zone from her.
But Huselid doesn’t seem worried. It’s almost as though he’s been expecting this. He’s unleashing a flurry of commands. Tactical battle readouts parade through her skull. The Rain hit teams in the cylinder are back online in combat mode, shielded against her onslaughts now, engaging with several Praetorian special-ops units—and those units are fully active in the zone, fully supported by the Hand and her. The ships outside are swooping in toward the Platform, opening fire, sending DE beams and KE shells streaking into the cylinder’s outermost layers to crash in and around the areas in which the Rain units are operating. And now the first of the dropships is deploying marines along the length of the cylinder, the majority of them near the middle where the fighting’s heaviest. Two of the ships coming in behind that first one are slated to deploy directly onto the surface of the Aerie. Haskell moves to shift some of the heavy vehicles situated in the levels beneath her closer to where the action’s going down.
But Huselid stops her. She sees his point. With the Throne cut off, this chamber has become the command post. And the forces protecting it are substantial—the Praetorians from the ships that docked earlier are massed along the outer perimeter, about a hundred meters out from where Haskell’s standing, while the Hand’s own shock troops form the inner perimeter, which starts about thirty meters from this room. Haskell can see that Huselid is anxious to maintain robust defenses around his makeshift citadel.
Particularly given the extent to which the security and household robots in the city have been hacked by the Rain. New London’s plunging into chaos. But the nearest Rain triad seems to have been trapped in a series of elevator shafts in the city’s basements. And the one just south of the cylinder’s equator has been pinned down in a construction area. The Rain have seized the bait. The hammer’s coming down uponthem. And whatever’s going on within the asteroid, the Rain team there will have its work cut out for it in making headway against the main force of the Praetorian Core.
“We have them,” says the Hand.
Even as she feels the zone writhe beneath her.
T he cannons of the
Larissa V
unleash on maximum strafe. Puffs of explosions dot the cylinder—and now the Platform’s giving way to space as the ship turns at a sickening angle and rushes parallel to the main cylinder.
“This is it!” screams Linehan—and cuts out as the drop-ship he’s in launches. Spencer watches it go on the screens within his head, watches the other dropships launch, watches as the
Larissa V
blasts past the Platform and engages its rear-guns. The targeted areas light up—and then go dark.
Along with everything else.
W hat the fuck,” says the Operative. His screens are showing static—within his helmet, but also within his head. He looks at Sarmax, who’s looking puzzled. The other Praetorians are clearly having the same problem. They’re communicating with hand signals. Those within this room are still holding their positions. But as to what’s happening to the Praetorian marines in the perimeter that defends this room, the Operative has no idea. He hears no sign of combat.
But the fighting in the cylinder has clearly stepped up several notches. The air’s ablaze with laser and tracer fire. Most of it’s concentrated some fifteen klicks out, but there’s plenty of it that’s a lot nearer. Two more fuel-air bombs havedetonated. New London is on fire in several places. The Operative gets glimpses of mobs in the streets—tens of thousands of terrified people in full stampede along the ramps. In the far distance, a giant jet of flame gouts out from the southern mountains. Whatever’s going on behind them in the Aerie isn’t pretty. The Operative moves to where Sarmax is standing, places his helmet against his.
“They’ve lost the whole fucking zone,” he yells.
“Can you
But Huselid doesn’t seem worried. It’s almost as though he’s been expecting this. He’s unleashing a flurry of commands. Tactical battle readouts parade through her skull. The Rain hit teams in the cylinder are back online in combat mode, shielded against her onslaughts now, engaging with several Praetorian special-ops units—and those units are fully active in the zone, fully supported by the Hand and her. The ships outside are swooping in toward the Platform, opening fire, sending DE beams and KE shells streaking into the cylinder’s outermost layers to crash in and around the areas in which the Rain units are operating. And now the first of the dropships is deploying marines along the length of the cylinder, the majority of them near the middle where the fighting’s heaviest. Two of the ships coming in behind that first one are slated to deploy directly onto the surface of the Aerie. Haskell moves to shift some of the heavy vehicles situated in the levels beneath her closer to where the action’s going down.
But Huselid stops her. She sees his point. With the Throne cut off, this chamber has become the command post. And the forces protecting it are substantial—the Praetorians from the ships that docked earlier are massed along the outer perimeter, about a hundred meters out from where Haskell’s standing, while the Hand’s own shock troops form the inner perimeter, which starts about thirty meters from this room. Haskell can see that Huselid is anxious to maintain robust defenses around his makeshift citadel.
Particularly given the extent to which the security and household robots in the city have been hacked by the Rain. New London’s plunging into chaos. But the nearest Rain triad seems to have been trapped in a series of elevator shafts in the city’s basements. And the one just south of the cylinder’s equator has been pinned down in a construction area. The Rain have seized the bait. The hammer’s coming down uponthem. And whatever’s going on within the asteroid, the Rain team there will have its work cut out for it in making headway against the main force of the Praetorian Core.
“We have them,” says the Hand.
Even as she feels the zone writhe beneath her.
T he cannons of the
Larissa V
unleash on maximum strafe. Puffs of explosions dot the cylinder—and now the Platform’s giving way to space as the ship turns at a sickening angle and rushes parallel to the main cylinder.
“This is it!” screams Linehan—and cuts out as the drop-ship he’s in launches. Spencer watches it go on the screens within his head, watches the other dropships launch, watches as the
Larissa V
blasts past the Platform and engages its rear-guns. The targeted areas light up—and then go dark.
Along with everything else.
W hat the fuck,” says the Operative. His screens are showing static—within his helmet, but also within his head. He looks at Sarmax, who’s looking puzzled. The other Praetorians are clearly having the same problem. They’re communicating with hand signals. Those within this room are still holding their positions. But as to what’s happening to the Praetorian marines in the perimeter that defends this room, the Operative has no idea. He hears no sign of combat.
But the fighting in the cylinder has clearly stepped up several notches. The air’s ablaze with laser and tracer fire. Most of it’s concentrated some fifteen klicks out, but there’s plenty of it that’s a lot nearer. Two more fuel-air bombs havedetonated. New London is on fire in several places. The Operative gets glimpses of mobs in the streets—tens of thousands of terrified people in full stampede along the ramps. In the far distance, a giant jet of flame gouts out from the southern mountains. Whatever’s going on behind them in the Aerie isn’t pretty. The Operative moves to where Sarmax is standing, places his helmet against his.
“They’ve lost the whole fucking zone,” he yells.
“Can you
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