The Burning Skies (21 page)

“The terrain’s narrowing,” says Sarmax.

“I realize that,” says the Operative.

But he still hasn’t figured out how to handle the implications. They’ve left the valley behind. The exterior wall of the cylinder is curving in toward the southern pole—letting the defense stack itself up pretty thick, depriving the Operative of room to maneuver. Which is the one thing he can’t afford to lose.

“We need more space,” says Sarmax.

“The surface,” says the Operative.

He signals to the marines around him, and swerves on his jets while everybody follows. They blast through metal corridors and into stone-lined tunnels. Gravity slowly subsides as they catch glimpses of lights flaring up ahead. They accelerate, emerge amidst the foothills.

C
an’t turn around!” screams Linehan. Spencer gets the feeling he would if he could. But any craft or suit that deviates too far from the attack vectors is going to stray into the field of fire of the ones behind it. What’s left of the flanks are struggling forward, desperately trying to reach the sloping mountains. Linehan keeps whipping the bike from side to side. Spencer watches valley and window slide past his visor. He catches quick glimpses of the wraparound mountains up ahead, of vehicles flying everywhere behind him. He watches as the guns of the
shakers in the center open up against the artillery rigged into the rocks. He wonders how this could get any worse.

T
hey’re on the verge of off-world mountains, and Haskell’s no longer fooled. It’s as though every cell in her is suddenly flaring into life. Her conscious mind’s swallowed in the vortex of the unknown—of
her
unknown—and she’s not even trying to keep pace. She feels her head tilting back in her seat, feels the pilot glance at her nervously, feels him recede from her along with everything else. She sees the lives of all those around her on some grid from which infinite axes sprout. Space-time’s just one piece of something larger: something that’s now blossoming through her, shooting her through with rapture, seizing her with ecstasy beyond any she’s ever known—life lived between the two singularities of birth and rebirth and skirting all the little deaths in between. Her mind catapults out on the zone, leaps in toward those mountains.

S
hots hurtle all around the Operative. Plasma hurtles overhead. Debris is going everywhere. He’s seeking whatever cover he can find. Those around him are doing the same. They’re right at ground level, smashing through groves of stubby trees, whipping past rocks. Towering overhead are endless mountains, wrapping above them and onto the ceiling, converging upon the South Pole. “The place of reckoning,” says Sarmax. “Or near enough,” replies the Operative—and starts screaming at those behind him to keep up the pace. They hold course, streak in over the foothills.

“Which conduit are we making for?” yells Sarmax. “We feint
there,”
yells the Operative. “We hit
here.”

“And our marines?” asks Lynx.

“Let’s play that one by ear,” says Sarmax.

“Exactly” says the Operative.

Meaning that maybe those marines will end up just piling in toward that diversion while the three who pull their strings swing the other way at the decisive moment. It’s all going to depend on how the next few minutes unfold.

Or the next few seconds.

Because suddenly the Manilishi’s shoving herself into the Operative’s head, pushing him beyond his skull, making him one with the mountains. The Euro guns that became Praetorian that became the Rain’s are blasting past him; the whole cylinder’s turning around him as his mind dives deep into the rock, slicing through the wreckage of the Euro zone. There’s no zone left in there now.

Only there is. Although he’s not even sure it
is
a zone. It’s more like the intimation of one. He’s got no idea how to hack it. Not even with
her
doing the hacking. He’s not even sure that matters.

L
inehan’s screaming at him but Spencer no longer hears. Guns keep on firing but he no longer sees them. He’s bound up in something far stronger than himself. He’s the tracks over which the whole train’s rolling. His mind’s ablaze with the insight of another.

B
ecause Haskell finally gets it—finally sees the pattern she’s been searching for. The one that was right under her nose: she triangulates through the eyes of all her razors, all along the battle line, zeroing in on the one thing that only she can. She’s looking at the most
customized zone in existence. Zone that’s probably not even capable of hacking anything outside itself. Zone that’s not designed to. It’s just a tactical battle mesh. One that’s supposed to be invisible—and it has been up until now. But now she sees that the Rain are going to do their utmost to prevent her from crossing to the asteroid. At least one of their triads is preparing to make a stand. Has it figured out a way to hold off the whole Praetorian force? Or is it just going to try to bloody the formation’s nose, before falling back into the asteroid, blowing the conduits as it goes? Now she’s got the chance to draw some blood herself. She’s sending out the orders almost before she’s thought of them.

H
ow many?” yells Sarmax. “Manilishi thinks a full triad,” replies the operative.

“Same as us,” says Lynx.

Sarmax laughs. “They learned from the best.”

The Operative orders the marines forward. They surge in on their thrusters, scrambling up cliff faces and flitting over peaks. Ten seconds, and they’re out of sight. They swarm forward, steadily closing in on where the Manilishi believes the Rain to be.

“Nothing like a little cannon fodder,” says Lynx.

“What the fuck would you call
us?”
asks Sarmax.

He gestures on the collective heads-up at the main force behind them, now moving out of the valley at maximum speed. The Operative can appreciate that those who direct it are anxiously watching the results of the combat that’s about to take place. But what he can’t understand is why the Rain’s even making a stand here in the first place.

Sarmax’s voice is in his ear: “The party in the asteroid’s
over.”

“Wrong,” replies the Operative. “It’s just begun.”

• • •

T
hey’ve almost left the land of valley and window behind. The mountains fill the screens. Spencer and Linehan are right near the edge of the window. They’re not about to get any nearer to it. But even as Linehan eases the bike away from the window, something else becomes visible—out in space amidst the flashes of light, reflected off the edge of a wayward shard of mirror …

“Shit,” says Linehan.

“Just keep
driving
,” says Spencer.

It’s just a fraction of the whole thing. It’s all they can see. It’s all they really want to. It’s the asteroid itself: sun-scorched rock to put the faux mountains in the cylinder to shame. What’s now known as the Aerie was harnessed by the Euro Magnates, towed across the vacuum, tunneled through, and studded with engines. And at least a few of those motors must be firing right now, because judging from the view in the mirror, the whole rock is swinging steadily in toward the cylinder.