And set them against each other like opposite charges to neutralize each other.
“What the hell?” says Huselid.
“Every wireless conduit,” she says. “Chain reaction.”
Autumn Rain’s razors just rode their megahack in style, smashing against every exposed razor they could find on the way down. They couldn’t damage her, though—couldn’t touch the razors under her personal protection, within the Hand’s perimeter. All they could do was yank the zone from under her feet.
But not the one within her head. Haskell’s the one thing that’s not affected—the one thing capable of restoring what’s been lost. She’s doing her utmost to jury-rig a whole new zone around her. But it’s going to be pathetically small. Because all she can reach is the software of those in immediate line-of-sight. Though that’s a damn sight farther than anyone else can manage. She beams new codes to the Hand, beams them to his bodyguards—sends soldiers racing out toward the outer perimeter to try to restore some semblance of order. Other soldiers are turning to the outer window of the room, setting up Morse code to signal the ships out there via direct visual.
“Order them all directly onto the Aerie,” snarls the Hand. “Tell them to hit that asteroid and deploy everything that’s left.”
But now the Rain make the move aimed at checkmate.
• • •
Spencer opens his eyes. It’s not easy. His head hurts. It feels like his nose is bleeding. He looks around. The bridge is in chaos. Personnel are removing panels, pulling out wires. Trying to find a way to control this ship, which continues to hurtle out into space, away from the Platform. Spencer wanders through his own mind’s haze, wonders if there’s anything he can do about it. Because it doesn’t look like the prime razor’s going to do shit. He’s sprawled in his chair, eyes staring at nothing.
“He’s fucking had it,” shouts a voice. “Now get the fuck over here!”
The captain hasn’t deigned to speak to his secondary razor until now. But Spencer just got a battlefield promotion—he releases his straps, fires his suit’s thrusters, jets over to where the captain’s holding onto his own chair. The captain points at the exec-dashboard in front of him.
“Get the fuck in there and give me control.”
“Sir.” And Spencer does. He finds himself blocked—slides past that blockage, reaches down the redundant wires, bypasses the software to interface directly with the engines. It’s not much. Every wireless conduit that might lead to the larger zone beyond this ship is fucked. But it’ll have to do.
“I have it,” he says. “Give me orders, sir.”
“Back to the fucking Platform,” says the captain, giving him the vectors—and turning from there to the gunnery officers, starting to gesture at them to get their consoles’ wires extended to where Spencer is. But Spencer’s got eyes only for the fragment of the ship’s zone that’s still remaining, a glowing ember amidst scattered ash. The angle along which he’s turning the craft is almost insanely aggressive, in large part because he’s only got partial control of the steering. He feels G-forces building upon him. He watches people clinging to their straps and chairs. He watches panels that have been torn loose fly into the walls—watches the Platform swing back into the windows and start to rush in toward them once more. Two other ships are out in front of them. They’ve managed to get back in the game as well. They’re running the same race, closing on the same target.
“Landfall on the asteroid,” says the captain. “Following coordinates.”
Spencer lines up the approaching Aerie. But now one of the ships that’s up ahead lights up in a sudden flash—a flash that intensifies as its armor crumbles and its engines detonate.
“Gone,” screams someone.
“What the hell’s going on?” yells the captain.
“We’re under fire, sir,” says Spencer.
“I can see that! What the fuck’s shooting at us?”
“I’m trying to figure that out!” screams Spencer. “Give me a fucking moment!”
“We don’t have any moments! Evasive action!”
But Spencer’s already got that going. Everything that’s not tied down starts moving again. A huge bolt of energy just misses their ship, flashes past on the screens. Spencer runs subroutines on what’s left of the ship’s comps; he traces that energy’s strength and direction, looks back along its route, reaches its source.
And finds himself staring across a hundred kilometers at the Helios Station.
Blasts keep on rocking the chamber. The Praetorians have switched back from hand signals to the one-on-one. And now Lynx sails on thrusters back into the room. Sarmax looks at the Operative. “Thought he was supposed to be dead.”
“Divine intervention,” says the Operative.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Manilishi. Apparently she purged his skull’s software. He’s clean.”
“Not that it matters,” says Sarmax, gesturing at the window. Lynx reaches them, stares out at it—and whistles.
“Christ,” he says, “they’re going to town.”
An understatement. The shelling of the Praetorian ships has penetrated the cylinder in several places. And somebody’s busy blowing airlocks. People are getting sucked by the thousands down tunnels and holes now laid open.
“Look on the bright side,” says Sarmax. “The vacuum’ll put out the fires.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” says Lynx.
About as bad as it gets,” says the Operative. “We could use you back in the game. How’s your hand?”
“Fucked,” says Lynx.
“He means can you fight,” says Sarmax.
“I know what he means, you prick. The answer’s yes.”
“It’s less a question of lost firepower,” says the Operative. “More one of—”
“Lost balance?” Lynx’s smile is pure ice. “Armor can compensate. Particularly with the download that bitch just gave me. So we’ve lost the broader zone?”
“Yup,” says Sarmax. “The Manilishi and the Hand seem to have managed to get a local connection going. And that’s it.”
“Where’s the Throne?” asks Lynx.
“In the asteroid,” says the Operative.
“Still fighting?”
“Who knows?”
The three men amp their scopes, peer out into the cylinder’s vast hollow. Most of the lighting is gone now. Explosions flash out amidst the gathering dark. Half the Platform’s robots seem to be running programs set in motion by the Rain. Debris flies past the window. Tracer-fire cuts swathes everywhere.
“Let’s prep tactics,” says the Operative.
“Has the Hand given you scenarios?” asks Lynx.
“He’s given me nothing,” says the Operative. “I think he and his new friend are trying to assess events.”