“And he expects you to do your utmost,” says the Operative.
She couldn’t ask for anything else. They’re well into the mining areas that ring the Hangar. They’re almost there. But she can feel the Rain closing in from both flanks now. She glances at the man beside her.
“The cat’s out of the bag,” she says.
“Of course it is,” he replies.
“And Huselid?”
“A role I play.”
A necessary fiction for the man who’s really Andrew Harrison. She wants to ask him who the unknown soldier was. That man in the Window, giving orders in the Throne’s name: Did he even know the game he was in on? Was he an actor, or just a puppet? It doesn’t matter now. The point is he played his part. Now the ones he died for have to do the same.
“They’re pressing,” she says.
“Might have thought that chip would have led them on more of a wild-goose chase,” he says.
“Not if the Rain’s razors activated it immediately.”
Which they almost certainly did—tried to run the whole U.S. zone through the fragment they’d pulled from a shattered skull … only to find it wasn’t capable of switching on a washing machine. That, as complex as it looked, it was really just a maze of dead-ends whose only functionality was pretending to be something it wasn’t, creating a zone-node that looked like all the wires led back to it. Even she was fooled at first. Back on the other side of the cylinder—back to what seems like years ago—she’d thought she was gazing at the executive node, and in reality all she was doing was dealing with its reflection, while the vessel of the real one stood beside her.
Just like he’s doing now.
“How much strength is left at the Hangar?” she asks.
“We’re about to find out,” says the president.
Spencer watches as the gunship fires its motors, moves through the opening blast-doors. As it passes beneath, Carson floats onto it. Spencer and the rest follow him, alight on the hull, crouching just behind the forward turret. Walls slide past. Praetorians swarm after them. Carson’s words sound in Spencer’s head.
“I’ll keep this brief. The Throne’s still alive. Our victory up to this point has depended on fooling the Rain as to his real location, and on keeping them too distracted to launch an all-out assault on the Hangar. The Throne and the Manilishi are still out there, and hopefully making straight for this gate. We’re going to get out beyond the perimeter and bring ’em in. It all comes down to us. Fight like you’ve never fought before. Over and out.”
The gunship comes out into a cave. Its lights splash around the chamber, illuminating the tunnel-mouths dotting the walls. There’s no way the ship’s fitting through any of them. The walls are trembling with the force of nearby explosions. The craft fires auxiliary motors to keep pace with the rotation of the asteroid—and starts firing bolts of plasma down one of the tunnels. Praetorians start scrambling into the openings adjacent to that one.
“Fucking bait and switch,” says Spencer.
“So the Hand was the Throne?” asks Linehan.
“Or the Throne was one of the soldiers with the Hand. Fucking Praetorians. Nothing’s ever what it seems.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Heads up.”
“Shit.”
Smartdust is swarming from several of the tunnels, billowing into the cave. Everyone on the ship’s hull starts firing. The ship opens up with all five turrets: one in front, one in back, one on each side, one set within its belly. The walls are a frenzy of light and shadow.
“So did you know all along?” asks Lynx on the one-on-one.
“Been unfolding in my mind as we went,” replies the Operative as he unleashes his minigun. “The Throne plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”
The nano is getting lacerated. More Praetorians enter the room via the main tunnel. Several are riding cycles, towing other suits behind them. They swoop past the ship, head into tunnels, while the soldiers remaining keep firing.
“It’s a paradox,” adds the Operative as he revectors his guns. “The Hand’s responsible for the Throne’s security. But how in God’s name can the Throne delegate such a responsibility? Especially in this day and age—no sane head of state can give a chief of security the power necessary to do that job effectively. Yet taking on the role of the Hand—disguising himself as the Hand—increases the ability of the Throne to evade an assassin’s first blow.”
“But this is nuts,” says Lynx. He momentarily ceases firing a gun to let it cool. “You’re saying the Throne deliberately stepped outside of the asteroid he was doing his best to make invulnerable?”
“Precisely because he knew he couldn’t make it invulnerable. If the Rain were able to pull off anything anywhere near as epic as what they’ve actually gone and done, the Throne wasn’t going to be able to rely purely on firepower.”
Especially when the Rain are so adept at forcing their opponent to fight with only a fraction of his strength,” says Linehan.
“I noticed,” replies Spencer.
Crosshairs and flaring grids: they’re both tracking nano racing along the ceiling. Diving from the walls, soaring in toward them, getting chopped into even finer dust …
“Then you also noticed that this is it.”
“Yeah.”
“The Throne and the Manilishi have run out of tricks.”
“But if they can reach the Hangar they might be able to make it impregnable.”
“What I don’t see is why the Throne didn’t start out there,” says Spencer.
“How could he? He had to start somewhere he didn’t think the Rain would be. And the Rain never dreamed he’d leave this asteroid. They thought they’d pinpoint his exact location by watching where in this dump he drew the Manilishi.”
“It probably never occurred to them that the Throne would dare triangulation remotely.”
“Nor did he,” says Linehan.
He stops firing. Along with everybody else. Nano is no longer in sight. Spencer shakes his head.
“You’re right,” he says. “Too great a risk.”
“In retrospect it seems fucking obvious. He’d have had to trust one of his subordinates with the Manilishi. But say one of the subordinates was Rain?”
“Or was just plain disloyal.”
“Sure,” says Linehan.
“Or was working for that SpaceCom outfit you flew cover on. Christ, when they woke me up on that ship and I learned you were still alive I wondered if the Throne was merely putting you back on the bait-hook in case Szilard or one of his henchmen was still out there trying to nail him—”
“That occurred to me as well.”
“—which he probably was, in a sense.”