have to do.
“I have it,” he says. “Give me orders, sir.”
“Back to the fucking Platform,” says the captain, giving him the vectors—and turning from there to the gunnery officers, starting to gesture at them to get their consoles’ wires extended to where Spencer is. But Spencer’s got eyes only for the fragment of the ship’s zone that’s still remaining, a glowing ember amidst scattered ash. The angle along which he’s turning the craft is almost insanely aggressive, in large part because he’s only got partial control of the steering. He feels G-forces building upon him. He watches people clinging to their straps and chairs. He watches panels that have been torn loose fly into the walls—watches the Platform swing back intothe windows and start to rush in toward them once more. Two other ships are out in front of them. They’ve managed to get back in the game as well. They’re running the same race, closing on the same target.
“Landfall on the asteroid,” says the captain. “Following coordinates.”
Spencer lines up the approaching Aerie. But now one of the ships that’s up ahead lights up in a sudden flash—a flash that intensifies as its armor crumbles and its engines detonate.
“Gone,” screams someone.
“What the hell’s going on?” yells the captain.
“We’re under fire, sir,” says Spencer.
“I can see that!
What the fuck’s shooting at us?”
“I’m trying to figure that out!” screams Spencer. “Give me a fucking moment!”
“We don’t
have
any moments! Evasive action!”
But Spencer’s already got that going. Everything that’s not tied down starts moving again. A huge bolt of energy just misses their ship, flashes past on the screens. Spencer runs subroutines on what’s left of the ship’s comps; he traces that energy’s strength and direction, looks back along its route, reaches its source.
And finds himself staring across a hundred kilometers at the Helios Station.
B lasts keep on rocking the chamber. The Praetorians have switched back from hand signals to the one-on-one. And now Lynx sails on thrusters back into the room. Sarmax looks at the Operative. “Thought he was supposed to be dead.”
“Divine intervention,” says the Operative.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Manilishi. Apparently she purged his skull’s software. He’s clean.”
“Not that it matters,” says Sarmax, gesturing at the window. Lynx reaches them, stares out at it—and whistles.
“Christ,” he says, “they’re going to
town.”
An understatement. The shelling of the Praetorian ships has penetrated the cylinder in several places. And somebody’s busy blowing airlocks. People are getting sucked by the thousands down tunnels and holes now laid open.
“Look on the bright side,” says Sarmax. “The vacuum’ll put out the fires.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” says Lynx.
About as bad as it gets,” says the Operative. “We could use you back in the game. How’s your hand?”
“Fucked,” says Lynx.
“He means can you fight,” says Sarmax.
“I know what he means, you prick. The answer’s yes.”
“It’s less a question of lost firepower,” says the Operative. “More one of—”
“Lost balance?” Lynx’s smile is pure ice. “Armor can compensate. Particularly with the download that bitch just gave me. So we’ve lost the broader zone?”
“Yup,” says Sarmax. “The Manilishi and the Hand seem to have managed to get a local connection going. And that’s it.”
“Where’s the Throne?” asks Lynx.
“In the asteroid,” says the Operative.
“Still fighting?”
“Who knows?”
The three men amp their scopes, peer out into the cylinder’s vast hollow. Most of the lighting is gone now. Explosions flash out amidst the gathering dark. Half the Platform’s robots seem to be running programs set in motionby the Rain. Debris flies past the window. Tracer-fire cuts swathes everywhere.
“Let’s prep
“I have it,” he says. “Give me orders, sir.”
“Back to the fucking Platform,” says the captain, giving him the vectors—and turning from there to the gunnery officers, starting to gesture at them to get their consoles’ wires extended to where Spencer is. But Spencer’s got eyes only for the fragment of the ship’s zone that’s still remaining, a glowing ember amidst scattered ash. The angle along which he’s turning the craft is almost insanely aggressive, in large part because he’s only got partial control of the steering. He feels G-forces building upon him. He watches people clinging to their straps and chairs. He watches panels that have been torn loose fly into the walls—watches the Platform swing back intothe windows and start to rush in toward them once more. Two other ships are out in front of them. They’ve managed to get back in the game as well. They’re running the same race, closing on the same target.
“Landfall on the asteroid,” says the captain. “Following coordinates.”
Spencer lines up the approaching Aerie. But now one of the ships that’s up ahead lights up in a sudden flash—a flash that intensifies as its armor crumbles and its engines detonate.
“Gone,” screams someone.
“What the hell’s going on?” yells the captain.
“We’re under fire, sir,” says Spencer.
“I can see that!
What the fuck’s shooting at us?”
“I’m trying to figure that out!” screams Spencer. “Give me a fucking moment!”
“We don’t
have
any moments! Evasive action!”
But Spencer’s already got that going. Everything that’s not tied down starts moving again. A huge bolt of energy just misses their ship, flashes past on the screens. Spencer runs subroutines on what’s left of the ship’s comps; he traces that energy’s strength and direction, looks back along its route, reaches its source.
And finds himself staring across a hundred kilometers at the Helios Station.
B lasts keep on rocking the chamber. The Praetorians have switched back from hand signals to the one-on-one. And now Lynx sails on thrusters back into the room. Sarmax looks at the Operative. “Thought he was supposed to be dead.”
“Divine intervention,” says the Operative.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Manilishi. Apparently she purged his skull’s software. He’s clean.”
“Not that it matters,” says Sarmax, gesturing at the window. Lynx reaches them, stares out at it—and whistles.
“Christ,” he says, “they’re going to
town.”
An understatement. The shelling of the Praetorian ships has penetrated the cylinder in several places. And somebody’s busy blowing airlocks. People are getting sucked by the thousands down tunnels and holes now laid open.
“Look on the bright side,” says Sarmax. “The vacuum’ll put out the fires.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” says Lynx.
About as bad as it gets,” says the Operative. “We could use you back in the game. How’s your hand?”
“Fucked,” says Lynx.
“He means can you fight,” says Sarmax.
“I know what he means, you prick. The answer’s yes.”
“It’s less a question of lost firepower,” says the Operative. “More one of—”
“Lost balance?” Lynx’s smile is pure ice. “Armor can compensate. Particularly with the download that bitch just gave me. So we’ve lost the broader zone?”
“Yup,” says Sarmax. “The Manilishi and the Hand seem to have managed to get a local connection going. And that’s it.”
“Where’s the Throne?” asks Lynx.
“In the asteroid,” says the Operative.
“Still fighting?”
“Who knows?”
The three men amp their scopes, peer out into the cylinder’s vast hollow. Most of the lighting is gone now. Explosions flash out amidst the gathering dark. Half the Platform’s robots seem to be running programs set in motionby the Rain. Debris flies past the window. Tracer-fire cuts swathes everywhere.
“Let’s prep
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