The Burning Skies

around an axis that extends through a core that must have just been completely hollowed out by the blasts. Off to one side—set in a southern-facing overhang along the asteroid’s equator—is the Window, the conduit via which heavy mining equipment is moved into the asteroid. Farther south along the asteroid’s opposite side is a door that bulges slightly outward.

“The Hangars,” says Lynx.

“Which is where the Throne originally landed,” says Sarmax.

“Probably,” says the Operative. “But to the extent that anyone’s still holding out there it’s only because the Rain have had bigger fish to fry.”

“But that’s where the spaceships are—”

“Spaceships aren’t what they used to be,” says Lynx.

“Neither are presidents,” says the Operative. “If the Throne stuck to the game plan, then he set up his HQ at the core, but he didn’t stay there when the combat hit. He was supposed to split for the Window as soon as the fur started flying.”

“Do the Rain know that?” asks Lynx.

“I’ve no idea. But what really matters is what they thought we thought. And when the main body of the Hand’s relief force reached this rock, they immediately drove on the core. So that’s where the Rain would automatically figure we still thought the Throne was. They were trying to egg on the Hand, draw the relief force in, and annihilate them accordingly.”

“So the Rain haven’t found the Throne yet?”

“Let’s hope not,” says the Operative.

“But now the Hand’s steaming up behind us,” says Lynx.

“And we’re way closer to the Window than the Rain know,” mutters Sarmax.

“Too right,” says the Operative. “Now how about we move.”

They’re moving at high speed now, charging in toward the Window. Seismic readings keep rippling in from the way they’ve come …

“Those aren’t just our bombs,” she says.

“They probably rigged the core with their own munitions,” says Huselid.

She nods. The Throne’s defenses in the Aerie were clearly overwhelmed early. Haskell can only hope that they kept the Rain as busy as possible while she and the Hand were fighting their way across the cylinder. Huselid’s indicated that the only two places that have a hope of still holding out are the Window and the Hangar. And the relief force just tipped its hand as to which one of those it deems as more important. Haskell’s working feverishly to keep her forces coordinated in the wake of the formation’s switch-up. Some of the outlying units have been cut off—swarmed by dust and drones like jungle creatures being brought down by army ants. She can’t do anything for them once they fall out of contact. In these tunnels, all she can reach is what’s available to her along a chain of vehicles and suits.

But now suddenly her mind’s reaching out much farther than that.

The words flash into Spencer’s helmet: hurry the fuck up. He passes it on to Linehan. Who laughs. “Easy for them to say” he says.

They’re deep into an industrial area, about thirty meters down a very narrow chute. The gravity’s intensifying the farther into it they go. Spencer and Linehan are all too conscious of the nature of the tube they’re crawling in. And they know exactly what’s going to happen if it gets put to use …

“Easy or not,” says Spencer, “we got to hurry this up.”

“No shit.”

It’s a tough passage. Linehan’s got his neck and shoulders against one wall of the chute, his feet against the other. There’s just enough room for him to lower his gun arm past his legs. The light on the end of the gun casts a beam that vanishes into the darkness below. But not before illuminating a hatch.

“Okay,” he says. “I see it.”

“About time,” replies Spencer.

They work their way along those last few meters, pry the hatch open. The mass-driver tube they’re now exiting extends straight through half the asteroid. It can fling chunks of rock and metal at speeds well in excess of orbital velocity. It’s a useful shortcut for anyone who’s feeling lucky.

“Now those fucks get to try it,” says Linehan.

“They’ll probably use their thrusters,” replies Spencer. “Now that we’ve paved the way.”

“Pussies.”

“For fuck’s sake, focus. We’re getting close.”

They crawl along what looks like a maintenance tunnel built to service the mass-driver. It’s very narrow. They move along it, slide a door open, go through into a much wider corridor.

Just as the floor beneath them starts to shake again.

“Ahead of us this time,” says Linehan.

“And way too close,” mutters Spencer.

It’s unmistakable. Huge explosions are going off in close proximity up ahead. Triangulation with Lynx establishes pretty quickly where.

“Things are getting hot at the Window,” says the Operative.

“Small wonder.”

“The Rain’s trying to shatter the Throne before the cavalry arrives.”

“The cavalry that’s now about five minutes behind us.”

“Hold on,” says the Operative. He and Sarmax step into the mass-driver chute, ignite their thrusters. They blast down to the hatch that’s still open, turn into the maintenance corridor, turn off their thrusters while Lynx descends after them. The explosions are closer, intensifying. Rockdust starts drifting from the walls.

“We’ve got to get in behind the Rain’s assault,” shouts the Operative. “Find a way to fuck them up the ass.”

“Find a way to get their dick out of ours,” mutters Sarmax.

They descend down ladders, move through a series of air-locked hatches that have been blasted open. They head through a cave that’s filled with derelict mining vehicles—edge past them, down a corridor that’s shaking so hard it feels like it’s right inside their helmets.

But then it stops.

“Huh,” says Sarmax.

“My thoughts exactly” says the Operative.

He releases the tethers, tells the guys on point to start running. He and Sarmax are doing the same, throwing caution to the wind, taking advantage of the fact that they’re now in gravity to sprint. They’re still holding off on their suit-thrusters, though, since that would raise their heat-signature to unacceptable levels. They race down a stairway that seems like it has no bottom, head through a series of interlocked galleries, emerge into another passageway. Spencer’s voice sounds in the Operative’s skull.

“Movement,” it says.

“Where?”

“Right on top of us.”

It’s burning in her fucking brain. She can sense the Rain out there, at the Window. Not as precisely as before—she can’t detect their zone through all the rock. But she knows they’re there all the same. That sixth sense again, telling her that the Rain have done what they came for. But she’s just beginning. Her formation’s