“I know,” he says. “You had no choice.”
“I’m dying too,” she whispers.
And fires.
They’re blasting through tunnels in suits they’ve commandeered, looking for gods to butcher.
T hey’re firing in all directions. But they’re moving in only one. They feel like jaguars themselves now. Spencer’s teeth sink into the throats of the people whom he’s killing. His claws separate heads from bodies. His mind’s a hammer smashing skulls. Burning fuel from the shattered rockets in the upper reaches of the base pours across his visor. He surges through it. Linehan follows him, gets out ahead of him. The tunnel’s convulsing. It’s collapsing in behind them. Spencer looks forward to being one with that rock for all time. But first he’s got to do what he came for. They shoot their way through the last of the Jaguar defenses.
And roar out into the real throne room. Suitless soldiers are running for cover. The Hummingbird’s messenger stands at its very center. He wears the most massive armor Spencer’s ever seen. Cat-skull banners adorn the walls behind him. His bodyguards surround him.
“It ends here,” he says.
“You got that right,” screams Linehan.
The Operative and Sarmax are on the wings. Lynx is in the center. They’re moving in close proximity to one another—never more than a single corner or corridor away, deploying interlocking fields of fire. When one encounters resistance, the other two move to outflank. When one breaks through, the other two swing in behind him. The marines in front of them are fighting desperately. The marines behind them are doing their best to run from something else. Lynx’s voice echoes through the helmets of his mechs:
“The Praetorians have broken the outer perimeter.”
“How far back?” says the Operative.
“Half a klick behind us.”
“And Matthias?” says Sarmax.
“Retreating deeper. We’re about to cut him off.”
He rattles off battle dispositions. But neither the Operative nor Sarmax is listening now. All they’re doing is seeing their own vectors slashing in upon each other. They see their target speeding up. They fire their thrusters on one last boost.
And make the intersection.
They’re through into a vast cave. Rails and equipment litter the floor. Several trains are on the rails. One of them is packed with marines and heavy guns. It’s picking up speed into a tunnel.
“Fuck those bastards!” howls Lynx.
But the mechs are already firing. There’s a blinding flash. What’s left of the floor collapses through several levels of floors beneath it. The walls are avalanching.
“The world’s caving in,” yells Sarmax.
“About fucking time,” screams Lynx.
“We ride it,” says the Operative.
They’re roaring downward through something that’s half crater and half maelstrom. Everything’s coming down on them from overhead. Trains fold up into abyss. Waterfalls of rock tumble past.
And then they’re through. And into more tunnels. Lynx is screaming that they’ve got to shatter Autumn Rain. He’s screaming that they’re almost on top of them. They’re putting on one final burst of speed.
A huge explosion that sounds like it’s right outside: the floor beneath Haskell slants as the whole SeaMech gets smashed upon its side. She’s hurled on top of Marlowe’s body. The two of them tumble forward. Pieces of metal fall past her. She’s trying to use Marlowe as a shield. She’s trying not to think about what she’s just done. She figures any moment now the ocean will break in and drown her pain forever. She figures she’s reached the end.
But she hasn’t. Because eventually the SeaMech stops moving. Distant depth charges keep on detonating. But she’s still alive. Still breathing.
So she stands up and looks around. The place is finished. Water’s pouring in from somewhere. She starts walking along stairs that are sloped so badly they’re almost like a floor. She climbs out into what’s left of the rest of the control room and heads for a trapdoor that’s now more of a hatch in the wall.
“Going somewhere?” says a voice.
She turns. Morat is clambering up toward her. His movements are jerky. But he’s closer to the trapdoor than she is. His expression’s one she remembers from the spaceplane.
“I’m getting out,” she says.
“Looks like Jason got out too.”
“I had to do that,” she says. “It was the only way I could be sure.”
“Of beating anything we’d rigged him with? Impressive resolution. But in a few moments it won’t matter.”
“You’d kill the one you serve?”
“I only serve the ones who lead.”
He’s almost reached her. She tries to hit him on the zone. But he’s no longer a presence there. He laughs, stretches out his hands.
“If we can’t have you,” he says, “then no one will.”
He grabs her with one hand. His other hand swings in with the killing blow. But she’s swinging in the same direction—lunging in toward him, shoving her hand up against his face, extruding the wire from her finger even as she pierces his eyeball and runs the hack. He writhes. Smoke streams from him.
“You’re right,” she says. “No one ever will.”
She releases him, lets his body flop down toward the others. She manages to get the trapdoor open. The tunnel-tube to which it leads has been stretched to its breaking point but is still intact. She hopes it leads somewhere. But really she’s done with hoping. She’s just getting in, getting moving, getting busy putting all those memories behind her.
* * *
F lying on jets and ayahuasca: Spencer hacks the armor of the Jaguar leader and his bodyguards in a burst of light. It’s a glancing blow—they’re bunched tight, on a tactical mesh—but it leaves their reaction times fractionally slower and lets Spencer and Linehan get their shots off first. They fire everything they’ve got at the ceiling.
Which collapses with a massive roar. But Spencer and Linehan are already reversing their thrusters. Flame engulfs the room. Spencer gets a glimpse of rock burying the Jaguar leader. He gets a glimpse of rock about to bury him—and then that view’s cut off as he and Linehan blast down more corridors, rushing ever deeper, partly because they’re half-convinced they’ll find something else down there but mostly because they’re trying to get away from what’s turning the mountains into rubble. Warheads and lasers and slabs dropped from orbit: their own side has set about its work with relish. So Spencer and Linehan hit the Jaguars’ cellars. They find themselves in caves full of rushing water. For long moments they ride that water through the dark.
But at last they exit into light.
They’re riding whitewater down toward what’s left of jungle. It looks like everything behind them is one giant volcano. There’s that much smoke. Explosions and shots echo from that upcountry. Apparently World War Three is under way in style. But they just keep rushing downstream. Their suits are like boats that can’t be swamped. Their minds are like ships that long ago went under. Linehan starts laughing.
“What’s so funny?” asks Spencer.
“Check those coordinates,” says Linehan. “We’re on border’s farside. We made it.”
“No kidding.”
Yet even as he speaks noise crackles across the sky. Several jet-copters swoop in toward them. Linehan looks up at them. Starts laughing like he really means it.
“Busted,” says Spencer.
“By who?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“They’re more likely to be your side than mine.”