The Burning Skies

force. The center vehicles that are aboveground are visible a little farther back, down near the floor of the valley. They’ve got about forty seconds before the Helios gets the angle on them again.

“Check that out!” yells Linehan.

Spencer turns, sees it: several klicks farther south of them, though not as far on the right flank as they are—flames of thrusters darting in and out of valley forest.

“More of our cycles,” he says.

“More meat,” says Linehan. “The Throne’s fucked. The Rain turned his trap inside out. They’re butt- fucking him in that asteroid. We get close enough, we might even hear the squeals.”

“You sound like you’re getting turned on.”

“Only thing that turns me on is the idea of getting out of this fucking shooting gallery.”

“We’re almost at the rock.”

“Hate to break it to you, but we’ll never make it.”

“You don’t think—shit!” Suddenly Linehan turns the bike so sharply that Spencer’s almost thrown off, despite the magnetic clamps. It’s like the whole of the approaching mountains have come alive with lights. Shots start searing past them. Explosions blast nearby bikes to hell. Debris flies everywhere. Linehan accelerates, dives groundward. “Guess that answers that question,” he snarls.

It looks like the Euro guns situated throughout the southern mountains are still operational. Apparently they’d been holding back. But now they’re opening up on the onrushing Praetorians and the foremost units are getting hammered. Everybody’s forced to hit the deck, get back into those cellars. Haskell watches as the pilot works the controls and the shaker descends below the curtain of shots, drops down into a riverbed that’s been stripped of its river by the vacuum—and from there into subterranean waterways now bereft of any liquid. Other shakers roar in after her: other cycles, other suits. Basement combat starts up again, even as microwaves and lasers surge through the spaces overhead, unleashing fury that’s becoming almost reassuring to Haskell. Almost familiar. And why not? The universe has shrunk to nothing save the Europa Platform and the thing that’s orbiting it, controlling it, pinning down all those who exist within it. The Helios has attained the status of some kind of inscrutable god.

But its reign is coming to an end. Because once the force gets past the windows and in amidst the mountains it’ll just have to gnash its teeth in the vacuum. Haskell’s concentrating on those mountains now. They’re frozen in her mind’s eye even as tunnel walls flash by, even as some kind of awareness builds within her. She feels herself giving way before it.

• • •

Taking corners and roaring past turns and it’s all the Operative can do to keep on breaking through. He’s changed up the formation a little. He’s got the marines out in front of him now. The odds keep on getting steeper: walls that suddenly collapse inward, floors that blast themselves into the ceiling, mines and drones and droids that keep on springing in from out of nowhere …

“The terrain’s narrowing,” says Sarmax.

“I realize that,” says the Operative.

But he still hasn’t figured out how to handle the implications. They’ve left the valley behind. The exterior wall of the cylinder is curving in toward the southern pole—letting the defense stack itself up pretty thick, depriving the Operative of room to maneuver. Which is the one thing he can’t afford to lose.

“We need more space,” says Sarmax.

“The surface,” says the Operative.

He signals to the marines around him, and swerves on his jets while everybody follows. They blast through metal corridors and into stone-lined tunnels. Gravity slowly subsides as they catch glimpses of lights flaring up ahead. They accelerate, emerge amidst the foothills.

Can’t turn around!” screams Linehan. Spencer gets the feeling he would if he could. But any craft or suit that deviates too far from the attack vectors is going to stray into the field of fire of the ones behind it. What’s left of the flanks are struggling forward, desperately trying to reach the sloping mountains. Linehan keeps whipping the bike from side to side. Spencer watches valley and window slide past his visor. He catches quick glimpses of the wraparound mountains up ahead, of vehicles flying everywhere behind him. He watches as the guns of the shakers in the center open up against the artillery rigged into the rocks. He wonders how this could get any worse.

They’re on the verge of off-world mountains, and Haskell’s no longer fooled. It’s as though every cell in her is suddenly flaring into life. Her conscious mind’s swallowed in the vortex of the unknown—of her unknown—and she’s not even trying to keep pace. She feels her head tilting back in her seat, feels the pilot glance at her nervously, feels him recede from her along with everything else. She sees the lives of all those around her on some grid from which infinite axes sprout. Space- time’s just one piece of something larger: something that’s now blossoming through her, shooting her through with rapture, seizing her with ecstasy beyond any she’s ever known—life lived between the two singularities of birth and rebirth and skirting all the little deaths in between. Her mind catapults out on the zone, leaps in toward those mountains.

Shots hurtle all around the Operative. Plasma hurtles overhead. Debris is going everywhere. He’s seeking whatever cover he can find. Those around him are doing the same. They’re right at ground level, smashing through groves of stubby trees, whipping past rocks. Towering overhead are endless mountains, wrapping above them and onto the ceiling, converging upon the South Pole. “The place of reckoning,” says Sarmax. “Or near enough,” replies the Operative—and starts screaming at those behind him to keep up the pace. They hold course, streak in over the foothills.

“Which conduit are we making for?” yells Sarmax. “We feint there,” yells the Operative. “We hit here.”

“And our marines?” asks Lynx.

“Let’s play that one by ear,” says Sarmax.

“Exactly” says the Operative.

Meaning that maybe those marines will end up just piling in toward that diversion while the three who pull their strings swing the other way at the decisive moment. It’s all going to depend on how the next few minutes unfold.

Or the next few seconds.

Because suddenly the Manilishi’s shoving herself into the Operative’s head, pushing him beyond his skull, making him one with the mountains. The Euro guns that became Praetorian that became the Rain’s are blasting past him; the whole cylinder’s turning around him as his mind dives deep into the rock, slicing through the wreckage of the Euro zone. There’s no zone left in there now.

Only there is. Although he’s not even sure it is a zone. It’s more like the intimation of one. He’s got no idea how to hack it. Not even with her doing the hacking. He’s not even sure that matters.

Linehan’s screaming at him but Spencer no longer hears. Guns keep on firing but he no longer sees them. He’s bound up in something far stronger than himself. He’s the tracks over which the whole train’s rolling. His mind’s ablaze with the insight of another.

Because Haskell finally gets it—finally sees the pattern she’s been searching for. The one that was right under her nose: she triangulates through the eyes of all her razors, all along the battle line, zeroing in on the one thing that only she can. She’s looking at the most customized zone in existence. Zone that’s probably not even