able to break through. But all those estimations are just guesses—just long lines of probabilities whipping through her head—and maybe she’s staying on the right side of those odds because she’s still breathing. Space gets cut off on all sides by shattered mountain and blasted rock; Haskell’s ship starts maneuvering through tunnels. Cycles whip in ahead of her to ensure that the Hand’s ship isn’t the one on point. Rock rips past on all sides. Maps click on overlays in her head. Tunnel walls streak past as she dives in among those grids.
The room’s rocking like it’s in the throes of an earthquake. The Operative pours on the flame, keeping the two who rode that bike in the crosshairs of his rear-screens while he keeps on shooting. Suddenly his enhanced vision is obscured by what looks like some kind of whirlwind: it rips in toward him, patters like rain against his suit.
“Carson!” yells Sarmax.
“Keep firing,” replies the Operative, and turns his own flame on his suit. For a moment he’s a human torch. He watches the temperature readings climb, compounds their effect by clamping his hand against his chest and extruding acid from the fingers of his suit-glove. He burns off a large chunk of his suit’s outermost skin, along with all the material that’s managed to cluster on him—and then switches off his burners. Deprived of oxygen, the flame cuts out. The Operative smears acid neutralizers across his suit’s front torso.
At the same time, Sarmax and Lynx stop firing, because there’s nothing left to fire at. The target area’s a total shambles. The tunnel mouth looks a lot wider. Dust drifts through the zero-G. But there’s not much of it. And that’s all it’s doing: drifting.
“Okaaaay,” says the Operative as he takes stock. This room’s clear. And the seismic readings from the direction of the main force have dropped away to nothing. Suddenly it’s all too quiet. Sarmax covers the newcomers while Lynx covers the exits. The Operative does the talking.
“Praetorian cycle serial number X seven three five G. Which must make you … Spencer and Linehan. Now how about you transmit the codes and prove it.”
He’d already seen Spencer—earlier, back on that ship that hit the cylinder. But the Operative isn’t about to give anyone the benefit of any doubt. Not now. Not in here.
“How the fuck do we know—”
“Linehan,” says the Operative. “How about you shut your mouth?”
“Or I can do it for you,” says Sarmax.
Spencer transmitted his codes almost as soon as the Operative started speaking. Now Linehan follows suit. Both sets of codes check out against the cypher the Manilishi’s given the Operative. He syncs Spencer and Linehan with his tactical mesh. Locks them in.
And grins.
“Okay, now listen up. The guy with the fuck-sized gun is Sarmax. The guy with one hand’s Lynx. I’m Carson, one of the Throne’s bodyguards. The main force is probably about a half a click behind us. We’re the advance team. Next stop’s the Throne’s sanctuary.”
“Yeah?” asks Linehan. “How the hell do you propose we get past all the nanoshit?”
“Not to mention the Rain hit teams,” says Spencer.
“By redefining the word
“And you’ll never guess who’s taking point,” adds Sarmax.
• • •
I? don’t like this one little bit,” says Linehan.
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” asks Spencer.
“I wasn’t asking.”
It’s a minute later. They’re moving through a narrow crawlspace. They’re making as much speed as they can muster without turning on their thrusters. Neither are using active sensors save for an occasional light.
“That fuck of a bodyguard is going to hang us out to
“Earth to Linehan: he already did.”
The two men are attached to each other by a hyperfine tether, specially designed to avoid snagging and containing a wire that serves as their comlink. Another such tether’s attached only to Spencer; it trails behind him, disappears in his wake. Meaning that in theory Carson’s no more than fifty meters behind them.
“Gotta hand it to the guy,” says Linehan, “he sure knows something about how to play a weak hand.”
Spencer laughs. “The problem for the Praetorians is that the better they get at that —”
“The shittier their cards keep getting? I noticed.”
They’re about seventy meters behind the men on point. The tether is slightly longer than those men were told. It allows the Operative and Sarmax to see the perspective of the ones on point without having to maintain line-of-sight or risk a broadcast. To say nothing of the peace of mind that comes from having somebody else go first …
“The Rain have really been pushing the tech envelope,” mutters Sarmax.
“They’ve got a real nasty talent for surprise.”
“Speaking of, what’s this about you being a bodyguard?”
“Funny Lynx was just asking me the same question.”
“And did you answer him?”
“If
Lynx is about thirty meters farther back, connected to the Operative via yet another tether, bringing up the rear. He’s been instructed to limit all further transmissions to mission-critical developments.
“But I’m not him,” says Sarmax.
“No,” replies the Operative, “thank fuck for that. I’ve been one since the beginning of the year.”
“So, newly promoted.”
“Yeah. I think the Throne was doing a reshuffling in the wake of Zurich. Rethinking who he could trust.”
“That’s a good one,” snorts Sarmax.
“Hey he’s got to trust
“And your handler’s the Hand himself?”
“Huselid. Yeah. He’s changed it up a little these last few months. He’s got about five operatives who never leave the Throne’s side and about ten of us in the field riding herd on all the other agents.”
“Risky? That’s the point. Best defense’s a good offense.”
“And it’s backfired on him big time.”
“Not if I can help it.” As the Operative transmits those words, he starts picking up a new vibration coming through the rock. He keys Lynx immediately.
“Lynx.”
“Yeah?”
“You got that?”
“Yeah.” Lynx sends over the seismic data. The Operative combines, triangulates.
“What’s up?” says Sarmax.
“What’s up is that the shit’s saying hi to the fan.”
• • •
