• • •
Roof closes in above the shaker. It’s all Spencer and everybody around him can do to hold on. They’ve entered one of the maglev tunnels. They’re following it deeper. Walls keep on rushing by lit up by flashes from the vehicle’s heavy guns.
“Let’s close this fucking ramp!” yells Linehan.
“The turrets are fucked,” snarls a Praetorian. “We’re the rear guns!”
He’s got a point. Besides Spencer and Linehan, there are four other Praetorians in the cargo bay. It makes for a tight fit. But the construction drones now blasting after them are taking everybody’s mind off any problems involving etiquette. Everybody in the cargo bay starts firing. Spencer watches his shots streak down the tunnel, splinter one of the drones. But behind those drones he can see a larger shape overtaking them.
“Christ almighty,” says Linehan.
“It’s one of the trains,” says Spencer.
“Impossible,” yells someone. “Maglev’s history!”
Apparently not everywhere. High-explosive rounds crash through the train but it keeps on coming. It’s military grade. A slight bend in the track reveals six armored cars. The first of them fires torpedoes that streak in toward the shaker.
“Fuck!” yells Linehan.
But now static’s pouring over their screens. Tiny sparks of lightning chase themselves down the walls. The guidance systems in the pursuing torpedoes go haywire: they slow, bend in toward the walls, slow still further. The train careens off the suddenly defunct maglev, starts folding up at high speeds, catches up with its own torpedoes. There’s a particularly memorable explosion.
• • •
Haskell can see the light of the blast through the cockpit window. And that’s pretty much all she’s seeing. The Helios is shelling the valley floor up above, disrupting a lot of the environment down below. It’s not point-blank—there’s a lot of shielding. Meaning the damage is a long way from total. But even temporary damage could easily prove fatal amidst combat conditions. Shots from drones are flashing past the window and Haskell’s got no way to do anything constructive. She’s leaving that to the man she’s partnered with; he’s clamped onto the outside of the shaker with his bodyguards, firing at everything in sight. Haskell’s trying to think a little more long term. Her mind calculates furiously—no way to stop the cylinder’s rotation save firing the retros … and since the Euro zone’s down, those would have to be engaged manually, from multiple points. And the Praetorians are already more than halfway through the cylinder. They’ve already crossed the equator. They’ve got no time for any diversions.
Meaning that the cylinder’s going to keep on rotating. Meaning that the Helios is going to keep on turning each valley into a shooting gallery every two minutes. Meaning that the ones it’s trying to target are just going to have to deal until they get beyond the windows and reach the southern mountains. Haskell screams at the pilot to take the upcoming off-ramp—but he’s already doing it, his face as rapt as she’s ever seen someone look, swerving the shaker expertly, engaging the afterburners, letting the vehicle blast out into the valley overhead.
Which is a total shambles. It looks like a giant flame thrower just hit it. The fires burning along the center axis have gone out, along with every remaining light. The only illumination left is that of the stars visible between shards of mirror still hanging in place … but Haskell can nonetheless see shakers are emerging everywhere, along with cycles and suits. There are far more remaining than she’d hoped. She’s acutely aware they’ve got about another ninety seconds before they’re going to have to do their mole routine again. She’s trying to get the formation back into order as they forge onward toward that southern pole.
The Operative’s team is way ahead of the main force now. He’s not even bothering to resurface—just keeps on blasting forward, streaking through the tangled infrastructure that houses the trains and conveyor belts that serviced the cylinder’s southern half. He’s getting ever lower. The gravity’s slightly in excess of normal now. He wonders if there’s some way to stop the rotation. He doubts it. Not at this point. Which is probably the way it’s been planned.
But the Operative’s leaving the nuances of strategy to others. All he cares about is carrying out his orders, which involve making as much speed as possible. And now he and Sarmax and Lynx and the marines behind them come out into a wider area. One where floors and walls and ceilings have been torn out, along with large chunks of the cylinder’s hull. Stars wheel slowly past.
“Fuck’s sake,” says Lynx.
“Careful with the timing, Carson,” mutters Sarmax.
“I know what I’m doing,” says the Operative.
He’d better. The hole’s the product of the initial bombardment laid down by the Praetorian ships. The trick is to stay clear of such openings when they’re facing the Helios. And now the stars are giving way to the cylinder opposite theirs—and then that view vanishes as they all jet back into the tunnel. But not before the three men have had ample opportunity to take in whatever the Eurasians might be broadcasting.
Which turns out to be nothing.
“Not a thing?” The Operative sounds puzzled.
“Nothing I can pick up,” says Lynx.
“Not without a fucking spirit medium,” says Sarmax.
“They’ve been wiped off the map,” says the Operative.
“At least in the cylinder,” says Lynx.
“I doubt it’s much better in their Aerie.”
“We need to pick up the pace,” says the Operative.
Time to go,” says one of the Praetorians. Spencer looks at him. Looks at the ground that’s sweeping by. Looks back at the Praetorian.
“Fine,” he says—starts pushing the cycle into launch position—starts climbing on—
“Not so fast,” says Linehan.
“What?”
“Get your ass off that thing,” says Linehan.
“Are you fucking nuts?” Spencer’s transmitting on the one-on-one. “The fucking Hand’s aboard this thing. Not to mention his prize razor. These guys want us out of here pronto.”
“Sure,” says Linehan, “but you’ve got my seat.”
“Jesus Christ,” Spencer mutters. He slides backward, turns around so that he’s facing rearward—slots the cycle’s rear gun into position. Linehan climbs on. The two men strap themselves in. The Praetorians unlock the struts that hold the cycle in place.
“Ready,” says Spencer.
“Believe it,” says Linehan.
“Later,” says a Praetorian, giving the cycle a hard shove. The cycle slides down the ramp—and then they’re plummeting away from the shaker. Spencer watches the ground spin in toward them. He catches a glimpse of far-off mountains lit up by nearby explosions. And then there’s an explosion that’s even nearer, as the cycle’s engines come to life and Spencer’s flung backward, grabbing onto the straps out of sheer reflex as the vehicle’s front lifts and it accelerates forward. “This,” says Linehan, “is where it gets interesting.”