The Burning Skies

PART III RAIN'S SHADOW

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

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

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” says Haskell.

The door opens. Light flows in from the corridor beyond. Two Praetorians enter the room. They train their visors this way and that.

“It’s been swept,” says Haskell.

They pay no attention. Just keep on scanning.

“Twenty minutes ago,” she adds. “I’ve been here ever since.”

“Orders, ma’am.”

“The Throne’s?”

The soldiers say nothing—just stiffen as the U.S. president appears in the door. Still dressed in the Hand’s armor, still wearing Huselid’s face. Haskell figures he may as well. Given that Huselid never really existed in the first place. She sees herself reflected within the visor: her helmet thrown back, so many wires protruding from her skull she looks like some kind of mechanical medusa.

Andrew Harrison gazes at her. His expression’s neutral.

“Any ideas?” he asks.

“The only one I’ve got is the one I hate the most.”

“It happens,” the Throne replies.

He’s tired. He’s bone-weary But he’s still alive. He hurts everywhere. But they’ve patched him up okay. His body’ll keep on ticking. As to his mind: that would need more than just a doctor. That would need something capable of changing the one thing that can’t be changed.

The past.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Lynx.

“They’re not in the bargain bin just yet,” mutters Sarmax.

They’re at the junction of two of the catwalks that crisscross the now-pressurized hangar. Their visors are up. Lynx is sipping water from a tube within his helmet. He’s sitting cross-legged against the railing. Sarmax is leaning over it.

“Meaning what?” asks Lynx.

“Meaning I’m not in the mood for conversation.”

“With me, you never were.”

“That’s because you talk too much.”

“I’ve heard of worse weaknesses.”

Sarmax doesn’t reply. Just keeps on staring at the Hangar floor. The gunships have been moved out into the perimeter. The president’s ship is the only craft down there now. Sarmax has been keeping an eye on it for almost fifteen minutes—ever since he emerged from the crowded med-unit and climbed out into the catwalks. No one’s boarded that whole time. No one’s left.

“How long has he been in there?” he asks.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” says Lynx. “It sounded like you were asking me a question.”

“Don’t make me wait for an answer.”

“Easy, Leo. Carson’s been holed up in that ship for almost an hour. Along with the rest of the bodyguards.”

“What about the Throne? And the Manilishi?”

“No one’s seen ’em leave.”

“They’re trying to think up a way out of this mess.”

“You sad you weren’t invited?”

“You sad I shot your hand off?”

“Fuck you,” says Lynx.

“I’m going to go stretch my legs instead.”

Lynx leans back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No one is,” says Sarmax.

• • •

Five minutes later he’s walking along a platform up in the Hangar’s rafters. Gravity’s a lot weaker up here. Praetorians pass him, salute, and keep going. He eventually reaches a point where the platform widens into a bona-fide balcony.

A single man’s sitting there, wearing a unistretch jumpsuit that does little to conceal his bulk. A suit of armor’s standing in a corner of the platform. Another suit of armor’s in pieces all around him. The man looks up from troubleshooting it.

“What’s up?” says Sarmax.

Linehan shrugs. “Figure you’d know that better than me.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“He’s not my friend, boss.”

“Whatever.”

“He went to try to get more ammo. We heard a rumor they were dishing it out on level H.”

“You could have asked us for some. We’ve got connections.”

“With strings attached.”

“Fair point.”

“Besides,” adds Linehan, “we couldn’t find you. Heard you were out for the count.”

“I was. But now I’m here.”

“So your man Carson can involve us in another suicide run?”

“He’s not my man.”

“Then whose is he?”

“The Throne’s.”

“So what’s going on out there, boss?”

“The Rain are massing for one last assault.”

“I meant out in the rest of fucking existence?”

Sarmax laughs. He glances at the Hangar ceiling, a scant fifteen meters overhead. He looks down at the Hangar floor. Back at Linehan.

“That’s a good one,” he says. “Life beyond the Europa Platform. Sheer chaos, I’m sure. There’s a lot of jamming going on. But that can’t disguise the fact that everyone and their dog are broadcasting. Though we’ve no idea who’s who. No one does. The Rain have frozen everything that counts. No one knows what the codes are. No one can launch shit.”

“Including the Eurasians.”

“The Eurasians are finished.”

“Are they?”

“Blew themselves up in their asteroid.”

“Must have been quite a sight.”

“It’s not like they had much of a choice.”

“Because otherwise the Rain would have gotten their executive node?”

Sarmax nods.

“And the Coalition couldn’t transfer it elsewhere,” adds Linehan.

Sarmax’s eyes narrow. “How do you know so much about executive nodes anyway?”

“I get around.”

“Because you used to run wet-ops for SpaceCom.”

“I wouldn’t say it that loud.”

“Son, they can’t bust me, I wrote half the rules. Besides, it’s not like your history’s a secret.”

“Yours is.”

Sarmax stares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve been listening to the talk around the camp-fires.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“They say you got out of all this once upon a time.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I’m just saying what they’re saying, boss.”

“What else are they saying?”

“That you came back because of your pal Carson.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why did you?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m just trying to build rapport.”

“That’s not a good way to do it.”

“The Throne’s going to nuke this whole place, isn’t he?”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Same reason the East did,” says a voice.

It’s Spencer. He’s pulling himself up the ladder that leads down from the platform. He looks exhausted. But it looks like he’s managed to get his hands on several packs of ammo.

“Lyle Spencer,” says Sarmax.

“Sir,” replies Spencer, reaching the platform.

“Kissing ass as always,” says Linehan.

“Relax,” says Sarmax. His gaze shifts to encompass both of them. “The East’s sacrifice may be in vain. Just because the Rain can’t capture their executive node doesn’t mean they can’t gain control of the Eastern zone. Or ours, for that matter.”

“How else would one do it?” asks Spencer.

“Well, that’s the problem. No one knows for sure.”

“Or at least they haven’t told you,” says Linehan.

Sarmax gazes at him without expression.

“Boss, I’m just pointing it out. I’m not trying to be rude.”

“You don’t have to try,” says Spencer.

But Sarmax just shrugs. “We’re in uncharted waters now. The Rain proved they could freeze both zones without recourse to either executive node. My guess is that they’ll ultimately figure out how to control one or both of them too. Somewhere out there a clock’s ticking. And if it hits zero, you’re going to know it. Because as soon as they restart either zone, they’ll launch all weapons at the other side. And destroy this asteroid for good while they’re at it. I can’t see how much longer we have. No one can.”

“None of which makes any difference now,” says Linehan.

“We’re expendable,” says Spencer.

“We all are,” says Sarmax.

“It’s all relative,” says Spencer.

“Too right,” says Linehan. “Aren’t you slumming it hanging out with us?”

“I go where things amuse me. And you guys should suit up.”

“Why?”

Sarmax gestures at a door some distance along the platform. Lynx and Carson have just emerged from it.

“Shit,” says Linehan.

“Gentlemen,” says Carson. “So glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of checking out early,” replies Linehan. He and Spencer start to climb into their suits.

“Leo,” says Carson, nodding to Sarmax—who raises a hand in mock-salute. He turns back to Spencer and Linehan. “Guys, I’ve got good news. I’m through using you as cannon fodder.”

Spencer and Linehan look at him.

“It’s true,” he says. “You’re off the hook.”

“What’s the catch?” asks Spencer.

“You mean besides the fact that you’ll get croaked anyway?”

“Yeah,” says Linehan. “Besides that.”

“You get to haul our luggage,” says Lynx.

They take a different route away from the center this time. They climb a series of ramps to where gravity dissipates still further—and then wind their way along more passages, back toward the side of sphere. Gravity starts to kick back in. What look like recently strung cables line the walls the whole way. Other Praetorians pass them on numerous occasions. Everyone seems to be going somewhere. Everyone seems to be getting ready.

“Hurry it up,” says Carson.

“Easy for you to say” says Linehan.

He and Spencer are almost staggering under the weight of the containers they’re dragging. The low gravity was providing some help. But now that it’s returning to Earth-like levels, the going’s getting tougher. Spencer almost trips, manages to avoid getting crushed by his container, and finally stabilizes it.

“What the fuck’s in these goddamn things?” he asks.

“Your mother,” says Lynx.

He’s carrying a container as well—a decidedly smaller one. Spencer figures that’s why he’s still smiling. Either that, or he’s relishing having someone beneath him on the totem pole. Spencer doesn’t plan on giving him any trouble. However …

“What’d you say?” says Linehan.

“He didn’t say a goddamn thing,” says Sarmax evenly. “Did you, Lynx?”

“Of course not,” says Lynx.

“Fucking liar,” says Linehan.

“We have those around here,” says Carson. He doesn’t turn around—just keeps on walking forward with the container he and Sarmax are sharing between them. “Doesn’t matter, Linehan. Draw on a member of my team, and I’ll toss you through an airlock.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” says Spencer to Linehan on the one-on-one.

“Carson’s half my size,” says Linehan. “I can take him no prob.”

“He’s a fucking bodyguard,” says Spencer. “Even if you killed him, you’d be court-martialed and assigned to orbit the Platform sans spacesuit.”

“Maybe,” replies Linehan. But he does nothing—just keeps on trudging forward with his burden. Spencer keeps waiting for Lynx to break back in and start baiting Linehan again. But Lynx seems to have lost interest.

I mean it,” says the Operative on the triad’s closed channel. “I’m sure you do,” replies Lynx. “You can fuck off anyway.”

“Say whatever you want to me,” replies the Operative.

“Just don’t provoke the minions,” adds Sarmax.

“A soldier should know how to withstand provocation,” says Lynx.

“A soldier should be above dishing it out,” says Sarmax.

“Everybody shut up,” says the Operative—and now he’s broadcasting to Spencer and Linehan as well. “We’re here.”

Almost on the outer perimeter. Which isn’t much. Just a metal grille staircase. The Operative peers carefully over the edge of the railing. Cables are strung down from the platform to a door at the bottom of the stairwell. The Operative broadcasts codes down to the door, which slides open.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They descend the staircase, go through the door, and find themselves in a room that extends up to a second level. Praetorians stand along the upper railing, regard them through the sights of mounted weapons.

“What do you want?” asks one.

“We’re looking for Garrick,” says Sarmax.

“He’s right here,” says a voice. A door on the lower level opens. Another suit enters the room. He wears a major’s stripes. Red hair dangles behind his visor.

“Carson,” he says. “Been a long time.”

“Long time for sure,” says the Operative.

They touch gloves. Garrick turns toward Sarmax. His eyes narrow.

“Leo?”

“The same.”

“Fuck’s sake, man. Didn’t even know you were up here.”

“That’s because you’re slipping.”

“I doubt it,” says Garrick—looks over Sarmax’s shoulder. “Lynx, you bastard. Ain’t a party unless you’re in it. What’s happening?”

“Way too much,” mutters Lynx.

“And who are these other guys?”

“Reinforcements,” says the Operative. He narrows the channel to one-on-one. “Expendable.”

“And the rest of us aren’t?”

“Seriously, do what you want. I’m finished with them.”

“And they’re still alive?”

“They’ve got a talent for survival.”

“They’ll need it out on the perimeter. What about you guys?”

“Is our vehicle here?”

“It is. And I gotta say, it’s pretty fucking weird—”

“Let’s go,” says the Operative.

Marines hop down from the upper level, relieving the men of the containers they’ve been carrying.

“Thanks,” says Linehan. “No problem,” says one of them. “You two,” says another. “Come with me.”

“But—” Spencer turns, finds Carson trailing Garrick out of the room, Lynx and Sarmax following them. “Hey, what about us?”

“Told you I didn’t need you anymore,” says Carson.

“See you in Hades,” says Sarmax.

The door slides shut behind him.

“Ingrates,” says Linehan.

“You guys done whining?” asks the Praetorian who just gave them instructions. She wears a lieutenant’s stripes.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Spencer.

“Good,” says the lieutenant. “Let’s go.”

They follow her down another corridor, to a room lit by the spark of laser cutters. Praetorians are busy slicing holes along the walls. Spencer notices that those holes are mostly at gun height. He also notices a web of cables intersecting in this room.

“Sergeant,” says the lieutenant.

A man leaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s the situation here?”

“Situation good, ma’am.”

“Can they spare you for a few minutes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take these two to Outpost LK.”

“We withdrew from there twenty minutes ago, ma’am.”

Her face darkens. “It’s been taken?”

“No, ma’am. We just didn’t have enough men for some of the forward positions. Lieutenant Crawford felt that—”

“Never mind Lieutenant Crawford,” she says. “Have these two reoccupy it.”

“Ma’am,” says Spencer.

She turns toward him, impatience written on her face. “What?”

“I’m a razor,” he says. “Surely I can be of more service to you than this?”

She makes a dismissive gesture, turns away. “Razors aren’t worth much now,” says the sergeant.

“Not gonna see me complaining,” says Linehan.

• • •

So how’s the situation at the center?” asks Garrick. “Under control,” says the Operative.

“Now ask him to define that,” says Lynx.

They’re walking down more stairs. The lights overhead stutter fitfully Soldiers stagger under the weight of the containers. More soldiers walk behind and in front, their weapons at the ready.

“I heard the Throne’s got himself a new friend,” says Garrick.

“More like a prodigal daughter,” says Sarmax.

“Can she stop the Rain?”

“I guess we’re going to find out.”

They reach a door. Praetorians are positioned on both sides. Garrick flashes codes, confirms by retina—slots back his eye, confirms via the real retina behind it.

“Neat,” says the Operative. He lets the light flash across his own retina, gestures at Sarmax and Lynx to do the same.

“Thanks,” says Garrick. “But it doesn’t remove the problem.”

“How to make precautions Rain-proof,” says Sarmax.

“Exactly,” replies Garrick.

“Don’t wander off alone,” says the Operative. “That’s how.”

The door slides open. The soldiers within regard the ones now entering.

“Sir,” says one.

“At ease,” says Garrick.

A tarpaulin’s draped over what looks to be some kind of vehicle—five or so meters long, about the size of one of the smaller earthshakers. The contours are strange, though. So is the tarp: it’s wrapped pretty tight. None of its edges are visible. And even the most cursory of glances reveal that it’s resistant to all scanning. The soldiers eye it nervously.

“In one piece?” asks the Operative. “Yes, sir,” says one of the soldiers.

“We don’t know that for sure,” snaps Garrick. “We were told not to remove the cover.”

“And I’m glad you didn’t,” says the Operative. “Because it’s booby-trapped,” says Sarmax. “Tell your men to get out of here,” says Lynx. “You heard the man,” says Garrick.

Ever get the feeling you’re being stalked? Here’s how it works. Everywhere you look there’s nothing. Not a thing—just the hollow sound of your own breath echoing through your helmet as you follow the sergeant along a corridor that feels way too empty. Linehan’s keeping an eye on the rear. Spencer’s keeping an eye on the sergeant. In this fashion they carry on their conversation.

“Tell me about these cables,” says Linehan, gesturing at what’s strung along the wall.

“That’s how we receive the word from center,” says the sergeant. “They’ve been strung all the way from the hangar.”

“Primitive,” says Linehan.

“Try realistic,” says the sergeant. “Anything that could be intercepted is right out. If we can see each other, we signal each other via tightbeam laser, and if we can’t see each other, we don’t signal. End of story.”

“So if you’re not in line of sight and you’re not near a cable, you’re not talking.”

“Most of it was pretty tedious anyway,” says the sergeant.

“But they’re not even trying to deny a zone to Autumn Rain,” says Spencer.

“Fine by me,” says the sergeant. “I don’t need nothing fancy. All I want to do is get those bastards in my sights.”

“You’ll get that soon enough,” says Linehan.

“You’ll probably get it sooner,” says the sergeant. He descends a spiral staircase. They follow him down it. He opens a door. They stare within. Spencer whistles.

“Shit,” says Linehan.

“Outpost LK,” says the sergeant.

Jesus Christ,” says Garrick.

“What the fuck is it?” asks Lynx. “A secret weapon,” says the Operative.

One that bears an uncanny resemblance to a miniature brontosaurus. Four legs sprouting off an elongated body that narrows into a kind of head. It seems more organic than mechanic. It doesn’t even seem to be made of metal. More like …

“Is that skin?” asks Sarmax.

“Let’s not get carried away,” says the Operative. “This thing’s pretty much a tweaked-up Mark IIB crawler.”

“Some tweak,” says Garrick.

“Fuck, I hope so,” says the Operative. “It’s pretty much soundless. And what looks like skin is actually a kind of grown plastic. The latest camo alloys we could dream up.”

“Have they put this thing into production yet?” asks Lynx.

“No,” says the Operative. “It’s a prototype. The Remoraz.”

“How did it perform in field testing?”

“Who said it had been field tested?”

“Let’s load up,” says Sarmax.

They start unloading their containers, slotting pieces of machinery into the machine that crouches before them.

• • •

Almost makes me wish we were still part of Carson’s entourage,” says Linehan. “No it doesn’t,” says Spencer.

“I said almost.”

But even when the Europa Platform was running like clockwork, this place probably wasn’t a destination spot. It’s basically a single room, a bunker that bulges out slightly from the curved edge of the asteroid. Narrow windows slice through the walls on all sides. And in those windows …

“Did you see the expression on his face?” asks Linehan.

“Whose?”

“The sergeant’s. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“What the hell did you think he was going to do, break out a flask and share it with us?”

“He could have at least said thanks.”

“Linehan. We’re in a fucking war. No one says thanks. All they say is go here and die.”

“And here we are.”

“With the only suspense being whether we’ll even see it coming.”

Though they certainly have a good enough view. Protruding over one end of the sharply curved horizon are the topmost ramparts of the gun-towers that form the inner perimeter around the hangar. The fact that they’re only just visible gives the two onlookers a sense of just how far out on the edge of things they are. The view in the other direction confirms it: a couple of strategically placed mirrors extend the line of sight into the field of fire of the Helios, show the asteroid falling away along a slope of rock and metal. Beyond that’s the mammoth hulking shape of the cylinder itself, the nearer parts illuminated by the sun, the farther parts largely in shadow, though visible nonetheless as a gigantic shape carved among the stars.

Spencer blinks.

“Did you see something move?” he asks.

“You’re imagining things,” says Linehan.

“I don’t think so,” says Spencer, and downloads the vid-feed he’s just taken to Linehan. “Take a look at that.”

Linehan does. Frowns. “That’s just a shadow—oh.”

“See what I mean?”

“What the fuck is it?”

“Whatever it is, it’s gone now.”

“The way it was moving—almost looked like some kind of animal.”

“In a vacuum? I don’t think so.”

“At least it was heading away from us.”

“If it comes back this way, we nail it,” says Spencer. He makes some adjustments to the control board that’s connected to the plasma minicannon mounted beneath their feet. Linehan snorts.

“How many shots do you think we’re gonna get off with that thing?”

“One if we’re lucky,” says Spencer.

Get your foot out of my ear,” says Sarmax. “Sorry,” replies the Operative. “Any way you can move your left arm back a little farther?” says Lynx.

“I’m trying,” says Sarmax.

Though he doesn’t have much room to maneuver. None of them do. It’s a tight fit, especially since they’ve got a lot of equipment and the Operative has insisted they keep their suits on. He’s driving. He’s pushed himself forward, into the head/cockpit. Sarmax is ensconsed in the midquarter, Lynx in the rear. Screens are slung all around them, showing the corridors through which they’re creeping. They started off across the exterior of the asteroid—and then cut back inward, crawled up a long network of elevator shafts. It’s heavy going. And conditions inside aren’t making it any easier.

“So maybe we should talk about the mission,” says Lynx.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” says the Operative.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“We saw how far that got us earlier,” mutters Sarmax.

“Hey man, I’m clean now. Superbitch scrubbed me.”

“She should have cauterized your mouth while she was at it.”

The Remoraz keeps moving. So far they’ve avoided combat, but not without some close shaves. Once some nano flew by while they sat there, frozen—swirled past them without noticing that they weren’t just some lumpy feature of the shaft-walls. Another time they saw some droids hauling what looked like a piece of artillery. They weren’t about to put it to a close inspection. But the overall picture’s clear enough. The Rain are building up hardware all along the Praetorian perimeter.

But this thing they’re in seems to have made it through the siege lines. They’re now near the axis of the asteroid, moving through rooms in which the first round of fighting took place. Ripped-apart Praetorians are everywhere. Holes pock-mark the walls. The Operative switches gears, transitions into zero-G mode. A faint vibration passes through the craft.

“Normally a little louder inside a crawler,” says Sarmax.

“Nothing’s normal about this thing,” says the Operative.

He’s not kidding. Background noise is virtually nonexistent within the Remoraz’s cramped compartments. But the movement of the craft keeps humming against them all the same. It’s almost as if it’s sidling along somehow—a loping rhythm that starts to permeate the brain. A rhythm that’s getting all the more insistent now that they’re making their way through shattered walls and into …

“Check it out,” says the Operative

“Do you know a way through?” asks Lynx.

“Gonna have to improvise.”

Or just get lucky. The asteroid staved in the entire south end of the cylinder, turning a chunk of itself to rubble in the process. Any trail that now winds through that rock probably wasn’t a trail to start with. But the Manilishi’s been analyzing collision vectors, overlaying them against the blueprints of the asteroid, taking her best estimates as to where the resultant hollows might be. So now the craft crawls slowly through space that was solid an all too brief time ago.

“Strange that we fought our way through here so recently,” says Lynx.

“We were heading the other way then,” replies the Operative.

“Looks a little different now,” says Lynx.

That’s for sure. The fissures through which they’re creeping are strewn with floating rock and metal. The Remoraz probes on a few spectra, stays quiet on most. Twice they reach dead ends and are forced to retrace their route, make different choices. They head into a side tunnel that looks to be what’s left of a much larger gallery. From the looks of the walls they’re now in the infrastructure that ran beneath the south pole mountains. Or maybe they’re still in the asteroid. Everything’s so smashed up it’s hard to tell. Rocks rattle against the hull. The craft’s maneuvering through a narrow space that’s thick with dust, though greenery is strewn along one wall. The Operative quickens the speed. The space through which they’re moving is getting ever narrower. But their craft’s like a cat: it retracts its legs, distends its body to the point where it’s almost wriggling. It kicks from side to side. It slides forward—and then it’s through. The screens light up with enclosed space that stretches out into forever.

• • •

Okay,” says Spencer. “Something’s moving again.” It’s ten minutes later. They’ve been floating in this room for far longer than they’d like. They’ve seen plenty of Praetorian hardware being shifted around in the direction of the hangar—breaking the horizon here and there, then dropping back below it. That’s not what’s got Spencer worried.

“Where?” asks Linehan.

“There.”

Way out in the other direction. Almost out of the angle of the mirrors. Spencer and Linehan triangulate. Focus. On—

“That.”

“Yeah,” says Linehan. “That’s definitely something.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“What the fuck is it?”

“Hard to say. It’s only just scraping the top of the horizon.”

“Is it on the cylinder?”

“It’s on this rock or I’m a mountain goat.”

“Maybe you are. I don’t see it now. Not anymore.”

“It’s right th—No.” Spencer shakes his head. “It’s gone. Fuck.”

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about,” says Linehan. “At least it’s not heading this way.”

“Yeah, but they’re moving something around out there.”

“Sure they are,” says Linehan. “Probably a lot of stuff too. But it’s what we can’t see that should have you worried.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning who the hell’s responsible for keeping an eye on all the corridors that lead into this room?”

“I presume other Praetorians—”

“I wouldn’t presume anything, Spencer. We’re not on the perimeter, we’re past it.”

Spencer shakes his head.

“And I don’t know what you mean by other,” adds Linehan. “It’s not like we’re part of that gang—why are you laughing?”

“Because we’re Praetorians whether you like it or not.”

Emptiness stretches all around them. The fighting’s long since over. All the fires are out. There’s no oxygen left, just vacuum filling thirty kilometers that were once the pride of the Euro Magnates. Only a fraction of those kilometers are visible. Light gleams in a few places, reflected off the remnants of the mirrors that still hang from the sides of the cylinder. But mostly it’s just dark. If there are still survivors out there, they’ll be huddled in sealed rooms watching their air dwindle. Wondering what happened. Wondering how soon they’ll join everybody they ever loved. They won’t be waiting long.

“Hope neither of you owned any property here,” says Lynx.

“I shorted the market,” says Sarmax.

“You probably did,” says the Operative.

Lynx laughs a dry chuckle. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

“Act like we’re part of the scenery,” replies the Operative.

The craft starts creeping through the rocks that descend into the blackened valley beneath. Though creeping doesn’t exactly describe it. It’s more like a kind of loping. It’s super stealthy nonetheless. Camo programs barely off the drawing board are working overtime. The craft’s paws are barely touching the surface. There’s almost no vibration to speak of. They leave the chaos of the collapsed mountain behind, move out into the valley.

“Carson,” says Sarmax on the one-on-one.

“Yeah,” says the Operative.

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s up here.”

“Really.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” says Sarmax.

“You’ve been acting kind of funny.”

“Funny?”

“The way you always act when she’s on your mind.”

“She’s always on my mind.”

“Really getting to you, then.”

“Because she’s up here.”

“How do you know that?” asks the Operative.

“I saw her.”

“Hey,” says Lynx on the general channel, “wouldn’t we be better underground?”

“Why’s that?” asks the Operative as he puts the one-on-one on hold.

“Surely it’d be harder to see us.”

“Seeing’s one thing,” replies the Operative. “Doing something about it is another.”

Meaning it’s a judicious balancing act. Anything they run into in the cylinder’s basements is likely to be right on top of them. Anything that spots them in the vast interior is going to have a lot more difficulty sneaking up on them. Doesn’t mean it’s impossible. If this was a normal crawler or an earthshaker, they may as well strap a homing beacon to their ass. Because there’s almost certainly plenty of hardware at large in this cylinder. Along with God knows what else …

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, back on the one-on-one. “I saw her.”

“Where?”

“In front of the gate to the Hangars. Right after I got blasted against a wall.”

“And knocked your head up pretty bad.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Because she’s dead.”

“Is she?”

“You killed her.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“Holy shit,” says Lynx, once again on the general line.

“I see it,” says the Operative.

“Jesus,” says Sarmax.

The valley above them is even more shrouded in shadow than the one they’re in. But the angle of the cylinder’s rotation allows reflected sunlight to dribble across its upper reaches. The surface revealed is alive with movement. All of it going in one direction …

“The asteroid,” says Lynx.

“Going to be quite a slam-dance,” says Sarmax.

Only question now is when it starts.”

“It may already have,” says Linehan. “Meaning?”

“They may have already gotten inside the perimeter.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Maybe sooner.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Spencer. “It means you and I are big fucking asterisks.”

“Said the man who used to be a SpaceCom assassin.”

“Used to be?”

“You about to tell me something I don’t want to hear?”

“Turns out they got in here as well,” says Linehan. “Who?”

“SpaceCom.” “What?”

“While you were out hunting ammo, I was talking with some of the marines.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They said that SpaceCom managed to infiltrate a bunch of assholes into the Platform to take down the Throne.”

“They were trying to use the Rain again?”

“No one uses the Rain. The Com learned that lesson the hard way last time. No, this was a separate plot, aimed right at the president.”

“And they didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t get near him.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “And were you part of this?”

“If I had been, I’d be dead instead of just thrust out beyond the perimeter about to get dead.”

“The Manilishi definitely cleared you.”

“But the Throne still didn’t like the looks of me.”

“Can’t say I blame him.”

“It’s enough to make a man paranoid.”

“Isn’t that your natural state?”

“Paranoid about you.”

“You need to relax,” says Spencer.

“You need to tell me who you really are.”

“Get a grip on yourself.”

“Just answer the question.”

“I’m Lyle Spencer,” says Spencer as he readies his weapons. “Who are you?”

“Seb Linehan.”

“What the hell are you on, Linehan?”

“I’m high on life.”

“And a damn sight more than that.”

“So what if I am?”

“So what are you on?”

“Ayahuasca.”

“Getting dosed in South America wasn’t enough?”

“Same dose, Spencer.”

“What?”

“Same dose, Spencer.”

“You’re still—”

“Hallucinating. Yeah.”

“Three and a half days later?”

“Has it been that long?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t even know which way is up anymore.”

“There is no up,” says Spencer. “Not out here.”

They’re deep into the valley now. They’re sticking to the forests whenever possible, though far too many of the trees have been ripped from the ground, along with all the leaves. It’s like the land of endless winter now. There’s no sign of life anywhere. No sign of movement either.

“Too dark to see if that shit’s still up there,” says Lynx.

“We’ll dodge it if it is,” says the Operative. “They’re not looking for us. They’re just busy getting into their assault positions around the Throne’s perimeter.”

“Fucking great,” says Lynx.

They move out of the woodlands and start along a riverbed. The water’s at one with the vacuum now. Sun glints above them as the cylinder rotates, gleams off the tens of thousands of bodies drifting along the axis as Sarmax starts up the one-on-one again.

“I’m telling you it was her,” he says.

“You’re saying Indigo Velasquez has risen from the dead?”

“I’m saying I didn’t finish the job.”

“Oh,” says the Operative softly.

“Oh. All that time, and all you can say is oh? I left her bleeding on the floor of a suborbital. I bailed out. Ship bit Pacific minutes later.”

“And her body was never recovered.”

“Nothing was,” says Sarmax. “Carson, it was her.”

“Easy,” says the Operative.

“Ten years gone,” says Sarmax. His voice is hollow. “Ten minutes I lay senseless in those tunnels. I drifted against a wall and the combat raged around me. I opened my eyes and couldn’t move and she was moving past me.”

“Faces can be imitated,” says the Operative. “Just ask the Throne.”

“It wasn’t just the face,” says Sarmax. “It was the way she looked at me. The way her eyes narrowed. She recognized me.”

“She was the perfect soldier. If she saw you, she would have killed you.”

“She was the love of my life.”

“Exactly.”

“Look—”

“No,” says the Operative, “you look. You suffered head trauma in that fucking slugfest, and before that you’d been cowering on the bottom of the Moon for a fucking decade trying desperately to think of anything but her.”

“I’m not going crazy!”

“Who said anything about crazy? You’ve just been under a lot of stress.”

“Shit, man—”

“What did your armor’s cam-feeds show?”

Sarmax hesitates.

“Have you even looked?” asks the Operative.

“They were junked. They showed fuck-all.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” says Lynx.

“What the hell are you doing on this line?” asks Sarmax.

“That’d be hacking it.”

• • •

So you’re still tripping,” says Spencer. “So what?”

“Would have thought you’d be a little more concerned.”

Spencer gestures at the view in the window. “It’s all relative,” he says.

“But after the Jaguars dosed us, InfoCom erased my systems and rebooted me. The Manilishi probably did the same.”

“So?”

“So how come I’m still tripping?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?”

“And why aren’t you still flying too?”

“Maybe the Jaguars gave you a heavier dose.”

“Fuck, Spencer, I saw the way your eyes looked back in that goddamn temple. The Jags were trying to interrogate us both, weren’t they? No reason they would have given you the lightweight version.”

“There’s every reason. You’re twice my size, Linehan. Maybe they were trying to account for it and fucked up. Maybe you’re just highly receptive. What’s your normal dosage on combat drugs?”

“I don’t take combat drugs.”

“You’re kidding me. I thought all mechs did.”

“My officers always said I was a natural born psycho.”

“No arguments there. Look, I take a lot of shit to let me run zone. Razors are used to altered states, that’s all we’re ever in. No wonder you’ve been having such a hard time.”

“It’s getting harder by the moment.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell InfoCom the ayahuasca was proving so persistent?”

“I figured your team wouldn’t be that happy.”

“We could have given you an antidote.”

“Assuming you let me live, sure.”

“One rogue factor gets past the conditioning, maybe there are others?”

“Exactly.”

“Not of the sort that would matter,” says Spencer. “The InfoCom reconditioning wasn’t aimed at any recreational drugs you might have taken—”

“Recreational?”

“Whatever. Point is it was aimed at your loyalties.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Because you no longer feel like fighting for the Throne?”

“Fuck, man, as long as I was fighting, I was loving it.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“There’s no combat.”

“And?”

“And the suspense is getting to me.”

“You never struck me as the type to get scared.”

“Precisely why I’m getting so freaked out.”

They’ve emerged from the riverbed, forged on into fields purged of all harvest. Dead valley stretches all around, with two more like it stretching far overhead … all three converging on the shattered city that dominates the northern end of this cylinder. Call that city capital of memory, because that’s all it holds now. And the men now approaching it have the same problem.

“I’m going to rip your head off,” says Sarmax.

“Not so fast,” says the Operative.

“He’s right,” says Lynx.

Of course he is. Combat inside the Remoraz would be insane. Sarmax would have to blow one of the vehicle’s hatches to even turn around to face Lynx. But Sarmax seems so angry right now the Operative’s not taking any chances.

“Anyone starts anything, I’ll take ’em out myself,” he says. “Lynx, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

“I’ve got some explaining to do?”

“So start talking,” growls Sarmax.

“What’s there to explain? Guess Carson’s not as good a razor as he thinks he is. I hacked his ass, and got my cock right up in it.”

“Or Carson let you do it,” says Sarmax.

“Why the hell would I do that?” asks the Operative.

“Maybe some misguided attempt to get us all on the same page.”

“Man,” says Lynx, “you do not want to tell him any secrets. Look, Leo, sorry to hear that you’re having problems with your woman, but—”

“Watch it.”

“I am. I’m watching you lose it and I think you might be missing the point. You’re too wrapped up in it, man. You need to think about this from the only perspective that matters.”

“Which is?” asks Sarmax.

“Autumn Rain’s,” says the Operative.

Keep talking,” says Spencer. “About what?” asks Linehan.

“About what the hell is going on inside your head.”

“You are.”

“No kidding?”

“I can see straight through you and you’re hollow.”

“That’s what I called you once.”

“What?”

“That’s what I called you once,” repeats Spencer. “The original hollow man.”

“Maybe you were right.”

“I’m your handler, Linehan. I’m supposed to be right.”

“So tell me what the fuck you think is going on.”

“I think the basic core of your personality is probably disintegrating. Essentially what you are is just an empty shell held together by love of killing. Once you’re out on your own for long enough, you’ll start coming apart.”

“Is this some kind of reverse-psychology to shock some sense into me?”

“It’s just a theory about what your brain might be up to.”

“You really don’t think I’m being fucked with?”

“You were fucked with, Linehan. By InfoCom and before that by the Jags.”

“And before that by the Rain.”

“Maybe you should tell me more about that.”

Three men in a room that’s no room making passage through the land of the dead. Black landscape stretches away toward the unseen outskirts of the city at the heart of it all ….

“Don’t make me go there,” says Sarmax.

“You fucking have to,” says the Operative.

“Otherwise we can’t break this down,” says Lynx.

Sarmax nods. Going head to head with the Rain is going down memory lane—looking into the eyes of the ones he hasn’t seen for all these years. They never liked him, of course. Partially because he represented the power that brought them into existence. But mostly because they knew that one of them loved him—and for that the men and women who became the Rain could never forgive Leo Sarmax. So when they fled ahead of the Praetorian axe, the woman who called herself Indigo Velasquez had to make a choice. Her brothers and sisters won out over her lover. Her lover killed her for that. He’s had to live with himself ever since.

And that’s been getting tougher. He thought getting back in the game would be what he needed to get it all behind him. He should have known better; should have known which way this game was heading—that it would bring him to a place like this, stalking his own memories through a maze that hides far more than one mind ever could….

“Easy,” says the Operative.

“Goddamn you both,” says Sarmax. “She was real. Christ, I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have—”

There’s a lurch. The screens show the craft’s starting to sidle up hills. Starlight filters in through some fissure far above them, bathes the land in a ghostly light. Past those hills the structures of New London stretch up toward an unseen summit. Sarmax exhales slowly.

It’s funny,” says Linehan. “Looking back on all of it. Coming up in SpaceCom you start to scorn everything that crawls below. Living and breathing it, right? Working for the cause. Night’s when they say it is, and day’s whenever the sun falls upon you.”

“You’re not making any sense, man.”

“Is that so bad?” Linehan’s smile is almost sad. “What I mean is that I’d never been to Earth before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I came to your door in Minneapolis when you were doing time for the Priam Combine. Before I walked the streets of Hong Kong in search of a group called Asgard’s Banner.”

Spencer stares. “That was the only time?”

“Yeah.”

“So how—”

“Did I stand it? How do you think? Had muscle grafts to deal with the pull of the planet. Had lung filters to deal with its stench. Had software to prep me for what it’d be like—but nothing could.”

“Nor could anything prepare you for Asgard’s Banner.”

“Though with a name that gay I should have known, huh? Autumn Rain took our codes, and maybe they took our souls too. But standing in that city, with the mountains of planet towering overhead—I think that fucked my head even more than the ayahuasca. I feel like all of it’s still playing out within me.”

“Same here,” says Spencer.

“Do you see shimmering out of the corner of your eye?”

“Sometimes. Probably not as strong as you.”

“Do you see cat-skulls when you sleep?”

“I never dream. I’m surprised you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Dream?” asks Spencer.

“See cat-skulls when I do.”

There’s a pause. The two men look at each other.

“I see them when I’m awake,” says Linehan.

“That’s a problem.”

“And the rest of this bullshit isn’t?”

Creeping through streets filled with fresh wreckage and dead flesh. Stealing past buildings that have collapsed in upon one another to crush whoever was taking refuge within. Took more than fifteen years to build this city and less than fifteen minutes for it to die. “Indigo always was a survivor,” says the Operative. “Of course she was,” replies Sarmax. “I trained her.”

“You trained all of us,” says Lynx. And we all trained the Rain,” says the Operative. “And that’s why we need to go back to first principles to beat them. They knew the three of us would be up here. And you’re the only one of us who let himself get emotional over one of them.”

“But you took up with—”

“Do I look like I’m letting it get to me?”

“The man’s ice cold,” says Lynx.

“Cold enough to realize that the odds of the Rain trying to fuck with you are pretty good,” says the Operative.

“Maybe,” says Sarmax.

“‘Seize all advantages’, that’s what we told them. Any of them could be wearing her face.”

“All of them could be wearing her face,” says Lynx.

“Or it could just be combat fever,” says the Operative. “You want to see her, and you do. It happens.”

“Shit,” says Sarmax.

He’s staring at bodies. Most of the population seems to have perished as the seals burst. Those who made it into suits and airlocks found their sanctuaries hacked. Those who took their suits offline were shot down by the servants of the Rain. Sarmax clears his throat, swallows.

“I know they could be fucking with me,” he says. “I know I could be fucking with myself. It isn’t helping.”

“This isn’t about trying to help,” says Lynx.

“This is about trying to get inside their heads,” says the Operative. “Inside their schemes. The Throne reckons three of their triads hit each cylinder. We think all three of the ones chasing the East got nailed when the Coalition’s leaders blew themselves to kingdom fuck. We think one of the three after us went down when the asteroid buttfucked the mountain.”

“Still leaves two full triads after us,” says Lynx.

“But they’ll be wishing it was more,” says Sarmax.

“This is coming down to the wire,” says the Operative. “They’re going to want every advantage they can get.”

“And if they can get to you, Leo,” says Lynx, “they’re halfway there.”

“You’re the last person I’d expect to say that,” says Sarmax.

Lynx shrugs. “I owe you a lot. Doesn’t seem much harm in admitting it.”

“And without your drugs you’d be perfect.”

“That’s what makes me perfect. How else could I get this city around my fucking brain?”

“Christ almighty. You’re high right now.”

“That’s how he does his best work,” says the Operative.

And who the hell can blame him? Not with Hades itself unfurling on the screens. Not with all these shattered roads to keep on reaching up to that wraparound summit so far overhead. But it’s what’s still moving that’s the problem now. It’s what’s close at hand.

“I see it,” says the Operative.

More important, their vehicle does. It gets low, gets crafty, slinks through alleys toward the activity that’s up ahead. Toward the new scene that’s getting built within the heart of the old ….

“Fuck,” says Lynx.

“Economy on war footing,” says the Operative.

He’s not kidding. Whole sections of buildings have been torn away. The chasm revealed stretches down through basements, through maintenance levels beneath, and into what was once the spaceport. The light that emanates up from that chasm isn’t visible from the rest of the cylinder. But it’s certainly visible to the ones peering beyond its edge. The walls are thick with machines of every size. Who seem to be busy slicing up everything in sight: floors, walls, spaceships, launch derricks, equipment. Not to mention …

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, “those are people all right.”

“The meat gets tossed,” says the Operative. “The implants get kept.”

“Not very efficient,” says Lynx.

“Doesn’t need to be,” says Sarmax.

• • •

Rumbling fills the room, dies away. Spencer and Linehan glance at each other, glance out the window. Nothing’s visible, save the Earth dropping back out of sight again. But something’s definitely happening out beyond the shoved-up horizon ….

“Kills you, this waiting,” says Spencer.

“Not much longer now,” replies Linehan.

“What the hell are they doing?”

“Getting ready to overwhelm the perimeters with their hardware.”

“Leaving open the question of where they themselves will strike.”

“Maybe they’ll come straight through our position.”

“Maybe they’re in our position already,” says Spencer.

Linehan stares at him. “I hope not.”

“Where exactly in Hong Kong did you meet the Rain?”

“Little Sydney district.”

“Where exactly?”

“Bar at the Hotel Rex. I ordered a coffee, and then handed them the keys to down the Phoenix Elevator.”

“How many of them?”

“A man and a woman.”

“Or not.”

“Might have just been robot proxies,” admits Linehan.

“Might have planted anything inside you.”

“I used to worry about that. But now I figure if the Manilishi couldn’t find it, we’re all fucked anyway.”

“Well,” says Spencer, “at least that story’s the same one you were telling InfoCom’s interrogators four days back. No one’s fucked with it since.”

“By changing up my memory?”

“I’m just checking. It’s all I can do.”

“Not for much longer. The Rain’s going to have to fire this party up before the Throne …” Linehan pauses, stares out the window at the Earth.

“Before what?” asks Spencer. Linehan looks back at him with a strange expression on his face.

“Before the Throne finds a way out,” he says.

“You mean by incinerating himself.”

“Sarmax was hinting to me that if he does that, the Rain may take over regardless.”

“So what’s your point?”

“That the Throne might just try to get out the same way he got in.”

A pause. Then: “You’re not serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He sure as fuck can try.”

They’ve left that chasm behind. They’re moving into the very heights of the city. The gravity’s dropping away around them. There are signs of more combat here: buildings flattened like something’s plowed through them. The remnants of something lies in the middle of the street in front of them.

“One of our shakers,” says the Operative.

“Must have got nailed right out of the gate,” says Lynx.

The droids that did it lie in pieces all around. The main Praetorian spearhead exited the city far lower—went through the basements and then surged out into the suburbs. This was one of the flanking formations. Another shaker’s laying on its back, farther down the city slope, in the middle of a crushed bridge. The Operative maneuvers round it, takes the Remoraz up stairs that become ladders that lead past some of the more rarefied neighborhoods. Conventional wisdom says that people prefer gravity to its lack. But conventional wisdom ended up playing second fiddle to the law of scarcity. The views up near the axis are exclusive.

Maybe even more so now. The city falls away beneath them like a wall down the side of some dark well. Electric lights stutter here and there—stand-alone generators still holding out against the odds. The valleys beyond are just black, lit up by the occasional streak of sun. Nothing moves in all that gloom. Nothing visible, anyway.

The Operative works the controls. Their vehicle leans off the ladder, leans against a wall, kicks off with its back feet, drops down to a balcony, its front feet extended. Laser cutters set within the feet trace arcs in the window before them. The craft extends its nose, shoves. Plastic gives way. The Operative gestures at the shadowed city on the rear screens.

“Take a good look,” he says. “Might be your last.”

“Let’s hope so,” says Lynx.

“Let’s do it,” says Sarmax.

They start their journey into the interior.

Another rumbling shakes the room. The floor vibrates. “What the fuck,” says Spencer. “Take a wild guess,” says Linehan. The rumbling intensifies. The gun beneath their feet starts swiveling on automatic. They can feel it sliding back and forth, seeking targets, sensing them close at hand … “Jesus fucking Christ,” says Spencer. “Like he gives a shit,” replies Linehan. The vibrations are relentless now. The sensors show they run the gamut—ranging from almost undetectable to off-the-charts unmistakable. It’s almost impossible to discern the exact nature of any one of them. But in aggregation they tell Linehan and Spenser all they need to know about what’s clearly taking place. Explosions ripping apart bulkheads, shakers grinding through walls, shots slamming into everything and then some—combat’s under way. The two men eye the windows, the door, the corners. Almost as though they suddenly expect their enemy to spring from the walls. Which may not be an illogical assumption.

A gun-tower off to the side suddenly balloons outward, silent explosion tearing its turret off and tossing it into space. Suited Praetorians are emerging from a bunker nearby, firing at something still unseen. Even as they do so, a frag-shell lands among them, shreds their suits, leaves pieces floating lifeless.

“Getting hot,” says Spencer.

“What the hell’s that?”

A new rumbling’s shaking the room, coming from straight out beyond the perimeter. It bears a familiar vibration signature.

“That was what we heard earl—”

“I know,” says Linehan.

And now they’re seeing it again too: some strange object protruding just beyond the asteroid’s horizon. Something that’s not small. And that’s rising steadily from the horizon. Not because it’s getting any larger. But rather …

“It’s heading straight for us.”

“What the fuck is it,” says Spencer.

“I’m not sure it matters,” replies Linehan.

The basements of the shattered city that reigned as queen of neutral space give way to maintenance corridors that give way to freight conduits that give way in turn to ….

“These look familiar,” says Sarmax. “They should,” replies the Operative.

Because this is where it all kicked off. The warehouses through which they’re moving are the ones from which the shakers set off on their breakneck haul across the cylinder more than twelve hours back. They’re empty now. Backup filaments cast a feeble light. The Operative wonders how many of the soldiers who waited here are still alive. He lets the vehicle prowl up a ramp and rise through more trapdoors and into another corridor. A vaultlike door lies open at its end.

“Fucking déjà vu,” says Lynx.

They head through, into a familiar double-leveled chamber. The darkness is near total, save for the light of stars coming in from the window facing space. The Operative amps the craft’s photo-enhancers, uses the starlight for a close inspection of the room.

Not that there’s much to see. It’s mostly empty. Though it’s obviously been ransacked since the Praetorians took off. Wall panels have been ripped down, tossed aside. Flooring’s been torn up. The area where the Manilishi and the ruler of the United States once stood shows signs of special attention.

“Due diligence,” says Sarmax.

“They’ll have found nothing useful,” replies the Operative.

But he understands the thinking. Make sure you’re in a position to capitalize on every fuck-up. Or anything that even looks like one. Which is why the Operative has crossed from pole to pole again. Why he’s come back to this room. And why he’s turning to the men behind him.

“It’s time,” he says.

• • •

The final stage of the last battle’s under way. The Rain’s machine proxies are hitting the Praetorians all along the perimeter. They’re pressing for a breakthrough along several fronts. Spencer and Linehan are right in the middle of one such area. They’ve never been so fucked. Nor have they ever seen anything like what’s now bearing down upon them.

“Look at the size of that fucker—”

“I noticed,” says Linehan.

There’s no way he couldn’t have. It’s three stories high. It’s like a medieval siege-tower on acid. Guns are mounted all along it. Magnetic treads drive it forward. It’s some kind of modified construction robot. It used to dig out chambers in this asteroid. Now it’s going to plow like hell all the way to the Hangar, racking up a fuck-sized body count as it does so.

“We’ve got to get below,” says Linehan. “We stay here, we’re just a speed bump.”

“Someone’s got to stop it,” says Spencer.

“No reason it has to be us.”

Plasma starts streaking past them. Guns mounted atop the behemoth are firing. Shots are striking home along the inner perimeter. Their bunker’s own gun is firing back. And being targeted.

“We’re outta here,” says Linehan.

“Agreed,” says Spencer.

They haul open the trapdoor, pull themselves into the corridor beyond. Rumbling cascades through it. But it’s still empty.

“Back the way we came,” says Spencer.

“Fuck,” says Linehan, “the Praetorians’ll shoot us if we run that way.”

“What would you have us do?”

“Admit we’re out of options.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning get unpredictable.”

• • •

The three men get busy getting ready, pulling their stashed equipment out of the vehicle, snapping pieces together, soldering others, configuring what’s taking shape before them.

“Faster,” says the Operative.

They’re trying, but it’s tough work. Not to mention tense. At any moment something might streak into the chamber and crash their little party. They keep on pulling pieces from compartments, unloading the cargo they’ve brought with them.

“Looking good,” says Sarmax.

So far. The composite structure is almost the length of the Remoraz. But it’s still taking shape. And they’re pretty much out of things to add to it. The cargo they packed is almost gone. In fact—

“We’re out,” says Lynx.

“Somebody fucked up,” says Sarmax.

“Relax,” says the Operative. “We got everything we need.”

They look at him.

“Oh,” says Sarmax. “Got it.”

“Knew you would,” says the Operative.

So what the fuck are you suggesting we do?” yells Spencer.

“I’m making this up as we go!” screams Linehan. He fires his suit-jets, starts heading out beyond the perimeter, down a corridor that seems like it’s going to buckle at any moment.

“Linehan! Come back!”

“Come with me!”

Spencer curses—but heads after Linehan. Who he figures has finally lost it. Or just bowed to the inevitable. Because the shit’s hitting from every side. And Linehan’s right. Everyone who retreats is going to get run down or else be butchered by their own side. Spencer’s on the point of trying to do exactly that to Linehan. But instead he just keeps on racing after him, even as he realizes what the man’s up to.

The Remoraz,” says Lynx. “Yeah,” replies the Operative—and ignites a flamer, starts getting to work. Their vehicle’s skin looks so real he almost expects it to start screeching in pain. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, gives itself up to one last service.

“Did they build it like this?” says Sarmax.

“They built it with all ends in mind,” replies the Operative.

Because there are only so many reasons to do the infiltration run. You’re either taking a closer look or busting up the china. If it’s the latter, then you need to make sure you can pack a punch. Their vehicle’s got rear and aft KE guns, not to mention micromissile batteries. But sometimes you need a lot more than that.

“Tap its generators,” says the Operative.

“Tapping,” replies Lynx.

“Load the nukes.”

“Loading,” says Sarmax.

“Target sequencing,” says the Operative.

“Initiated.”

They’re stumbling forward as the floor shakes beneath them. The walls are buckling. Vibration churns within their suits. Repurposed police droids are appearing at the end of the corridor. Three of them. One looks like a large spider; it clambers down the walls toward them. The others rev their treads, close in. But Spencer and Linehan are already firing: letting their armor absorb shots, spraying KE into those treads, dissecting legs with a fusillade of fire. They charge past the wreckage, keep on going.

“Fuck yes,” says Spencer.

“We’ll break on through,” says Linehan.

Not that there’s much of a plan beyond that. Apparently Linehan’s just figuring that they might be able to get into an area of the asteroid that’s less trafficked. Somewhere they can await events. But those events have caught up with them anyway. Smartdust’s swarming into the corridor on both sides. Spencer’s suit is flinging out thousands of flechettes. He’s pumping hi-ex down the corridor. Linehan’s doing the same. The microshit disappears in sheets of light. The corridor crumbles under the blasts. The two men are knocked sprawling. The floor starts rising up behind them.

“What the fuck!” yells Spencer. He’s trying to get to his feet, gets tossed off them yet again. Linehan is firing his thrusters. He rises, grabs onto the shaking wall. Just as the floor bulges—and breaks. A huge tread smashes through it.

“That bitch is right on top of us!” yells Spencer.

“Below us,” screams Linehan.

“Whatever!” Spencer fires his thrusters, only to switch them off again as minidrones start pouring into the corridor’s far end. They’re a fraction of a meter in length. There are hundreds of them. They roar in toward Spencer and Linehan, who fire bombs down the corridor toward them. Explosions start tearing targets apart. But …

“Not enough!” yells Spencer.

“Only one way out of this,” says Linehan.

He gestures behind them, where the tread’s still slicing through the floor, leaving torn metal in its wake. Through that gaping hole Spencer can see stars. Linehan hits his thrusters, blasts out toward them.

• • •

Their vehicle’s looking more than a little skeletal. Strips have been torn from its sides. Half its head is gone. But the power plant in its belly is still intact. Cables run from beneath it to the multibarreled contraption that’s taken shape alongside.

“Stand by,” says Lynx.

“Scanning for target,” says Sarmax.

He’s looking down a barrel five meters long: straight out the window that looks out into space strewn through with stars. Some of which aren’t stars. Some of which have shown up a little more recently. Some of which are proving to be a real pain in the ass.

“At power threshold,” says the Operative.

“Main target acquired,” says Sarmax.

The Helios is only eighty klicks away. It’s far too big to miss. Nailing it is going to be a piece of cake. The real problem is nailing what counts within it.

“Acquire nexus,” says the Operative.

“Scanning,” says Sarmax.

Which is when lights suddenly start filtering into the room through the open door—lights of something coming their way. Something that’s not in the mood to be stealthy.

“Acquire nexus,” repeats the Operative.

“I’m working on it,” hisses Sarmax.

The two men shoot through the rift in the asteroid hull, surge on out into space—and total chaos. The spectrums are on overload. Directed energy’s flying everywhere, all too much of it aimed at the thing that’s towering above them. Linehan darts in toward it.

And Spencer follows. Because he sees the logic, mad though it may be. The only thing this thing can’t hit with its guns is itself; he charges after Linehan, thrusters flaring, as the surface beneath him erupts anew. The charges Linehan tossed down there are detonating. The drones are getting shredded. But the two men have bigger things to worry about.

One giant thing, in fact. Whose lowermost rear guns are lowering still further, unleashing plasma that’s spraying over their heads as they dart past it, grabbing onto metal paneling and …

“Get in there!” screams Linehan.

Got it!” yells Sarmax.

“Preliminary burst,” says the Operative. Energy streaks from one of the barrels of the gun, strikes the room’s window, melts a hole in it, melts the edges around the hole. Plastic drips. The light in the doorway’s growing brighter.

“Zero margin,” says Lynx.

“So take the shot,” says the Operative.

“With pleasure,” says Sarmax.

Energy streaks from the main barrel out into space.

They’ve got their laser cutters out, ripping away at the metal in this beast’s side. Linehan’s almost gotten a whole panel off. Spencer’s halfway through another when the panel suddenly slides aside—he moves with it just in time to evade the burst of KE rounds from the minigun that’s extending from the space within. In the next instant he’s slicing the barrel in two and pivoting past it, cutting through the metal beyond to reveal an opening. He and Linehan crawl through it as fast as they can go. As if sensing their intentions, the vehicle starts speeding up, trundling along the surface toward the hangar. More shots slam against it. Spencer and Linehan pull themselves up a narrow chute. A clawed drone leaps at them. They waste it, keep on climbing as the behemoth in which they’re riding accelerates.

First shot’s away” says Sarmax.

“And we’re still alive,” says Lynx. Meaning the Manilishi called it. Their laser just struck one of the antennas along the Helios, sandwiched between a solar panel and one of the microwave guns. Codes devised by the Manilishi and enclosed within the wavelengths of the laser are going to town, moving straight to the primary targeting system and paralyzing it. It won’t stay that way for long. Whoever’s aboard will find a way to beat it. Or else they’ll cut the wires and jury-rig the targeting.

But the Operative doesn’t intend to give them the chance.

“Round two,” he whispers.

And triggers the gun’s third barrel. This one isn’t a laser at all. Coils touch; electromagnetism surges; nuclear-tipped projectiles sail off into space. Even as machinery bursts into the room: three hunter-killer droids. The Remoraz’s rear guns start firing, lacerating targets. The three men spread out as they blast the intruders, trying to maximize cross-fire. Two of the droids are down. The third retreats.

“After it!” yells the Operative.

But Sarmax is already putting micromissiles down the corridor. There’s a large explosion.

“Scratch one metalhead,” he says.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” says the Operative.

“And leave those?” asks Sarmax, pointing at the laser cannon and the vehicle.

“Along with some souvenirs,” says the Operative.

• • •

The control room,” breathes Linehan. Only nothing human’s at the helm. Whoever was running the show before this thing got commandeered has been turned into sliced meat. It’s on autopilot now, with a very specific set of directives. The room’s shifting from side to side like a boat in an angry sea. The screens show carnage: bunkers getting burned, Praetorians getting laced, metal getting smashed.

“So much for the outer perimeter,” says Spencer.

“Shut up and burn it!” yells Linehan.

They lower their arms, start firing. Screens shatter. They start spraying the computers behind the screens. The floor’s tilting—Spencer and Linehan are firing their thrusters, trying to stabilize themselves as the monster they’re in revs up to speeds well beyond its safety margins. The screens that still remain show it’s no longer making for the Hangar.

“Going fucking haywire,” screams Linehan.

And then the screens go blindingly white.

Electromagnetic pulse washes across them, but only barely. The warheads weren’t designed to spray massive amounts of radiation everywhere. All they were designed to do was annihilate several klicks of target.

“It’s gone,” says the Operative.

They are too. They’ve left the room behind, and are now blasting through the gutted chambers of the ultrarich. They can see bodies everywhere. But it’s what they can’t see that’s worrying them …

“Pursuit,” says Sarmax.

“No shit,” says Lynx.

Shots are streaking past them. Machinery’s surging after them: droids, dust, minidrones, the works. They’re turning on their afterburners. But this place is a maze. They can’t hit full thrust. They’re heavily outnumbered. Meaning they’d better do something fast.

“Back to the cylinder,” yells Sarmax.

“Fuck no,” screams Lynx. “Let’s hit the hull!”

“Neither!” yells the Operative—and explains as they go.

They’re setting off nukes!” yells Spencer.

“Can you see where?”

“The direction of the cylinder! Can’t tell beyond that!”

Their sensors are overloaded, but their vehicle is still intact. Still running amok, it lurches across an uneven area of the hull—almost tips into a crevasse, but somehow finds the far side. The remnants of the screens show Praetorians and droids scattering, doing their utmost to give it a wide berth. It steams past the main fighting, starts to leave the Hangar behind.

“Let’s get out of this fucking thing,” yells Spencer.

“Why?” asks Linehan calmly.

Spencer stares at him. They’re both clinging onto the walls. “Because we could tip over at any fucking moment!”

“Which means that nothing sane’s getting near us!”

“Because we’re going to fucking crash!”

“It’s still a damn sight safer than that,” says Linehan, gesturing at a rear-facing screen. The ravaged Praetorian bunkers look like some pockmarked lunar landscape. Drones of all description are waging a full-on assault. Praetorian shakers and crawlers are emerging from hatches farther back in what looks to be some desperate counterattack. But it’s clear that the inner perimeter’s about to get overrun.

“See what I mean?” says Linehan, turning back to Spencer. “Yeah? Well, what about that?”

And gestures at the same screen. Linehan turns back toward it.

“Shit,” he says.

The Rain’s machinery is in hot pursuit of the Praetorians who just blew their ace card. Lasers and bullets streak out in search of targets that keep on making turns that leave them one step ahead of the hunters. Carson and his team are coming back into the domain of gravity. But they’re not letting that slow them.

“We need some fucking margin,” mutters Sarmax.

The Operative says nothing as he leads them down corridors that have seen more than their share of firefight already. Looks like a battle went down here between the Euro cops and their out-of-control droids. Looks like the cops got busted for keeps.

“Nasty,” says Lynx.

They shoot through housing levels where ceilings and floors have been carved out with what looks to be an industrial-strength laser. They surge through what might have been a park, come back into more housing levels. The drones are catching up.

“Now!” yells the Operative.

Their bomb racks start spewing out disruptor grenades while their helmets discharge smoke. They toss hi-ex over their shoulders for good measure, swivel their jets, turning and surging out into what’s left of a school. Explosions start going off behind them. They hit the ventilator shafts, start searing through them.

“I think we lost ’em,” says Lynx.

“Not for long,” says Sarmax.

“All we need’s ten more seconds,” says the Operative.

• • •

The carnage on the screens has to be seen to be grasped. But the onslaught of machinery hasn’t reached the Hangar yet. At least not on the surface. It’s getting held up by the last stand of the inner perimeter. And back at the Hangar itself … “The fucking doors—”

“They’re opening!”

And something’s becoming evident on top of the shaking of the machine they’re riding. Something that’s reverberating through the vibration that’s all around.

“Damn,” says Linehan, “they’re going for it.”

They’re through into a tube about five meters wide. There are rails running through it. It looks familiar.

“The Magnates’ private railway” says Lynx.

“We’ve been here before,” says Sarmax.

“Not this section.” The Operative hits his jets, blasts up the tunnel. It bends along a gentle curve. The curve grows sharper, and then dead-ends.

“We should be going the other way,” says Lynx.

“I don’t think so,” says the Operative. He touches the wall, applies pressure, works a manual release—watches as the wall swings back to reveal more rail.

“Nifty,” says Sarmax.

“And off every fucking map,” says the Operative. He hits the jets.

“Let’s hope so,” says Lynx.

They cannon down that tunnel. Five seconds, and they reach another dead end.

“End of the line,” says the Operative.

He turns to a fusebox, starts throwing switches in a sequence. A wall starts folding away. The men stare at what’s behind it.

“Shit,” says Sarmax.

“Now we’re talking,” says Lynx.

They’re in a control room, but they’re controlling nothing. The off-the-leash war machine they’re riding is rolling away from all the fighting. All the men within it can do is check out the latest thing to hit their screens.

“The Throne’s fucking launching!”

“I realize that, dipshit!”

It’s hard to miss. It’s fifty meters long, the last ship remaining to the man who’s desperate to avoid becoming the last president of the United States. It’s powering out upon jets of flame, rising above the Hangar and the fighting, lashing out with its gunnery in all directions.

In the cockpit Haskell’s presiding over all of it. Grey of walls giving way to black of space; vast doors quivering as the blast of engine hits them; rockscape beginning to recede; Praetorians trying to buy the ship some margin…. Myriad images swirl through her head as she monitors the moments after main engine start. The hands of the pilots fly over the controls. Her two bodyguards are staring straight ahead, at the windows past which the Earth is reeling. The ship’s accelerating.

And then shuddering as something smashes into it.

• • •

M ove,” hisses the Operative.

But Sarmax and Lynx are already leaping onto the ship that’s their ticket off this dump. It’s small. No larger than a jet-copter, it was intended by the Euro Magnates as an escape craft, though they probably never figured on a getaway under these circumstances. The wall beyond starts folding away to reveal the glimmering of space. Sarmax and Lynx vault into the two pilot seats. The cockpit canopy hisses shut, though there’s neither time nor need to pressurize the ship. The Operative grabs onto straps at the back, shoves aside the spare Euro suits that take up most of the space remaining. Sarmax powers up the craft.

He’s hit!” yells Linehan.

By a KE hurler mounted by the Rain upon the cylinder: a laser aboard the president’s ship takes it out even as it fires, but the damage is already done. The ship’s gyros just got nailed, locking the craft into an arc that’s way too tight. It’s veering crazily back toward a point on the asteroid about half a klick from most of the fighting, coming in virtually on top of a certain wayward vehicle …

“We’re gonna get tagged!” yells Spencer.

“So don’t just stand there!” screams Linehan, who fires his thrusters and rockets along the rungs that lead through the hatchway in the control room’s ceiling.

• • •

Haskell’s just sitting there, visor down and suit sealed. Fear’s some sensation far away. She sees rock coming in toward the window, sees the lips of one of her bodyguards moving in silent prayer. She knows she’s the only one worth praying to. Her mind’s surging out through wires throughout the ship as she runs end-arounds, bulldozes a secondary route to prop up what’s left of the rudders. It wouldn’t mean a thing if the pilots weren’t so good. But the deep-spacer flight crew strapped in before her possess intuition of their own. Born of life-or-death moments way past Mars. Moments like this one now. Pilot and copilot and navigator: she gathers their minds into hers as the ship staggers toward the asteroid.

Sarmax hits the gas. Hits it again. Nothing’s happening.

“What’s the problem?” says the Operative. “The problem is I can’t get this bitch started.”

“Keep trying,” says the Operative, and extends razorwire, starts getting in on the systems. Lynx is doing the same. Only to find that there’s some kind of lock on the ignition. Some kind of Euro code that’s still holding out. Something they’d better hack fast.

“We got company!” yells Sarmax.

Two trapdoors blasted aside, and Spencer and Linehan come out onto the siege-engine’s roof. The ship’s almost on them. It’s like some asteroid all its own now: blotting out the sky, engines flaring, nose lifting …

“It’s gonna miss!” yells Spencer.

“But we can’t!” screams Linehan, and fires all his thrusters on full-blast, streaking upward. And suddenly Spencer gets it, sees in a sudden flash what Linehan’s doing, sees why—and hits his own jets, sears in toward the metal that’s rushing past. A turret whirls toward them; he hits evasive action, knows himself for dead, watches as though in a dream as the turret disintegrates, the cylinder-based DE cannon that nailed it flaring on his screens as onrushing metal fills his visor …

“They’re crippling it deliberately!” screams Linehan.

They crash against the hull.

Screens and windows within a woman’s mind: the asteroid falls away even as the last of the exterior cameras show suited figures leaping onto the ship. More shots strike the ship as it hurtles past the asteroid, straight toward the cylinder—and then it somehow straightens, roaring parallel to it. The ship’s gunnery teams are exchanging fire with cannons on the cylinder. The ship’s cameras are getting taken out. The pilots are relying only on the cockpit window. The ship starts using the last of its batteries to fire missiles into the cylinder—into both cylinders. The batteries are going blind. The missiles are anything but. They crash home.

Minidrones streak into the Euro launch chamber, start opening fire. But the issues their target is having don’t extend to its guns. Sarmax starts unleashing the escape craft’s flechette cannons on full auto. Tens of thousands of pieces of metal start tearing the minidrones to pieces. What’s left of them retreat.

“They’ll be back,” says Sarmax.

“We’re through!” yells the Operative as he finds the key reverses the ship’s codes in a single stroke, locks them in under a new imprint. Sarmax ignites the motors. The ship lifts off from the floor, turns its nose toward the tunnel, fires a bracket of torpedoes.

What the hell do you mean?” yells Spencer. It’s not the best time for a conversation. They almost missed getting a foothold. They’re right at the back of the ship, where the hull narrows around the engines. Plasma pours past them. The asteroid’s dropping away; the surface of the cylinder whips by. The other cylinder’s coming into view as well. But Linehan seems to be intent on getting his point across anyway.

“I mean the Rain could have destroyed this ship! They didn’t! They were picking off the monitors! Taking out the guns! They were hitting us to wound! Hitting it to send us on this course!”

“They weren’t trying to crash us?”

“Acceptable fucking risk,” screams Linehan. “So they could fucking board it. Jesus Christ!”

He can’t point. All he can do is stare. At the Platform rocketing below. At shards of mirrors. At fragments of debris. At the blackened cylinder.

And at more suited figures rising from it.

The ship curves away from the Platform. The pilots are getting it back under control. They’re flooring it. The Platform’s being left behind. In Haskell’s mind a countdown’s closing on a zero that’s precisely calibrated. A voice sounds within her head.

“Situation,” says the Throne.

“Ship stabilized,” she replies. “Warheads away. They’re lodged in the cylinders. But we may have company.”

“Beyond the ones we picked up at the asteroid?”

“Don’t know.” Though she’s got a nasty hunch.

The torpedo blasts start ripping the tunnel apart. The roof of the station’s starting to collapse. But Sarmax is hitting the auxiliary jets, letting the ship swan sideways from the minihangar—and then firing the main thrusters. The cylinder starts to recede, along with its twin and the rest of the battered infrastructure that comprises the Europa Platform.

“Good fucking riddance,” says Lynx. Both cylinders suddenly shine as though suns have ignited within them.

Light’s blinding them. Their visors react instantly, going opaque. Linehan leans against Spencer, touches helmets. “You called that one,” mutters Spencer. “They had no choice,” replies Linehan. “But the Rain got aboard anyway.”

“Think they’d miss the endgame?”

• • •

Cockpit sensors pick up the gamma rays. The nukes that just ripped apart the cylinders and tore chunks off the one remaining asteroid were far more powerful than those that shredded the Helios. The Rain’s machinery just got annihilated. Along with every last Praetorian at the Hangar.

Haskell feels she’s about to join them. Because she can’t evade the truth. She can see all too clearly how the Rain have played this—that they prepared for the eventuality of the Helios getting nailed. That they were willing to risk crashing the presidential ship in order to get aboard it. The ones she saw leap on were the InfoCom operatives. Who could be Rain. Who could have been turned since, or replaced. But it seems unlikely. She checked them out already. And she’s got footage of their suicidal assault on the siege tower. She feels she’s seen them. Seen what they’re up to.

It’s what she can’t see that has her worried.

Scratch one Platform,” says Lynx.

“Those were our soldiers,” says the Operative. “Give respect.” As he says this, he glances at Sarmax, who’s gritting his teeth, gunning the ship, sending it streaking forward. “Easy,” says the Operative. “What?” asks Sarmax. “Focus on the now.”

“I’m there,” says Sarmax, gesturing at the screens. The blast’s fading from them, to reveal empty grids up ahead. And the president’s ship.

• • •

We gotta get forward,” says Linehan.

“I’m working on it,” replies Spencer.

They’re crawling along the side of the ship like mountaineers whose slope keeps shifting like it’s trying to throw them off. And while they’re moving forward they’re scanning as best they can. But all they can see is metal up ahead. As well as …

“Behind us,” says Linehan. “Stars—getting blocked.”

“By what?”

“Pursuit.”

They’re hurtling out of the L3 vicinity, and everyone’s fingers are on the edge of the trigger. Every airlock’s booby-trapped. Haskell watches it all on her screens while her bodyguards watch her, eye the bridge’s only door.

“Rearward hull breach,” says the pilot.

“Confirmed,” says the navigator. “Combat,” says the voice of the Throne.

The metal walls shudder as an explosion passes through them.

We’re catching up,” says Lynx. “No way we couldn’t,” says the Operative. The ship they’re in is the fastest the Euro Magnates could configure. And the craft they’re chasing is wounded. They’re overhauling it quickly.

“Suits,” says Sarmax. “On the rear of the hull.”

“Blast ’em,” says Lynx.

“Not so fast,” says the Operative.

• • •

A signal echoes in Spencer’s helmet. The codes check out. Spencer takes the call.

“Yeah?”

“Spencer,” says the voice of Carson. “You reading me?”

“Jesus,” replies Spencer. “That Carson?”

“You guys turn up in the strangest places.”

“So do the Rain. They’ve boarded.”

“Thought you’d say that.”

The ship is caught in an agony of reverberations as explosions slam against bulkheads somewhere farther back. The speakers are a cacophony of voices and shots. It sounds like all hell’s breaking loose back there. Haskell’s bodyguards have their guns out, pointed at the cockpit door. One signals for her to huddle in the corner. She does. “Rear units no longer reporting,” says the copilot. “Cauterize,” says the Throne.

Haskell obeys, sending out the signals. The ship shudders. And diminishes.

Smooth move,” says Sarmax.

“Ain’t gonna be enough,” says Lynx.

Close enough to be visible in the windows: the rearmost sixth or so of the president’s ship has suddenly been jettisoned, along with the two men desperately clinging to it.

• • •

Jesus Christ,” says Spencer.

“That’s a new one,” says Linehan. They’re still hanging on—just barely. The engines next to them have shut off. The newly visible engines of the newly shortened presidential ship have switched on, powering the craft away from the derelict that’s now drifting through space.

“Guess they thought we were Rain,” says Spencer.

“Or else the Rain’s inside this piece of tin.”

“Which could be about to detonate.”

“Which is why I’m bailing,” says Linehan, and he hits his jets, swans away from what’s now a floating island. Spencer looks at him receding and lets go, follows him. Stars glimmer all around.

“What now?” he says.

“Now we give you a lift,” says the voice of the Operative.

The combat’s intensifying. More explosions. More shooting. More speakers falling silent. “They’re cutting through the perimeters,” says the voice of the Throne—tense, taut. “Can’t stop them.”

“Fall back,” says Haskell. “We’ll cauterize other sections.” Which is when her bodyguard is suddenly slammed against the wall. He pitches over even as the other bodyguard’s whirling and getting shot through the chest by a nasty-looking heavy pistol wielded by the ship’s navigator. The pilot and copilot are drawing weapons, too, vaulting from their chairs. Haskell hits the ship’s zone and is pushed back: someone’s activated a point-blank jammer. The conduit to which she’s connected has been switched off. The pilot yanks the razorwire from her head. “The Manilishi,” he says.

“Which one are you?” she asks.

“You forfeited the right to know.”

“You’re Iskander. Right?”

“Enough of this,” snaps the navigator. “We’re here for the Throne. Not her.”

“I’ll cooperate,” says Haskell.

The navigator sneers, kicks off a wall, reaches Haskell. Shoves his gun against her visor.

“Cooperate with this,” he says—starts to pull the trigger—just as the windows of the cockpit explode and shots start riddling the space within. The navigator crashes into Haskell, gun firing wildly as they both go over. Haskell grabs the hand that holds the gun, turns it toward its wielder, only to realize that there’s no resistance. She seizes the pistol, shoves the navigator’s body away from her. The bodies of the pilot and copilot are floating lifeless, suits shredded. The windows of the ship are gone. But in that space float more suited figures. They fire their jets, enter the cockpit. She recognizes them.

“Hi guys,” she says.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” says Carson to her and everybody else. “Claire, you’re going with Leo. Lynx and I are going to bail out Harrison. Linehan and Spencer: stay here and hold the cockpit.”

“Splitting up?” asks Haskell. “Is that a good idea?”

“We need to get you away from the Rain,” says Carson. “You can work this ship’s zone from the next ship over.”

“There’s not much of a zone left,” she says.

It’s true. In the moments after the Rain jacked her, they hacked the microzone aboard the ship. She’s reversing the hack now, but the damage has already been done. The ship’s defenders are no longer reachable. Carson pulls open the cockpit door and Lynx goes through with his guns at the ready. Carson turns, follows him. Linehan hovers in the doorway covering them. Spencer takes the ship’s controls while Sarmax gestures at Haskell. “Let’s go,” he says.

Through the cockpit doors and they’re off. The ship is large enough to make that complicated. There’s combat going on across both decks. The internal monitors are fucked. Everything’s being jammed. The Operative doesn’t know where the Throne is. He doesn’t know the exact location of the Rain. He’s only got one thing going for him.

“The Rain think they’ve got him caught between them.”

“They’ll be driving him toward the cockpit,” says Lynx.

The Operative has no intention of waiting for them to get there. He and Lynx charge through another doorway, through a chamber, through an engine room …

“How many fucking engine-rooms are there on this bitch?” asks Lynx.

“Nowhere near enough,” replies the Operative.

Haskell follows Sarmax up through the shattered windows and out onto the ship’s roof. The Euro interceptor sits atop it, tethered just aft of the cockpit. Its canopy is up. The back’s packed with weapons and extra spacesuits.

“We need all those?” says Haskell. “The Euros were into redundancy,” says Sarmax. “For all the good it did them.”

Sarmax nods, then starts the motors as Haskell straps herself in.

• • •

Linehan’s crouching at the side of the door, ready for whatever might come through it. Spencer’s at the controls. He’s watching as the Euro craft sails past the cockpit, engines glowing. It hurtles out ahead of the ship they’re in, swings off to the left. As soon as it’s out of range of small-arms fire, it matches speed. Sarmax’s voice echoes through the cockpit.

“We’ll hold here,” it says. “Maintain open comlink by laser. Give us the heads-up if you see anything.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” mutters Linehan.

The Operative can guess what’s happening. A Rain hit team on the warpath is virtually impossible to stop. Especially in a situation where an opponent can retreat in only one direction. The Praetorians outnumber the Rain by at least ten to one. But with the makeshift zone gone, they can’t coordinate with one another. They’ll be going down like ninepins. The Operative and Lynx crash through a wall, past more engine blocks, through another wall, through a weapons chamber from which all the weapons have been stripped. They crash through into the chamber where the Throne briefed his senior officers so recently. Two of them drift there now.

“Fuck,” says the Operative. He leans toward them while Lynx covers him. “Fuck. Both dead.”

One of the men he’s looking at opens his eyes. The Operative leaps backward, his arms up, guns at the ready.

“No,” says the man. He’s barely whispering. “Carson … save … save …”

“Where is he?”

“They … cut us off.”

“Murray. Where the fuck is he?”

“Engine block,” says Murray. “Third,” he adds—coughs. Chokes. Dies.

“Engine block number three,” says the Operative. “What the fuck’s he trying to do there?”

“Stay alive,” says the Operative—hits his jets.

Sarmax gazes at the screens. The president’s ship is down to three of its six segments. It’s hurtling toward the Earth. But by the time it gets there, this’ll be long over.

“How can two men succeed where a whole shipful of Praetorians couldn’t?” asks Haskell.

Sarmax looks at her. “I doubt they can.”

“In which case?”

“We nuke that ship and head for Earth.”

“To see if I can reconfigure our zone there?”

He nods. Something on the screens catches her eye. She gestures at it.

“Hello,” she says.

Sarmax stares.

And starts screaming orders.

Spencer! Cauterize and go!”

Spencer needs no urging. Titanium doors slam shut two rooms back. Engine block number one blasts to life. The new ship starts roaring forward. Though it’s not much of a ship. It’s basically the cockpit and the engines, speeding away from what’s left.

“What the hell’s going on?” asks Linehan.

“The Throne’s on the hull,” says Spencer.

• • •

Jets and minds racing, the Operative and Lynx hit the engine room, which has just gone silent, surge across the chamber, past the turbines and into the crawlspace that’s still warm with the heat signatures of the armor that just passed through. The Operative leads the way, finds the point where the engine shaft’s been melted through with thermite. He goes through, rockets down it and into an adjoining vent. Lynx follows him. His voice crackles in the Operative’s ears.

“We’re sitting ducks in here!”

“Shut up and get ready to fight!” screams the Operative.

Sarmax floors it, starts piloting the craft along an arc that turns it back toward the bulk of presidential ship. It’s shooting headless through space. Ten more seconds, and he can start bringing the forward guns to bear. Haskell works the cameras, adjusts the magnification.

“What we got?” asks Sarmax. “Two assholes after the Throne.”

Fuck,” says Linehan, “can’t you hold us steady?”

“It’s tougher than it fucking looks,” hisses Spencer.

He’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The truncated cockpit-ship’s maneuverability is for shit. He’s trying to bring it round and back toward the scene of all the action. The debris that constitutes what’s left of the Europa Platform is a speck upon the screen. Spencer’s getting the ship under control, turning it …

• • •

The Operative and Lynx blast out of the vent to find themselves in a wilderness of panels and struts and wires. No one’s in sight. “Spread out,” says the Operative.

Lynx knows the drill. The two men get some distance between them. They’re keeping low, keeping each other in sight the whole time. And now the voice of Sarmax echoes through the Operative’s ears.

“Carson,” it says, “they’re on the other side. We’ve got visual on them. We’ve—Shit!”

“Talk to me, Leo,” snarls the Operative—even as he sees what Sarmax is talking about.

He must have stashed it out there,” says Haskell. A man who thinks ahead: the rocket-sled that’s now streaking from the ship’s hull is piloted by the president himself. It’s scarcely bigger than his own suit. It’s making good progress all the same.

“Let’s get in there,” says Sarmax.

“I don’t think so,” says a voice.

Haskell whirls along with Sarmax. One of the suits in the back is stepping forward, reverting from its Euro trappings to its real ones in a swirl of shifting hues. A minigun’s sprouting from its shoulder. A woman’s face smiles mirthlessly behind the visor. Her face isn’t familiar. But Haskell can see that Sarmax is shaking anyway.

“Indigo,” he says.

“You’ve forfeited the right to know,” says the woman.

“For fuck’s sake, talk to me.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you. Take us thirty degrees left or I’ll blast you both into that dashboard.”

• • •

He’s veering away,” says Spencer.

“So ask him why.”

“He just cut off contact.”

“Christ,” says Linehan, “that’s a fucking sled out there.”

“What?” asks Spencer, and suddenly feels something smack against his shoulder and lodge there. He turns in his chair, sees that he’s been hit by a strange-looking gun. It’s held by the ship’s navigator, who’s still slumped against the wall, blood clearly visible behind his visor—but he’s turning the gun on Linehan all the same. Spencer dives from his chair, bringing his own guns to bear.

Even as his armor freezes, shuts down as a hack pours from the projectile now embedded within it. Spencer tries to fight it—gets shoved back into his own skull. He floats against the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Linehan drifting helpless, fury on his face. The navigator pulls himself forward to the instrument panel. Blood’s dripping from his mouth. He starts working the controls. His words sound in Spencer’s head.

“I’m dying,” he says. “But you’re already dead.”

The Operative gets a glimpse of metal falling away, feels himself being hauled out into space. Lynx is about ten meters behind him. They’re both hanging onto tethers they’ve fired at the president’s sled. Problem is, they aren’t the only ones. “Light them up,” snarls the Operative. But that’s tough when the ones you’re targeting are between you and the sled’s rider: two members of the Rain are about twenty meters ahead, clinging onto tethers, one firing at Harrison, the other firing back at the Operative and Lynx—who ignite their suit-jets, dart aside, return fire. The Operative can see Harrison slashing out with a laser, slashing at the tethers—and then sprawling against the sled’s controls as shots from the Rain strike him. The sled accelerates. Light fills the Operative’s visor.

A white flash from the direction of the presidential ship. It’s disintegrating, breaking apart. Pieces of : flying everywhere. “What the hell,” says Haskell. “The Throne’s last card,” says the woman. Haskell stares at her—is met by an expression of pure resolution.

“It won’t save him,” the woman adds. “Ships beat suits any day.”

“Depends who’s wearing them,” says Sarmax. “Enough,” she snaps. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

The wayward cockpit accelerates again. Spencer slides across the floor, drifts against the wall, turns his head within his helmet to behold the navigator putting the ship through a series of maneuvers. Spencer hurls himself against the hack once more, practically gets brain-fried for his troubles.

“Take it easy,” says the navigator. “It’s almost over.”

Contingency planning: the Throne had set charges over his ship to detonate after he’d gotten clear—though clear is a relative concept. Debris is flying everywhere. The Operative feels like he’s heading through an asteroid belt. It’s all he and Lynx can do to shoot at the Rain while they’re dodging. Shots whip past the Operative: he reels in the tether, sees the sled rushing closer, sees that one of the Rain’s just had his suit perforated by ship fragments. The lifeless suit flies past the Operative, almost knocks him off. But the other member of the Rain has slid forward, reached the sled several suit lengths ahead of the pursuit, and slashed a laser through one of the tethers.

“Fuck,” says Lynx.

And tumbles past the Operative. Who can see all too clearly that he’s next.

The Euro interceptor gives the expanding field of debris a wide berth. It starts turning one more time along vectors laid down by the woman with the guns.

“How many of you are there left?” asks Haskell.

“Tell this whore to shut up,” says the woman.

“What did she do to you?” asks Sarmax.

“Betrayed us, Leo.”

“And you betrayed me.”

“You’ve lost it. You don’t even know—”

“I know you’re Rain,” says Sarmax. “That’s enough.”

“So shut the fuck up and prime this ship’s weapons.”

Every plan of ours contains another plan,” mumbles the navigator as he works the controls.

“Every device another device.” Spencer’s hardly listening. He’s just thinking furiously. If he could find a way to trigger one of his suit’s weapons on manual … if he could explode his suit’s ammo … if he could do fucking anything. He hurls himself back and forth against his suit in a vain attempt to move it. He exhales, tries to pull his arm into the space reserved for his torso. But it’s way too tight a fit. Out of the corner of his visor he can see Linehan struggling through similarly unsuccessful contortions.

“Thus it is with humanity” says the navigator. “Trapped in a cage while we gaze between the bars.”

They hurtle toward the wreckage of the Throne’s last ship.

Rain is cutting off the competition. Or trying to—but the Operative fires his jets, surges from his tether, streaking off at an angle as he fires a burst from a wrist-gun at the sled. Shots slam into its motor in precisely calibrated points, knocking its nozzles sideways, sending it careening from its course, straight onto that of the Operative—who reaches out and leaps on to grapple with the suit within.

Bring up the targets,” says the woman. “Lock them in.”

“Lynx is easy enough,” says Sarmax. “He’s going nowhere. But Carson’s hand-to-hand with your own—”

“Gun them both down,” snarls the woman. “It’s the Throne’s skull I want.”

“Don’t do it,” says Haskell.

“One more word and I’ll do you.”

“You’re going to kill us anyway!”

“At least let her live,” says Sarmax.

“Long enough for a little brain surgery.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” snarls Haskell.

“Back on Earth, we’ll find out what makes you tick.”

“Never in hell.”

“My minigun’s quite the surgeon too. Leo: lock in the targets.”

Sarmax complies.

Crossfire time,” mutters the navigator. Spencer can’t see what he’s looking at. But the tone of triumph in the navigator’s voice is unmistakable. He can see that the man is priming the ship’s weaponry, getting ready to fire.

But then he sees Linehan.

Who’s hit his suit’s manual release. Who’s holding his breath. His face is already blistering in the vacuum. His expression’s one of total mania. He’s hurling himself upon the navigator.

Who turns—

The sled’s turning in circles. The Operative pivots against his foe’s armor, smashing the other man’s helmet. For his trouble, Carson gets a boot to his face, falls backward across the limp figure of Harrison—who’s sprawled out unconscious against the steering equipment, barely breathing, his suit holed and cauterized in the lower back. But the Operative’s got other things on his mind, like fending off the laser cutter that’s slashing toward his face. He ducks in under it, fires his suit-jets, slams head-on against the man, grabs onto his arms and tries to bring his minigun to bear. But they’re both too close. Over the man’s shoulder the Operative can see the dwindling figure of Lynx, opening up on ships that are closing in …

• • •

Shots streak past the cockpit.

“Waste them,” says the woman.

“First tell me Indigo’s still alive.”

“She is.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re stalling.”

“You’re her,” says Sarmax.

“So what—” The woman triggers the minigun, just as something hits the ship. Something that’s not small. Velasquez is hurled against the wall, her shots ripping through the ceiling. The other wall’s tearing to reveal space—and the cockpit of the president’s ship, jammed right alongside theirs. An unsuited man’s leaping though the tear, his face more burn than face.

The Operative’s letting rip with his flamer, but the other man turns his helmet to avoid the fire, letting it boil off into space, shoving against the Operative, and then firing augmented wrist-jets to suddenly pin him against the sled’s rear. The Operative fires his own jets, but to no avail. He’s being pushed against the sled’s engines—against the reaction-mass still churning from them. His suit’s temperature’s starting to rise. He lets razorwire extrude from his suit, plunge into his assailant’s, feels his mind slam up against the other’s even as he starts to smell smoke. But the other man’s got razor capabilities too. He’s holding his own, keeping the Operative at bay while he shoves him against the heat searing from the sled. In the distance the Operative thinks he can see spaceships colliding. Worlds imploding. His suit’s going critical. His failsafes are overloading.

• • •

Sarmax hits the jets, knocks Linehan aside, crashes into the woman, knocks her into the rear of the ship. Haskell gestures at Linehan, pops the canopy, goes through it with Linehan hanging onto her foot—

–h olding on for fucking life as cosmic rays lacerate him. Everything’s going black. But the hardware that augments his heart keeps chugging away even as his oxygen levels plunge—even as Haskell he’s just saved hauls him back into the ship he’s just left. His suit’s floating where he left it. His field of vision collapses in upon it. Everything spirals in upon a single point—

–a s the woman shoves against Sarmax, pushes him away from her.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” says Sarmax.

“Oh yes it does,” she replies, and starts unloading the minigun at him. He fires his jets, roars under the trajectory, cannons against her, rips the gun from her shoulder. She whips up her legs, kicks him in the chest, vaults backward, then raises her hands and starts firing with her wrist-guns. He does the same. They pour shots into each other. Neither’s trying to dodge. Neither’s trying to evade. They’re just soaking up each other’s munitions. The outer layers of their armor are getting shredded. Their visors are starting to crack.

• • •

The Operative’s helmet is pretty much at one with the rocket flame. He’s seeing stars for real now. He can’t budge his opponent. Can’t hack him either. At least not with his own mind—he reaches out, extends more razorwire; his assailant shifts slightly to dodge it and the Operative plunges the metal into the prone figure of Harrison. The president may be out of commission, but his software isn’t—and now the Operative’s running codes given him by the Manilishi, drawing on that software, sending the merest fraction of the executive node surging out and through his own suit and into the suit of another. And from there into his brain.

The man convulses. The Operative kicks him off into space—and then leaps up to see what’s hurtling toward him.

Any second now,” mutters the woman.

“We’ll hit Valhalla together,” says Sarmax. “Not if I can help it,” says Lynx, streaking past the ship and tossing a shape-charge through the gap in the wall and onto the woman’s back.

“Fuck,” she says.

The charge explodes, blasting clean through her back and chest, knocking her forward toward Sarmax. He grabs her in his arms. But she’s already dead. He shoves the body away, starts broadcasting how he’s going to kill Lynx and leave him to rot in vacuum. But now Carson is vaulting into the ship, grabbing him, remonstrating with him. Sarmax switches back into business mode.

“Where’s the Throne?” he snarls.

“Haskell’s on it. With Linehan and Spencer. She restarted their suits. Which the Rain fucked.”

“So that’s why that nut job was running around without one.”

“Apparently he’s pretty fucking enhanced.”

“I’ll say. What happened to the other Rain guy?”

“Dawson,” says the Operative. “It was Dawson. Though I didn’t know it till the end.”

“He’s dead?”

“For sure.”

“It’s finished,” says Lynx.

“But we aren’t.” Sarmax’s voice is dangerously calm. “And you’ll get it too, Carson. For stopping me from nailing him.”

“Jesus Christ,” says the Operative, “you seriously want to go head to head with us now?”

“There’ll be another time,” says Sarmax.

It’s another time. An hour later. A very jury-rigged ship is starting its journey back toward the Earth. It consists of the remnants of two ships held together by bolts and wires.

“Precarious,” says the Operative.

“But functional,” says Sarmax.

The two men are sitting in the pilot seats of the Euro craft. The Operative is at the controls. He glances at Sarmax.

“It wasn’t her,” he says.

“What?”

“That wasn’t Indigo who Lynx killed.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asks Sarmax softly.

“I did a DNA test on what was left.”

“Ah, fuck,” says Sarmax.

The Operative opens up a channel. “How’s it looking back there, Claire?”

“He’s still stable,” says Haskell. “He might even make it.” She’s sitting beside the president. His sightless eyes stare past her. Wires run from her to him.

“And Linehan?”

“He’ll be fine,” says Spencer. He and Linehan are sitting in their suits, in the remnants of the presidential cockpit. Spencer’s at the controls while Linehan siphons oxygen from the heaped-up Rain suits from which the bodies have been stripped.

“You know,” says the Operative, “if you hadn’t pulled that stunt we’d have been fucked.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” asks Lynx.

“I’m talking to Linehan.”

“What was that?” asks Linehan.

“He said without you our asses would be grass,” says Spencer.

“Guess you could look at it that way,” says Linehan.

“You guess?” The Operative laughs. “It’s a fact, man. A fundamental fucking truth. You saved us all. The whole fucking planet, maybe.”

“Maybe I’ll have to visit it again sometime,” says Linehan.

Up ahead that world draws closer.