“Meaning?”
“Meaning I doubt you’d have been let inside the Aerie.”
“But here I am anyway.”
“Because the Manilishi’s cleared you,” says Spencer.
“But who cleared the Manilishi?”
“If she was going to turn on the Throne, she’d have done that by now. As it is, she’s the only reason he’s still ticking—only reason he’s even got a hope of making the Hangar.”
“But now they’re going to throw their full strength against him before he gets within the perimeter.”
“Like I said, been nice knowing you.”
Another rumble starts up. This one doesn’t stop.
• • •
Orders start crackling over comlinks. Some of it’s in the clear. It can’t be helped. Everyone starts scrambling from the room—swarming down different tunnels. Only the gunship remains where it is, weapons tracking in multiple directions, a few soldiers continuing to cling to its sides. The Operative leads the way down one of the tunnels. He sends out another transmission.
Linehan, Spencer—you guys get on point again.”
“Christ,” says Linehan. But Carson’s already cut them off. Spencer and Linehan accelerate past him, wending their way into a maze of tunnels using the route that the Operative’s given them, making turns so sharp they’re pushing off the walls. Vibrations are echoing through those walls from multiple directions. Small-arms fire, heavy shells, explosions, not to mention—
“Someone’s busted out some digging machines,” says Spencer.
And realizes immediately that his words aren’t going anywhere. He’s cut off from Linehan. He starts firing with everything except his hi-ex, raining shots past Linehan—who now opens up himself.
The Rain’s jamming the point,” says the Operative.
“We’re right on top of them,” says Sarmax.
“Picking up combat all around us,” says Lynx. He starts to say something else—his voice cuts out. The Operative makes a turn, away from the route that Spencer and Linehan have been taking. About a hundred meters ahead the tunnel bends sharply.
• • •
Machines of every size and shape are crashing in like waves against the Praetorian formation. The flanks are getting forced steadily in toward the center. The rearguard’s pretty much toast. All that’s left is just a dwindling core. But the vehicles within it are staggering on regardless.
“Still softening us up,” she says.
“I realize that,” he replies.
Not that much more’s going to be required. Because this earthshaker’s in shambles. Smoke’s streaming through the cockpit from more than one electrical fire. The side-gunners are dead. All that’s left are those few of the Throne’s bodyguards still remaining: riding on top of the shaker, firing through the holes torn in its side, moving alongside the crippled vehicle as it keeps on plowing its way through the endless tunnels. In her head Haskell can see the route they’ve traversed—her mind traces back past the Window, skirting the bombed-out heart of rock, back into the wilderness of smashed stone and metal where the South Pole of the cylinder used to be. All of it keeps on whirling within her, like some siren screaming in her head.
But up ahead is the southernmost point of all. The Hangar itself. The only hope of sanctuary. Ignored by the Rain so far—or so she’s hoping. Holding out from the onslaught—or so she’s praying. She takes in the combat, watches more swarms billow toward her, more drones popping from the wall, unfolding long legs only to get their limbs shorn off by cycles slashing past her. Rock and debris smash against the cockpit window. Something streaks in behind them.
“Heads up,” says the pilot.
Too late: the window shatters. The pilot gets smashed back in his seat. Blood’s everywhere. Her suit’s been hit. She feels her systems starting to go.
Someone grabs her. She feels herself pulled bodily forward—out of the stricken shaker and into the tunnels. She feels a helmet pressed against her, sees tunnel walls flash by. She hears a voice. It’s Harrison. He’s got her in his arms. He’s telling her to hold on. She sees rock flashing past her. She feels like she’s pretty much lost it. She’s sending her own mind out all the same.
Spencer and Linehan blast through into a larger chamber. Nano comes swarming in from the other side. They start firing, but it makes little difference—the waves seem endless. “Fuck,” says Linehan.
An explosion punches out an entire wall. Carson and Lynx and Sarmax come through firing, catching the swarms in a crossfire. Spencer roars out of the way of their trajectory, curves off, veers around the cavern’s ceiling. And sees it.
Caught in the light of the explosions, it’s the same color as the rock. But it’s not rock. It’s a suit—someone clinging to the wall. Spencer hits his jets, whirls. Opens fire. There’s a blinding flash.
Explosions everywhere. Not to mention something that looks to be the flare to end all flares. All the Operative’s picking up is overload all along the spectrum. He’s dampening the inputs toward zero. He’s amping up his optic nerves to the limits of what he can take. All he can see is near-total white—and the suit of Sarmax flying past him in reverse, smoking from the chest, smashing against the wall. But now he sees something else: the vaguest outline of some other suit coming straight at him. He whips his arms up, fires.
Spencer’s blind. A blow hammers on his back. Something slams against his leg. He gets a glimpse of some landscape shot through with way too many colors, watches his own suit smash against a wall, bounce. Rocks close in from all sides. But past them he gets a glimpse of something he’s never seen before … overwhelming light … the very minarets of heaven …
Far too fast: the figure dodges past the Operative’s fire, veers crazily toward him, fires at some other target—slams its boots against the Operative with a force that almost cracks his armor. The Operative tries to grab the boots, finds himself holding nothing. All he can see is blur. He fires his jets in a desperate attempt to stay unpredictable, fires his weapons at where he thinks the target is, lashes out wildly with his razor nodes. But he knows he’s toast. Something clicks through his skull. He figures it’s death.
It’s a woman instead. Haskell—and she couldn’t be that far away, because she’s just made zone contact with him. And suddenly her vision’s his; coordinates upload and all at once the Operative can see the suit he’s fighting. He whirls in one fluid motion—fires on the now-visible figure that’s dancing past him, tossing something in its wake…. The Operative ignites his jets, hurls himself onto his nemesis as an explosion cuts through the wall behind him. He grasps onto the suit’s back, pulls against its helmet; the figure punches upward, smashes its fists against the Operative’s chest, straight through the outer armor—whereupon the Operative starts firing into the figure’s back at point-blank range. He unloads his wrist-guns, unleashing his minigun at the same time as the momentum sends him sailing backward. But the figure’s already fired its own motors, jetting aside, continuing out of sight down a tunnel. The Operative hits his motors, charges in toward the opening—