“So it’s not the Jaguars,” says the Operative.
“Whoever it is is coordinating with them,” says the voice. “That’s the operating assumption. But we’re having a hard time believing they’re the ones who’ve managed to get aboard that thing. We recommend you hold tight for now. If the situation deteriorates, take whatever measures you have to in order to preserve the mission. But as long as the situation’s stable, stay put.”
“You’ve got a funny definition of the word stable,” says the Operative.
But the presence in his head has disappeared. The voice is gone. The Operative’s eyes refocus on the cockpit. He takes in the faces of Maschler and Riley.
“You okay?” says Maschler.
“Sure,” says the Operative.
“Did you get through?”
“Sure,” says the Operative.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Nothing,” says Maschler.
“Nothing?” asks Riley.
“You get used to it,” says the Operative.
But what you don’t get used to is what these third-world cities are like in their rafters. It’s all dilapidated towers. It’s all smog all the time. But get high enough, and you might shake that smog yet. You might see the clouds burn red with the light of the dying sun. You might see them burn still redder with the flames from the dying Citadel.
“Fuck,” says Marlowe.
Half of the Citadel’s towers are no longer visible. Its ramps hang askew in air. All too many of its platforms are shattered.
“So much for refuge,” says the razor.
Yet as they rise past it, long sticks of light stab down from somewhere far overhead, shoot past them, and strike the complex below. Explosions flash out into the gathering dark. Towers topple into the murk that laps around them.
“Those are our guns.”
“Yes,” says Marlowe.
“We’re killing our own side.”
“Our own side’s already been killed. That place has been taken.”
“So keep on climbing.”
He accelerates. They leave the Citadel behind, rush upward toward sky and sanctuary.
* * *
The Elevator’s barely visible from the window anymore. But the cameras make up for everything the window lacks. The Elevator’s lowermost point is starting to glow. It’s hitting atmosphere. Far above, swarms of ships are closing.
“How long before we leave the launch window?” asks the Operative.
“Eleven minutes,” says Riley.
The first ship touches. The telescoping lenses show power-suits clustering along that ship’s sides, pulling open doors, entering the Elevator. The cameras indicate that this is happening at fifty-klick intervals all along the structure. Half the ships involved show the Stars and Stripes. The others show different sets of stars. Marines from both superpowers: they’re going in.
“They’ve done it,” says Riley.
“They’re there,” says Maschler.
“Prime the engines,” says the Operative.
“I thought you said we weren’t going anywhere,” says Riley.
“Never say never,” replies the Operative.
Besides: priming isn’t the same as firing. The one enables the other. It doesn’t compel it. So now Maschler and Riley are swinging into action. They’re cycling fuel through the tanks, readying the trajectory, prepping everything they can. It gets their minds off the waiting.
But not for long.
“Who are they facing in there?” says Riley.
“Have they issued demands?” says Maschler.
“Now what would make you think I’d know a thing like that,” replies the Operative.
“Well,” says Riley, “do you?”
“I’d be guessing,” says the Operative.
“Well,” says Maschler, “what’s your guess?”
“My guess,” says the Operative, “is that there’s only one demand.”
Maschler and Riley look at him.
“Eat shit,” he says.
Suddenly the cockpit lights up as though someone’s stuck a blowtorch right outside it. The cameras show nothing save flash. The screens go haywire. Half of them show critical malfunctions. The other half are blank.
“We’ve got a problem,” says Riley calmly.
“The Elevator’s gone,” says the Operative. “Give me heavy blast.”
“Got it,” says Maschler. He’s back in his seat, wrestling with the controls. So is Riley. Who looks up with consternation on his face.
“Circuitry’s been fried,” he says.
“EMP,” says the Operative.
“EMP,” confirms Riley. “We’ve been swamped with fission.”
“Fission,” mutters Maschler.
“Shut up,” snarls the Operative. “Switch to redundant systems.”
“They’d be burned too,” says Maschler.
“Better pray that’s not so,” says the Operative.
“Surely it’s safer if we just hold course,” says Maschler. “The blast’s already hit us.”
“He’s right,” says Riley. “The radiation’s already soaked us. It’s already done whatever damage it can. So what the fuck does it matter if we move now?”
“You’re failing to take into account one thing,” says the Operative.
He gestures at the window, at the space where the Elevator was. At the space where more explosions are appearing. Explosions of ships out there: ships getting struck by something that’s getting nearer.
“Debris,” he whispers.
* * *
Twilight’s shredded by an overwhelming light. It blossoms through the eastern heavens. It’s turning what’s overhead into nothing save red. It’s turning the mech’s screens into nothing save static.
“Fuck,” he says.
“What are we in?” yells Haskell.
What they’re in is armor that just got fucked. It’s sliding back down toward the city. The mech is fighting with the controls. So’s Haskell.
“Allow me,” she says.
“Have it your way,” he replies.
Her way’s tough. The EMP penetrated the damaged armor in several places. Nine-tenths of its circuits have been knocked out. Haskell’s throwing together a network out of what’s left. She’s improvising. She’s firing thrusters. She’s clinging to the suit. She’s not stopping its fall.
Just altering its direction.
“The Citadel,” says the mech.
“Only chance,” says Haskell.
“It’s swarming with militia,” he says.
“Who were being shelled by our space-to-grounders.”
Meaning that maybe that militia isn’t crowding the topmost floors. Though what the story is with those space-to-grounders now is anybody’s guess. Because the sky itself is burning.
“Keep your eyes on the ground,” yells Haskell. “I’m going to give this suit back to you in a second.”
She’s not kidding. Though when she says ground she’s taking licenses. She’s swooping in toward one of the Citadel’s topmost ramps. She veers at it, hits the brakes—smacks straight into its surface. The suit skids, sprawls. Haskell reaches for her boot knife, slices through the tether that’s holding her in place. She pulls herself to her feet.
The mech doesn’t.
“Give me back control,” he says.
“There’s no control to give,” she replies.
“Great,” he says.
He hits the manual release and the armor comes open at the back like corn being shucked. He pulls himself out, pulls a breath-mask from a compartment as he does so, yanks it over his face. He gets to his feet.
And stares upward.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says.
“He’s not here,” says Haskell.
But maybe He’s coming. A line of silver is stitching across the sky. Liquid light running up and down the heavens: it’s making mockery of darkness. It’s breaking into pieces before their eyes.
“The Elevator,” breathes Haskell.
“Must be,” says the mech. “Get down.”