The Burning Skies (36 page)

“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.”

T
hey’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.

A
nother 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.

T
he 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.

• • •

T
he 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.”

• • •

T
he 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.

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