The Burning Skies

other is staying put. Haskell notices that they’ve got their camo patterns adjusted so that they’re only visible along the line of vision in which she and Lynx are standing. The figure that’s still standing in a doorway is covering the whole area with a pulse-rifle. The other figure’s still closing.

“That’s far enough,” says Lynx.

“Deactivate your weapons.”

Lynx laughs. “I got a better idea, Carson. You deactivate yours. Before I do your Rain girlfriend.”

“That’s not the Rain. That’s the Manilishi. Which belongs to the president.”

“Don’t think you can make up words and impress me, Carson. She’s Rain. She’s pulling your strings.”

“No,” snarls the third man—whom Haskell figures to be Leo Sarmax. “The Rain’s pulling yours.”

“Shut up, Leo,” says Lynx. “You don’t know shit.”

“None of you do!” screams Haskell. Lynx’s arm tightens around her, but she keeps talking anyway. “We don’t have time for this! The Rain are closing on us even now!”

“Don’t think I don’t know that,” says Carson.

This could kick off at any moment,” says Spencer. “It may already have,” says Linehan. “Are you armed?”

“Just sidearms. Nothing as fancy as you’ve got.”

“If the shit hits the fan on this ship—”

“It’s more likely to hit it down there.”

“It’s definitely about to fucking hit it down there. The Rain are in that cylinder for sure. They’re betting they can beat whatever trap’s been set.”

“And reach the asteroid in which the Throne’s sitting.”

“The Aerie where he’s waiting for them. Daring them to come and fucking get him.”

“It’s a magnet,” says Linehan. “A fucking magnet.”

“Look at the size of those Aeries.” Spencer transmits the dimensions of the rock that’s attached to the cylinder in which the action’s going down, lighting up the sphere in 3-D false-color. “The Praetorian Core comprises an entire division. Every last one of them could be packed in there with him, with this fleet that we’re a part of just waiting to swoop down at the first sign of trouble—”

“And the East’s ships, too.”

“Who’ve got that other cylinder covered.”

“But if he’s involved then that means the Eurasian leadership—”

“It might,” says Spencer.

“Might? It must.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no way he would allow Eurasian troops to be a part of this under any other set of conditions.”

“Double or nothing?”

“Anything you want to bet, Spencer. It’s everything. It’s the only way any of this makes any sense. He’s in one of the Aeries; the Eurasian leadership’s in the other. Along with their own Praetorian equivalents.”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus man, think about it. Both sides know Autumn Rain has been playing them off each other. That they’ve gone to ground within the East’s zone to escape ours, and vice versa. The leaderships intend to squeeze the Rain between them, and if they can achieve enough integration between the two executive nodes —”

“They’d stand a good chance of bagging Rain,” says Spencer.

“Which means the Rain has to strike them first.”

“At a place of the leaderships’ own choosing.”

“That place being here.”

“And here we are right in the middle.”

You have to take me to the Throne,” says Haskell.

“Yeah,” says Lynx, “fucking right.”

“Lynx,” says Carson, “this is your last chance—” but as he says this, a tiny hatch in Sarmax’s knee opens and fires two quick shots. Haskell feels heat on her face as the blast sears past her, feels debris pepper her suit as the barrel of Lynx’s minigun disintegrates, along with his pistol—and his hand. He’s knocked sprawling on the ground screaming as Carson and Sarmax fire their suit-thrusters. In an instant, Carson’s crashing into Haskell, knocking the wind from her, shielding her with his body.

For a moment all’s still. Haskell clears her throat.

“Mind if I get up?” she asks.

Carson says nothing—just stands up and hauls her to her feet. Lynx is sitting on the ground, cradling his arm. His visor’s up. Sarmax has landed halfway between her and the door, covering Lynx with his pulse-rifle— covering the rest of the ag-complex, too. She sees Carson shake his head within his suit, realizes that Sarmax was probably asking Carson on a private channel if he should finish Lynx off. But apparently Carson has declined. Though it seems he’s not done yet.

“Lynx,” he says aloud. “You’re under arrest.”

“Just shoot me now,” mutters Lynx.

“I would shoot you now, you stupid fuck, except for the fact that you thought you were serving the Throne. But believe me, if you had killed her, this would have been your grave.”

“And if you try broadcasting anything, it still might,” says Sarmax. “How’s your arm?”

“Cauterized,” says Lynx. “Suit sealed. Fucking bas—”

“Shut up,” says Carson. “Claire Haskell: we’re Praetorian special ops. We’re here to protect you. Get your helmet back on. We have to get—”

“Save the speech,” says Haskell. “If you’re Praetorian, take me to the Throne. Fucking now.”

“Actually” says Carson, “I have orders not to.”

Haskell stares. Lynx laughs.

“Orders from the Rain, huh?” he says.

“Orders from the Throne,” replies Carson.

“I guess I can’t blame him,” says Haskell.

“You really can’t,” says Carson. “Let’s move.”

• • •

We’re caught up in the fucking day of judgement.”

“Calm down,” says Spencer.

“I am calm.”

“You probably shouldn’t be.”

“It all depends on how far the Rain have infiltrated. Whether they’ve managed to get into the