“This is more than just the Rain,” says Sarmax.
“Looks like they’ve managed to co-opt some of the Euro security forces,” replies the Operative, glancing at the Praetorians within this room. Several are watching the developing situation through the crosshairs of their heavy weapons. But most of them are watching the other window and the walls themselves. They have their assignments.
And now the whole cylinder’s rumbling as something massive smacks against it.
“What the fuck,” mutters Sarmax.
“The cylinder’s getting shelled from space.”
“By us?”
“Better hope so.”
Plan B is now Plan A: cut off from the Throne, Haskell has switched to link up with Huselid, who’s coordinating the counterattack. The asteroid remains out of contact, and a pitched battle’s clearly going on within. All hell’s starting to break loose within the cylinder.
But inside Haskell’s head it’s calm—a peace such as she’s never known. Because there’s no more future. Future’s here. She’s riding the raw moment—and now that the Rain have made their move, she’s making hers, countering the sinkhole the Rain were seeking to trigger in the zone, halting the fraying of its edges, preventing them from extending the rot any farther as she takes over executive capacity within the U.S. zone. She’s holding steady. She feels the zone creak around her as she shores up its foundations according to parameters that precisely mirror the patterns etched upon her. She’s extending her support to the Eurasian zone as well, though nothing seems to have happened there so far. But she’s sure the Rain are over there, continuing their infiltration runs. Or just playing for time. Because if the Rain in the Aerie can kill the president, it can take the executive node—rip the software from his skull and use it to wrest control of the entire zone from her.
But Huselid doesn’t seem worried. It’s almost as though he’s been expecting this. He’s unleashing a flurry of commands. Tactical battle readouts parade through her skull. The Rain hit teams in the cylinder are back online in combat mode, shielded against her onslaughts now, engaging with several Praetorian special-ops units—and those units are fully active in the zone, fully supported by the Hand and her. The ships outside are swooping in toward the Platform, opening fire, sending DE beams and KE shells streaking into the cylinder’s outermost layers to crash in and around the areas in which the Rain units are operating. And now the first of the dropships is deploying marines along the length of the cylinder, the majority of them near the middle where the fighting’s heaviest. Two of the ships coming in behind that first one are slated to deploy directly onto the surface of the Aerie. Haskell moves to shift some of the heavy vehicles situated in the levels beneath her closer to where the action’s going down.
But Huselid stops her. She sees his point. With the Throne cut off, this chamber has become the command post. And the forces protecting it are substantial—the Praetorians from the ships that docked earlier are massed along the outer perimeter, about a hundred meters out from where Haskell’s standing, while the Hand’s own shock troops form the inner perimeter, which starts about thirty meters from this room. Haskell can see that Huselid is anxious to maintain robust defenses around his makeshift citadel.
Particularly given the extent to which the security and household robots in the city have been hacked by the Rain. New London’s plunging into chaos. But the nearest Rain triad seems to have been trapped in a series of elevator shafts in the city’s basements. And the one just south of the cylinder’s equator has been pinned down in a construction area. The Rain have seized the bait. The hammer’s coming down upon them. And whatever’s going on within the asteroid, the Rain team there will have its work cut out for it in making headway against the main force of the Praetorian Core.
“We have them,” says the Hand.
Even as she feels the zone writhe beneath her.
The cannons of the Larissa V unleash on maximum strafe. Puffs of explosions dot the cylinder—and now the Platform’s giving way to space as the ship turns at a sickening angle and rushes parallel to the main cylinder.
“This is it!” screams Linehan—and cuts out as the drop-ship he’s in launches. Spencer watches it go on the screens within his head, watches the other dropships launch, watches as the Larissa V blasts past the Platform and engages its rear-guns. The targeted areas light up—and then go dark.
Along with everything else.
What the fuck,” says the Operative. His screens are showing static—within his helmet, but also within his head. He looks at Sarmax, who’s looking puzzled. The other Praetorians are clearly having the same problem. They’re communicating with hand signals. Those within this room are still holding their positions. But as to what’s happening to the Praetorian marines in the perimeter that defends this room, the Operative has no idea. He hears no sign of combat.
But the fighting in the cylinder has clearly stepped up several notches. The air’s ablaze with laser and tracer fire. Most of it’s concentrated some fifteen klicks out, but there’s plenty of it that’s a lot nearer. Two more fuel-air bombs have detonated. New London is on fire in several places. The Operative gets glimpses of mobs in the streets—tens of thousands of terrified people in full stampede along the ramps. In the far distance, a giant jet of flame gouts out from the southern mountains. Whatever’s going on behind them in the Aerie isn’t pretty. The Operative moves to where Sarmax is standing, places his helmet against his.
“They’ve lost the whole fucking zone,” he yells.
“Can you reestablish one-on-one?” yells Sarmax.
“It’s gone, man!”
“What do you mean it’s gone?”
“I mean it’s fucking vanished! We could broadcast in the clear, but that’s suicide!”
“So what do we do?” says Sarmax.
“Purge the loose ends and get ready for the mother of all slug-outs.”
“Loose ends?”
“Lynx. Let’s execute him.”
“Works for me,” says Sarmax. The Operative turns away, fires his suit’s thrusters, glides over to one of the Praetorian officers, slams his helmet up against his.
“Kill the prisoner,” he says.
“Sir, I need the authority of the Hand for that.”
“The Hand’s a little fucking busy right now,” snarls the Operative.
“Those are my orders.”
“Your orders have changed,” says the voice of the Hand.
Tsunami’s surging out across the zone. Nothing left around her. Nothing—save the implications of what she carved upon herself. What she failed to recognize. The nature of the real trap. “Both zones,” she says out loud.
They let her make the first move. They drew her in, convinced her that they had nothing in reserve, forced her to become the one thing propping up the universe. But now there’s no more universe left to prop. The Eurasian and U.S. zones have just gone down. The Rain used the legacies to link them, leveraged the proximity of the executive nodes of East and West.