“Like what?”
“Like the one you’re sitting in. Fast dropship deployment capacity. Looks like there’s four more down there in addition to yours, each full of marines.”
“Packed in like sardines,” says Linehan. “What about the ship’s weaponry?”
“Four heavy directed-energy batteries and two kinetic-energy gatlings. All of it locked away and out of sight.”
“But once they extend those barrels it’s going to be pretty fucking obvious that we’re not a bunch of Swiss carrying second-rate tungsten.”
“It may already be pretty fucking obvious. We’re tracking the Rain and the Rain may be tracking us.”
“Don’t I know it, Spencer. The officers down here are going on about how we’re going to stop the Rain for good. But the rank-and-file’s saying something else.”
“Don’t put too much stock in rumors, man.”
“You ignore them at your peril, Spencer.”
“So what are they saying?”
“That we’re out to bag ourselves a witch.”
Haskell’s now off the train and onto another one that’s drawn up alongside—a railcar that’s as off the zone as she can make it, even as the train she’s stepping from hurtles on with one of her decoys enscribed hastily upon it. She’s just over twenty klicks north of the South Pole. She feels like she’s falling in toward it, towed in by the weight of the future. She’s about to break through another defensive screen, but her decoys are going to drop behind her, hang back a little, lead the defenders on a merry little chase that goes exactly nowhere.
Problem is that those defenders are exhibiting some strange behavior. They were starting to respond at first—they looked like they were scrambling. But now they’ve stopped altogether. Have they lost track of the decoys? Are they awaiting orders? Or is there something else that’s going on? Maybe she’s missing something. Because she’s perfectly aware that these aren’t normal defenses. Not down here. The disabled cameras and sensors testify to that. The only working cameras she’s seeing look like they’re newly installed. She’s got her camouflage cranked—she’s hoping that all anyone who’s watching is going to see is just a redeploying railcar. And maybe not even that. Because now her mind’s leaping in to hack those cameras.
And failing. Turns out they’re totally bereft of wireless interface. Haskell wonders where their wires lead. She’s got no access to them—meaning they’re not connected to the Euro zone. And their feeds aren’t viewable by the Euro police forces, most of which seem to be back at the city anyway. She’s seen the occasional robot sentinel in these tunnels. But she knows that most of the Euro forces that aren’t in New London are stationed at the South Pole mountains, to stop intruders from getting through to the cylinder’s Aerie—in theory. But in practice, she’s got a feeling that the forces controlling the approaches to the asteroid have been co-opted. She wonders if the defenders she’s running rings around know that. She accelerates her railcar, skirts past the defenders halted in their tracks, and streaks into the sections of underground that lie beyond.
Look,” says the Operative, “it’s really quite simple.”
“This I’m just dying to hear,” says Lynx.
“You already heard it. My orders say targets with this signature get taken alive.”
“That’s not true, Carson.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I mean my orders say all targets get wasted.”
“Your orders come from me!”
“And the handlers, Carson, who told me this thing dies.”
“They told me to spare it.”
“When?” asks Lynx.
“It’s on memory trigger. How the fuck should I know?”
“Well, my orders say otherwise.”
“Or so you remember.”
“So? That’s the way this whole thing’s been working.”
“Yeah,” says the Operative, “but now it’s not working, is it?”
“While we talk, this thing’s getting away from us!”
“At least it doesn’t seem to be hunting us now.”
“Because it’s probably after something else. Shit man, they really told you to spare the target?”
“They really did,” says the Operative.
“Jesus, this isn’t good.”
“You’ve been fucked with.”
“I think it’s the other way around, Carson.”
“Are you really Lynx?”
“Are you really Carson?”
“Of course I’m Carson!”
“Of course you are. The same Carson who pulled my strings so adroitly back on the goddamn Moon. The same Carson who’s had the opportunity for endless off-the-record bullshit. The same Carson who’s got all the higher-ups eating out of his goddamn hand.”
“If they really were, you think I’d have to put up with this shit?”
“You think I can’t see what’s going on here, Carson? You think I haven’t figured out your little secret?”
“My little secret?
“About which I have a theory.”
“What’s your theory?”
“That I’m going to reach this target first.”
The voice cuts out. The Operative disconnects.
“Sounds like that didn’t go so well,” says Sarmax.
“Why are you pointing that pulse-rifle at me?”
“Like you can’t guess,” says Sarmax. He keeps the weapon trained on the Operative—primes it. There’s a low humming noise.
“This just gets better and better,” says the Operative.
“Shut up,” says Sarmax. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
• • •
What do you mean, witch?”
“Knew you were gonna ask me that. I’ve got no fucking idea. And neither does anyone else down here.”
“Well, what else are they fucking saying?”
“Nothing coherent. Just that it’s not just the Rain we’re after. That we’re also gunning for some kind of Rain witch or something. They’ve also used the word queen. And some of them are saying it’s not Rain at all, that there’s something else on the loose.”
“Maybe one of those Rain-type creatures we keep hearing about.”
“The cool kids don’t talk to me, Spencer. What have you heard?”
“Apparently the Praetorians tried to copy some of the Rain’s tech. Which the Rain then tried to steal right back. There was a rumor some kind of robot was on that spaceplane that—”
“The one that deep-sixed in Hong Kong four days back?”
“Yeah. And I heard that some kind of supercomputer ended up on the Moon, but it was autonomous, so that—”
“God only knows what the fucking truth in all of this is,” mutters Linehan. “That’s probably what they want: to keep us guessing. We gotta go back to basics, man. Because we’re not the only gang of assholes that’s camped out on the Platform tonight.”
“You mean the Rain?”
“Never mind the fucking Rain. Of course they’re in this somehow. I’m talking about the other lot that’s somehow managed to get themselves dealt into this lousy game.”
“Oh yeah,” says Spencer, “those.”
• • •
Haskell’s leaving the equator behind. She’s changed it up again, too, partially out of respect for those strange cameras, but mostly she’s just running on intuition. She feels the scratches on her skin flaring as though fire’s dripping over them. She feels those symbols turning within her brain. She’s dropped through additional layers of infrastructure and is almost at the outer layer of cylinder-skin while she leaves the equator behind. Gravity’s now in excess of normal. Walls are surging past her. She’s left the domain of maglev behind. She’s in what’s essentially a giant conveyor belt. One that’s designed to haul exactly one thing.
Ice. Haskell has melted partially through the chunk upon which she’s riding, and let that ice refreeze over her armor, making her that much harder to sp
ot, especially given how much of the cylinder’s infrastructure is dedicated to the processing of water. Haskell feels the pressure build around her. Everything’s coming down to this, a woman become bullet about to crash through to the world beyond the South Pole. The howling of her sixth sense has reached fever-pitch. Her skin’s burning like a sun’s coming to life within it.
Strands of light whip past the roofless two-person railcar as it shoots through the tunnel. The man who’s driving is standing up front. The other man’s sitting at the back. He keeps his pulse-rifle pointed at the driver.
“So,” says Sarmax, “now that we’ve got some speed, let’s talk.”
“About fucking time.”
“We’ve got a real problem.”
“Lynx has overdosed again.”
“It didn’t sound that simple. One of you is being fucked with, and neither you nor I is in a position to determine who’s the lucky guy.”
“Which is why you’re pointing that gun at me.”
“It seems like the prudent option,” replies Sarmax.
“Does that mean you have a plan?”
“It means I’m still thinking of one.”
“If you shoot me you won’t have a hope of finding the target.”
“Your armor’s what’s tracking the target, Carson. Not you.”
The Operative shrugs, shifts slightly left as the tunnel undergoes a slight bend. He’s providing Sarmax with the real-time feed from his tracking—factoring out what he’s decided are decoys. Sarmax has made it clear he’ll shoot if that stops. The Operative’s tempted to hit the brakes way too hard. But he knows that’s the oldest trick in the book—and that there’d still be an opportunity for Sarmax to get off a shot, with a weapon that—when it comes to survivability at point-blank range—may as well be a heavy laser cannon.
“You’re not that dumb, Leo. It’s my interface with the armor that’s doing the tracking.”
“And that possibility is why I haven’t put one through you yet.”
“It’s a possibility you’re going to have to get used to.”
“Until we reach the target.”
“You’re really putting pressure on me to make a move in the meantime.”
“Go for it,” says Sarmax. “You’ll die before you can even turn around.”
“Have to admit you have the advantage.”
“The Rain have the advantage, Carson.”
“To which I can only agree.”
“They’re totally inside us.”
“There’s still the chance to beat them yet.”
“Sure there is. And it starts with me killing you and Lynx.”
“You mean to be sure.”
“Sure. Shit man, what would you do?”
“Exactly that—if I was sure I wasn’t being fucked with myself.”
“I’ll take my chances,” says Sarmax.
“Not that it matters,” mutters the Operative. “Lynx will still be way ahead of us, even with our taking this train.”
“So we make up for lost ground with a new route,” says Sarmax. Coordinates light up on the map within the Operative’s head.
“That dotted line means it’s still under construction.”
“But near completion,” replies Sarmax.
“Even you aren’t that insane.”
“Twenty seconds, Carson. You make that turn or I’ll blast you into the next world.”
“The one where your Indigo is waiting?”
Sarmax doesn’t reply.
“You killed your girl,” says the Operative. “That’s okay. She was Rain. She had it coming. But now you’ve got a death-wish and you want to nail us all to your fucking ferry.”
“Who are you, Sigmund fucking Freud? Ten seconds.”
“You’ve gone crazy.”
“I’m the only one who’s definitely sane.”
“Which won’t matter if this railcar bites it.”
“Carson, I’ve got to be the one who makes the decision about the target. I can’t trust you or Lynx to do it. Two seconds.”
“I see it,” says the Operative—and with that he sends the car hurtling down a much narrower tunnel. There’s only one other rail besides theirs. But then that other rail cuts out.
“Faster,” says Sarmax.
“Can’t,” says the Operative. “Not without fucking with the zone to get this bitch beyond capacity.”
“Fuck that,” says Sarmax, “zone’s a party everybody’s gate-crashed.”
Gravity increases. The walls start to flicker on either side.
“Hello,” says the Operative.
“Jesus,” says Sarmax. “Is that what I think it is?”
It is. It’s space. They speed out of the tunnel and into the construction area. There’s nothing below their rail save vacuum. Scaffolding’s all around. The completed hull of the cylinder stretches right above them like some impossibly massive ceiling, sloping down to where their rail enters still another tunnel …
“This rail’s really starting to vibrate,” says Sarmax.
“That’s because it’s about as stable as you are,” says the Operative—and ducks his head as they rush into the tunnel. It’s narrow. There’s barely enough room for this single rail.
“Sure wish we had a better map,” says Sarmax.
“We’re through,” says the Operative.
And now gravity’s lessening slightly as they race out into a broader tunnel. But even as they do, something unfolds within the Operative’s head. He stares at the pattern that’s revealed. He traces all the implications.
And then suddenly he gets it.
“Leo.”
“Yeah?”
“I just woke up to what’s so critical about this target.”
“So talk fast.”
The fucking Eurasians,” says Linehan. “They’re here too.”
“Is that what the rumor mill’s saying?”
“That’s what the officers are saying! What the hell’s going on?”
“Sounds like you already know it.”
“You were going to tell me, right?”
“I only just found out myself,” says Spencer.
And it’s all he can do to keep up. To say this operation’s need-to-know is an understatement. But the data overlays now lighting up across the bridge are nothing if not precise. On the opposite side of the Platform’s orbit are eight Eurasian ships, spread out the same way the American ships are, able to support each other and cover the Platform simultaneously.
“They’re with us,” says Spencer. “Not against.”
“You sure about that?”
“Do I sound like I’m sure of fucking anything? I’m just saying what they’re telling us up here.”
“Down here, too. This is a joint operation.”
“Aimed at Autumn Rain.”
“Or the Euro Magnates,” says Linehan.
“Who may be the same thing by now.”
“Who may have always been.”
“You really think they’ve been pulling the Rain’s strings?”
“I think you’ve got it backward, Spencer. What’s the story with that chase you’re monitoring?”
“Getting weirder by the minute.”
Ice and tunnels and speed and it’s all falling short. They’ve got her number, suddenly springing to life, sweeping past her decoys, closing from both sides. Haskell shunts her ice-chunk off the main belt, sends it racing down an ancillary belt as she tries to figure out how the hell they’re tracking her. And while she’s at it, she’s trying to hack them directly.
But she’s unable to. She can’t seem to come to grips with them and has no idea why. It’s almost as though they’re not actually there, as though she’s clutching at illusion. It’s like they’re ghosts.
Which makes no sense. She’s the ghost. The one who slips through perimeters like a phantom. But not this time—she’s bringing all her force to bear upon the problem and she’s still coming up short.
Leaving only one possib
le answer. Her pursuers have found a back door to her. One that she needs to neutralize fast. But first she needs to find it. She starts racing through the code of her own brain even as her mind races through the Platform’s zone. She’s sending the ice she’s in forward through a tube whose heated walls start to liquefy what’s encasing her, causing water to pour across her visor. She’s caught up in that surge now, charging out beyond the frontiers of her own brain, closing in on the door that’s out there in that limbo—but everywhere she turns is dark. She sees exactly what she’s going to have to do if she can’t find the route they’ve found to her. Bailing out of zone is an act of desperation, but her pursuers are closing in. Before she pulls the plug, she tries one more thing—amplifies her decoys, sends them hurtling out in new directions.
But one of them isn’t listening.
She sends more commands. It’s not responding. It’s just circling in toward her, on a course to intercept both her and her pursuers, only a couple of klicks distant now. She stares at it. Realization hits her like a meteor smashing into a planet.
Fuck,” says the Operative, “lost it.”
“What the hell do you mean you lost it?”
“I mean I fucking lost the goddamn signal!”
“How the fuck did you manage to do that?” asks Sarmax. He’s no longer pointing his gun at the Operative. But he looks like he wouldn’t mind shooting him anyway. “Maybe our equipment fucked up.”
“Maybe you fucked up,” says Sarmax.
“What’s fucked up is this whole fucking scene.”
“No shit.”
The Operative shakes his head. He’s starting to feel like a pinball getting flung around inside a machine. He and Sarmax are still roaring through the bowels of the cylinder, still watching wall shoot past them. Still trying to make sense of the data that’s streaming through their skulls.
“It dropped off the zone,” says the Operative.
“That’s your fucking excuse?”
“That’s my fucking explanation.”
And it’ll have to do. Because the Operative can’t think of any others. Not without taking apart his armor and trying to see what makes that zone interface tick. Besides, that interface couldn’t really be malfunctioning. Because now it’s detecting something else, back in the area they started in. It’s very faint, and it quickly disappears. But for a moment there it was unmistakable. The Operative mentions this to Sarmax.
The Burning Skies Page 5