The Burning Skies (15 page)

“Where’s the Throne?” asks Lynx.

“In the asteroid,” says the Operative.

“Still fighting?”

“Who knows?”

The three men amp their scopes, peer out into the cylinder’s vast hollow. Most of the lighting is gone now. Explosions flash out amidst the gathering dark. Half the Platform’s robots seem to be running programs set in motion
by the Rain. Debris flies past the window. Tracer-fire cuts swathes everywhere.

“Let’s prep tactics,” says the Operative.

“Has the Hand given you scenarios?” asks Lynx.

“He’s given me nothing,” says the Operative. “I think he and his new friend are trying to assess events.”

“They’d better catch up quick,” says Sarmax.

But now the Operative’s heads-up is giving him more data—directly from the Hand/Manilishi battle management node. Some of the Praetorians are pointing at the exterior window.

“Someone’s lighting up the vacuum,” says the Operative

“With what?” asks Lynx.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” says Sarmax.

T
hey’ve already processed the implications. Ten klicks long and studded with microwave and laser projectors, the Helios has long served as a linchpin of power-generation for the L3 system. It can divide its energy among its dishes or channel it all through a single one. It seems to be firing through about fifteen of them right now, changing those fifteen up to allow it maximum field of fire upon the targets that it’s now engaging. It was never intended for anything but peaceful purposes.

Though its new owners could give two shits.

“We and the East had four special-ops teams apiece up there,” says the Hand.

“Not anymore,” says Haskell.

“Why the fuck didn’t you spot them up there?” he demands.

“Presumably they were hiding in the East’s zone.”

“Order all our ships onto the attack—”

“Done it already. But—”

“I know,” he says. “They don’t have a prayer.”

“Neither do we,” she says. Her mind runs through the inventory. They’re pinned down. The Throne’s pinned down. The zone’s paralyzed, as are all forces throughout the Earth-Moon system. They’re confronted by the Rain’s elite. And they can only assume that whatever’s going on in the asteroid is even more of a nightmare than what’s going down in both windows.

“I agree,” says the Hand. A scenario flits from his head to hers. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She stares at what’s turning in her mind. “Are you sure?”

“Only option we’ve got left.”

T
he ship hurtles in. The bridge-crew can see the odds against them as certain as any number that’s left on their screens. That thing out there is basically a directed-energy machine gun. A hundred klicks is basically a turkey shoot.

“Evasive action!” screams the captain.

But Spencer’s already giving it all he’s got. The Platform veers crazily in the window. Spencer feeds in instructions from the gunnery officer, lets the ship’s batteries rip, peppering the Helios with fire while more shots streak in from the few remaining emplacements on the asteroids and the surviving ships.

“Target remains eighty-five percent effective,” says the gunnery officer calmly.

“Use the fucking Platform!” shouts the navigator.
“Use the fucking Platform!”

And Spencer’s trying—doing his utmost to keep the Platform between him and this monster—trying to pop out and fire and then dart back into cover. But those kinds of
precision maneuvers are pretty much beyond the capacity of this ship now. He watches clouds of humans starting to billow from the northern end of the Platform. He realizes with sick finality that there’s no way out of this. He slams his visor. Just as a microwave spear impales them.

T
he Praetorians aren’t moving. But the Operative can see they’re standing at attention anyway. He can see their eyes shifting in their visors as they cease their private conversations. He’s getting instructions now too.

“Relay these to your men,” says the Hand.

“Listen to this,” the Operative says to Sarmax and Lynx.

The Hand is now moving away from the inner deck. The Manilishi is following him. The Hand’s bodyguards cluster about both of them. Soldiers start exiting the room as they receive specific tactical instructions. The Operative hears engines starting up at close range—from the sound of it, the mechanized units of the Praetorians on the outer perimeter. Beyond that he hears only the rumbling of explosions within the cylinder.

But now that changes.

S
pencer’s aware of some kind of roaring noise. His brain feels like it’s been burned to a crisp. He can see nothing but white light. He wishes the afterlife was less painful.

But now that white is fading into the black of space. He focuses, realizes the window’s gone, along with the rest of the bridge. Somehow he’s been blasted about twenty meters farther back into the ship. He’s wedged in beneath some debris,
his suit somehow still intact. Dead bodies are everywhere. So are those of the living, clinging to what’s left of the walls. Vibration keeps on washing through him. The engines of the ship are going haywire. And now the Platform comes into sight, careening in toward them. Metal surface fills Spencer’s view. He braces himself as though it still mattered.

T
HIS IS THE HAND. THIS IS BEING BROADCAST ON SECURE CHANNEL ENABLED BY THE MANILISHI, THE RAZOR NOW AT MY SIDE. YOU’RE TO PROTECT HER AS YOU PROTECT ME. THE DECISIVE BATTLE IS UNDER WAY. OUR THRONE IS TRAPPED BY RAIN COMMANDOS IN THE NEAREST OF THE AERIES. WE’RE GOING TO CROSS THE CYLINDER AND RESCUE OUR PRESIDENT. WE’RE GOING TO DESTROY THE ABOMINATION CALLED RAIN. DETAILED TACTICAL OVERLAYS TO FOLLOW
.

The Operative receives those overlays for his team, relays them to Lynx and Sarmax.

“This is fucking it,” says Sarmax.

“Straight shot to glory,” says Lynx.

“Let’s move out,” says the Operative.

But even as he says those words, the whole cylinder shakes—shakes still harder, shakes like it’s breaking apart. About ten klicks distant in that wilderness of dark and tracer lines, one of the valleys ruptures into flame. What’s left of a burning spaceship bursts through, pulling ground and metal with it, falling back onto what’s left of that ground, shredding itself and everything around it as what’s left of its engines keep on firing.

“That’s a new one,” says Sarmax.

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

And what the hell are you going to do next?

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

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