As if they weren’t fucked enough. The Operative realizes too late that he was an idiot to think they could make it across the surface. That of course the Rain would have everything covered. The Hangar’s probably been overrun anyway. They’re now on the cusp of what should be the outermost of its perimeters, but the turrets jutting along the horizon show no sign of any guns, just scorch-marks where energy’s been hurled against them, unleashed by the Helios, which is going to get the drop on the Operative’s group if they retreat from the onrushing swarm or if they try to hold their positions on the asteroid while it rotates. Though they’re being forced to do that anyway: halting, taking up positions, covering all directions. “Fire at will,” snarls the Operative.
The vise is tightening around them. The mined-out areas through which they’re passing are alive with dust and drones. And more besides: suited figures are appearing around corridor corners, emerging from cave mouths, opening up on Haskell’s force.
“Jesus,” says the pilot. “Those are—”
“I know,” she says.
Praetorians. Who got swarmed in the initial combat. And repurposed, with a new lease on life. They may be dead, but their suits are fighting on. Haskell catches glimpses of lifeless eyes behind visors as suits hurl themselves at her shaker, go down beneath its treads.
“Not easy,” says Huselid.
She says nothing. She doesn’t know whether he’s talking about the resolution required to shoot at former colleagues or offering a more general assessment of the whole situation. All she knows is that the hunters are overtaking them. She urges her pilot to pour on the speed.
• • •
The five men open up, tearing swathes in the swarms heading in toward them. Explosions rip across the rock. Flashes light up the horizon all around.
But the opposition’s playing it like a numbers game, darting out of the blast-radii of the nukes; hugging the surface; getting in between the nooks and crannies of the rock, then rushing forward again.
“Jesus,” says Spencer.
“Behind us too,” says Lynx.
“We got to get off the surface!” yells Sarmax.
“Agreed,” says the Operative.
He’s blasting the nearest hatch, which spins off into space. More dust pours out of the opening.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“At least let’s make ’em pay,” says Sarmax.
It’s all they can hope to do. The shit’s coming in from every direction now. They’ve got no more hi- ex. The clouds close in on them. Beyond them the Operative can see still more shapes rising from the horizon, wafting into the black above.
And raining fire down on everything below.
Jets of plasma. Whole racks of minitacticals. Light overwhelms the Operative’s screens, even as he fires point-blank at what’s gotten past the firing zone. As the flashes fade, he sees Praetorian gunships overhead, their engines glowing molten, their guns flaring.
Another hatch pops open. The Operative doesn’t hesitate; he starts blasting in toward it, and the others follow him while shredded nano wafts everywhere. The gunships soar past, drop back toward the horizon.
And the Operative knows the reason why. Because the world’s still turning. And the Helios is about to come up over the horizon like a demented sun. The hatch swings shut. The five men find themselves enclosed in a tiny elevator-like chamber, which starts moving along an unseen shaft within the asteroid.
But then the chamber stops. An interface in the wall transmits. The Operative hears a voice.
“Carson,” it says.
“Yeah?” he replies.
“What the fuck’s going on out there?”
“And what kind of street trash have you brought in with you?” asks another voice.
“Fuck you guys,” says the Operative. “How about reloading us and letting us go kick some ass?”
“Give us some codes and sure.”
“You mean to say you actually have a zone in the Hangar?”
“We brought a cauterized mainframe online. It’s a long way from perfect. Now how about those codes?”
All yours,” says the Operative, beaming them over. “Now how about you tell me who the fuck’s in charge.”
“Us,” says the first voice.
“Now tell us who we are,” says the second.
“Give me a break—”
“Just do it.”
“Murray,” says the Operative. “And Hartnett. And I can’t believe you guys are fucking
“We’ve taken a beating, Carson. Is that Leo you’ve got with you?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?”
“Patch him in,” says Hartnett.
The Operative wants to argue—wants to tell the two men who are now in command of the Hangar just how urgent the situation is. But he knows they’ve got to do their due diligence. Voiceprint and retina sampling, not to mention a little conversation—he’d do the same if he were them. Nothing’s conclusive. But every little bit helps.
“Hey, Leo,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Sarmax.
“Remember me?” asks Murray.
Sarmax laughs. “Moving up in the world, huh?”
“More like the world’s crumbling down around us,” says Hartnett.
“So what’s up?”
“What’s up is that you’re back.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know that,” says Sarmax.
“Thought it was just a rumor.”
“Maybe we should keep it that way.”
“Not when you’re a living legend,” says Murray.
“Or when you kicked so much ass for so long,” adds Hartnett. “And I guess the one-handed wonder is Lynx.”
“What about these other two?” asks Murray.
“Some cannon fodder we picked up,” says the Operative.
“That managed to remain alive?”
“Sometimes it happens.”
“So how about you upload their IDs?”
“Sure.” The Operative complies. “Steroid-casualty named Linehan, razor calls himself Spencer. They were InfoCom before the Throne overwrote their asses. Linehan used to soldier for SpaceCom back in the day.”
“And the Throne gave him a ticket to
“Didn’t exactly give him the best seat in the house.”
