The final stage of the last battle’s under way. The Rain’s machine proxies are hitting the Praetorians all along the perimeter. They’re pressing for a breakthrough along several fronts. Spencer and Linehan are right in the middle of one such area. They’ve never been so fucked. Nor have they ever seen anything like what’s now bearing down upon them.
“Look at the size of that fucker—”
“I noticed,” says Linehan.
There’s no way he couldn’t have. It’s three stories high. It’s like a medieval siege-tower on acid. Guns are mounted all along it. Magnetic treads drive it forward. It’s some kind of modified construction robot. It used to dig out chambers in this asteroid. Now it’s going to plow like hell all the way to the Hangar, racking up a fuck-sized body count as it does so.
“We’ve got to get below,” says Linehan. “We stay here, we’re just a speed bump.”
“Someone’s got to stop it,” says Spencer.
“No reason it has to be us.”
Plasma starts streaking past them. Guns mounted atop the behemoth are firing. Shots are striking home along the inner perimeter. Their bunker’s own gun is firing back. And being targeted.
“We’re outta here,” says Linehan.
“Agreed,” says Spencer.
They haul open the trapdoor, pull themselves into the corridor beyond. Rumbling cascades through it. But it’s still empty.
“Back the way we came,” says Spencer.
“Fuck,” says Linehan, “the Praetorians’ll shoot us if we run that way.”
“What would you have us do?”
“Admit we’re out of options.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning get unpredictable.”
• • •
The three men get busy getting ready, pulling their stashed equipment out of the vehicle, snapping pieces together, soldering others, configuring what’s taking shape before them.
“Faster,” says the Operative.
They’re trying, but it’s tough work. Not to mention tense. At any moment something might streak into the chamber and crash their little party. They keep on pulling pieces from compartments, unloading the cargo they’ve brought with them.
“Looking good,” says Sarmax.
So far. The composite structure is almost the length of the Remoraz. But it’s still taking shape. And they’re pretty much out of things to add to it. The cargo they packed is almost gone. In fact—
“We’re out,” says Lynx.
“Somebody fucked up,” says Sarmax.
“Relax,” says the Operative. “We got everything we need.”
They look at him.
“Oh,” says Sarmax. “Got it.”
“Knew you would,” says the Operative.
So what the fuck are you suggesting we do?” yells Spencer.
“I’m making this up as we go!” screams Linehan. He fires his suit-jets, starts heading out beyond the perimeter, down a corridor that seems like it’s going to buckle at any moment.
“Linehan! Come back!”
“Come with me!”
Spencer curses—but heads after Linehan. Who he figures has finally lost it. Or just bowed to the inevitable. Because the shit’s hitting from every side. And Linehan’s right. Everyone who retreats is going to get run down or else be butchered by their own side. Spencer’s on the point of trying to do exactly that to Linehan. But instead he just keeps on racing after him, even as he realizes what the man’s up to.
The Remoraz,” says Lynx. “Yeah,” replies the Operative—and ignites a flamer, starts getting to work. Their vehicle’s skin looks so real he almost expects it to start screeching in pain. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, gives itself up to one last service.
“Did they build it like this?” says Sarmax.
“They built it with all ends in mind,” replies the Operative.
Because there are only so many reasons to do the infiltration run. You’re either taking a closer look or busting up the china. If it’s the latter, then you need to make sure you can pack a punch. Their vehicle’s got rear and aft KE guns, not to mention micromissile batteries. But sometimes you need a lot more than that.
“Tap its generators,” says the Operative.
“Tapping,” replies Lynx.
“Load the nukes.”
“Loading,” says Sarmax.
“Target sequencing,” says the Operative.
“Initiated.”
They’re stumbling forward as the floor shakes beneath them. The walls are buckling. Vibration churns within their suits. Repurposed police droids are appearing at the end of the corridor. Three of them. One looks like a large spider; it clambers down the walls toward them. The others rev their treads, close in. But Spencer and Linehan are already firing: letting their armor absorb shots, spraying KE into those treads, dissecting legs with a fusillade of fire. They charge past the wreckage, keep on going.
“Fuck yes,” says Spencer.
“We’ll break on through,” says Linehan.
Not that there’s much of a plan beyond that. Apparently Linehan’s just figuring that they might be able to get into an area of the asteroid that’s less trafficked. Somewhere they can await events. But those events have caught up with them anyway. Smartdust’s swarming into the corridor on both sides. Spencer’s suit is flinging out thousands of flechettes. He’s pumping hi-ex down the corridor. Linehan’s doing the same. The microshit disappears in sheets of light. The corridor crumbles under the blasts. The two men are knocked sprawling. The floor starts rising up behind them.
“What the fuck!” yells Spencer. He’s trying to get to his feet, gets tossed off them yet again. Linehan is firing his thrusters. He rises, grabs onto the shaking wall. Just as the floor bulges—and breaks. A huge tread smashes through it.
“That bitch is right on top of us!” yells Spencer.
“Below us,” screams Linehan.
“Whatever!” Spencer fires his thrusters, only to switch them off again as minidrones start pouring into the corridor’s far end. They’re a fraction of a meter in length. There are hundreds of them. They roar in toward Spencer and Linehan, who fire bombs down the corridor toward them. Explosions start tearing targets apart. But …
“Not enough!” yells Spencer.
“Only one way out of this,” says Linehan.
He gestures behind them, where the tread’s still slicing through the floor, leaving torn metal in its wake. Through that gaping hole Spencer can see stars. Linehan hits his thrusters, blasts out toward them.
• • •
Their vehicle’s looking more than a little skeletal. Strips have been torn from its sides. Half its head is gone. But the power plant in its belly is still intact. Cables run from beneath it to the multibarreled contraption that’s taken shape alongside.
“Stand by,” says Lynx.
“Scanning for target,” says Sarmax.
He’s looking down a barrel five meters long: straight out the window that looks out into space strewn through with stars. Some of which aren’t stars. Some of which have shown up a little more recently. Some of which are proving to be a real pain in the ass.