The razor locks in the mech, and they’re off, traversing the maintenance shafts of the
“The forward docks,” says Lynx.
“What about them?”
“That’s where the cleanup crew’s basing.”
“Cleanup crew?”
“Can’t put all your enemies in a box and leave no one minding the store, can you? Wouldn’t be very prudent, would it? Someone’s got to make sure it’s all going to go to hell the way the master chef wants it, and—”
“Speak English, for fuck’s sake.”
Lynx laughs. “Szilard sent in some picked marines to ferry in the last of the riff-raff. Not to mention making sure the charges are rigged and that no one else gets off.”
“And we’re heading to where they’ve docked.”
“Sounds almost simple, doesn’t it?”
There’s some sort of barrier up ahead,” says the driver.
“That’s why I’ve been having you slow down,” says the major.
And now they’re coming to a stop. Eurasian soldiers stand in front of the blast-barrier that’s blocking the tunnel. They’ve got their weapons out. The major looks at the driver.
“Open this train’s door,” he says.
The driver’s complying. The door slides open as the train comes to a halt. A power-suited officer looks up into the cab.
“You’re a long way off course,” he says on the one-on-one, his words crackling in the major’s head.
“I need admittance,” says the major.
“I’m sure.”
“Careful how you speak to me.”
“Because you’re under arrest?”
“Because I’m an agent of the Praesidium.”
The officer stares as the major transmits codes. Even though everything seems to be falling apart for the rulers of the Eurasian Coalition, the Praesidium is still the most feared thing this continent’s seen since Mao and Stalin. The special agents who report directly to them are the stuff of legend. No one wants to meet one. Nor does anyone want to prolong any such encounter they might have.
“Sir, a thousand apologies. You’re cleared. But the two men you’ve got with you aren’t autho—”
“I’ll take care of them,” says the man.
“Sir,” says the officer—switches off the one-on-one. The blast-barrier starts to slide open.
The elevators are in motion now, and so are they. They’re hanging onto the cables, moving up the shafts, then shifting onto other cables, descending. They’re camouflaged acrobats, busy doing the one thing all good performers know how to do.
Buy time.
“Got it,” says Spencer.
“Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.
Spencer beams the data over. He hasn’t totally cracked the vehicle’s microzone, but he’s made some serious inroads. He’s figured out where all the places worth cracking
“That’s it,” he says. “The cockpit.”
“How well defended?”
“So well I can’t even see how to get in.”
“I don’t think we
Spencer nods. Sarmax is right. There’s no reason to fuck with the flow. This thing’s taking off, and they’re going with it. Intervention can come later. Spencer takes in the position of the craft’s cockpit and its defenses— marvels at how suspicious the Russians and the Chinese are of each other. The multileveled cockpit’s nestled in just above the forward vehicle-hangars, all approaches scrupulously divided between the soldiers of the two nations. Same with the cockpit personnel. There are two captains, both of them strapped down, along with everybody else. Spencer turns to Sarmax.
“They’re getting ready to hit it.”
“Let’s get in closer before they do.”
She’s plunging downward into herself. Darkness swirls in from all around. She can feel Tsien somewhere out there—circling her like a predator, hungry for what she contains. Fear billows up, threatening to choke her like thick smoke. She knows damn well what her captors are trying to do: turn her into something they can use.
And if they can’t do that, they’re going to destroy her. And since they’re on the brink of utter defeat, they don’t have much time. They’ll have to cut some corners. She can feel them going at it too—coming in from all sides, trying to unravel her to find out what the hell she really is. It’s tough when she doesn’t even know herself. She wants to help them—she really does. She’d do anything to avoid the pressure that’s now gripping her brain. But she can’t see a way past it. She can’t evade it: it’s all starting to come apart and so is she. Darkness starts to shimmer. Shapes start to form within it—a face emerges from out of the blackness. A voice sounds in her ear.
“Claire.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’ve got to wake up.”
“Fuck
“Fuck
“Shit,” she says.
Blood’s everywhere. So are shattered suits. What’s left of Colonel Tsien’s seems to have been mashed against the wall.
“You killed them all,” she mutters.
“No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”
“Except for you.”
“You’ll see the light soon enough.”
Lynx steps it up, making the zone think they’re something they’re not, making the sentinels past whom they’re creeping think they’re having just another boring moment. The two men slide on through the makeshift perimeter that’s been thrown up around this portion of the
“Jamming,” says Linehan.
“Not exactly,” says Lynx.
They crawl between steel girders, emerging onto the ceiling of one of the medium-sized hangars. Two corvettes dominate the floor. They look like they’re in the final stages of boarding. SpaceCom marines are positioned at the hangar’s interior doorways. The larger exterior door is shut.
“Looks like we’re on time,” says Linehan.
“Just barely,” replies Lynx.
According to his calculations, pushback’s only a few minutes away. He starts leading Linehan along the latticed ceiling, toward the
“I don’t like the looks of this,” says Linehan.
“Set your visor for maximum shielding.”
The two men creep to the opening, peer out. The fleet beyond is visible—along with so much else.
“Oh my fucking God,” says Linehan.