Sarmax stares.
And starts screaming orders.
Spencer! Cauterize and go!”
Spencer needs no urging. Titanium doors slam shut two rooms back. Engine block number one blasts to life. The new ship starts roaring forward. Though it’s not much of a ship. It’s basically the cockpit and the engines, speeding away from what’s left.
“What the hell’s going on?” asks Linehan.
“The Throne’s on the hull,” says Spencer.
• • •
Jets and minds racing, the Operative and Lynx hit the engine room, which has just gone silent, surge across the chamber, past the turbines and into the crawlspace that’s still warm with the heat signatures of the armor that just passed through. The Operative leads the way, finds the point where the engine shaft’s been melted through with thermite. He goes through, rockets down it and into an adjoining vent. Lynx follows him. His voice crackles in the Operative’s ears.
“We’re sitting ducks in here!”
“Shut up and get ready to fight!” screams the Operative.
Sarmax floors it, starts piloting the craft along an arc that turns it back toward the bulk of presidential ship. It’s shooting headless through space. Ten more seconds, and he can start bringing the forward guns to bear. Haskell works the cameras, adjusts the magnification.
“What we got?” asks Sarmax. “Two assholes after the Throne.”
Fuck,” says Linehan, “can’t you hold us steady?”
“It’s tougher than it fucking looks,” hisses Spencer.
He’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The truncated cockpit-ship’s maneuverability is for shit. He’s trying to bring it round and back toward the scene of all the action. The debris that constitutes what’s left of the Europa Platform is a speck upon the screen. Spencer’s getting the ship under control, turning it …
• • •
The Operative and Lynx blast out of the vent to find themselves in a wilderness of panels and struts and wires. No one’s in sight. “Spread out,” says the Operative.
Lynx knows the drill. The two men get some distance between them. They’re keeping low, keeping each other in sight the whole time. And now the voice of Sarmax echoes through the Operative’s ears.
“Carson,” it says, “they’re on the other side. We’ve got visual on them. We’ve—Shit!”
“Talk to me, Leo,” snarls the Operative—even as he sees what Sarmax is talking about.
He must have stashed it out there,” says Haskell. A man who thinks ahead: the rocket-sled that’s now streaking from the ship’s hull is piloted by the president himself. It’s scarcely bigger than his own suit. It’s making good progress all the same.
“Let’s get in there,” says Sarmax.
“I don’t think so,” says a voice.
Haskell whirls along with Sarmax. One of the suits in the back is stepping forward, reverting from its Euro trappings to its real ones in a swirl of shifting hues. A minigun’s sprouting from its shoulder. A woman’s face smiles mirthlessly behind the visor. Her face isn’t familiar. But Haskell can see that Sarmax is shaking anyway.
“Indigo,” he says.
“You’ve forfeited the right to know,” says the woman.
“For fuck’s sake, talk to me.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to you. Take us thirty degrees left or I’ll blast you both into that dashboard.”
• • •
He’s veering away,” says Spencer.
“So ask him why.”
“He just cut off contact.”
“Christ,” says Linehan, “that’s a fucking
“What?” asks Spencer, and suddenly feels something smack against his shoulder and lodge there. He turns in his chair, sees that he’s been hit by a strange-looking gun. It’s held by the ship’s navigator, who’s still slumped against the wall, blood clearly visible behind his visor—but he’s turning the gun on Linehan all the same. Spencer dives from his chair, bringing his own guns to bear.
Even as his armor freezes, shuts down as a hack pours from the projectile now embedded within it. Spencer tries to fight it—gets shoved back into his own skull. He floats against the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Linehan drifting helpless, fury on his face. The navigator pulls himself forward to the instrument panel. Blood’s dripping from his mouth. He starts working the controls. His words sound in Spencer’s head.
“I’m dying,” he says. “But you’re already dead.”
The Operative gets a glimpse of metal falling away, feels himself being hauled out into space. Lynx is about ten meters behind him. They’re both hanging onto tethers they’ve fired at the president’s sled. Problem is, they aren’t the only ones. “Light them up,” snarls the Operative. But that’s tough when the ones you’re targeting are between you and the sled’s rider: two members of the Rain are about twenty meters ahead, clinging onto tethers, one firing at Harrison, the other firing back at the Operative and Lynx—who ignite their suit-jets, dart aside, return fire. The Operative can see Harrison slashing out with a laser, slashing at the tethers—and then sprawling against the sled’s controls as shots from the Rain strike him. The sled accelerates. Light fills the Operative’s visor.
A white flash from the direction of the presidential ship. It’s disintegrating, breaking apart. Pieces of : flying everywhere. “What the hell,” says Haskell. “The Throne’s last card,” says the woman. Haskell stares at her —is met by an expression of pure resolution.
“It won’t save him,” the woman adds. “Ships beat suits any day.”
“Depends who’s wearing them,” says Sarmax. “Enough,” she snaps. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
The wayward cockpit accelerates again. Spencer slides across the floor, drifts against the wall, turns his head within his helmet to behold the navigator putting the ship through a series of maneuvers. Spencer hurls himself against the hack once more, practically gets brain-fried for his troubles.
“Take it easy,” says the navigator. “It’s almost over.”
Contingency planning: the Throne had set charges over his ship to detonate after he’d gotten clear —though
