Now it’s been ninety-six hours. The conversation with Sinclair has confirmed what she’s been thinking. She’s so scared she feels like her mind’s coming apart. Worse, as long as she was slicing herself, she was forgetting Jason. But now she’s got nothing more to cut.
She’s got nothing more to learn either. She knows exactly where she needs to be: right where she is now. Crosshairs slide together in her mind. She feels herself start gliding forward.
The chamber in which Leo Sarmax awoke is almost identical to the one that the Operative just left. The difference is it contains only a single additional door.
And a phone.
“A what?” asks Sarmax.
“A phone,” says the Operative, gesturing at the small device that’s set into one wall. “Archaic communication device phased out by the middle of the last century.”
“Carson. I know what a fucking phone is.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“Because that’s not a phone.”
“Yeah?”
“That looks like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s because it’s a real antique.”
“Yeah?” asks Sarmax.
“Ma Bell, baby. Twentieth century.”
“So what the fuck’s it doing here?”
“I’m guessing somebody rigged it.”
“Why?”
“Well,” says the Operative, “that’s the big question, isn’t it?”
“And you don’t remember the answer?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t remember anything about why we’re here?”
“That’s a negative.”
“Those fucking bastards,” says Sarmax.
“So what’s new?” replies the Operative tonelessly.
“Would have thought you’d have been promoted above this kind of bullshit.”
“Career trajectory’s a bitch.”
“Would have thought the handlers would be showing me more gratitude for walking back in their door.”
“Gratitude’s not in their vocabulary, Leo. We need to figure this out from first principles.”
They stare at each other.
“You first,” says Sarmax.
“Okay,” says the Operative. He gestures at Sarmax’s rifle. “For a start, we’ve got some new tech.”
“Not just my rifle. My armor. Your armor.”
“Straight off the Praetorian R&D racks, I’m guessing.”
“Let’s hope so,” says Sarmax.
“And we were placed in rooms in close proximity to one another.”
“But not in the same room.”
“Presumably to allow each of us some warning time if the other got nailed. Have you tried that door out of here?”
“It’s sealed,” says Sarmax. “Could blow it open, but I’m not sure that’s a good move. Have you tried the zone of wherever the fuck we are?”
“The zone’s off-limits.”
“Meaning what?”
But the Operative’s not sure he has the answer. All he’s got is the fact that the zone-interfaces in his armor are switched off, as are those within his head. He could switch them on, but he doesn’t. Because a certain feeling’s brewing in him. He’s starting to piece together what this all must mean in aggregation.
“We’re on a stealth mission.”
“Which makes no sense,” says Sarmax.
“Doesn’t it,” says the Operative mildly.
“Obviously. How the fuck can we be stealthy if you can’t cover us in zone?”
The Operative mulls this over. He understands Sarmax’s anxiety. All the more so because he shares it. Hacking an enemy’s systems is how one stays undetected. It’s how one stays ahead of the eyes. But these last few days have witnessed the death of a lot of assumptions. And the current situation is setting in motion some nasty questions.
“The Throne’s handlers are changing up the game,” says the Operative carefully. “They’re reversing the normal procedure. They’re terrified of Rain penetration of the zone. Clearly whatever terrain we’re in—”
“And we don’t know where that is.”
“—clearly it’s vulnerable. But as long as we’re off the zone we’re probably running silent.”
“Silent? We step in front of one camera with the wrong camo settings and we’re fucked.”
“Have you seen any cameras, Leo?”
“What?”
“Have. You. Seen. Any. Cameras.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“I don’t like this one fucking bit.”
“Wish you were back administering your little corporate empire?”
“Not with the Throne unwilling to leave me the fuck alone.”
Not with my lover dead, he might have said. Can’t beat ’em, join ’em, he could have muttered. But he doesn’t. And the Operative knows better than to press the point.
Suddenly there’s a jangling noise. It’s coming from the vintage phone.
“Pick it up,” says the Operative.
“You must be joking.”
“That’s our connection with whatever’s going on beyond these rooms.”
Apart from what’s happening in the Operative’s skull. For even as the phone rings, something’s expanding within his mind. Some kind of heads-up display—set on automatic release?—he doesn’t know. He suddenly realizes who’s on the other end of the line, gets a glimpse of what’s really going on. He picks the receiver up, holds it between himself and Sarmax while the helmets of both men amplify the sound.
“Carson,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx. It sounds tinny. The Operative wonders how the twentieth century dealt. “That you?”
“Of course it’s me.”
“Don’t suppose Leo’s with you?”
“He is,” says Sarmax.
“Hey Carson,” says Lynx, “did something strange just happen in your head? Like, right when you picked up the phone.”
“You too, huh?”
“Fuck,” says Lynx. “They’ve hung us out to fucking dry.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“All I need to do is fucking step.”
Cold storage has an expiration date: right now Usually it’s used for long-range trips, like Mars or the rocks. But Spencer’s instruments show he’s only been out for about two days. Meaning that the normal rationale for cryo doesn’t apply.
Spencer can think of other reasons, though. He’s mulling them over as he listens to Linehan rant on about getting fucked over yet again. More of the personnel in this room are up and moving about, floating through the zero-G, climbing rungs along the walls, dispersing to their various duties. Some of them are still recovering. Among them’s Spencer, reclining in his cryo-cell, stretching his muscles. He’s handed back the jack that the technician was using to calibrate his zone-reflexes. As far as that technician knows, he’s off the zone.
The reality’s a little more complex.
“You’re in the rear troop areas,” Spencer says—though his lips aren’t moving. His neural link broadcasts silently, bracketed along limited range, aimed at where Linehan has indicated he is.
“And you are?”
“In the forward cryos.”
“Who’s up there?” asks Linehan.
“Mainly crew.”
“What kind of crew?”
“Gunnery personnel. Bridge personnel. Various other hangers-on. What’s back there?”
“What’s back here is a shitload of Praetorian marines. I’ve never seen anything like—”
“Is that what you are?”
“Sorry?”
“A Praetorian marine—is that what you are?”
“Meaning is that what I appear to be?”
“Just answer the fucking question.”
“Sure, Spencer. I’m decked out as a Praetorian marine. I’m surrounded by the motherfuckers. We’re all just hanging out. Awaiting orders, apparently. Christ man,
if you weren’t even briefed on me then we are fucking dead—”
“Just tell me what you remember.”
“They fucking reconditioned me!”
“Who?”
“Your own team. InfoCom. Orders from that whore Montrose, I’m sure. Trance, drugs, the works. They said I’d be loyal to them from now on. Loyal to you. They said I’d be the perfect bitch for you, you fucking bitch—”
“Will you calm down? All they told me is that it was going to be some off-Earth operation. Next thing I know I’m waking up from cryo-sleep with the identity of a Praetorian razor.”
“That makes me feel so much fucking better.”
“How long were you trying to find me?”
“I wasn’t. You know I’m no razor, Spencer. First thing I knew of a zone connection is when you suddenly activated it.”
“How long had you been awake before I called you?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Looks like they’re waking up this ship in batches,” says Spencer. “What do you know about this craft?”
“From the inside, it looks like a Praetorian warship.”
“And from the outside?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
“Based on what you’ve seen so far, what class of warship?”
“Been trying to find out. It doesn’t conform to any specifications I know. What are you seeing on the zone?”
“Not much,” says Spencer. “All I can see are parts of this ship’s microzone. Nothing outside a very local firewall.”
“And what you can see doesn’t help?”
“Not really. The ship’s obviously in lockdown. And specs on the interiors of these things aren’t exactly a matter of public record—”
“And your side doesn’t have them?”
“My side’s your side now,” Spencer reminds him. “And the answer’s no.”
“The list of bosses I’m gonna fuck over before it’s all over just gets bigger and bigger.”
“I’m sure Montrose is quaking in her boots.”
“But she didn’t give you the specs of this ship.”
“Goddammit, Linehan! She didn’t give me shit. We’re going to have to figure this one out for ourselves. Working with what we know. We’re InfoCom operatives—”
“You’re taking that on faith.”
“If we’re no longer InfoCom then we may as well give up trying to figure out anything.”
“Have it your way” says Linehan. “We’re InfoCom operatives. We’re on board a Praetorian ship. A ship that must be getting close to wherever the fuck it’s heading because everybody’s getting woken up. Maybe we’re part of some Montrose power play aimed at setting the Throne back a notch or two.”
“Montrose has been the Throne’s most loyal supporter,” says Spencer.
“Who better to fuck him over?”
“If we’re a weapon aimed against these Praetorians, then—”
“We’re meat,” says Linehan.
“Probably,” replies Spencer.
“Can you think of any other reason we’re here?”
“Don’t know if this is just me rationalizing, but we could be a hedge.”
“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.
The 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.
We’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.
Klaxons 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.
The Burning Skies Page 3