reestablish one-on-one?” yells Sarmax.
“It’s gone, man!”
“What do you mean it’s gone?”
“I mean it’s fucking vanished! We could broadcast in the clear, but that’s suicide!”
“So what do we do?” says Sarmax.
“Purge the loose ends and get ready for the mother of all slug-outs.”
“Loose ends?”
“Lynx. Let’s execute him.”
“Works for me,” says Sarmax. The Operative turns away, fires his suit’s thrusters, glides over to one of the Praetorian officers, slams his helmet up against his.
“Kill the prisoner,” he says.
“Sir, I need the authority of the Hand for that.”
“The Hand’s a little fucking busy right now,” snarls the Operative.
“Those are my orders.”
“Your orders have changed,” says the voice of the Hand.
T sunami’s surging out across the zone. Nothing left around her. Nothing—save the implications of what she carved upon herself. What she failed to recognize. The nature of the real trap. “Both zones,” she says out loud.
They let her make the first move. They drew her in, convinced her that they had nothing in reserve, forced her to become the one thing propping up the universe. But now there’s no more universe left to prop. The Eurasian and U.S. zones have just gone down. The Rain used the legacies to link them, leveraged the proximity of the executive nodes of East and West.
And set them against each other like opposite charges to neutralize each other.
“What the hell?” says Huselid.
“Every wireless conduit,” she says. “Chain reaction.”
Autumn Rain’s razors just rode their megahack in style, smashing against every exposed razor they could find on the way down. They couldn’t damage her, though—couldn’t touch the razors under her personal protection, within the Hand’s perimeter. All they could do was yank the zone from under her feet.
But not the one within her head. Haskell’s the one thing that’s not affected—the one thing capable of restoring what’s been lost. She’s doing her utmost to jury-rig a whole new zone around her. But it’s going to be pathetically small. Because all she can reach is the software of those in immediate line-of-sight. Though that’s a damn sight farther than anyone else can manage. She beams new codes to the Hand, beams them to his bodyguards—sends soldiers racing out toward the outer perimeter to try to restore some semblance of order. Other soldiers are turning to the outer window of the room, setting up Morse code to signal the ships out there via direct visual.
“Order them all directly onto the Aerie,” snarls the Hand.
“Tell them to hit that asteroid and deploy everything that’s left.”
But now the Rain make the move aimed at checkmate.
• • •
S pencer opens his eyes. It’s not easy. His head hurts. It feels like his nose is bleeding. He looks around. The bridge is in chaos. Personnel are removing panels, pulling out wires. Trying to find a way to control this ship, which continues to hurtle out into space, away from the Platform. Spencer wanders through his own mind’s haze, wonders if there’s anything he can do about it. Because it doesn’t look like the prime razor’s going to do shit. He’s sprawled in his chair, eyes staring at nothing.
“He’s fucking had it,” shouts a voice. “Now get the fuck over here!”
The captain hasn’t deigned to speak to his secondary razor until now. But Spencer just got a battlefield promotion—he releases his straps, fires his suit’s thrusters, jets over to where the captain’s holding onto his own chair. The captain points at the exec-dashboard in front of him.
“Get the fuck in there and give me control.”
“Sir.” And Spencer does. He finds himself blocked—slides past that blockage, reaches down the redundant wires, bypasses the software to interface directly with the engines. It’s not much. Every wireless conduit that might lead to the larger zone beyond this ship is fucked. But it’ll
“It’s gone, man!”
“What do you mean it’s gone?”
“I mean it’s fucking vanished! We could broadcast in the clear, but that’s suicide!”
“So what do we do?” says Sarmax.
“Purge the loose ends and get ready for the mother of all slug-outs.”
“Loose ends?”
“Lynx. Let’s execute him.”
“Works for me,” says Sarmax. The Operative turns away, fires his suit’s thrusters, glides over to one of the Praetorian officers, slams his helmet up against his.
“Kill the prisoner,” he says.
“Sir, I need the authority of the Hand for that.”
“The Hand’s a little fucking busy right now,” snarls the Operative.
“Those are my orders.”
“Your orders have changed,” says the voice of the Hand.
T sunami’s surging out across the zone. Nothing left around her. Nothing—save the implications of what she carved upon herself. What she failed to recognize. The nature of the real trap. “Both zones,” she says out loud.
They let her make the first move. They drew her in, convinced her that they had nothing in reserve, forced her to become the one thing propping up the universe. But now there’s no more universe left to prop. The Eurasian and U.S. zones have just gone down. The Rain used the legacies to link them, leveraged the proximity of the executive nodes of East and West.
And set them against each other like opposite charges to neutralize each other.
“What the hell?” says Huselid.
“Every wireless conduit,” she says. “Chain reaction.”
Autumn Rain’s razors just rode their megahack in style, smashing against every exposed razor they could find on the way down. They couldn’t damage her, though—couldn’t touch the razors under her personal protection, within the Hand’s perimeter. All they could do was yank the zone from under her feet.
But not the one within her head. Haskell’s the one thing that’s not affected—the one thing capable of restoring what’s been lost. She’s doing her utmost to jury-rig a whole new zone around her. But it’s going to be pathetically small. Because all she can reach is the software of those in immediate line-of-sight. Though that’s a damn sight farther than anyone else can manage. She beams new codes to the Hand, beams them to his bodyguards—sends soldiers racing out toward the outer perimeter to try to restore some semblance of order. Other soldiers are turning to the outer window of the room, setting up Morse code to signal the ships out there via direct visual.
“Order them all directly onto the Aerie,” snarls the Hand.
“Tell them to hit that asteroid and deploy everything that’s left.”
But now the Rain make the move aimed at checkmate.
• • •
S pencer opens his eyes. It’s not easy. His head hurts. It feels like his nose is bleeding. He looks around. The bridge is in chaos. Personnel are removing panels, pulling out wires. Trying to find a way to control this ship, which continues to hurtle out into space, away from the Platform. Spencer wanders through his own mind’s haze, wonders if there’s anything he can do about it. Because it doesn’t look like the prime razor’s going to do shit. He’s sprawled in his chair, eyes staring at nothing.
“He’s fucking had it,” shouts a voice. “Now get the fuck over here!”
The captain hasn’t deigned to speak to his secondary razor until now. But Spencer just got a battlefield promotion—he releases his straps, fires his suit’s thrusters, jets over to where the captain’s holding onto his own chair. The captain points at the exec-dashboard in front of him.
“Get the fuck in there and give me control.”
“Sir.” And Spencer does. He finds himself blocked—slides past that blockage, reaches down the redundant wires, bypasses the software to interface directly with the engines. It’s not much. Every wireless conduit that might lead to the larger zone beyond this ship is fucked. But it’ll
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