the relief force that’s rolling in toward the asteroid. Haskell doesn’t know. All she’s thinking about now is just the situation: the cylinder rotates every two minutes; each of its three windows is directly opposite a valley—which makes for about twenty seconds during which the Helios will have line of sight onto the valley along which the bulk of the Praetorian force is moving. And now more ground-to-air shots from guns on the ground are rising up toward the Praetorian spearhead. Haskell feels her stomach lurch toward her throat as the shaker climbs, takes evasive action, dodges those shots.
Most of them anyway.
There’s a shriek of imploding metal as a wayward shell rips through one of the engines, rips through the tail-gunner’s position. Metal shards fly past Haskell’s head, eviscerating one of her bodyguards. Part of the wall starts tearing away: a widening crack exposing the bombed-out landscape beyond. Haskell sees other shakers diving past. She feels the minds of her craft’s pilots as they wrestle desperately for control; she lends her own mind to theirs, working frantically to try to get the shaker stable. She’s holding onto the torn edge of metal, looking out at the flickering lights outside while her remaining bodyguard holds onto her—now tightening his grip as the stricken shaker arcs off at an angle, other shakers scattering to avoid it as Haskell frantically searches for some way to jury-rig its systems. Terrain streaks past. Her life starts to flash past her.
• • •
Spencer and Linehan are hurled every which way, flung against the wall—the shaker’s pitching about as the winds of escaping air smash against it. But it’s no longer heading downward—no longer making for the relative shelter of the basements. Which makes exactly zero sense to Spencer.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” he screams at the intercom.
“All of you shut up!” yells the pilot. Apparently the shaker’s gunners are voicing similar concerns. Spencer turns his head as the ramp starts dropping. Nightmare scenery flashes past outside.
“We’re outta here,” says Linehan, pulling himself from the wall where he’s been flung, trying to start up the cycle.
“You’re insane!” yells Spencer.
“That’d be the
“Make yourself useful!” screams the pilot.
Which basically amounts to leaning out of the landing bay and firing their suits’ thrusters, shoving against the damaged earthshaker, aiding its pilots as they attempt to hold it steady. Turrets on the vehicle start opening. Hatches start peeling back. Suits start leaping out, vaulting across and into the landing bay. Spencer can’t help but notice that those suits aren’t marines. They’re members of the Core. Three of them are pulling a fourth out of the damaged craft, hauling that figure past Spencer. He gets a glimpse of her face.
Haskell angrily shrugs off her escorts. She doesn’t need their help—they only draw attention to her. She shoves past the Praetorians in the cargo bay moves through into the larger fuselage. She wishes it was bigger. But by the time she regained control of her shaker she was well to the right of the Praetorian spearhead, leaving her with no choice but to board the nearest vehicle. She feels the eyes of its gunners upon her, a feeling she’s starting to get used to. Most of the Praetorian force has already managed to get below. Reports of fighting throughout the basements are already reaching her. She heads through into the cockpit. An aging pilot glances at her.
And does a double-take.
“My lady,” he says.
“The cellars,” she snarls.
“At once,” he replies—and even as she’s strapping herself in, she’s shoved against those straps. Landscape spins past the window. The shaker she was just on plunges past, bereft of crew. Somewhere overhead she can see the window far above starting to glow white-hot as it rotates into the Helios’s field of fire. Remnants of buildings whip by; the shaker starts leveling out, starts touching down, clawing its way through the ground, ripping aside landscape to reveal the infrastructure beneath—and then dropping down amidst the roofless passages, getting in beneath the jagged shards of torn ceiling.
• • •
Roof closes in above the shaker. It’s all Spencer and everybody around him can do to hold on. They’ve entered one of the maglev tunnels. They’re following it deeper. Walls keep on rushing by lit up by flashes from the vehicle’s heavy guns.
“Let’s close this fucking
“The turrets are fucked,” snarls a Praetorian. “We’re the rear guns!”
He’s got a point. Besides Spencer and Linehan, there are four other Praetorians in the cargo bay. It makes for a tight fit. But the construction drones now blasting after them are taking everybody’s mind off any problems involving etiquette. Everybody in the cargo bay starts firing. Spencer watches his shots streak down the tunnel, splinter one of the drones. But behind those drones he can see a larger shape overtaking them.
“Christ almighty,” says Linehan.
“It’s one of the trains,” says Spencer.
“Impossible,” yells someone. “Maglev’s history!”
Apparently not everywhere. High-explosive rounds crash through the train but it keeps on coming. It’s military grade. A slight bend in the track reveals six armored cars. The first of them fires torpedoes that streak in toward the shaker.
“Fuck!” yells Linehan.
But now static’s pouring over their screens. Tiny sparks of lightning chase themselves down the walls. The guidance systems in the pursuing torpedoes go haywire: they slow, bend in toward the walls, slow still further. The train careens off the suddenly defunct maglev, starts folding up at high speeds, catches up with its own torpedoes. There’s a particularly memorable explosion.
• • •
Haskell can see the light of the blast through the cockpit window. And that’s pretty much all she’s seeing. The Helios is shelling the valley floor up above, disrupting a lot of the environment down below. It’s not point-blank—there’s a lot of shielding. Meaning the damage is a long way from total. But even temporary damage could easily prove fatal amidst combat conditions. Shots from drones are flashing past the window and Haskell’s got no way to do anything constructive. She’s leaving that to the man she’s partnered with; he’s clamped onto the outside of the shaker with his bodyguards, firing at everything in sight. Haskell’s trying to think a little more long term. Her mind calculates furiously—no way to stop the cylinder’s rotation save firing the retros … and since the Euro zone’s down, those would have to be engaged manually, from multiple points. And the Praetorians are already more than halfway through the cylinder. They’ve already crossed the equator. They’ve got no time for any diversions.
Meaning that the cylinder’s going to keep on rotating. Meaning that the Helios is going to keep on turning each valley into a shooting gallery every two minutes. Meaning that the ones it’s trying to target are just going to have to deal until they get beyond the windows and reach the southern mountains. Haskell screams at the pilot to take the upcoming off-ramp—but he’s already doing it, his face as rapt as she’s ever seen someone look, swerving the shaker expertly, engaging the afterburners, letting the vehicle blast out into the valley overhead.
Which is a total shambles. It looks like a giant flame thrower just hit it. The fires burning along the center axis have gone out, along with every remaining light. The only illumination left is that of the stars visible
