The Burning Skies

“They started out with three triads.”

“One of which is now a mountain sandwich.”

“Let’s hope they’ve suffered more casualties than that.”

“Wonder how many drones they’ve got in here,” says Sarmax.

Way too many, the Operative’s thinking as they roar onward. The topography of the Aerie clicks into view within his head; he beams it over to Lynx and Sarmax. Several klicks in diameter, the asteroid is a honeycomb of passages and chambers. Most of it’s given over to industry, mining, and R&D, though the private quarters of the Euro Magnates also lie within.

“Fuck,” says Sarmax, “what a maze.”

The Operative isn’t about to disagree. They come through into a vast gallery—one that must have backup generators nearby, because lights are flickering here and there. Whatever original function the place had is no longer clear, thanks to the firefight that’s taken place within it. Dead Praetorians and shattered equipment are everywhere. The three men soar past them. But even as they do …

“Hey,” says Sarmax. “That’s—”

“Look at those bodies,” hisses Lynx.

“I see it,” replies the Operative.

There’s no way she could miss it—it’s all coming in straight toward her. Wreckage smashes through vehicles, crushing them like tin cans and turning suited figures into bloody pancakes. Her pilot’s hurling his body this way and that, taking the shaker through turns it wasn’t designed for, firing jets and motors, even pushing claws off a smaller chunk of metal that’s coming in at an oblique angle—and bouncing off with a resounding clang that feels like it’s shaken her brain loose inside her skull. Scorched earth’s behind her and shattered stone’s in front. The forward units are either inside that rock or in hell. The main force is heading in to join them. She gets glimpses of the other shakers coming in behind her. Her pilot moves their ship into the spearhead of the formation. The main rock’s coming in like a wall. She estimates they’ve got less than thirty seconds till they reach it.

“One choice, m’lady” says the pilot.

“I realize that,” she snarls.

“No point in firing piecemeal,” says the Hand.

“I’m syncing the whole formation,” she replies. “Stand by.”

He acknowledges as the calculations flash through her head.

• • •

Thruster-flames play upon the walls. Their own shadows chase them through the tunnels. Garbled transmissions reach their ears from somewhere deeper within the catacombs.

“Can’t hear a word they’re saying,” says Linehan.

“That’s because you’re not listening,” mutters Spencer.

Or just not processing them properly. Because Linehan’s no razor. There’s no zone in here to speak of anyway, save the fraction that now resides within Spencer’s skull. But that’s all he needs to figure out what these transmissions contain. Which isn’t much.

“Well?” demands Linehan.

“Death trap.”

“What?”

“That’s it.”

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I mean that’s the message.”

“It says nothing else?”

“You think it fucking needs to?”

Everyone in here got fucked,” says Lynx. “Stay a way from the bodies,” snarls the operative.

“We don’t have time for this,” says Sarmax. “We need to keep moving.”

“What we need is more data,” says the Operative. “These Praetorians must have taken out some of them. Scan the walls. Scan this place. Has to be some debris somewhere.”

“Nanotech,” says Lynx. “Fuck.”

“Not quite that small,” says Sarmax. “More like micro—”

“Close enough,” says the Operative. “The Throne slung the asteroid into the cylinder to make sure the Rain couldn’t blow the conduits. To keep alive the hope that the Hand could get across and bail him out of this mess.”

“Hey,” says Lynx. “We’ve got heat signatures—”

“Yeah,” says the Operative, “I’m picking it up too.”

“Coming this way,” says Lynx. “Fast.”

Spencer’s the first to notice. The shadows cast by the flames of the bike’s thrusters are starting to look a little strange. They’re flickering in ways they shouldn’t. They’re …

“Linehan,” screams Spencer, “step on it!” Linehan hits the gas. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I said fucking step on it!” Linehan floors it; Spencer grabs onto his seat, engages the rear gun, opens up on what’s starting to overtake them. He can’t tell if he’s hitting anything—or if there’s even anything to hit. But the flames are shifting in ways that flames don’t shift. It’s almost as though he’s viewing them through layers of static. He stares. He magnifies the view. And then he gets it.

Let’s get out of here,” says Sarmax. “Out as in exit?” asks Lynx. “Don’t be a fucking retard,” snaps the Operative. “Out as in the place on this rock we need to get to.” He gestures at the corpses drifting all around. “Look, these fucks died by surprise. Before we start running, let’s rig one of our own—”

But Sarmax and Lynx are already scrambling to take up positions.

• • •

It’s unmistakable now, right on their heels, swarming in toward them. Spencer’s spraying shots at the onrushing cloud. He’s failing to get discernible results. “Any idea where the fuck we’re going?” screams Linehan. “Just make it fucking faster!” yells Spencer. Linehan’s clearly trying, but they’ve got neither maps nor plans. All they’ve got is speed. And that’s no longer at a premium. The tunnel walls rip past. Ahead of them are lights, getting brighter. And the intimations of some larger space …

The three men start firing almost before the Praetorian cycle flashes past them. Sarmax’s pulse-rifle dispenses plasma on full auto. The Operative ignites the fuel that’s floating all across the tunnel mouth. Lynx sprays flechettes like they’re going out of style. Nozzles atop their helmets unleash flame. They’ve got their targets in a crossfire. They keep on firing, making everything as hot as possible, shooting hi-ex up that tunnel for good measure. The tunnel mouth is glowing as though it’s in the throes of supernova. The bike is turning, braking behind them as the two men riding it leap off.

“You fuckers stay where you are!” shouts the Operative. Which is when the room starts shaking like it’s coming apart.

The Praetorians’ only hope for survival lies in motion—and the massive shape-charges they’re now slinging into the disintegrating side of an asteroid at point-blank range. Explosions flare all along the line—and the shakers, suits, and cycles are roaring in behind them, making for the places where Haskell estimates they’ll be