The Burning Skies

tearing its way through low-G factory levels now, coming in through torn rails and storage units, fighting Euro security robots and mining droids—not to mention things that seem to have been created by the very factories that her forces are now destroying. In her mind, calculations slide together in a dawning realization. She’s not surprised in the slightest when Huselid’s voice echoes in her helmet. She suddenly realizes that she’s been expecting this all along.

“Change up coordinates,” he says, reeling off numbers. “Entire formation.”

“Away from the Window?” asks the pilot.

“Just do it,” snarls Haskell.

• • •

They’re pressed up against the walls. They’ve got their camouflage going. They’re looking at so me kind of flame down the farther reaches of this tunnel.

“Don’t move a goddamn muscle,” says Spencer.

That’s what Carson’s just ordered. And Linehan’s obeying. He’s already switched off his light. He and Spencer keep their weapons trained on the thing that’s now approaching: a suit that’s been nailed almost beyond repair, thrusters so gone it’s a wonder it’s still flying. It hurtles in toward them.

“It’s Praetorian,” breathes Spencer.

“You mean it looks Praetorian.”

It’s got the Praetorian colors, that’s for sure. It sears past them, rounds a corner.

Now!” yells Sarmax. He and the Operative fire simultaneously as the suit flashes past them. The thrusters on its back explode: the suit skids against the floor, smashes against the wall. The Operative rushes into the blind spot of its weapons, shoves a gun against its visor. A man’s face stares up at him. Sarmax risks a tightbeam transmission.

“We’re Praetorian,” he says. “Same as you.”

“It’s over,” says the soldier. “We’re fucked. We’re fucked. We’re—”

“Shut him up,” hisses the Operative.

Sarmax lowers his gun, fires, grazes the soldier’s helmet with a shot that melts the man’s comlink. He shoves a tether into a jack on the soldier’s shoulder.

“Now talk,” he says.

And keep it together,” adds the Operative. “You’re a Praetorian for fuck’s sake.”

“Not anymore,” mutters the soldier.

“What?”

“The Throne’s fucking gone.”

“Bullshit.”

“The Rain collapsed our perimeter in nothing flat. They executed him in front of my eyes. Jesus —”

“So how come you made it out?”

“Saw it happen from an observation platform,” says the soldier. “Saw only one way out.”

“You mean this?” asks the Operative. He fires a single shot through the soldier’s visor. Blood and bone churn inside that helmet. Sarmax whirls on the Operative.

“What the fuck’s your prob—”

“Shut up, Leo,” snarls the Operative. “Anyone who leaves the Throne’s side is forfeit.”

“The Throne’s gone. The executive node—”

“Is up for grabs. Let’s get in there and take it.”

Spencer’s head whips back as Carson starts screaming at him. In the distance he can see Carson’s thrusters igniting. He hits his own, yells at Linehan.

“Let’s go! This is fucking it!”

They surge forward. Apparently there’s no point in stealth now. Nor is there any further sign of fighting up ahead. He and Linehan roar down the corridor, down another tunnel, up another shaft, throttling up to breakneck speeds. He’d like to take it a little slower. But he knows better than to question Carson. Especially when the man’s got his guns trained on Spencer’s back.

Or maybe he doesn’t. Spencer suddenly realizes he can’t even see Carson and Sarmax on the rear screens anymore. Apparently they’re letting him and Linehan get out ahead. Letting them get in there first. Because—

“We’re history,” says Linehan.

“In a moment,” replies Spencer.

They blast down a staircase, blast past Praetorian corpses, tear past vents that have popped open and out of which something seems to have emerged. Signs of firefight are everywhere.

“The outer defenses,” says Linehan.

They charge into an elevator shaft, drop down it like meteors. They break through more doors, streak into a huge chamber where a power plant’s been scattered all over the walls, along with too many Praetorians. The tunnels that lead away from here have the remnants of heavy weapons protruding from them.

“The inner defenses,” says Spencer.

They roar past the last guns, down the last tunnels, hurtle out into a vast space.

They’ve sidestepped away from Linehan and Spencer. They’re running full throttle—Lynx on rearguard, the Operative and Sarmax on point. They’re taking their own route in: a passage that cuts straight in from the tunnels that honeycomb the area beyond the outer defenses. A passage that leads to the edge of the Window. A passage off all the maps.

Or so they hope.

“What the fuck’s going on up there?” asks Sarmax.

“We’re about to find out,” says the Operative.

“Hey, are you picking up anything weird with that relief force?”

“That’s one way to put it.” He patches Lynx in. “Lynx, are you—”

“Yeah,” says Lynx. “The cavalry’s changing it up.”

“Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.

The Operative meshes the data, sends it over.

“What the fuck,” says Sarmax.

“They’re wheeling right. And moving away at speed.”

“The Rain’s intercepted them,” says Lynx.

“Doubtful,” says the Operative.

“Especially when the Rain were just here,” says Sarmax.

“They’ve got a way of moving fast,” says Lynx.

“So do we,” mutters the Operative.

They crash on out into the vicinity of the Window: a mammoth cave carved into the asteroid’s side, a quarter-klick wide in places, shards of translucent plastic jutting out across its mouth. Space drifts beyond. Broken bodies and shattered machinery are everywhere. There’s no sign of life.

Except for Spencer and Linehan. They’re over on the far side, checking things out.

“Glad you could join us,” says Linehan.

“Save it,” says the Operative. “What’ve you found?”

“A real fucking mess.”

“Split up,” says the Operative. “Search this place. Find the president.”