and then some—combat’s under way. The two men eye the windows, the door, the corners. Almost as though they suddenly expect their enemy to spring from the walls. Which may not be an illogical assumption.
A gun-tower off to the side suddenly balloons outward, silent explosion tearing its turret off and tossing it into space. Suited Praetorians are emerging from a bunker nearby, firing at something still unseen. Even as they do so, a frag-shell lands among them, shreds their suits, leaves pieces floating lifeless.
“Getting hot,” says Spencer.
“What the hell’s that?”
A new rumbling’s shaking the room, coming from straight out beyond the perimeter. It bears a familiar vibration signature.
“That was what we heard earl—”
“I know,” says Linehan.
And now they’re seeing it again too: some strange object protruding just beyond the asteroid’s horizon. Something that’s not small. And that’s rising steadily from the horizon. Not because it’s getting any larger. But rather …
“It’s heading straight for us.”
“What the fuck is it,” says Spencer.
“I’m not sure it matters,” replies Linehan.
The basements of the shattered city that reigned as queen of neutral space give way to maintenance corridors that give way to freight conduits that give way in turn to ….
“These look familiar,” says Sarmax. “They should,” replies the Operative.
Because this is where it all kicked off. The warehouses through which they’re moving are the ones from which the shakers set off on their breakneck haul across the cylinder more than twelve hours back. They’re empty now. Backup filaments cast a feeble light. The Operative wonders how many of the soldiers who waited here are still alive. He lets the vehicle prowl up a ramp and rise through more trapdoors and into another corridor. A vaultlike door lies open at its end.
“Fucking deja vu,” says Lynx.
They head through, into a familiar double-leveled chamber. The darkness is near total, save for the light of stars coming in from the window facing space. The Operative amps the craft’s photo-enhancers, uses the starlight for a close inspection of the room.
Not that there’s much to see. It’s mostly empty. Though it’s obviously been ransacked since the Praetorians took off. Wall panels have been ripped down, tossed aside. Flooring’s been torn up. The area where the Manilishi and the ruler of the United States once stood shows signs of special attention.
“Due diligence,” says Sarmax.
“They’ll have found nothing useful,” replies the Operative.
But he understands the thinking. Make sure you’re in a position to capitalize on every fuck-up. Or anything that even looks like one. Which is why the Operative has crossed from pole to pole again. Why he’s come back to this room. And why he’s turning to the men behind him.
“It’s time,” he says.
• • •
The final stage of the last battle’s under way. The Rain’s machine proxies are hitting the Praetorians all along the perimeter. They’re pressing for a breakthrough along several fronts. Spencer and Linehan are right in the middle of one such area. They’ve never been so fucked. Nor have they ever seen anything like what’s now bearing down upon them.
“Look at the
“I noticed,” says Linehan.
There’s no way he couldn’t have. It’s three stories high. It’s like a medieval siege-tower on acid. Guns are mounted all along it. Magnetic treads drive it forward. It’s some kind of modified construction robot. It used to dig out chambers in this asteroid. Now it’s going to plow like hell all the way to the Hangar, racking up a fuck-sized body count as it does so.
“We’ve got to get below,” says Linehan. “We stay here, we’re just a speed bump.”
“Someone’s got to stop it,” says Spencer.
“No reason it has to be us.”
Plasma starts streaking past them. Guns mounted atop the behemoth are firing. Shots are striking home along the inner perimeter. Their bunker’s own gun is firing back. And being targeted.
“We’re outta here,” says Linehan.
“Agreed,” says Spencer.
They haul open the trapdoor, pull themselves into the corridor beyond. Rumbling cascades through it. But it’s still empty.
“Back the way we came,” says Spencer.
“Fuck,” says Linehan, “the Praetorians’ll shoot us if we run that way.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Admit we’re out of options.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning get unpredictable.”
• • •
The three men get busy getting ready, pulling their stashed equipment out of the vehicle, snapping pieces together, soldering others, configuring what’s taking shape before them.
“Faster,” says the Operative.
They’re trying, but it’s tough work. Not to mention tense. At any moment something might streak into the chamber and crash their little party. They keep on pulling pieces from compartments, unloading the cargo they’ve brought with them.
“Looking good,” says Sarmax.
So far. The composite structure is almost the length of the Remoraz. But it’s still taking shape. And they’re pretty much out of things to add to it. The cargo they packed is almost gone. In fact—
“We’re out,” says Lynx.
“Somebody fucked up,” says Sarmax.
“Relax,” says the Operative. “We got everything we need.”
They look at him.
“Knew you would,” says the Operative.
So what the fuck are you suggesting we do?” yells Spencer.
“I’m making this up as we go!” screams Linehan. He fires his suit-jets, starts heading out beyond the perimeter, down a corridor that seems like it’s going to buckle at any moment.
“Linehan! Come back!”
“Come with me!”
Spencer curses—but heads after Linehan. Who he figures has finally lost it. Or just bowed to the inevitable. Because the shit’s hitting from every side. And Linehan’s right. Everyone who retreats is going to get run down or else be butchered by their own side. Spencer’s on the point of trying to do exactly that to Linehan. But instead he just keeps on racing after him, even as he realizes what the man’s up to.
The Remoraz,” says Lynx. “Yeah,” replies the Operative—and ignites a flamer, starts getting to work. Their vehicle’s skin looks so real he almost expects it to start screeching in pain. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, gives itself up to one last service.
