The Burning Skies (43 page)

“It won’t save him,” the woman adds. “Ships beat suits any day.”

“Depends who’s wearing them,” says Sarmax. “Enough,” she snaps. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

T
he wayward cockpit accelerates again. Spencer slides across the floor, drifts against the wall, turns his head within his helmet to behold the navigator putting the ship through a series of maneuvers. Spencer hurls himself against the hack once more, practically gets brain-fried for his troubles.

“Take it easy,” says the navigator. “It’s almost over.”

C
ontingency planning: the Throne had set charges over his ship to detonate after he’d gotten clear—though
clear
is a relative concept. Debris is flying everywhere. The Operative feels like he’s heading through an asteroid belt. It’s all he and Lynx can do to shoot
at the Rain while they’re dodging. Shots whip past the Operative: he reels in the tether, sees the sled rushing closer, sees that one of the Rain’s just had his suit perforated by ship fragments. The lifeless suit flies past the Operative, almost knocks him off. But the other member of the Rain has slid forward, reached the sled several suit lengths ahead of the pursuit, and slashed a laser through one of the tethers.

“Fuck,” says Lynx.

And tumbles past the Operative. Who can see all too clearly that he’s next.

T
he Euro interceptor gives the expanding field of debris a wide berth. It starts turning one more time along vectors laid down by the woman with the guns.

“How many of you are there left?” asks Haskell.

“Tell this whore to shut up,” says the woman.

“What did she do to you?” asks Sarmax.

“Betrayed us, Leo.”

“And you betrayed me.”

“You’ve lost it. You don’t even know—”

“I know you’re Rain,” says Sarmax. “That’s enough.”

“So shut the fuck up and prime this ship’s weapons.”

E
very plan of ours contains another plan,” mumbles the navigator as he works the controls.

“Every device another device.” Spencer’s hardly listening. He’s just thinking furiously. If he could find a way to trigger one of his suit’s weapons on manual … if he could explode his suit’s ammo … if he could
do fucking
anything
. He hurls himself back and forth against his suit in a vain attempt to move it. He exhales, tries to pull his arm into the space reserved for his torso. But it’s way too tight a fit. Out of the corner of his visor he can see Linehan struggling through similarly unsuccessful contortions.

“Thus it is with humanity” says the navigator. “Trapped in a cage while we gaze between the bars.”

They hurtle toward the wreckage of the Throne’s last ship.

R
ain is cutting off the competition. Or trying to—but the Operative fires his jets, surges from his tether, streaking off at an angle as he fires a burst from a wrist-gun at the sled. Shots slam into its motor in precisely calibrated points, knocking its nozzles sideways, sending it careening from its course, straight onto that of the Operative—who reaches out and leaps on to grapple with the suit within.

B
ring up the targets,” says the woman. “Lock them in.”

“Lynx is easy enough,” says Sarmax. “He’s going nowhere. But Carson’s hand-to-hand with your own—”

“Gun them both down,” snarls the woman. “It’s the Throne’s skull I want.”

“Don’t do it,” says Haskell.

“One more word and I’ll do you.”

“You’re going to kill us anyway!”

“At least let
her
live,” says Sarmax.

“Long enough for a little brain surgery.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” snarls Haskell.

“Back on Earth, we’ll find out what makes you tick.”

“Never in hell.”

“My minigun’s quite the surgeon too. Leo: lock in the targets.”

Sarmax complies.

C
rossfire time,” mutters the navigator. Spencer can’t see what he’s looking at. But the tone of triumph in the navigator’s voice is unmistakable. He can see that the man is priming the ship’s weaponry, getting ready to fire.

But then he sees Linehan.

Who’s hit his suit’s manual release. Who’s holding his breath. His face is already blistering in the vacuum. His expression’s one of total mania. He’s hurling himself upon the navigator.

Who turns—

T
he sled’s turning in circles. The Operative pivots against his foe’s armor, smashing the other man’s helmet. For his trouble, Carson gets a boot to his face, falls backward across the limp figure of Harrison—who’s sprawled out unconscious against the steering equipment, barely breathing, his suit holed and cauterized in the lower back. But the Operative’s got other things on his mind, like fending off the laser cutter that’s slashing toward his face. He ducks in under it, fires his suit-jets, slams head-on against the man, grabs onto his arms and tries to bring his minigun to bear. But they’re both too close. Over the man’s shoulder the Operative can see the dwindling figure of Lynx, opening up on ships that are closing in …

• • •

S
hots streak past the cockpit.

“Waste them,” says the woman.

“First tell me Indigo’s still alive.”