The corvette veers and yaws, partially the result of the struggle for control within its systems, but also a function of the evasive maneuvers that Lynx is putting it through. But the colony ship is almost on them; Lynx reaches out, commandeering that ship’s emergency docking procedures. Hangar doors open on the colony ship as the corvette streaks into the outer hangars—plowing through into the inner hangars—
They’re way out over ocean now, gaining height on a trajectory that will cross the coast of North America within the minute. Spencer feels himself shaken ever harder as the Hammer accelerates, spitting out incrementally larger bombs that send it streaking over the eastern Pacific. Directed energy is striking the hull from every direction, though it doesn’t stand much chance of getting through several layers of tungsten hull.
“They can’t touch this,” says Sarmax.
Not by a long shot. Spencer can see that the Hammer’s twin is keeping pace, a hundred klicks north and slightly higher. He zeroes in on it while Sarmax watches over his virtual shoulder.
“We got a name on that thing?”
“Righteous Fire-Dragon,” says Spencer.
“What kind of a name is that?”
“I’m guessing it sounds better in Chinese.”
“Wonder if it’s exclusively theirs.”
“Probably divvied up the same as this one.”
“Doesn’t matter as long as they get to beat up on the Yanks.”
“Speaking of—”
Sarmax nods. The coast of California sweeps toward them.
Two people in a room that comprises their whole ship. There’s so much history between them it threatens to swamp the here and now. But that just seems to amuse Carson. Which pisses off Haskell even more. Especially when they’re talking about the one man who no one’s seen for far too long.
“Sinclair had me train you for a reason,” says Carson.
“Did he arrange for you to fuck me too?”
“Who’s to say I can’t have ideas of my own?”
“Don’t start that again,” she snaps. “I was in love with Jason.”
“Only because you could no longer have me.”
Haskell turns to look back out the window. Congreve’s filling most of it now. Most of the dome’s dark. But lights blink throughout the spaceport that sits atop it. She turns back toward Carson.
“If I wanted you, it was only because I was rigged that way.”
“But what about now?”
“Why does it matter?”
“For me, it was the only thing that did.”
“You are such a fucking liar.”
He looks at her for a moment like she’s never seen him look. “That’d make all this a lot easier.”
“You’re even more cold-blooded than Sinclair.”
“Not so cold as to not see that we’re two of a kind.”
“You and Sinclair?”
“You and me.”
“Give me a break.”
“Already did.”
“What?”
“I trained you for ten years. Watched you grow up. C’mon, Claire. How could I not have fallen for you just a little along the way?”
“This is bullshit.”
“Fine. It’s bullshit.”
“You murdered Andrew Harrison.”
“I’ve murdered a lot of people.”
She raises an eyebrow. He laughs, but it’s not really laughter. “And I had to make it look like I was being played by Montrose. Had to say what she needed to hear.”
“You were about to deliver me into her hands.”
“I was going to break you out later.”
“That is so much shit.”
“Is it? How can I afford to let anyone else possess—”
“Exactly. That word.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“You’ve fucking injected me with a paralyzing—”
“It’s worn off.”
“What?”
“Try it.”
And she does. She’s moving. In the zone as welclass="underline" the shackles are starting to fall from her mind. She runs sequences as Carson brings the craft down toward a landing.
“I could crush you now,” she says.
“I’m betting you won’t.”
Or has he rigged her to preclude that? Is this all part of his latest game? She starts checking over her systems as the craft touches down—which is when the InfoCom special-ops team that has been staking out this area of the spaceport switches on its lights. Blinding glare pervades the cockpit. The ping of sonic targeting echoes through the ship.
“Fuck,” says Carson. “They’re—”
“Off the zone,” she snarls. “You planned this.”
“I swear to God I didn’t.”
“Then let’s get the fuck out of—”
“We’ve got to make it look like you’re still my captive,” says the Operative—and switches Haskell’s zone-restraints back on.
She stares at him. “You sick little fuck—”
“Sorry, Claire,” says Carson—hits another switch; Haskell convulses—just as the door to the pod gets yanked open by a man wearing a colonel’s uniform. Carson stands up, pulling at Haskell.
“I need you to take us to Montrose,” he says.
“You’re no longer giving orders,” says the colonel.
Now that’s what I call a landing,” says Linehan.
“Shut up,” says Lynx.
But neither man’s pressing the point. They’ve already put what’s left of the corvette behind them. They’re both feeling lucky to be alive. Though Linehan has his doubts about how much longer that’s going to last. Because surely any moment this whole ship will …
“He can’t,” says Lynx.
“What?”
“This ship. Szilard can’t blow it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s one of the largest in his fleet.”
“You’re talking about the man who nuked his own flagship,” says Linehan.
“Back when he was winning the fucking war.”
Hammer of the Skies and Righteous Fire-Dragon synchronize their assaults. Doors open all along their hulls; both ships start laying down a carpet of bombs as they rise through the heart of the defenses above the American homeland, their accompanying fleets following them in swarms that stretch halfway back across the Pacific.
“Surprised they’d lead with explosives,” says Spencer.
“They’re just softening the joint up.”
And then some. Most of the bombs are getting nailed by ground-based DE. But those that remain are detonating—
“Holy fuck,” says Spencer.
“Xasers,” mutters Sarmax.
The ultimate directed-energy weapon: warheads that channel the X rays of their nuclear explosions into a lethal rain of invisible fire that’s wreaking utter havoc on the def-grids. The ships coming in behind start flinging down hails of nukes. The American cities are going dark.
“Fuck me,” says Spencer.
“Those lights won’t be coming on again,” says Sarmax.
The fleets accelerate toward orbit.
PART II APOGEE
The Operative’s about as furious as he’s ever been. He’s being hustled through the Congreve spaceport, and his escorts are making sure nobody’s getting near him. They’re refusing to tell him where he’s going. Montrose won’t take his calls. The president has clearly decided that there’s no compelling reason to have him anywhere near her HQ. He wonders if he’s being hauled away to execution. He’s looking for the moment to try something along the way.
But they enter another hangar before he can act. A shuttle sits in the center, prepping for launch. He’s hustled in toward it. The pilots are standing on a ramp, conferring with mechanics. The Operative thinks there’s something familiar about those pilots, but it’s not until one of them turns toward him that he knows for sure.