The Burning Skies (59 page)

“Christ almighty,” says Spencer.

“It’s at least a kilometer across,” breathes Sarmax.

They’re in a cavern that redefines the word
vast
. The railway runs along a route carved into the cavern’s edge, descending in long circles along a spiral. Sarmax and Spencer can see all the way to the other side of the cavern, to where another train that’s farther ahead has descended to the level beneath. Rows of lights line the cavern ceiling above, illuminating what lies below. Whatever’s down there isn’t visible from the current vantage point. The train keeps on rumbling downward.

“Let’s get out and take a look,” says Spencer.

“I’m guessing all we need to do is wait.”

“We need more data before we ride this thing all the way in.”

“Good point.”

Though either way it’s a risk. They adjust their camouflage,
leap lightly from the train, roll along the ground, stop just short of the edge. The camo makes minute refinements. They peer over. Vertigo kicks them in the face.

“Holy
shit
,” says Sarmax.

But Spencer’s saying nothing. He’s just looking down what must be at least half a kilometer. He feels like his eyes are rebelling at what they’re taking in. As if he’s lived all his life to see something so completely gone.

“What in God’s name is it?”

“Christ only knows.”

If that. It’s some impossibly mammoth structure—the top of a huge dome, curving down to where it’s swallowed by a webwork of platforms and catwalks. The exact size is impossible to discern. But if the curve of what’s visible is any indication …

“Fucking insane,” says Sarmax.

“It must be at least a klick high.”

“Sure, but what the fuck
is
it?”

“I think the better question is what does it contain?”

“You still can’t access zone?”

“There’s clearly one down there. Lot of wireless activity.”

“But the answer’s no.”

“The answer is I’m working on it.”

“We need to get inside.”

“I realize that.”

“Any ideas?”

“How’s this for starters …”

T
his is bullshit,” she says. “Is it?”

“It’s something you’re projecting.”

“You don’t think it’s real?”

“I think you’re making me hallucinate.”

“Or maybe …” says Carson.

“Or maybe what?”

“What else would account for what you’re seeing?”

“Don’t do this to me, Carson.”

“Think about it, Claire.”

“It’s fucking real, goddammit!”

“Of course it is.”

“You’re fucking with my mind.”

“Of course I am. But not with that image.”

“But what the hell am I seeing?”

“The Eurasian superweapon. Obviously.”

She keeps on staring at the image in her head. It’s a structure that would be regarded as large were it standing on the Earth’s surface. The fact that it’s beneath the ground makes it pretty much unprecedented. Haskell looks down toward it. She takes in the platforms that jut out to encompass it, the doors here and there along its vast sloping wall …

“No,” she says. “Spencer’s right. That’s not the weapon. That’s a fortress. Which contains the weapon.”

He stares at her. Almost as though he expects her to continue. Yet she’s got nothing more to say.

But then she realizes she does.

“And the Rain,” she whispers.

A
larms are howling, but Lynx can barely hear them. Vibration’s pounding through the walls, but he can barely feel it. All he’s got is his own mind, lancing out in all directions and gathering everything in under its sway. The mainframes of the
Montana
are giving up the ghost. The ship’s defenses are going down before him.

And Linehan as well, who’s blasting his way through strongpoint after strongpoint and none of the defenders even see him coming. All their sensors show the threat’s coming from some other angle. They show Linehan as friendly. By the
time they realize otherwise it’s way too late. Linehan’s leaving only mangled flesh drifting in his wake.

Though he’s getting more than just a little help. Lynx has unleashed viruses through the armor of everyone who’s standing in Linehan’s way. The only thing that’s out of reach is this station’s own inner enclave. Which is where Szilard’s holding out. Linehan’s heading there as fast as he can shoot. Lynx is doing the same, along a different route. He’s taken off his armor. He’s taking one hell of a risk. But that’s the only way he’s going to be able to squeeze through the spaces he needs to.

Though it’s still a tight fit. Even the larger maintenance shafts aren’t intended to be serviced by humans. They’re accessed instead by a whole taxonomy of robots that double as sentinels. Clawed drones, welders, moving drills—they’re hurling themselves from out of the dark and onto Lynx, doing their best to cut him to ribbons.

Only they can’t. They’re getting stopped just short of him. They’re getting out of his way. It’s not their fault. Lynx has reached into their brains, giving them a little twist, making them forget just why the hell they were getting so agitated. He’s the one thing in these tunnels that’s managing to stay focused. He keeps on moving.

And now he’s in the inner area. He can see the blueprints of this section stretching all about him. All twenty levels of it. All of the
Montana
beyond it, and the whole fleet stretched out beyond that. The word’s spreading among the closest of those ships that something’s going down on the
Montana
. But they’re also getting word that the situation’s under control. That any attempt to land forces on the
Montana
will be seen as insubordination. An attempt to seize Szilard’s power. It’s all playing out as Lynx intended. All he’s doing is taking advantage of the underlying contours. This fleet is as divided against itself as the whole fucking country—as the whole fucking world. Leaving the game wide open to those who can play
every end against the middle. Lynx crawls down one last shaft, wedges down one last vent. He kicks a metal grille aside.

And leaps feet-first into the
Montana’s
control center.

T
hey’re dangling on a tether that’s feeling ever more precarious, descending toward a sheer wall of metal that drops down into eternity. Their camo is put to the ultimate test as they close in on the structure’s summit. Neither man says anything. They’re preserving absolute radio silence.

Though Spencer can sense the Manilishi in his head anyway, echoing through his software. He still has no idea how the fuck she’s doing it. And he’s got other things to think about anyway. Because the curve of the dome wall’s stretching in toward him. They’re close enough to make out lettering painted upon it. Cyrillic and Mandarin, telling the ones who read it absolutely nothing other than where the doors are. There aren’t that many. They’re so airtight they’re almost impossible to spot. Spencer’s praying he is too. Most of the activity he can see is confined to the labyrinth of catwalks that obscure the foundation of this gigantic building. But there are eyes and sensors everywhere. Spencer’s pretty confident about the ones out here. He’s far less certain about whatever lies inside. He’s managed to get a tentative grip on the zone within—managed to pry his fingers through a crack in the defenses. But only barely. He can’t make out what’s going on. He’s figuring he’s going to get busted at any moment. He’s figuring he needs help.

And suddenly he’s got it. From the Manilishi. She’s showing him what he needs to see—exactly what pressure to apply as he alights on the surface of the structure, right at the point where the dome starts to really slope toward the vertical. He activates his magnetic clamps, starts crawling down the
metal like an insect toward the nearest door. Sarmax is right behind him. And the Manilishi’s right beside him, encroaching through the circuitry of the door, toward the comps that crouch within. The door is barely discernible, but it seems real enough. As is the hack he’s now running on the pneumatic equipment on its other side. He’s streaking through endless wires, forestalling fail-safes, fending off countless counter-commands from deeper within the building. He’s ignoring the commands without them even knowing it. He’s sending in his own instructions.

The door slides open.

Spencer slides in. Sarmax follows. The door shuts behind them.

“Weirder by the second,” says Spencer.

They’re standing in a chamber. Each wall contains another door. One of them is open. Sarmax starts toward it, just as it slides shut and a panel in the wall beside it swivels aside. A wicked-looking barrel protrudes from within. It’s aimed directly at Sarmax’s visor. Sarmax leaps to one side. The gun tracks him.

“Fuck,” he says.

“It’s okay,” says Spencer. “I got control.”

“So tell it to point somewhere else.”

“Tell me what the fuck’s going on and I just might.”

T
wo people in a room that’s no room. The woman’s sitting. The man’s starting to look more than just a little tense. “Don’t you control Spencer?” he asks. “You tell me.”

“I thought—”

“You thought wrong. Someone got to him.”

“You don’t know what I was about to say.”

“Oh yes I do.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m reading minds now, aren’t I?”

And even as she speaks, the room fades out. To be replaced by the room she started in. She’s back in that chair, strapped in again. Only now she’s encased within a suit, staring at Carson through a sealed visor. He’s dressed in battle harness. The room’s shaking as the engines of the president’s ship fire. The forces of acceleration are pressing against the walls.

“All you’ve got is all I want you to see,” says Carson.

“We’re landing,” she says.

“We’ve started our final approach into Congreve.”

“And you’re going to kill the president.”

“And I’d want to do that why?”

She says nothing. She’s too busy testing the barriers around her. What she’s wearing is no normal suit. It’s more like a cage whose bars are wires that extend into her nerve endings. She can see how it’s been done—can see how this thing has been rigged to give whoever’s running it every advantage. It’s like it’s a well and whoever’s wearing it is at the very bottom …