“What do you think we should do?” asks Riley.
“Who says we have to do anything?” replies the Operative.
“Because that’s a military operation going on out there,” says Maschler. “Because we’re right in its vicinity.”
“Precisely why we’re doing nothing that’ll call attention to ourselves,” says the Operative.
“But it’s not like they can’t see us,” protests Maschler.
“Exactly. We’re just one more piece of freight.”
“If we wait ten more minutes, we’ll leave the window,” says Riley.
“We’ll have to make our way around the planet again,” adds Maschler.
“I don’t think you understand,” says the Operative. “Break for the Moon now, and those ships will break you into pieces.”
“Are you sure?” says Riley.
“How do you know?” says Maschler.
“It’s what I’d do,” says the Operative simply.
“But we have to do something,” says Maschler.
There’s a flash in the window. All three men shift, pivot—do whatever they have to do to turn in the zero-G toward it. They see the problem immediately. Something’s just exploded nearby. The screens show beams of light stabbing forth from the Elevator. Another ship detonates even as they watch. The telescoping cameras take it all in—take in ships maneuvering across space, taking evasive action, doing whatever they have to do to render themselves more difficult to hit. From points elsewhere, directed energy lashes back at the Elevator. The cannonade stops.
The maneuvering continues.
“Yeah,” says the Operative. “I guess staying here’s a little problematic.”
“That’s what we’ve been telling you,” says Riley.
“Current orbit’s not going to get us out of here quick enough,” says the Operative, as though Riley hadn’t spoken.
“Who the fuck is on that thing?” says Maschler.
“Shall I hit the gas?” asks Riley.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” says the Operative.
“What do you mean?” says Riley.
“What the hell are you on?” asks Maschler.
“All sorts of things,” says the Operative evenly. “But what I said a moment ago still applies. Start this bitch up, and our boys will finish you forever.”
“Then what the fuck are you suggesting we do?”
“We’re going to do nothing,” says the Operative. They look at him. Maschler starts to splutter protest. The Operative holds up a hand to silence him.
“But as for me,” he adds, “I’m going to make a call.”
The mech changes course while Haskell starts raising hell with the suits of the strike squad. She slots herself in along now-familiar code-routes. She starts running interference on the pursuers’ comlinks. And while she does, she and the mech are veering toward a building that’s been subjected to heavy shelling. They streak through a hole in the building’s side and into shattered halls. They burn through corridors, take down doors. They brake, turn, charge on up into elevator shafts, climbing as fast as his motors will let them. Haskell clings tight. She feels minds out there writhing, feels walls surging past her. They brake to a halt in front of more doors, smash them down, break out of the shaft—hurtle down more corridors, find another opening, race back out into the city.
Catching the flank of the strike squad unprepared. Two suits, both within a quarter-klick: the mech’s firing out along a broad front. He blasts one with armor-piercing rounds from his wrist-guns. He shreds the other’s helmet with his minigun. He flies on past the tumbling bodies, pours on the speed. And while he does so, Haskell’s putting pressure on the rest.
“How’s it looking?”
“Fucked two more of their suits,” she says. “The rest have disabled their links.”
“But they’re still intact.”
“That would be a safe assumption.”
Or at least the working one. They keep on burning upward. They figure they’ve bought themselves a few more seconds. And they’re pretty much within the Citadel’s outer perimeter now, moving in between the lesser hedgehogs. They should be safe.
Only they clearly aren’t. There are still militia all around. And disconcertingly little combat. In fact, most of the militia don’t even really seem to be fighting. They just seem to be moving. In the exact same direction that Haskell and the mech are going. They’re driving their vehicles along the ramped skyways. They’re flying their ’copters at full tilt. Haskell and the mech are weaving in and out of the really dense areas, using the smoke to provide all the cover it’s worth.
But now the space around them is beginning to broaden and the smoke up ahead’s clearing. The sky itself is coming into view.
So is the Citadel.
“Oh Jesus,” says Haskell.
“Doesn’t matter,” replies the mech. “We’re not stopping.”
They streak in toward it.
The Elevator’s center is more than two thousand klicks above the Earth. Which means it orbits at a slower rate than do ships at the level of the Antares. Now that it’s got all its brakes on maximum, that delta’s increased even further. It’s moving out of the cockpit window, falling behind.
But as far as the Operative is concerned, it’s still way too close for comfort.
“Don’t bother calling,” says Maschler. “Communications are fucked.”
“When did you lose them?” asks the Operative.
“We never did,” says Riley.
“Stop talking riddles,” snaps the Operative.
Maschler shrugs. “All we’ve got is mission control on automatic feed. It’s not like we’re in touch with anything that’s up for conversation. All we’ve got is just updates every minute confirming our position.”
“And the order to stand by for translunar injection,” says Riley.
“But no order to initiate the burn,” says Maschler.
“We’ve tried to raise the emergency channels,” adds Riley. “They’re not responding. No one is. We’ve asked for clarification of the situation. We’ve received nothing.”
“Let me try,” says the Operative. “Key in whatever codes you need to give me access.”
He couldn’t pick up shit earlier. But that was when he was back in the bowels of the ship. Now he can pipe directly into the ship’s own lines. He can commandeer the main comlinks. He can raise Earth directly.
So he does. Wireless signals dart out from within his skull, words wrapped within codes that vector through the ship’s mainframe before streaking out into vacuum. The Operative plays with the frequencies, fine-tunes the direction of the dishes on the hull.
Somewhere on the planet something hears him.
“Get off this line,” says a voice. It echoes in the Operative’s head: a growl shot through with static. The weight of atmosphere hangs heavy on the words.
“I’m using the channel I’ve been instructed to use in case of contingency,” replies the Operative. He chooses his words carefully. His lips aren’t moving. Neural implants are doing all the work. “I’m following my orders. You can see my position.”
“I can,” says the voice. “What do you want?”
“I want confirmation of this ship’s original flight plan to be relayed to its pilots.”
“We can’t do that,” says the voice.
“Why not?” says the Operative.
“Because it’s out of our hands. You’ve got a real knack for timing, Carson. The place is in lockdown up there. You’re smack-dab in the middle of the largest joint U.S.-Eurasian operation ever conducted.”
“So the East really is involved.”
“What did you expect? The Elevator’s joint property, isn’t it?”
“What’s happened to it?” asks the Operative.
“Hostiles have seized it,” says the voice.
“No kidding,” says the Operative dryly. He pauses. Then: “Who are we talking about here?”
“That,” says the voice, “is the question that I’m going to have to cut you off to get back to.”