The perimeters are less than half a klick out, encompassing a tenth of the Aerie. Almost three hundred Praetorians are within. God knows how much firepower lurks without. Haskell’s assuming that in the three hours since she got here the Rain have moved most of the rogue weaponry from the cylinder into the asteroid, and have brought up all remaining smartdust. They have the Hangar under siege from all sides, except for space. But that’s covered by the Helios. It was laying down a cannonade against the Hangar doors a couple of hours ago, but it failed to break through. Then it fired its engines and fucked off. In Haskell’s mind is a grid that shows its current position: eighty klicks off the Platform’s north end, no longer in line of sight of the asteroid, but poised to annihilate anything trying to leave …
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” says Haskell.
The door opens. Light flows in from the corridor beyond. Two Praetorians enter the room. They train their visors this way and that.
“It’s been swept,” says Haskell.
They pay no attention. Just keep on scanning.
“Twenty minutes ago,” she adds. “I’ve been here ever since.”
“Orders, ma’am.”
“The Throne’s?”
The soldiers say nothing—just stiffen as the U.S. president appears in the door. Still dressed in the Hand’s armor, still wearing Huselid’s face. Haskell figures he may as well. Given that Huselid never really existed in the first place. She sees herself reflected within the visor: her helmet thrown back, so many wires protruding from her skull she looks like some kind of mechanical medusa.
Andrew Harrison gazes at her. His expression’s neutral.
“Any ideas?” he asks.
“The only one I’ve got is the one I hate the most.”
“It happens,” the Throne replies.
He’s tired. He’s bone-weary But he’s still alive. He hurts everywhere. But they’ve patched him up okay. His body’ll keep on ticking. As to his mind: that would need more than just a doctor. That would need something capable of changing the one thing that can’t be changed.
The past.
“Penny for your thoughts,” says Lynx.
“They’re not in the bargain bin just yet,” mutters Sarmax.
They’re at the junction of two of the catwalks that crisscross the now-pressurized hangar. Their visors are up. Lynx is sipping water from a tube within his helmet. He’s sitting cross-legged against the railing. Sarmax is leaning over it.
“Meaning what?” asks Lynx.
“Meaning I’m not in the mood for conversation.”
“With me, you never were.”
“That’s because you talk too much.”
“I’ve heard of worse weaknesses.”
Sarmax doesn’t reply. Just keeps on staring at the Hangar floor. The gunships have been moved out into the perimeter. The president’s ship is the only craft down there now. Sarmax has been keeping an eye on it for almost fifteen minutes—ever since he emerged from the crowded med-unit and climbed out into the catwalks. No one’s boarded that whole time. No one’s left.
“How long has he been in there?” he asks.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” says Lynx. “It sounded like you were asking me a question.”
“Don’t make me wait for an answer.”
“Easy, Leo. Carson’s been holed up in that ship for almost an hour. Along with the rest of the bodyguards.”
“What about the Throne? And the Manilishi?”
“No one’s seen ’em leave.”
“They’re trying to think up a way out of this mess.”
“You sad you weren’t invited?”
“You sad I shot your hand off?”
“Fuck you,” says Lynx.
“I’m going to go stretch my legs instead.”
Lynx leans back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No one is,” says Sarmax.
• • •
Five minutes later he’s walking along a platform up in the Hangar’s rafters. Gravity’s a lot weaker up here. Praetorians pass him, salute, and keep going. He eventually reaches a point where the platform widens into a bona-fide balcony.
A single man’s sitting there, wearing a unistretch jumpsuit that does little to conceal his bulk. A suit of armor’s standing in a corner of the platform. Another suit of armor’s in pieces all around him. The man looks up from troubleshooting it.
“What’s up?” says Sarmax.
Linehan shrugs. “Figure you’d know that better than me.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“He’s not my friend, boss.”
“Whatever.”
“He went to try to get more ammo. We heard a rumor they were dishing it out on level H.”
“You could have asked us for some. We’ve got connections.”
“With strings attached.”
“Fair point.”
“Besides,” adds Linehan, “we couldn’t find you. Heard you were out for the count.”
“I was. But now I’m here.”
“So your man Carson can involve us in another suicide run?”
“He’s not my man.”
“Then whose is he?”
“The Throne’s.”
“So what’s going on out there, boss?”
“The Rain are massing for one last assault.”
“I meant out in the rest of fucking existence?”
Sarmax laughs. He glances at the Hangar ceiling, a scant fifteen meters overhead. He looks down at the Hangar floor. Back at Linehan.
“That’s a good one,” he says. “Life beyond the Europa Platform. Sheer chaos, I’m sure. There’s a lot of jamming going on. But that can’t disguise the fact that everyone and their dog are broadcasting. Though we’ve no idea who’s who. No one does. The Rain have frozen everything that counts. No one knows what the codes are. No one can launch shit.”
“Including the Eurasians.”
“The Eurasians are finished.”
“Are they?”
“Blew themselves up in their asteroid.”
“Must have been quite a sight.”
“It’s not like they had much of a choice.”
“Because otherwise the Rain would have gotten their executive node?”
Sarmax nods.
“And the Coalition couldn’t transfer it elsewhere,” adds Linehan.
Sarmax’s eyes narrow. “How do you know so much about executive nodes anyway?”
“I get around.”
“Because you used to run wet-ops for SpaceCom.”
“I wouldn’t say it that loud.”
“Son, they can’t bust me, I wrote half the rules. Besides, it’s not like your history’s a secret.”
“Yours is.”
Sarmax stares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve been listening to the talk around the camp-fires.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“They say you got out of all this once upon a time.”