The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  “We’re not part of this dump’s garrison, are we?”

  “Nope,” says Linehan. “Apparently they got more plans for us back at the Hangar.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Crazy ones, I hope.”

  The room is dark, though that doesn’t matter to its occupant. She’s plugged into everything anyway. She sits strapped into a chair positioned along a wall. The lights of the zone play within her—the one she’s concocted to make up for the paralysis of the real one. It’s not much of a substitute. But unless she can reverse that paralysis, it’ll have to do. Wireless is safe only on short-range line of sight. And wires lead only so far. No farther than the perimeters, in fact.

  The perimeters are less than half a klick out, encompassing a tenth of the Aerie. Almost three hundred Praetorians are within. God knows how much firepower lurks without. Haskell’s assuming that in the three hours since she got here the Rain have moved most of the rogue weaponry from the cylinder into the asteroid, and have brought up all remaining smartdust. They have the Hangar under siege from all sides, except for space. But that’s covered by the Helios. It was laying down a cannonade against the Hangar doors a couple of hours ago, but it failed to break through. Then it fired its engines and fucked off. In Haskell’s mind is a grid that shows its current position: eighty klicks off the Platform’s north end, no longer in line of sight of the asteroid, but poised to annihilate anything trying to leave …

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” says Haskell.

  The door opens. Light flows in from the corridor beyond. Two Praetorians enter the room. They train their visors this way and that.

  “It’s been swept,” says Haskell.

  They pay no attention. Just keep on scanning.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” she adds. “I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Orders, ma’am.”

  “The Throne’s?”

  The soldiers say nothing—just stiffen as the U.S. president appears in the door. Still dressed in the Hand’s armor, still wearing Huselid’s face. Haskell figures he may as well. Given that Huselid never really existed in the first place. She sees herself reflected within the visor: her helmet thrown back, so many wires protruding from her skull she looks like some kind of mechanical medusa.

  Andrew Harrison gazes at her. His expression’s neutral.

  “Any ideas?” he asks.

  “The only one I’ve got is the one I hate the most.”

  “It happens,” the Throne replies.

  He’s tired. He’s bone-weary But he’s still alive. He hurts everywhere. But they’ve patched him up okay. His body’ll keep on ticking. As to his mind: that would need more than just a doctor. That would need something capable of changing the one thing that can’t be changed.

  The past.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” says Lynx.

  “They’re not in the bargain bin just yet,” mutters Sarmax.

  They’re at the junction of two of the catwalks that crisscross the now-pressurized hangar. Their visors are up. Lynx is sipping water from a tube within his helmet. He’s sitting cross-legged against the railing. Sarmax is leaning over it.

  “Meaning what?” asks Lynx.

  “Meaning I’m not in the mood for conversation.”

  “With me, you never were.”

  “That’s because you talk too much.”

  “I’ve heard of worse weaknesses.”

  Sarmax doesn’t reply. Just keeps on staring at the Hangar floor. The gunships have been moved out into the perimeter. The president’s ship is the only craft down there now. Sarmax has been keeping an eye on it for almost fifteen minutes—ever since he emerged from the crowded med-unit and climbed out into the catwalks. No one’s boarded that whole time. No one’s left.

  “How long has he been in there?” he asks.

  “I didn’t quite catch that,” says Lynx. “It sounded like you were asking me a question.”

  “Don’t make me wait for an answer.”

  “Easy, Leo. Carson’s been holed up in that ship for almost an hour. Along with the rest of the bodyguards.”

  “What about the Throne? And the Manilishi?”

  “No one’s seen ’em leave.”

  “They’re trying to think up a way out of this mess.”

  “You sad you weren’t invited?”

  “You sad I shot your hand off?”

  “Fuck you,” says Lynx.

  “I’m going to go stretch my legs instead.”

  Lynx leans back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No one is,” says Sarmax.

  • • •

  Five minutes later he’s walking along a platform up in the Hangar’s rafters. Gravity’s a lot weaker up here. Praetorians pass him, salute, and keep going. He eventually reaches a point where the platform widens into a bona-fide balcony.

  A single man’s sitting there, wearing a unistretch jumpsuit that does little to conceal his bulk. A suit of armor’s standing in a corner of the platform. Another suit of armor’s in pieces all around him. The man looks up from troubleshooting it.

  “What’s up?” says Sarmax.

  Linehan shrugs. “Figure you’d know that better than me.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “He’s not my friend, boss.”

  “Whatever.”

  “He went to try to get more ammo. We heard a rumor they were dishing it out on level H.”

  “You could have asked us for some. We’ve got connections.”

  “With strings attached.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Besides,” adds Linehan, “we couldn’t find you. Heard you were out for the count.”

  “I was. But now I’m here.”

  “So your man Carson can involve us in another suicide run?”

  “He’s not my man.”

  “Then whose is he?”

  “The Throne’s.”

  “So what’s going on out there, boss?”

  “The Rain are massing for one last assault.”

  “I meant out in the rest of fucking existence?”

  Sarmax laughs. He glances at the Hangar ceiling, a scant fifteen meters overhead. He looks down at the Hangar floor. Back at Linehan.

  “That’s a good one,” he says. “Life beyond the Europa Platform. Sheer chaos, I’m sure. There’s a lot of jamming going on. But that can’t disguise the fact that everyone and their dog are broadcasting. Though we’ve no idea who’s who. No one does. The Rain have frozen everything that counts. No one knows what the codes are. No one can launch shit.”

  “Including the Eurasians.”

  “The Eurasians are finished.”

  “Are they?”

  “Blew themselves up in their asteroid.”

  “Must have been quite a sight.”

  “It’s not like they had much of a choice.”

  “Because otherwise the Rain would have gotten their executive node?”

  Sarmax nods.

  “And the Coalition couldn’t transfer it elsewhere,” adds Linehan.

  Sarmax’s eyes narrow. “How do you know so much about executive nodes anyway?”

  “I get around.”

  “Because you used to run wet-ops for SpaceCom.”

  “I wouldn’t say it that loud.”

  “Son, they can’t bust me, I wrote half the rules. Besides, it’s not like your history’s a secret.”

  “Yours is.”

  Sarmax stares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’ve been listening to the talk around the camp-fires.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “They say you got out of all this once upon a time.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I’m just saying what they’re saying, boss.”

  “What else are they saying?”

  “That you came back because of your pal Carson.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then
why did you?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m just trying to build rapport.”

  “That’s not a good way to do it.”

  “The Throne’s going to nuke this whole place, isn’t he?”

  “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  “Same reason the East did,” says a voice.

  It’s Spencer. He’s pulling himself up the ladder that leads down from the platform. He looks exhausted. But it looks like he’s managed to get his hands on several packs of ammo.

  “Lyle Spencer,” says Sarmax.

  “Sir,” replies Spencer, reaching the platform.

  “Kissing ass as always,” says Linehan.

  “Relax,” says Sarmax. His gaze shifts to encompass both of them. “The East’s sacrifice may be in vain. Just because the Rain can’t capture their executive node doesn’t mean they can’t gain control of the Eastern zone. Or ours, for that matter.”

  “How else would one do it?” asks Spencer.

  “Well, that’s the problem. No one knows for sure.”

  “Or at least they haven’t told you,” says Linehan.

  Sarmax gazes at him without expression.

  “Boss, I’m just pointing it out. I’m not trying to be rude.”

  “You don’t have to try,” says Spencer.

  But Sarmax just shrugs. “We’re in uncharted waters now. The Rain proved they could freeze both zones without recourse to either executive node. My guess is that they’ll ultimately figure out how to control one or both of them too. Somewhere out there a clock’s ticking. And if it hits zero, you’re going to know it. Because as soon as they restart either zone, they’ll launch all weapons at the other side. And destroy this asteroid for good while they’re at it. I can’t see how much longer we have. No one can.”

  “None of which makes any difference now,” says Linehan.

  “We’re expendable,” says Spencer.

  “We all are,” says Sarmax.

  “It’s all relative,” says Spencer.

  “Too right,” says Linehan. “Aren’t you slumming it hanging out with us?”

  “I go where things amuse me. And you guys should suit up.”

  “Why?”

  Sarmax gestures at a door some distance along the platform. Lynx and Carson have just emerged from it.

  “Shit,” says Linehan.

  “Gentlemen,” says Carson. “So glad you made it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of checking out early,” replies Linehan. He and Spencer start to climb into their suits.

  “Leo,” says Carson, nodding to Sarmax—who raises a hand in mock-salute. He turns back to Spencer and Linehan. “Guys, I’ve got good news. I’m through using you as cannon fodder.”

  Spencer and Linehan look at him.

  “It’s true,” he says. “You’re off the hook.”

  “What’s the catch?” asks Spencer.

  “You mean besides the fact that you’ll get croaked anyway?”

  “Yeah,” says Linehan. “Besides that.”

  “You get to haul our luggage,” says Lynx.

  They take a different route away from the center this time. They climb a series of ramps to where gravity dissipates still further—and then wind their way along more passages, back toward the side of sphere. Gravity starts to kick back in. What look like recently strung cables line the walls the whole way. Other Praetorians pass them on numerous occasions. Everyone seems to be going somewhere. Everyone seems to be getting ready.

  “Hurry it up,” says Carson.

  “Easy for you to say” says Linehan.

  He and Spencer are almost staggering under the weight of the containers they’re dragging. The low gravity was providing some help. But now that it’s returning to Earth-like levels, the going’s getting tougher. Spencer almost trips, manages to avoid getting crushed by his container, and finally stabilizes it.

  “What the fuck’s in these goddamn things?” he asks.

  “Your mother,” says Lynx.

  He’s carrying a container as well—a decidedly smaller one. Spencer figures that’s why he’s still smiling. Either that, or he’s relishing having someone beneath him on the totem pole. Spencer doesn’t plan on giving him any trouble. However …

  “What’d you say?” says Linehan.

  “He didn’t say a goddamn thing,” says Sarmax evenly. “Did you, Lynx?”

  “Of course not,” says Lynx.

  “Fucking liar,” says Linehan.

  “We have those around here,” says Carson. He doesn’t turn around—just keeps on walking forward with the container he and Sarmax are sharing between them. “Doesn’t matter, Linehan. Draw on a member of my team, and I’ll toss you through an airlock.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” says Spencer to Linehan on the one-on-one.

  “Carson’s half my size,” says Linehan. “I can take him no prob.”

  “He’s a fucking bodyguard,” says Spencer. “Even if you killed him, you’d be court-martialed and assigned to orbit the Platform sans spacesuit.”

  “Maybe,” replies Linehan. But he does nothing—just keeps on trudging forward with his burden. Spencer keeps waiting for Lynx to break back in and start baiting Linehan again. But Lynx seems to have lost interest.

  I mean it,” says the Operative on the triad’s closed channel. “I’m sure you do,” replies Lynx. “You can fuck off anyway.”

  “Say whatever you want to me,” replies the Operative.

  “Just don’t provoke the minions,” adds Sarmax.

  “A soldier should know how to withstand provocation,” says Lynx.

  “A soldier should be above dishing it out,” says Sarmax.

  “Everybody shut up,” says the Operative—and now he’s broadcasting to Spencer and Linehan as well. “We’re here.”

  Almost on the outer perimeter. Which isn’t much. Just a metal grille staircase. The Operative peers carefully over the edge of the railing. Cables are strung down from the platform to a door at the bottom of the stairwell. The Operative broadcasts codes down to the door, which slides open.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  They descend the staircase, go through the door, and find themselves in a room that extends up to a second level. Praetorians stand along the upper railing, regard them through the sights of mounted weapons.

  “What do you want?” asks one.

  “We’re looking for Garrick,” says Sarmax.

  “He’s right here,” says a voice. A door on the lower level opens. Another suit enters the room. He wears a major’s stripes. Red hair dangles behind his visor.

  “Carson,” he says. “Been a long time.”

  “Long time for sure,” says the Operative.

  They touch gloves. Garrick turns toward Sarmax. His eyes narrow.

  “Leo?”

  “The same.”

  “Fuck’s sake, man. Didn’t even know you were up here.”

  “That’s because you’re slipping.”

  “I doubt it,” says Garrick—looks over Sarmax’s shoulder. “Lynx, you bastard. Ain’t a party unless you’re in it. What’s happening?”

  “Way too much,” mutters Lynx.

  “And who are these other guys?”

  “Reinforcements,” says the Operative. He narrows the channel to one-on-one. “Expendable.”

  “And the rest of us aren’t?”

  “Seriously, do what you want. I’m finished with them.”

  “And they’re still alive?”

  “They’ve got a talent for survival.”

  “They’ll need it out on the perimeter. What about you guys?”

  “Is our vehicle here?”

  “It is. And I gotta say, it’s pretty fucking weird—”

  “Let’s go,” says the Operative.

  Marines hop down from the upper level, relieving the men of the containers they’ve been carrying.

  “Thanks,” says Linehan. “No problem,” says one of them. “You two
,” says another. “Come with me.”

  “But—” Spencer turns, finds Carson trailing Garrick out of the room, Lynx and Sarmax following them. “Hey, what about us?”

  “Told you I didn’t need you anymore,” says Carson.

  “See you in Hades,” says Sarmax.

  The door slides shut behind him.

  “Ingrates,” says Linehan.

  “You guys done whining?” asks the Praetorian who just gave them instructions. She wears a lieutenant’s stripes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Spencer.

  “Good,” says the lieutenant. “Let’s go.”

  They follow her down another corridor, to a room lit by the spark of laser cutters. Praetorians are busy slicing holes along the walls. Spencer notices that those holes are mostly at gun height. He also notices a web of cables intersecting in this room.

  “Sergeant,” says the lieutenant.

  A man leaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s the situation here?”

  “Situation good, ma’am.”

  “Can they spare you for a few minutes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take these two to Outpost LK.”

  “We withdrew from there twenty minutes ago, ma’am.”

  Her face darkens. “It’s been taken?”

  “No, ma’am. We just didn’t have enough men for some of the forward positions. Lieutenant Crawford felt that—”

  “Never mind Lieutenant Crawford,” she says. “Have these two reoccupy it.”

  “Ma’am,” says Spencer.

  She turns toward him, impatience written on her face. “What?”

  “I’m a razor,” he says. “Surely I can be of more service to you than this?”

  She makes a dismissive gesture, turns away. “Razors aren’t worth much now,” says the sergeant.

  “Not gonna see me complaining,” says Linehan.

  • • •

  So how’s the situation at the center?” asks Garrick. “Under control,” says the Operative.

  “Now ask him to define that,” says Lynx.

  They’re walking down more stairs. The lights overhead stutter fitfully Soldiers stagger under the weight of the containers. More soldiers walk behind and in front, their weapons at the ready.

  “I heard the Throne’s got himself a new friend,” says Garrick.

  “More like a prodigal daughter,” says Sarmax.