The Burning Skies (38 page)

But the Operative doesn’t intend to give them the chance.

“Round two,” he whispers.

And triggers the gun’s third barrel. This one isn’t a laser at all. Coils touch; electromagnetism surges; nuclear-tipped projectiles sail off into space. Even as machinery bursts into the room: three hunter-killer droids. The Remoraz’s rear guns start firing, lacerating targets. The three men spread out as they blast the intruders, trying to maximize cross-fire. Two of the droids are down. The third retreats.

“After it!” yells the Operative.

But Sarmax is already putting micromissiles down the corridor. There’s a large explosion.

“Scratch one metalhead,” he says.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” says the Operative.

“And leave those?” asks Sarmax, pointing at the laser cannon and the vehicle.

“Along with some souvenirs,” says the Operative.

• • •

T
he control room,” breathes Linehan. Only nothing human’s at the helm. Whoever was running the show before this thing got commandeered has been turned into sliced meat. It’s on autopilot now, with a very specific set of directives. The room’s shifting from side to side like a boat in an angry sea. The screens show carnage: bunkers getting burned, Praetorians getting laced, metal getting smashed.

“So much for the outer perimeter,” says Spencer.

“Shut up and burn it!” yells Linehan.

They lower their arms, start firing. Screens shatter. They start spraying the computers behind the screens. The floor’s tilting—Spencer and Linehan are firing their thrusters, trying to stabilize themselves as the monster they’re in revs up to speeds well beyond its safety margins. The screens that still remain show it’s no longer making for the Hangar.

“Going fucking haywire,” screams Linehan.

And then the screens go blindingly white.

E
lectromagnetic pulse washes across them, but only barely. The warheads weren’t designed to spray massive amounts of radiation everywhere. All they were designed to do was annihilate several klicks of target.

“It’s gone,” says the Operative.

They are too. They’ve left the room behind, and are now blasting through the gutted chambers of the ultrarich. They can see bodies everywhere. But it’s what they can’t see that’s worrying them …

“Pursuit,” says Sarmax.

“No shit,” says Lynx.

Shots are streaking past them. Machinery’s surging after
them: droids, dust, minidrones, the works. They’re turning on their afterburners. But this place is a maze. They can’t hit full thrust. They’re heavily outnumbered. Meaning they’d better do something fast.

“Back to the cylinder,” yells Sarmax.

“Fuck no,” screams Lynx. “Let’s hit the hull!”

“Neither!” yells the Operative—and explains as they go.

T
hey’re setting off nukes!” yells Spencer.

“Can you see where?”

“The direction of the cylinder! Can’t tell beyond that!”

Their sensors are overloaded, but their vehicle is still intact. Still running amok, it lurches across an uneven area of the hull—almost tips into a crevasse, but somehow finds the far side. The remnants of the screens show Praetorians and droids scattering, doing their utmost to give it a wide berth. It steams past the main fighting, starts to leave the Hangar behind.

“Let’s get out of this fucking thing,” yells Spencer.

“Why?” asks Linehan calmly.

Spencer stares at him. They’re both clinging onto the walls. “Because we could tip over at any fucking moment!”

“Which means that nothing sane’s getting near us!”

“Because we’re going to fucking crash!”

“It’s still a damn sight safer than
that,”
says Linehan, gesturing at a rear-facing screen. The ravaged Praetorian bunkers look like some pockmarked lunar landscape. Drones of all description are waging a full-on assault. Praetorian shakers and crawlers are emerging from hatches farther back in what looks to be some desperate counterattack. But it’s clear that the inner perimeter’s about to get overrun.

“See what I mean?” says Linehan, turning back to Spencer. “Yeah? Well, what about
that?”

And gestures at the same screen. Linehan turns back toward it.

“Shit,” he says.

T
he Rain’s machinery is in hot pursuit of the Praetorians who just blew their ace card. Lasers and bullets streak out in search of targets that keep on making turns that leave them one step ahead of the hunters. Carson and his team are coming back into the domain of gravity. But they’re not letting that slow them.

“We need some fucking margin,” mutters Sarmax.

The Operative says nothing as he leads them down corridors that have seen more than their share of firefight already. Looks like a battle went down here between the Euro cops and their out-of-control droids. Looks like the cops got busted for keeps.

“Nasty,” says Lynx.

They shoot through housing levels where ceilings and floors have been carved out with what looks to be an industrial-strength laser. They surge through what might have been a park, come back into more housing levels. The drones are catching up.

“Now!” yells the Operative.

Their bomb racks start spewing out disruptor grenades while their helmets discharge smoke. They toss hi-ex over their shoulders for good measure, swivel their jets, turning and surging out into what’s left of a school. Explosions start going off behind them. They hit the ventilator shafts, start searing through them.

“I think we lost ’em,” says Lynx.

“Not for long,” says Sarmax.

“All we need’s ten more seconds,” says the Operative.

• • •

T
he carnage on the screens has to be seen to be grasped. But the onslaught of machinery hasn’t reached the Hangar yet. At least not on the surface. It’s getting held up by the last stand of the inner perimeter. And back at the Hangar itself … “The fucking doors—”

“They’re opening!”

And something’s becoming evident on top of the shaking of the machine they’re riding. Something that’s reverberating through the vibration that’s all around.

“Damn,” says Linehan, “they’re going for it.”

T
hey’re through into a tube about five meters wide. There are rails running through it. It looks familiar.

“The Magnates’ private railway” says Lynx.

“We’ve been here before,” says Sarmax.

“Not this section.” The Operative hits his jets, blasts up the tunnel. It bends along a gentle curve. The curve grows sharper, and then dead-ends.

“We should be going the other way,” says Lynx.

“I don’t think so,” says the Operative. He touches the wall, applies pressure, works a manual release—watches as the wall swings back to reveal more rail.

“Nifty,” says Sarmax.

“And off every fucking map,” says the Operative. He hits the jets.

“Let’s hope so,” says Lynx.

They cannon down that tunnel. Five seconds, and they reach another dead end.

“End of the line,” says the Operative.

He turns to a fusebox, starts throwing switches in a
sequence. A wall starts folding away. The men stare at what’s behind it.

“Shit,” says Sarmax.

“Now we’re talking,” says Lynx.

T
hey’re in a control room, but they’re controlling nothing. The off-the-leash war machine they’re riding is rolling away from all the fighting. All the men within it can do is check out the latest thing to hit their screens.