. He and Sarmax step into the mass-driver chute, ignite their thrusters. They blast down to the hatch that’s still open, turn into the maintenance corridor, turn off their thrusters while Lynx descends after them. The explosions are closer, intensifying. Rockdust starts drifting from the walls.

“We’ve got to get in behind the Rain’s assault,” shouts the Operative. “Find a way to fuck them up the ass.”

“Find a way to get their dick out of ours,” mutters Sarmax.

They descend down ladders, move through a series of air-locked hatches that have been blasted open. They head through a cave that’s filled with derelict mining vehicles—edge past them, down a corridor that’s shaking so hard it feels like it’s right inside their helmets.

But then it stops.

“Huh,” says Sarmax.

“My thoughts exactly” says the Operative.

He releases the tethers, tells the guys on point to start running. He and Sarmax are doing the same, throwing caution to the wind, taking advantage of the fact that they’re now in gravity to sprint. They’re still holding off on their suit-thrusters, though, since that would raise their heat-signature to unacceptable levels. They race down a stairway that seems like it has no bottom, head through a series of interlocked galleries, emerge into another passageway. Spencer’s voice sounds in the Operative’s skull.

“Movement,” it says.

“Where?”

“Right on top of us.”

It’s burning in her fucking brain. She can sense the Rain out there, at the Window. Not as precisely as before—she can’t detect their zone through all the rock. But she knows they’re there all the same. That sixth sense again, telling her that the Rain have done what they came for. But she’s just beginning. Her formation’s tearing its way through low-G factory levels now, coming in through torn rails and storage units, fighting Euro security robots and mining droids—not to mention things that seem to have been created by the very factories that her forces are now destroying. In her mind, calculations slide together in a dawning realization. She’s not surprised in the slightest when Huselid’s voice echoes in her helmet. She suddenly realizes that she’s been expecting this all along.

“Change up coordinates,” he says, reeling off numbers. “Entire formation.”

“Away from the Window?” asks the pilot.

“Just do it,” snarls Haskell.

• • •

They’re pressed up against the walls. They’ve got their camouflage going. They’re looking at so me kind of flame down the farther reaches of this tunnel.

“Don’t move a goddamn muscle,” says Spencer.

That’s what Carson’s just ordered. And Linehan’s obeying. He’s already switched off his light. He and Spencer keep their weapons trained on the thing that’s now approaching: a suit that’s been nailed almost beyond repair, thrusters so gone it’s a wonder it’s still flying. It hurtles in toward them.

“It’s Praetorian,” breathes Spencer.

“You mean it looks Praetorian.”

It’s got the Praetorian colors, that’s for sure. It sears past them, rounds a corner.

Now!” yells Sarmax. He and the Operative fire simultaneously as the suit flashes past them. The thrusters on its back explode: the suit skids against the floor, smashes against the wall. The Operative rushes into the blind spot of its weapons, shoves a gun against its visor. A man’s face stares up at him. Sarmax risks a tightbeam transmission.

“We’re Praetorian,” he says. “Same as you.”

“It’s over,” says the soldier. “We’re fucked. We’re fucked. We’re—”

“Shut him up,” hisses the Operative.

Sarmax lowers his gun, fires, grazes the soldier’s helmet with a shot that melts the man’s comlink. He shoves a tether into a jack on the soldier’s shoulder.

“Now talk,” he says.

And keep it together,” adds the Operative. “You’re a Praetorian for fuck’s sake.”

“Not anymore,” mutters the soldier.

“What?”

“The Throne’s fucking gone.”

“Bullshit.”

“The Rain collapsed our perimeter in nothing flat. They executed him in front of my eyes. Jesus—”

“So how come you made it out?”

“Saw it happen from an observation platform,” says the soldier. “Saw only one way out.”

“You mean this?” asks the Operative. He fires a single shot through the soldier’s visor. Blood and bone churn inside that helmet. Sarmax whirls on the Operative.

“What the fuck’s your prob—”

“Shut up, Leo,” snarls the Operative. “Anyone who leaves the Throne’s side is forfeit.”

“The Throne’s gone. The executive node—”

“Is up for grabs. Let’s get in there and take it.”

Spencer’s head whips back as Carson starts screaming at him. In the distance he can see Carson’s thrusters igniting. He hits his own, yells at Linehan.

“Let’s go! This is fucking it!”

They surge forward. Apparently there’s no point in stealth now. Nor is there any further sign of fighting up ahead. He and Linehan roar down the corridor, down another tunnel, up another shaft, throttling up to breakneck speeds. He’d like to take it a little slower. But he knows better than to question Carson. Especially when the man’s got his guns trained on Spencer’s back.

Or maybe he doesn’t. Spencer suddenly realizes he can’t even see Carson and Sarmax on the rear screens anymore. Apparently they’re letting him and Linehan get out ahead. Letting them get in there first. Because—

“We’re history,” says Linehan.

“In a moment,” replies Spencer.

They blast down a staircase, blast past Praetorian corpses, tear past vents that have popped open and out of which something seems to have emerged. Signs of firefight are everywhere.

“The outer defenses,” says Linehan.

They charge into an elevator shaft, drop down it like meteors. They break through more doors, streak into a huge chamber where a power plant’s been scattered all over the walls, along with too many Praetorians. The tunnels that lead away from here have the remnants of heavy weapons protruding from them.

“The inner defenses,” says Spencer.

They roar past the last guns, down the last tunnels, hurtle out into a vast space.

They’ve sidestepped away from Linehan and Spencer. They’re running full throttle—Lynx on rearguard, the Operative and Sarmax on point. They’re taking their own route in: a passage that cuts straight in from the tunnels that honeycomb the area beyond the outer defenses. A passage that leads to the edge of the Window. A passage off all the maps.

Or so they hope.

“What the fuck’s going on up there?” asks Sarmax.

“We’re about to find out,” says the Operative.

“Hey, are you picking up anything weird with that relief force?”

“That’s one way to put it.” He patches Lynx in. “Lynx, are you—”

“Yeah,” says Lynx. “The cavalry’s changing it up.”

“Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.

The Operative meshes the data, sends it over.

“What the fuck,” says Sarmax.

“They’re wheeling right. And moving away at speed.”

“The Rain’s intercepted them,” says Lynx.

“Doubtful,” says the Operative.

“Especially when the Rain were just here,” says Sarmax.

“They’ve got a way of moving fast,” says Lynx.

“So do we,” mutters the Operative.

They crash on out into the vicinity of the Window: a mammoth cave carved into the asteroid’s side, a quarter-klick wide in places, shards of translucent plastic jutting out across its mouth. Space drifts beyond. Broken bodies and shattered machinery are everywhere. There’s no sign of life.

Except for Spencer and Linehan. They’re over on the far side, checking things out.

“Glad you could join us,” says Linehan.

“Save it,” says the Operative. “What’ve you found?”

“A real fucking mess.”

“Split up,” says the Operative. “Search this place. Find the president.”

The place is in shambles. But the search doesn’t take long. It’s reasonably clear where the defenses were concentrating. Where the attackers closed in. Where the last stand went down.

“Got it!” yells Sarmax.

“Everyone hold their positions,” says the Operative.

He blasts in toward Sarmax while Linehan and Lynx and Spencer vector outward, sweep the vast room on a covering pattern. Sarmax is standing on a ledge that overlooks most of the cave. A smaller cave leads back into the rock. Several of the Praetorians sprawled on the ground wear officers’ uniforms.

“Where is he?” asks the Operative.

“Back there,” says Sarmax.

All the way back. A man in armor without insignia.

He’s been shot repeatedly through the chest. His helmet’s been pulled off. His skull’s been opened up by a laser scalpel. But his face is intact, and clearly recognizable. The Operative whistles.

“That’s Harrison alright,” he says.

“Minus his software,” says Sarmax.

“They’ve got the exec node.”

“Which will let them control the zone.”

“If they can get it to restart.”

The two men look at each other.

“If,” says Sarmax.

“They’re the ones who pulled the fucking plug,” says the Operative. “They probably know a way to switch it back on too.”

“Hey,” says Lynx. The words echo in their skulls. “The relief force.”

“Yeah?”

“It seems to be heading straight for the Hangar now.”

“Fuck,” says Sarmax, “why did they switch directions?”

“Don’t know. But it’s just as well they did.”

“Why? The node’s been taken. We need them here.”

“To do what?”

“Track down the Rain. Take back the node.”

“Don’t be stupid,” says the Operative. “As long as the Hand keeps his force bunched up, their search-and-destroy capability is for shit. And if they disperse, the Rain will take them apart.”

“The Rain may anyway,” says Sarmax. “Look what they did to this place.”

“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.

Spencer 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.”

One 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.

• • •

They 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.

The 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.

• • •

The 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.

“Hey, Leo,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Sarmax.

“Remember me?” asks Murray.

Sarmax laughs. “Moving up in the world, huh?”

“More like the world’s crumbling down around us,” says Hartnett.

“So what’s up?”

“What’s up is that you’re back.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know that,” says Sarmax.

“Thought it was just a rumor.”

“Maybe we should keep it that way.”

“Not when you’re a living legend,” says Murray.

“Or when you kicked so much ass for so long,” adds Hartnett. “And I guess the one-handed wonder is Lynx.”

“What about these other two?” asks Murray.

“Some cannon fodder we picked up,” says the Operative.

“That managed to remain alive?”

“Sometimes it happens.”

“So how about you upload their IDs?”

“Sure.” The Operative complies. “Steroid-casualty named Linehan, razor calls himself Spencer. They were InfoCom before the Throne overwrote their asses. Linehan used to soldier for SpaceCom back in the day.”

“And the Throne gave him a ticket to this show?”

“Didn’t exactly give him the best seat in the house.”

“Ain’t getting it here either. You guys ready to get back in it?”

“Open this goddamn door,” says the Operative.

The door slides open to reveal a gigantic chamber. Spencer watches Carson and Sarmax move through the doorway, apparently deep in some conversation. Lynx shoves his way after them. Linehan follows him with his eyes, before turning toward Spencer and grinning mockingly.

“After you,” he says.

Spencer steps out onto a catwalk that stretches away in both directions. The Hangar is as big as it gets. It’s a hub of activity too. Praetorians are everywhere: crawling over the jagged ceiling like ants, moving along catwalks higher up and lower down, tending to the ships positioned along the gridded floor. Spencer can see three smaller gunships and one ship that’s much larger—the same model as the freighter he was riding back when it all began. Soldiers stand upon it, float around it.

“Only one they got left,” says Linehan on the one-on-one.

“The Throne’s getaway vehicle.”

“Too bad he ain’t around to use it.”

“They’ll just have to get a new Throne, huh.”

“Or work out what they did with the old one,” replies Linehan.

They exchange glances.

“Funny,” says Spencer. “Been thinking along the same lines myself.”

We move,” says the Operative, and fires his motors, letting the others trail him toward the ceiling. One of the hatches in the overhead opens. “You going to tell them now or later?” asks Sarmax on the one-on-one.

“Tell them what.”

“Carson. Everyone in this place thinks the Throne’s still alive. If the punks we got with us start ranting on about how he’s dead, then—”

“Then what?”

“Bad for morale.”

“No one’s going to rant about anything, Leo. Not if they value their hides.”

They shoot through the hatch and along a chute into a smaller cave carved adjacent to a portion of the Hangar’s ceiling. Vaultlike doors close behind them. The walls are covered with cables. Heavy guns are mounted in multiple places along the floor. Each gun is tended by a full complement of Praetorians and pointed at a tunnel mouth on the ceiling. The Operative heads toward one of the tunnels, and the others follow him.

“But surely you owe them the truth?” asks Sarmax.

“Namely?”

“What really happened to the Throne.”

“You saw it for yourself.”

“Did I?”

The Operative laughs. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you can’t fool me.”

“Did I ever claim I could?”

The five men roar out into a larger space—a full quarter the size of the hangar that all these defenses protect. The machinery that packed this place has been dismantled to allow for wider fields of fire. Heavy guns are lined along the near walls. The blast-doors on the far wall are at least ten meters a side. Praetorians cling to the walls, point their guns toward the doors.

“I sat at his feet once, Carson. I thought up half the tricks he knows. I’m not fooled by them. And you know what? I’ll bet you the Rain weren’t either.”

“Let’s pray they were for long enough.”

“How long is that?”

They swoop across the room, swerve past the blast-door gate, perch upon the wall nearby. That gate’s starting to shake. Dust floats up around it. Distant vibrations roll in from somewhere beyond it.

“Until a few minutes ago.”

“But now they’re going to hit this Hangar like they’ve never hit anything before,” says Sarmax.

“I think they’ve got their sights set on something else first.”

More Praetorians hurry into the room, heading out of the tunnels or moving in toward the leftmost of the gates. The rumbling outside is intensifying, resolving into blasts that are drawing ever nearer. Or getting steadily more powerful.

Or both.

“The Manilishi,” says Sarmax.

“And the Hand,” says the Operative.

“You mean the Throne.”

Another vibration churns the room. It’s coming from the direction of the Hangar. A whole section of the wall is sliding away; one of the gunships is emerging from the space revealed, turrets extended, Praetorians holding onto its sides. The ship adjusts for Coriolis spin, swans in slowly toward the gate opposite it, which is already opening.

“And he expects you to do your utmost,” says the Operative.

She couldn’t ask for anything else. They’re well into the mining areas that ring the Hangar. They’re almost there. But she can feel the Rain closing in from both flanks now. She glances at the man beside her.

“The cat’s out of the bag,” she says.

“Of course it is,” he replies.

“And Huselid?”

“A role I play.”

A necessary fiction for the man who’s really Andrew Harrison. She wants to ask him who the unknown soldier was. That man in the Window, giving orders in the Throne’s name: Did he even know the game he was in on? Was he an actor, or just a puppet? It doesn’t matter now. The point is he played his part. Now the ones he died for have to do the same.

“They’re pressing,” she says.

“Might have thought that chip would have led them on more of a wild-goose chase,” he says.

“Not if the Rain’s razors activated it immediately.”

Which they almost certainly did—tried to run the whole U.S. zone through the fragment they’d pulled from a shattered skull … only to find it wasn’t capable of switching on a washing machine. That, as complex as it looked, it was really just a maze of dead-ends whose only functionality was pretending to be something it wasn’t, creating a zone-node that looked like all the wires led back to it. Even she was fooled at first. Back on the other side of the cylinder—back to what seems like years ago—she’d thought she was gazing at the executive node, and in reality all she was doing was dealing with its reflection, while the vessel of the real one stood beside her.

Just like he’s doing now.

“How much strength is left at the Hangar?” she asks.

“We’re about to find out,” says the president.

Spencer watches as the gunship fires its motors, moves through the opening blast-doors. As it passes beneath, Carson floats onto it. Spencer and the rest follow him, alight on the hull, crouching just behind the forward turret. Walls slide past. Praetorians swarm after them. Carson’s words sound in Spencer’s head.

“I’ll keep this brief. The Throne’s still alive. Our victory up to this point has depended on fooling the Rain as to his real location, and on keeping them too distracted to launch an all-out assault on the Hangar. The Throne and the Manilishi are still out there, and hopefully making straight for this gate. We’re going to get out beyond the perimeter and bring ’em in. It all comes down to us. Fight like you’ve never fought before. Over and out.”

The gunship comes out into a cave. Its lights splash around the chamber, illuminating the tunnel-mouths dotting the walls. There’s no way the ship’s fitting through any of them. The walls are trembling with the force of nearby explosions. The craft fires auxiliary motors to keep pace with the rotation of the asteroid—and starts firing bolts of plasma down one of the tunnels. Praetorians start scrambling into the openings adjacent to that one.

“Fucking bait and switch,” says Spencer.

“So the Hand was the Throne?” asks Linehan.

“Or the Throne was one of the soldiers with the Hand. Fucking Praetorians. Nothing’s ever what it seems.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Heads up.”

“Shit.”

Smartdust is swarming from several of the tunnels, billowing into the cave. Everyone on the ship’s hull starts firing. The ship opens up with all five turrets: one in front, one in back, one on each side, one set within its belly. The walls are a frenzy of light and shadow.

“So did you know all along?” asks Lynx on the one-on-one.

“Been unfolding in my mind as we went,” replies the Operative as he unleashes his minigun. “The Throne plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”

The nano is getting lacerated. More Praetorians enter the room via the main tunnel. Several are riding cycles, towing other suits behind them. They swoop past the ship, head into tunnels, while the soldiers remaining keep firing.

“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.”

Especially 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.

• • •

Orders 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.

Linehan, 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.

The 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.

• • •

Machines 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.

Spencer 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.

Explosions 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.

Spencer’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 …

Far 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.”

But 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.”