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Authors: David J. Williams
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countdown moves under ninety seconds, and Spencer can’t find anything on the newcomer.
At all.
“This doesn’t add up,” says Spencer.
“So get some hard data,” says Sarmax.
A tremor ripples through the room they’re in. The platforms and catwalks nestled up against the largest spaceship ever built peel away in a single fluid motion.
“Here we go,” says Spencer.
T hey go supersonic in one easy burst, motoring down the tunnel toward Tsiolkovskiy. It’s going to take them all of twenty seconds—assuming the lines aren’t blocked. On the zone it looks good. But there’s a lot of interference around their destination …
“I’m going to need your help here,” says Carson.
“To enslave me?”
“To live through the next two minutes,” he says, firing a bracket of missiles ahead of them. She watches those missiles go hypersonic, streak into the distance. She knows he’s got a point—knows, too, that he’s got her right where he wants her: siphoning off the requisite processing power, filtering it through his own software. She tries to turn it around, but he knows what he’s doing. Especially with the help of the restraints the Eurasians placed upon her. The cage of his mind closes around hers. The missiles ahead of them start exploding. What’s left of the maglev rails starts to disintegrate as Carson detaches the car they’re in and fires its rockets. They roar toward Tsiolkovskiy’s cellars.
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down?” she asks.
“Yeah right,” he says.
T hey’re making their move as the first of the corvettes slides out. Their suits’ thrusters flare gently, floating them down onto the hull of that corvette even as Lynx takes the hacks he’s been running to the next level. A hatch opens in the side of the ship, and they drop within. It’s that easy. Though …
“Something just occurred to me,” says Linehan.
“Hold on a second,” says Lynx.
The hatch slides shut and the airlock chamber pressurizes. Lynx looks around at the tiny room, then extends razorwire from his suit and plugs into the wall, tightening his grip on the ship’s computers as that craft draws away from the
Montana
.
“Look,” says Linehan, “there’s something we should be—”
“I’m sure there is, but will you shut up—”
“Think
about it, Lynx.”
“Jesus Christ! Think about
what?”
“This isn’t just a matter of getting off the
Montana
. Szilard won’t just have rigged his flagship. He’ll have these corvettes rigged too.”
Lynx raises an eyebrow. Linehan starts cursing: “Fuck’s sake man! Otherwise, some of the assholes he’s trying to nail might sneak aboard and—why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m way ahead of you.”
W hoever he is, he’s got some kind of special clearance,” says Spencer.
“We’re inside the Eurasian secret weapon, man. What the hell does
special clearance
mean now?”
“It means I can’t crack him!”
“Because?”
“He’s got some kind of souped-up zone-shield …” But Spencer’s voice trails off as he becomes aware of something else. Something that’s echoing through the ship. With under a minute to go, the countdown’s been patched through onto the loudspeakers. Both men can hear the chanting of the soldiers all around them as they join in. Sarmax nods his head in time with the rhythm.
“This is going to be
fun,”
he says.
R ocket-powered railcar.
Way too fast.
They roar through Tsiolkovskiy’s maglev station and into wider passages. Carson engages the ship’s guns, slinging shots out ahead of them. Haskell feels him shove her mind even fartherout than that as the grids above them click into place. She can see that most of the Eurasians they’re killing are dying because they’re looking the other way—fighting desperately against the American commandos who have occupied the base’s upper levels and are now pushing deeper. The train’s coming in behind a set of last-ditch defenses. Carson’s trying to
At all.
“This doesn’t add up,” says Spencer.
“So get some hard data,” says Sarmax.
A tremor ripples through the room they’re in. The platforms and catwalks nestled up against the largest spaceship ever built peel away in a single fluid motion.
“Here we go,” says Spencer.
T hey go supersonic in one easy burst, motoring down the tunnel toward Tsiolkovskiy. It’s going to take them all of twenty seconds—assuming the lines aren’t blocked. On the zone it looks good. But there’s a lot of interference around their destination …
“I’m going to need your help here,” says Carson.
“To enslave me?”
“To live through the next two minutes,” he says, firing a bracket of missiles ahead of them. She watches those missiles go hypersonic, streak into the distance. She knows he’s got a point—knows, too, that he’s got her right where he wants her: siphoning off the requisite processing power, filtering it through his own software. She tries to turn it around, but he knows what he’s doing. Especially with the help of the restraints the Eurasians placed upon her. The cage of his mind closes around hers. The missiles ahead of them start exploding. What’s left of the maglev rails starts to disintegrate as Carson detaches the car they’re in and fires its rockets. They roar toward Tsiolkovskiy’s cellars.
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down?” she asks.
“Yeah right,” he says.
T hey’re making their move as the first of the corvettes slides out. Their suits’ thrusters flare gently, floating them down onto the hull of that corvette even as Lynx takes the hacks he’s been running to the next level. A hatch opens in the side of the ship, and they drop within. It’s that easy. Though …
“Something just occurred to me,” says Linehan.
“Hold on a second,” says Lynx.
The hatch slides shut and the airlock chamber pressurizes. Lynx looks around at the tiny room, then extends razorwire from his suit and plugs into the wall, tightening his grip on the ship’s computers as that craft draws away from the
Montana
.
“Look,” says Linehan, “there’s something we should be—”
“I’m sure there is, but will you shut up—”
“Think
about it, Lynx.”
“Jesus Christ! Think about
what?”
“This isn’t just a matter of getting off the
Montana
. Szilard won’t just have rigged his flagship. He’ll have these corvettes rigged too.”
Lynx raises an eyebrow. Linehan starts cursing: “Fuck’s sake man! Otherwise, some of the assholes he’s trying to nail might sneak aboard and—why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m way ahead of you.”
W hoever he is, he’s got some kind of special clearance,” says Spencer.
“We’re inside the Eurasian secret weapon, man. What the hell does
special clearance
mean now?”
“It means I can’t crack him!”
“Because?”
“He’s got some kind of souped-up zone-shield …” But Spencer’s voice trails off as he becomes aware of something else. Something that’s echoing through the ship. With under a minute to go, the countdown’s been patched through onto the loudspeakers. Both men can hear the chanting of the soldiers all around them as they join in. Sarmax nods his head in time with the rhythm.
“This is going to be
fun,”
he says.
R ocket-powered railcar.
Way too fast.
They roar through Tsiolkovskiy’s maglev station and into wider passages. Carson engages the ship’s guns, slinging shots out ahead of them. Haskell feels him shove her mind even fartherout than that as the grids above them click into place. She can see that most of the Eurasians they’re killing are dying because they’re looking the other way—fighting desperately against the American commandos who have occupied the base’s upper levels and are now pushing deeper. The train’s coming in behind a set of last-ditch defenses. Carson’s trying to
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