between shards of mirror still hanging in place … but Haskell can nonetheless see shakers are emerging everywhere, along with cycles and suits. There are far more remaining than she’d hoped. She’s acutely aware they’ve got about another ninety seconds before they’re going to have to do their mole routine again. She’s trying to get the formation back into order as they forge onward toward that southern pole.
The Operative’s team is way ahead of the main force now. He’s not even bothering to resurface— just keeps on blasting forward, streaking through the tangled infrastructure that houses the trains and conveyor belts that serviced the cylinder’s southern half. He’s getting ever lower. The gravity’s slightly in excess of normal now. He wonders if there’s some way to stop the rotation. He doubts it. Not at this point. Which is probably the way it’s been planned.
But the Operative’s leaving the nuances of strategy to others. All he cares about is carrying out his orders, which involve making as much speed as possible. And now he and Sarmax and Lynx and the marines behind them come out into a wider area. One where floors and walls and ceilings have been torn out, along with large chunks of the cylinder’s hull. Stars wheel slowly past.
“Fuck’s sake,” says Lynx.
“Careful with the timing, Carson,” mutters Sarmax.
“I know what I’m doing,” says the Operative.
He’d better. The hole’s the product of the initial bombardment laid down by the Praetorian ships. The trick is to stay clear of such openings when they’re facing the Helios. And now the stars are giving way to the cylinder opposite theirs—and then that view vanishes as they all jet back into the tunnel. But not before the three men have had ample opportunity to take in whatever the Eurasians might be broadcasting.
Which turns out to be nothing.
“Not a thing?” The Operative sounds puzzled.
“Nothing I can pick up,” says Lynx.
“Not without a fucking spirit medium,” says Sarmax.
“They’ve been wiped off the map,” says the Operative.
“At least in the cylinder,” says Lynx.
“I doubt it’s much better in their Aerie.”
“We need to pick up the pace,” says the Operative.
Time to go,” says one of the Praetorians. Spencer looks at him. Looks at the ground that’s sweeping by. Looks back at the Praetorian.
“Fine,” he says—starts pushing the cycle into launch position—starts climbing on—
“Not so fast,” says Linehan.
“What?”
“Get your ass off that thing,” says Linehan.
“Are you fucking nuts?” Spencer’s transmitting on the one-on-one. “The fucking
“Sure,” says Linehan, “but you’ve got my seat.”
“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters. He slides backward, turns around so that he’s facing rearward— slots the cycle’s rear gun into position. Linehan climbs on. The two men strap themselves in. The Praetorians unlock the struts that hold the cycle in place.
“Ready,” says Spencer.
“Believe it,” says Linehan.
“Later,” says a Praetorian, giving the cycle a hard shove. The cycle slides down the ramp—and then they’re plummeting away from the shaker. Spencer watches the ground spin in toward them. He catches a glimpse of far-off mountains lit up by nearby explosions. And then there’s an explosion that’s even nearer, as the cycle’s engines come to life and Spencer’s flung backward, grabbing onto the straps out of sheer reflex as the vehicle’s front lifts and it accelerates forward. “This,” says Linehan, “is where it gets interesting.”
Haskell’s head is really starting to spin. The constant play of light within her mind is less a function of the explosions flaring in the window and more a matter of the surrogate microzone she’s midwifed and that she’s just trying to prop up somehow, some way. Any way. It’s that much more difficult now that the most powerful weapon remaining in the Earth-Moon system has managed to extend its reach inside this cylinder, forcing everybody to hit the basements at regular intervals. Haskell’s compensating as best she can. She’s sending out commands regarding the new criteria: draw in the flanks, blow down as many walls as possible, clear out space insofar as can be achieved, choose warehouses over corridors, galleries over tunnels, large spaces over small … and above all, keep the comlinks open—keep the transmissions coming so that everyone’s connected to some piece of the formation, and all the pieces ultimately link back to her. No one gets cut off. No one gets left alone. Save for those who have to be.
The Operative’s on a mission to get his team to that rock ASAP. He’s guessing he’s not the only one who’s received orders to get out ahead of the main formation, which can only move as fast as its heaviest vehicles. Grids of the approaching mountains crystallize within his head. He beams them into the skulls of his colleagues, focuses on the conduits that connect mountains to the Aerie. There are fifteen in all. Nine are intended for personnel. And some of those that aren’t look a little narrow …
“No way are we fitting through one of those,” snarls Lynx.
“Wanna bet?” says the Operative.
Ain’t what you think we can do, Lynx,” says Sarmax. “It’s what the Rain think that counts.”
And the Operative knows all too well that they might run into them at any moment. Maybe the Manilishi is counting on him to do just that, to weaken the Rain a bit before he gets taken out. But somehow he doubts it. He’s guessing they’re deep in the Aerie, busy with the Throne.
“They’re counting on their proxy forces in the cylinder to hold us off,” says the Operative.
“Not to mention blowing every bridge to that rock and then some,” says Sarmax.
“Now why do you have to go and say a thing like that?” mutters the Operative.
Mountains loom in the distance. Stars gleam between blackened valleys. They’re moving out ahead of the main formation, well in front of the right flank, which seems to have drawn level with the center as it overhauls it. Linehan’s singing to himself. He seems to be having a blast.
Spencer isn’t.
“Will you shut the fuck up,” he says. But Linehan just laughs. “We’re both going to shut up forever in a few more minutes,” he says.
“The sooner the better,” grumbles Spencer. “Says the guy who’s already missed all the fucking fun. You should have seen this place when it all got going, man. We got fucking fried.” Shots streak past from somewhere far above them. Linehan doesn’t alter course. “Ain’t
“How’d you make it through?”
“You know how, man. By being a chickenshit. We were right on top of one of those Rain triads. We had it pinned down every which way. But when the zone went, I didn’t wait. Got the fuck out of there while drones carved everybody up; ended up in that valley while it went from green to black. Sat in a park while the world went to shit: put my legs up on a goddamn bench and watched New London burn like a fucking roman candle. Figured that’d be it. It nearly was. Until the Hand showed up with his bitch-queen razor.”
“And bailed you out.”
“If that’s what you’d call this.”
Spencer nods. The Manilishi’s ordered him to head south as quickly as possible, outpacing the main
