The Burning Skies (22 page)

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

“I don’t think so,” replies Spencer.

W
hat the fuck was that?” yells Sarmax.

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

Until another message changes everything.

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

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

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

T
he orders flash out from Manilishi: take that fucking rock. The whole of the Praetorian wedge steams straight in even as the ground starts to buckle beneath it. The outlying riders hit their jets, race in through what’s starting to look like a full-scale asteroid field. “No choice,” screams Spencer.

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

• • •

I
t’s rushing in toward them, a fissure in the rock, crisscrossed by platforms and sprouting the remains of torn-up bridges. The Operative dodges past those bridges, cuts between the platforms, blasts through to find a shaft that’s been cut into the bottom of the canyon. Sarmax and Lynx swing in behind him. Walls enclose them on all sides. Debris piles in to fill the opening behind them.

“Made it,” says Sarmax.

“Made
what?”
says Lynx.

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

“Carson, do we have a plan?”

“End this fucking war.”

“Got it.”

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

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

“And the Rain?”

“They started out with three triads.”

“One of which is now a mountain sandwich.”

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

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

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

“Fuck,” says Sarmax, “what a maze.”

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

“Hey,” says Sarmax. “That’s—”

“Look at those bodies,”
hisses Lynx.

“I see it,” replies the Operative.

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

“One choice, m’lady” says the pilot.

“I realize that,” she snarls.

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

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

He acknowledges as the calculations flash through her head.

• • •

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