The Burning Skies (5 page)

“A what?”

“The Throne might be using InfoCom the way he used to use CICom. As a hedge against potential disloyal elements.”

“You’re saying that the Throne might suspect his own guys.”

“I’m saying I don’t know.”

“Damn right you don’t. Keep in mind that the Throne dumped CICom’s whole crew into the furnaces.”

“No one ever said this game wasn’t twisted.”

“Twisted enough to make me wonder whether there might be someone
else
on this ship who isn’t a Praetorian,” says Linehan.

“Can’t rule it out,” replies Spencer.

“I’d say it’s one of the more likely scenarios—that we’re the monkey wrench.”

“To fuck with someone who thinks they’ve beaten this ship’s defenses—” But as Spencer transmits these words, he notices one of the technicians approaching his cryo-cell. Notices, too, that he’s one of the only ones left in his cell. “In any case, we need more data.”

“And we need to make sure we don’t get
caught,”
says Linehan.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Spencer looks at the technician, who starts to speak—only to be cut off as a siren starts wailing at full volume. The noise is almost loud enough to drown out the shouting that it’s triggering. Panels start sliding open in the walls. Suits are sprouting from them. People are clambering into them. The ship’s engines are changing course.

“Call you back,” says Spencer.

T
he container that Haskell’s in is moving along a vast maze of railed corridors that exist solely to propel containers like hers through the bowels of the spaceport where they’ve been unloaded and out into the depths of the city. She’s working the levers of the zone to make sure her container makes all the right turns. She’s flung this way and that, her suit’s shock absorbers cushioning the impact on her body.

So far everything’s going like clockwork. She’s running sleek and perfect. The zone around her can’t touch the tricks she’s playing on it. A million eyes are no match for feet too quick to catch. She’s cutting in toward her target like a torpedo.

And all the while she’s trying to restrain the fear that’s
rising up within her, ignited by the patterns on her skin, fanned into full fury by the patterns all around her. She can fucking
see
them now, coming into focus, patterns that extend from zone and out into the universe beyond. She’s terrified of what she’s becoming—scared shitless of what she’s heading into. It’s like a wave that’s swelling up to swamp her—like the crossroads of fate itself. A nexus upon which all possibilities converge.

And from which none emanate.

W
e’re right in the middle of this,” says Lynx. “So what’s new?” says the Operative. “What the fuck are you guys going on about?” asks Sarmax.

“You tell him,” says Lynx.

“My armor’s tracking something right now,” says the Operative.

“So’s mine,” says Lynx.

“Why not mine?” asks Sarmax.

“Because you’re not a razor,” says Lynx.

“Neither’s Carson,” says Sarmax.

“Carson’s a
bastard,”
says Lynx. “And don’t play stupid with me, Leo. I know you know damn well he’s not just a mech.”

“Didn’t know you knew that,” says Sarmax.

“Didn’t have the chance to tell you,” says the Operative.

“Well,” replies Sarmax, “who cares? Christ, Lynx: Carson was holding out on both of us at one point. I’m over it. Are you?”

“Not even vaguely,” says Lynx.

“Because you thought you were pulling my strings,” says the Operative. “And all the while I was pulling yours. Listen, guys, I hate to break this up, but we’ve been thrust way
beyond the front lines and the clock’s ticking. We’ve got a target that we need to catch. We’ve—”

“—got to start making sense,” says Sarmax.
“How do you know there’s a goddamn target if you’re shorn from zone?”

“Apparently we’re not,” says Lynx.

“Christ,” says the Operative, “you haven’t jacked in, have you?”

“Fuck no. My head keeps screaming that’s a really bad idea.”

“Probably because it is.”

“But there’s some kind of interface in my armor that’s just switched on. That’s working on the zone all the same.”

“Same here,” says the Operative.

“Though it’s like no zone interface I’ve ever seen.”

“Same here,” says the Operative. “All I’ve got is a local map and something marked incoming.”

“Something’s tripped our fucking perimeter,” says Lynx.

“And it’s heading this way.”

“Probably because it’s coming for us.”

“This map of yours,” says Sarmax.

“Yeah?”

“Give it here.”

“It’s local,” says the Operative. “It only shows a fraction of wherever the fuck we are.”

“That’s a damn sight more than I’ve got.”

“Here,” says the Operative, sending the map whipping into Sarmax’s input jacks. Sarmax stands there for a moment.

And blinks.

“Fuck,” he says, “we are in some
fucked-up
terrain for sure.”

“In both real and zone,” says the Operative.

“And you can’t hack the target?” asks Sarmax.

The Operative shrugs. “Apparently all we can do is track it.”

“And catch it,” says Lynx.

“We’ve got limited options,” says the Operative. “We’re
clearly trying to remain as invisible to the rest of the zone as possible. Presumably that’s why we’re not supposed to run any comprehensive scans on it.”

“So we’re pretty much blind,” says Sarmax.

“No,” says Lynx, “just very specialized.”

“Sounds precarious,” mutters Sarmax.

“You think?” The Operative sounds more amused than he is. “Think about it, guys. We’re sitting in the equivalent of a zone Faraday cage. We’re using black-ops tech. We’re way past the point at which we’d normally remember whatever the fuck we were told in the briefing-trance. Someone’s really pushing the envelope here.”

“Agreed,” says Lynx. “The whole thing points to only one conclusion.”

“Rain,” says Sarmax.

“Bingo,” says the Operative. “Let’s prep tactics.”

The door slides open.

K
laxons keep sounding. Lights keep flashing. Spencer’s cut off contact with Linehan. He’s got his hands full just keeping up with events around him. He’s in his suit, holding onto a handle that’s sliding along the wall of a metal-paneled corridor—one among many handles sliding in that direction, with the opposite wall containing those going the other way. One in every three or four of those handles are gripped by a crewmember. Every one’s going somewhere. Everyone’s racing to his station.

Including Spencer. He can see he’s been assigned to the bridge of the
Larissa V
, which is going to place him under the microscope for sure. But maybe that’ll let him figure out what the fuck’s going on. He hopes things will be a damn sight clearer when he gets there.

If
he gets there. He’s now heading into the ship’s restricted areas. The crew’s starting to thin out. He’s being subjected to extra scans. Retina, voiceprint, zone-signature, the works—but whatever responses he’s giving must be working, because doors keep opening and green keeps flaring and nothing’s stopped him yet. He leaves the moving walls behind and climbs through a series of access-tubes. He comes out into some kind of antechamber. A marine floats on either side of a formidable-looking door. Spencer fires compressed air to come to a halt in front of them.

“Your codes,” says one.

Spencer doesn’t reply—just beams them to the marine, hopes they work. Turns out they do. The marine stands aside as the door opens. Spencer goes through onto the bridge.

And takes in the view.

H
askell’s left that container behind. She’s pulling herself through a chute. Zone flickers in her head. Her breath sounds within her helmet, echoes in her consciousness in endless fractal patterns. She’s left the basement of the city behind. Her weightlessness is starting to subside. Occasionally the chrome tube she’s in splits: two-way forks, three-way forks, right-angle intersections. But she never hesitates. She’s just climbing onward as gravity kicks in, pulling herself up via those rungs that have now become a ladder, which ends in a trapdoor. She presses against it, pushes it open.

And emerges into light. She’s in a forest. Trees tower up around her head, late afternoon sunlight dancing through the branches. She turns, closes the trapdoor—noticing how perfectly it blends in amidst the undergrowth. She starts making her way through the woods. She’s not surprised to find that it’s really more of a grove, that the trees ahead are
thinning out. She catches a glimpse of distant mountains—and sights buildings much nearer. She pushes her way through the last of the undergrowth and emerges into the space beyond.

L
ynx has disconnected. And whatever’s out there is still closing. Sarmax and the Operative proceed through the doorway heading out into a corridor buttressed by bulwark-rings every ten meters. It looks like they’re inside the rib cage of some enormous animal. Sarmax is on point. The pulse-rifle he’s carrying is capable of knocking a hole through metal a meter thick. The Operative has his wrist-guns ready and his shoulder-racks up. The two of them move down corridors and up stairways. Gravity fluctuates as they turn this way and that, varying from normal to about half Earth strength. The target keeps drawing nearer. The two men continue to communicate on tightbeam wireless. That’s as far onto the zone as they’re going to venture. Except for the single screen within the Operative’s head, projected by software within his armor. Software he doesn’t understand and clearly isn’t supposed to. All he’s supposed to do is obey orders.