“Picking up combat all around us,” says Lynx. He starts to say something else—his voice cuts out. The Operative makes a turn, away from the route that Spencer and Linehan have been taking. About a hundred meters ahead the tunnel bends sharply.
• • •
Machines of every size and shape are crashing in like waves against the Praetorian formation. The flanks are getting forced steadily in toward the center. The rearguard’s pretty much toast. All that’s left is just a dwindling core. But the vehicles within it are staggering on regardless.
“Still softening us up,” she says.
“I realize that,” he replies.
Not that much more’s going to be required. Because this earthshaker’s in shambles. Smoke’s streaming through the cockpit from more than one electrical fire. The side-gunners are dead. All that’s left are those few of the Throne’s bodyguards still remaining: riding on top of the shaker, firing through the holes torn in its side, moving alongside the crippled vehicle as it keeps on plowing its way through the endless tunnels. In her head Haskell can see the route they’ve traversed—her mind traces back past the Window, skirting the bombed-out heart of rock, back into the wilderness of smashed stone and metal where the South Pole of the cylinder used to be. All of it keeps on whirling within her, like some siren screaming in her head.
But up ahead is the southernmost point of all. The Hangar itself. The only hope of sanctuary. Ignored by the Rain so far—or so she’s hoping. Holding out from the onslaught—or so she’s praying. She takes in the combat, watches more swarms billow toward her, more drones popping from the wall, unfolding long legs only to get their limbs shorn off by cycles slashing past her. Rock and debris smash against the cockpit window. Something streaks in behind them.
“Heads up,” says the pilot.
Too late: the window shatters. The pilot gets smashed back in his seat. Blood’s everywhere. Her suit’s been hit. She feels her systems starting to go.
Someone grabs her. She feels herself pulled bodily forward—out of the stricken shaker and into the tunnels. She feels a helmet pressed against her, sees tunnel walls flash by. She hears a voice. It’s Harrison. He’s got her in his arms. He’s telling her to hold on. She sees rock flashing past her. She feels like she’s pretty much lost it. She’s sending her own mind out all the same.
Spencer and Linehan blast through into a larger chamber. Nano comes swarming in from the other side. They start firing, but it makes little difference—the waves seem endless. “Fuck,” says Linehan.
An explosion punches out an entire wall. Carson and Lynx and Sarmax come through firing, catching the swarms in a crossfire. Spencer roars out of the way of their trajectory, curves off, veers around the cavern’s ceiling. And sees it.
Caught in the light of the explosions, it’s the same color as the rock. But it’s not rock. It’s a suit— someone clinging to the wall. Spencer hits his jets, whirls. Opens fire. There’s a blinding flash.
Explosions everywhere. Not to mention something that looks to be the flare to end all flares. All the Operative’s picking up is overload all along the spectrum. He’s dampening the inputs toward zero. He’s amping up his optic nerves to the limits of what he can take. All he can see is near-total white—and the suit of Sarmax flying past him in reverse, smoking from the chest, smashing against the wall. But now he sees something else: the vaguest outline of some other suit coming straight at him. He whips his arms up, fires.
Spencer’s blind. A blow hammers on his back. Something slams against his leg. He gets a glimpse of some landscape shot through with way too many colors, watches his own suit smash against a wall, bounce. Rocks close in from all sides. But past them he gets a glimpse of something he’s never seen before … overwhelming light … the very minarets of heaven …
Far too fast: the figure dodges past the Operative’s fire, veers crazily toward him, fires at some other target—slams its boots against the Operative with a force that almost cracks his armor. The Operative tries to grab the boots, finds himself holding nothing. All he can see is blur. He fires his jets in a desperate attempt to stay unpredictable, fires his weapons at where he thinks the target is, lashes out wildly with his razor nodes. But he knows he’s toast. Something clicks through his skull. He figures it’s death.
It’s a woman instead. Haskell—and she couldn’t be that far away, because she’s just made zone contact with him. And suddenly her vision’s his; coordinates upload and all at once the Operative can see the suit he’s fighting. He whirls in one fluid motion—fires on the now-visible figure that’s dancing past him, tossing something in its wake…. The Operative ignites his jets, hurls himself onto his nemesis as an explosion cuts through the wall behind him. He grasps onto the suit’s back, pulls against its helmet; the figure punches upward, smashes its fists against the Operative’s chest, straight through the outer armor—whereupon the Operative starts firing into the figure’s back at point-blank range. He unloads his wrist-guns, unleashing his minigun at the same time as the momentum sends him sailing backward. But the figure’s already fired its own motors, jetting aside, continuing out of sight down a tunnel. The Operative hits his motors, charges in toward the opening—
“No,” says a voice.
From right inside his head. Haskell again. She’s flaming through his brain—and now he sees her, sprawled in the arms of the U.S. president as he surges out of another passageway, along with three bodyguards. The last of the emissions-bombs the Rain set off in here are dissipating—the Operative fires his motors, soars toward the center of the chamber. He sees Lynx moving in to join him.
“Where the hell have you been?” the Operative asks.
“Here all along,” Lynx replies. “Got blinded. Was about to get the chop when suddenly everything kicked back in again.”
“That’s because the Manilishi got within range of us before the Rain did us in. They seem to have fucked off.”
“Guess they didn’t like their odds.”
“Or they’ve got something else planned. Where the hell’s Leo?”
“Beats me,” says Lynx in a tone that says
Two shakers emerge from the rock-wall like insects boring their way through wood. Jets slung along them ignite even as hatches open in the first one. The Throne pushes the Manilishi within, leaping in behind her. The shakers head for the passage that leads back toward the Hangar. The Operative swoops after them, but spots Sarmax floating near the wall, dips in toward him.
“Leave him,” says Lynx. “Too risky.”
“What’s too risky is thinking we won’t need him for whatever’s next.”
Besides, the Manilishi just green-lighted it. Sarmax’s systems remain intact, despite the pounding his suit’s just taken. The Operative grabs him by the torso, vaults in toward the last of the shakers, and settles on its back. Lynx motors in to join him. The two men perch there while the shaker accelerates. The Operative can see more Praetorians coming into the cave behind him.
“Is he still alive?” asks Lynx.
“Like you care,” replies the Operative.
“Of course I care.”
Just not in the way he’s supposed to. But it looks like Lynx isn’t going to get his wish just yet. Sarmax’s vital signs are holding up. An explosive went off right next to his suit, tore it in a few places, knocked out the suit’s systems, and hit Sarmax with a concussion that rendered him unconscious. Automatic backup seals seem to have kept him alive. Whether he’ll stay that way will need to await a med-scan. Not to mention the resolution of more pressing problems.
“This ain’t over yet,” says the Operative.
“No shit,” replies Lynx.
Bombs are detonating in their wake. The Praetorians back there are firing at something, getting fired
