The Burning Skies

upon in turn. But the turret against which the Operative and Lynx are crouching remains silent. And now the shakers are coming out into the cavern in which the gunship’s situated. It’s still there—still firing, too, sending salvos streaking into tunnels. Praetorians clustered around the gunship head toward the shakers.

Which is when a voice sounds in the Operative’s head. It’s not calm. He amps it, broadcasts what it’s saying:

“Stay back. Stay the fuck back!”

The Praetorians turn away. The shakers are vectoring in toward the tunnel that leads back to the Hangar. No one’s trying to follow it. Which the Operative realizes is precisely what the Manilishi and the president want. He’s one of the bodyguards. He’s cleared. The others aren’t. And there isn’t time for the Manilishi to make sure. Too many variables, too far outside the outer perimeter. And the Manilishi would prefer not to indicate which of the shakers she and the Hand are in. Thus the Operative gets to be the voice. It’s okay with him. It means he’s at the Throne’s side as the shakers power out of this room. Behind him he can see the gunship starting to reverse. Ahead of him he can see the rows of gun emplacements. And more Praetorians, cheering, shaking their fists—and getting left behind as the shakers keep on going, moving on through into the Hangar itself. Soldiers scramble as the shakers head straight in toward the outer wall—and the one remaining large ship.

“Time to fly,” says Lynx.

“Not while the Helios is still laying down the law,” replies the Operative.

“It’s still a factor?”

“Unless you know something I don’t.”

Hatches open along the sides of the ship. The shakers vector in toward them. The Operative hears a voice in his head, with orders he’s been hoping to hear.

“Let’s get Leo to the medstation,” he says, gesturing at Lynx, who grabs Sarmax’s legs. The two men fire their thrusters, carry Sarmax away from the main Hangar and toward a room set into the hangar-wall in which a med-ops unit has taken up position.

“Incidentally,” says Lynx, “what happened to those two expendables we picked up?”

“I think you just answered your own question.”

But sometimes fate takes a funny turn. Because Spencer’s waking up once more. He can see light in the distance. He feels cold all over. He tries to focus. But what’s coalescing out of blur is a face he doesn’t want to see.

“You still there?” says a voice.

It’s Linehan. Spencer doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. Unless the two of them have finally ended up in hell together. Spencer tastes blood in his mouth. He grits his teeth. Exhales.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he says.

“They just dug me out,” replies Linehan.

“The Praetorians?”

“No, the Rain.”

There’s a pause.

Linehan laughs, slaps Spencer’s visor. “Dumb-ass. Had to think about that one, didn’t ya?”

“Not really,” says Spencer wearily.

“The Praetorians have thrown up a new outer perimeter. Turns out we’re inside the latest iteration of the defenses.”

“They must be feeling their oats.”

“Of course. They sent the Rain packing.”

“But we’re still trapped on this fucking rock.”

“And how.”

“And presumably that’s why they bothered to dig us out.”

“Quick as ever, Spencer. Now get up.”

Spencer does—pushes himself off the rock, hauls himself to his feet. He looks around. Praetorians are rigging equipment everywhere. A nasty thought occurs to Spencer.

“We’re not part of this dump’s garrison, are we?”

“Nope,” says Linehan. “Apparently they got more plans for us back at the Hangar.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Crazy ones, I hope.”

PART III RAIN'S SHADOW

The room is dark, though that doesn’t matter to its occupant. She’s plugged into everything anyway. She sits strapped into a chair positioned along a wall. The lights of the zone play within her—the one she’s concocted to make up for the paralysis of the real one. It’s not much of a substitute. But unless she can reverse that paralysis, it’ll have to do. Wireless is safe only on short-range line of sight. And wires lead only so far. No farther than the perimeters, in fact.

The perimeters are less than half a klick out, encompassing a tenth of the Aerie. Almost three hundred Praetorians are within. God knows how much firepower lurks without. Haskell’s assuming that in the three hours since she got here the Rain have moved most of the rogue weaponry from the cylinder into the asteroid, and have brought up all remaining smartdust. They have the Hangar under siege from all sides, except for space. But that’s covered by the Helios. It was laying down a cannonade against the Hangar doors a couple of hours ago, but it failed to break through. Then it fired its engines and fucked off. In Haskell’s mind is a grid that shows its current position: eighty klicks off the Platform’s north end, no longer in line of sight of the asteroid, but poised to annihilate anything trying to leave …

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” says Haskell.

The door opens. Light flows in from the corridor beyond. Two Praetorians enter the room. They train their visors this way and that.

“It’s been swept,” says Haskell.

They pay no attention. Just keep on scanning.

“Twenty minutes ago,” she adds. “I’ve been here ever since.”

“Orders, ma’am.”

“The Throne’s?”

The soldiers say nothing—just stiffen as the U.S. president appears in the door. Still dressed in the Hand’s armor, still wearing Huselid’s face. Haskell figures he may as well. Given that Huselid never really existed in the first place. She sees herself reflected within the visor: her helmet thrown back, so many wires protruding from her skull she looks like some kind of mechanical medusa.

Andrew Harrison gazes at her. His expression’s neutral.

“Any ideas?” he asks.

“The only one I’ve got is the one I hate the most.”

“It happens,” the Throne replies.

He’s tired. He’s bone-weary But he’s still alive. He hurts everywhere. But they’ve patched him up okay. His body’ll keep on ticking. As to his mind: that would need more than just a doctor. That would need something capable of changing the one thing that can’t be changed.