The Burning Skies

the Operative, almost knocks him off. But the other member of the Rain has slid forward, reached the sled several suit lengths ahead of the pursuit, and slashed a laser through one of the tethers.

“Fuck,” says Lynx.

And tumbles past the Operative. Who can see all too clearly that he’s next.

The Euro interceptor gives the expanding field of debris a wide berth. It starts turning one more time along vectors laid down by the woman with the guns.

“How many of you are there left?” asks Haskell.

“Tell this whore to shut up,” says the woman.

“What did she do to you?” asks Sarmax.

“Betrayed us, Leo.”

“And you betrayed me.”

“You’ve lost it. You don’t even know—”

“I know you’re Rain,” says Sarmax. “That’s enough.”

“So shut the fuck up and prime this ship’s weapons.”

Every plan of ours contains another plan,” mumbles the navigator as he works the controls.

“Every device another device.” Spencer’s hardly listening. He’s just thinking furiously. If he could find a way to trigger one of his suit’s weapons on manual … if he could explode his suit’s ammo … if he could do fucking anything. He hurls himself back and forth against his suit in a vain attempt to move it. He exhales, tries to pull his arm into the space reserved for his torso. But it’s way too tight a fit. Out of the corner of his visor he can see Linehan struggling through similarly unsuccessful contortions.

“Thus it is with humanity” says the navigator. “Trapped in a cage while we gaze between the bars.”

They hurtle toward the wreckage of the Throne’s last ship.

Rain is cutting off the competition. Or trying to—but the Operative fires his jets, surges from his tether, streaking off at an angle as he fires a burst from a wrist-gun at the sled. Shots slam into its motor in precisely calibrated points, knocking its nozzles sideways, sending it careening from its course, straight onto that of the Operative—who reaches out and leaps on to grapple with the suit within.

Bring up the targets,” says the woman. “Lock them in.”

“Lynx is easy enough,” says Sarmax. “He’s going nowhere. But Carson’s hand-to-hand with your own—”

“Gun them both down,” snarls the woman. “It’s the Throne’s skull I want.”

“Don’t do it,” says Haskell.

“One more word and I’ll do you.”

“You’re going to kill us anyway!”

“At least let her live,” says Sarmax.

“Long enough for a little brain surgery.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” snarls Haskell.

“Back on Earth, we’ll find out what makes you tick.”

“Never in hell.”

“My minigun’s quite the surgeon too. Leo: lock in the targets.”

Sarmax complies.

Crossfire time,” mutters the navigator. Spencer can’t see what he’s looking at. But the tone of triumph in the navigator’s voice is unmistakable. He can see that the man is priming the ship’s weaponry, getting ready to fire.

But then he sees Linehan.

Who’s hit his suit’s manual release. Who’s holding his breath. His face is already blistering in the vacuum. His expression’s one of total mania. He’s hurling himself upon the navigator.

Who turns—

The sled’s turning in circles. The Operative pivots against his foe’s armor, smashing the other man’s helmet. For his trouble, Carson gets a boot to his face, falls backward across the limp figure of Harrison—who’s sprawled out unconscious against the steering equipment, barely breathing, his suit holed and cauterized in the lower back. But the Operative’s got other things on his mind, like fending off the laser cutter that’s slashing toward his face. He ducks in under it, fires his suit-jets, slams head-on against the man, grabs onto his arms and tries to bring his minigun to bear. But they’re both too close. Over the man’s shoulder the Operative can see the dwindling figure of Lynx, opening up on ships that are closing in …

• • •

Shots streak past the cockpit.

“Waste them,” says the woman.

“First tell me Indigo’s still alive.”

“She is.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re stalling.”

“You’re her,” says Sarmax.

“So what—” The woman triggers the minigun, just as something hits the ship. Something that’s not small. Velasquez is hurled against the wall, her shots ripping through the ceiling. The other wall’s tearing to reveal space—and the cockpit of the president’s ship, jammed right alongside theirs. An unsuited man’s leaping though the tear, his face more burn than face.

The Operative’s letting rip with his flamer, but the other man turns his helmet to avoid the fire, letting it boil off into space, shoving against the Operative, and then firing augmented wrist-jets to suddenly pin him against the sled’s rear. The Operative fires his own jets, but to no avail. He’s being pushed against the sled’s engines—against the reaction-mass still churning from them. His suit’s temperature’s starting to rise. He lets razorwire extrude from his suit, plunge into his assailant’s, feels his mind slam up against the other’s even as he starts to smell smoke. But the other man’s got razor capabilities too. He’s holding his own, keeping the Operative at bay while he shoves him against the heat searing from the sled. In the distance the Operative thinks he can see spaceships colliding. Worlds imploding. His suit’s going critical. His failsafes are overloading.

• • •

Sarmax hits the jets, knocks Linehan aside, crashes into the woman, knocks her into the rear of the ship. Haskell gestures at Linehan, pops the canopy, goes through it with Linehan hanging onto her foot—

–h olding on for fucking life as cosmic rays lacerate him. Everything’s going black. But the hardware that augments his heart keeps chugging away even as his oxygen levels plunge—even as Haskell he’s just saved hauls him back into the ship he’s just left. His suit’s floating where he left it. His field of vision collapses in upon it. Everything spirals in upon a single point—

–a s the woman shoves against Sarmax, pushes him away from her.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” says Sarmax.

“Oh yes it does,” she replies, and starts unloading the minigun at him. He fires his jets, roars under