The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  “They’ve got the exec node.”

  “Which will let them control the zone.”

  “If they can get it to restart.”

  The two men look at each other.

  “If,” says Sarmax.

  “They’re the ones who pulled the fucking plug,” says the Operative. “They probably know a way to switch it back on too.”

  “Hey,” says Lynx. The words echo in their skulls. “The relief force.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It seems to be heading straight for the Hangar now.”

  “Fuck,” says Sarmax, “why did they switch directions?”

  “Don’t know. But it’s just as well they did.”

  “Why? The node’s been taken. We need them here.”

  “To do what?”

  “Track down the Rain. Take back the node.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” says the Operative. “As long as the Hand keeps his force bunched up, their search-and-destroy capability is for shit. And if they disperse, the Rain will take them apart.”

  “The Rain may anyway,” says Sarmax. “Look what they did to this place.”

  “Which doesn’t add up.”

  “No,” says Sarmax. “It doesn’t.”

  “These guys were dug in. They knew all about the nano. They knew what to expect. How did the Rain take down the perimeter so quickly?”

  “They found another way in?”

  “Sure,” says the Operative. “Where? These guys had every approach covered.”

  They look at each other.

  “Except for one,” says Sarmax.

  “Shit,” says the Operative, and starts screaming orders.

  Spencer hears the instructions, hits his jets even as he sees Lynx and Linehan do the same. The wall soars in toward him; the Window wafts away from him. He surges into the nearest cave—the one that Sarmax and the Operative entered. He can see them crouched against the far wall.

  And then everything goes black. And white. And all the colors that ever were and might ever be invented: he’s hurled against the wall while his screens blast static and his heart surges to the point of explosion. Electricity chases itself across him. He lies there twitching. The Operative bends over him, stares into his visor.

  “Still alive?” he asks.

  “Unfortunately,” says Spencer. He feels like he’s been stuck into a socket—like his body just got aged past the point of no return.

  “Helios nailed us again,” he mutters.

  “And how,” says Sarmax.

  “But I thought—”

  “That it didn’t have the angle?” The Operative laughs mirthlessly. “You weren’t the only one. Looks like the thing’s got more mobility than we thought. They must have moved it round to the Platform’s south side and opened up.” Spencer hears a click as the Operative keys in everybody else. “The party’s over here. The Throne’s out for the count. The Rain ran off with the crown jewels. If they can restart the zone with that, they win. If they can’t—”

  “Then they’ll need the Manilishi,” says Sarmax.

  “Who seems to be racing toward the Hangar like her life depends on it,” says Lynx.

  “Not that it matters,” says Linehan. “Carson, no disrespect, but we’re out of this. We trail them on stealth and we’ll never catch up. We fire all jets and we’ll get eaten by the Rain.”

  “Or some nano booby trap,” says Spencer.

  “That’s why we’re going to cut some more corners,” says the Operative. “Beat them all to the Hangars in one fell swoop.”

  Lynx clears his throat. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Sure I do.”

  One final race to go. Shakers and suits and cycles are all surging forward, smashing their way ugh the resistance, blasting through a series of elevators and chutes—opening up the terrain with the remaining microtacticals. They tear their way into a series of industrial levels, peel back ceilings, carve through floors. The gravity’s starting to lessen.

  Even as the pursuit’s starting to gain. And she knows why. Because the Rain’s no longer fooled. They know what they’ve got. They know what they’re missing. They’re coming after her with a vengeance. She can feel them as surely as she’s ever felt anything. She’s content to sit back and let it happen.

  • • •

  They drop past torn bodies and shattered machines. Drop past the last of the cave walls, shoot through what’s left of the Window.

  Space opens up around them. Stars gleam. The Operative turns in one smooth motion, starts sidling along the side of the rock. The others follow him through a landscape of impossible contrasts. Horizon crowds up way too close. It seems like they’ve reached the end of the world—the world that streams below them in all its incarnations: hatches, metal panels, struts, wiring, pylons, all set within the same unending rock. The Window vanishes in their rearview They get out into the thick of the hostile landscape. There are no transmissions between them now. They’re just following the Operative as he darts forward, staying as close as possible to the surface while detouring as little as possible. Screens within the Operative’s helmet show vectors that trace around the Aerie—show him, too, the rock’s rotation putting ever more mass between him and Helios. He can’t believe how bad this has gotten—can’t believe there’s still a chance of pulling it off. The screens show him almost at the edge of the place he’s seeking.

  But they also show him the last thing he wants to see.

  “We got company,” says Sarmax, breaking radio silence.

  The five men activate conduits, lock in the tactical grid. Blurring mars the horizon, as though the stars in front of them are getting swallowed by a wayward nebula. It’s swarming in toward them, blocking their way forward.

  “On our left, too,” says Spencer.

  “And the right,” says Linehan.

  As if they weren’t fucked enough. The Operative realizes too late that he was an idiot to think they could make it across the surface. That of course the Rain would have everything covered. The Hangar’s probably been overrun anyway. They’re now on the cusp of what should be the outermost of its perimeters, but the turrets jutting along the horizon show no sign of any guns, just scorch-marks where energy’s been hurled against them, unleashed by the Helios, which is going to get the drop on the Operative’s group if they retreat from the onrushing swarm or if they try to hold their positions on the asteroid while it rotates. Though they’re being forced to do that anyway: halting, taking up positions, covering all directions. “Fire at will,” snarls the Operative.

  The vise is tightening around them. The mined-out areas through which they’re passing are alive with dust and drones. And more besides: suited figures are appearing around corridor corners, emerging from cave mouths, opening up on Haskell’s force.

  “Jesus,” says the pilot. “Those are—”

  “I know,” she says.

  Praetorians. Who got swarmed in the initial combat. And repurposed, with a new lease on life. They may be dead, but their suits are fighting on. Haskell catches glimpses of lifeless eyes behind visors as suits hurl themselves at her shaker, go down beneath its treads.

  “Not easy,” says Huselid.

  She says nothing. She doesn’t know whether he’s talking about the resolution required to shoot at former colleagues or offering a more general assessment of the whole situation. All she knows is that the hunters are overtaking them. She urges her pilot to pour on the speed.

  • • •

  The five men open up, tearing swathes in the swarms heading in toward them. Explosions rip across the rock. Flashes light up the horizon all around.

  But the opposition’s playing it like a numbers game, darting out of the blast-radii of the nukes; hugging the surface; getting in between the nooks and crannies of the rock, then rushing forward again.

  “Jesus,” says Spencer.

  “Behind us too,” says Lynx.

  “We got to get off the surface!” yells Sarmax.

&nb
sp; “Agreed,” says the Operative.

  He’s blasting the nearest hatch, which spins off into space. More dust pours out of the opening.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  “At least let’s make ’em pay,” says Sarmax.

  It’s all they can hope to do. The shit’s coming in from every direction now. They’ve got no more hi-ex. The clouds close in on them. Beyond them the Operative can see still more shapes rising from the horizon, wafting into the black above.

  And raining fire down on everything below.

  Jets of plasma. Whole racks of minitacticals. Light overwhelms the Operative’s screens, even as he fires point-blank at what’s gotten past the firing zone. As the flashes fade, he sees Praetorian gunships overhead, their engines glowing molten, their guns flaring.

  Another hatch pops open. The Operative doesn’t hesitate; he starts blasting in toward it, and the others follow him while shredded nano wafts everywhere. The gunships soar past, drop back toward the horizon.

  And the Operative knows the reason why. Because the world’s still turning. And the Helios is about to come up over the horizon like a demented sun. The hatch swings shut. The five men find themselves enclosed in a tiny elevator-like chamber, which starts moving along an unseen shaft within the asteroid.

  But then the chamber stops. An interface in the wall transmits. The Operative hears a voice.

  “Carson,” it says.

  “Yeah?” he replies.

  “What the fuck’s going on out there?”

  “And what kind of street trash have you brought in with you?” asks another voice.

  “Fuck you guys,” says the Operative. “How about reloading us and letting us go kick some ass?”

  “Give us some codes and sure.”

  “You mean to say you actually have a zone in the Hangar?”

  “We brought a cauterized mainframe online. It’s a long way from perfect. Now how about those codes?”

  All yours,” says the Operative, beaming them over. “Now how about you tell me who the fuck’s in charge.”

  “Us,” says the first voice.

  “Now tell us who we are,” says the second.

  “Give me a break—”

  “Just do it.”

  “Murray,” says the Operative. “And Hartnett. And I can’t believe you guys are fucking it—”

  “We’ve taken a beating, Carson. Is that Leo you’ve got with you?”

  “Who the fuck else would it be?”

  “Patch him in,” says Hartnett.

  The Operative wants to argue—wants to tell the two men who are now in command of the Hangar just how urgent the situation is. But he knows they’ve got to do their due diligence. Voiceprint and retina sampling, not to mention a little conversation—he’d do the same if he were them. Nothing’s conclusive. But every little bit helps.

  “Hey, Leo,” he says.

  “Yeah,” says Sarmax.

  “Remember me?” asks Murray.

  Sarmax laughs. “Moving up in the world, huh?”

  “More like the world’s crumbling down around us,” says Hartnett.

  “So what’s up?”

  “What’s up is that you’re back.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that,” says Sarmax.

  “Thought it was just a rumor.”

  “Maybe we should keep it that way.”

  “Not when you’re a living legend,” says Murray.

  “Or when you kicked so much ass for so long,” adds Hartnett. “And I guess the one-handed wonder is Lynx.”

  “What about these other two?” asks Murray.

  “Some cannon fodder we picked up,” says the Operative.

  “That managed to remain alive?”

  “Sometimes it happens.”

  “So how about you upload their IDs?”

  “Sure.” The Operative complies. “Steroid-casualty named Linehan, razor calls himself Spencer. They were InfoCom before the Throne overwrote their asses. Linehan used to soldier for SpaceCom back in the day.”

  “And the Throne gave him a ticket to this show?”

  “Didn’t exactly give him the best seat in the house.”

  “Ain’t getting it here either. You guys ready to get back in it?”

  “Open this goddamn door,” says the Operative.

  The door slides open to reveal a gigantic chamber. Spencer watches Carson and Sarmax move through the doorway, apparently deep in some conversation. Lynx shoves his way after them. Linehan follows him with his eyes, before turning toward Spencer and grinning mockingly.

  “After you,” he says.

  Spencer steps out onto a catwalk that stretches away in both directions. The Hangar is as big as it gets. It’s a hub of activity too. Praetorians are everywhere: crawling over the jagged ceiling like ants, moving along catwalks higher up and lower down, tending to the ships positioned along the gridded floor. Spencer can see three smaller gunships and one ship that’s much larger—the same model as the freighter he was riding back when it all began. Soldiers stand upon it, float around it.

  “Only one they got left,” says Linehan on the one-on-one.

  “The Throne’s getaway vehicle.”

  “Too bad he ain’t around to use it.”

  “They’ll just have to get a new Throne, huh.”

  “Or work out what they did with the old one,” replies Linehan.

  They exchange glances.

  “Funny,” says Spencer. “Been thinking along the same lines myself.”

  We move,” says the Operative, and fires his motors, letting the others trail him toward the ceiling. One of the hatches in the overhead opens. “You going to tell them now or later?” asks Sarmax on the one-on-one.

  “Tell them what.”

  “Carson. Everyone in this place thinks the Throne’s still alive. If the punks we got with us start ranting on about how he’s dead, then—”

  “Then what?”

  “Bad for morale.”

  “No one’s going to rant about anything, Leo. Not if they value their hides.”

  They shoot through the hatch and along a chute into a smaller cave carved adjacent to a portion of the Hangar’s ceiling. Vaultlike doors close behind them. The walls are covered with cables. Heavy guns are mounted in multiple places along the floor. Each gun is tended by a full complement of Praetorians and pointed at a tunnel mouth on the ceiling. The Operative heads toward one of the tunnels, and the others follow him.

  “But surely you owe them the truth?” asks Sarmax.

  “Namely?”

  “What really happened to the Throne.”

  “You saw it for yourself.”

  “Did I?”

  The Operative laughs. “What are you trying to say?”

  “That you can’t fool me.”

  “Did I ever claim I could?”

  The five men roar out into a larger space—a full quarter the size of the hangar that all these defenses protect. The machinery that packed this place has been dismantled to allow for wider fields of fire. Heavy guns are lined along the near walls. The blast-doors on the far wall are at least ten meters a side. Praetorians cling to the walls, point their guns toward the doors.

  “I sat at his feet once, Carson. I thought up half the tricks he knows. I’m not fooled by them. And you know what? I’ll bet you the Rain weren’t either.”

  “Let’s pray they were for long enough.”

  “How long is that?”

  They swoop across the room, swerve past the blast-door gate, perch upon the wall nearby. That gate’s starting to shake. Dust floats up around it. Distant vibrations roll in from somewhere beyond it.

  “Until a few minutes ago.”

  “But now they’re going to hit this Hangar like they’ve never hit anything before,” says Sarmax.

  “I think they’ve got their sights set on something else first.”

  More Praetorians hurry into the room, heading out of the tunnels or moving in toward the leftmost of the gates. Th
e rumbling outside is intensifying, resolving into blasts that are drawing ever nearer. Or getting steadily more powerful.

  Or both.

  “The Manilishi,” says Sarmax.

  “And the Hand,” says the Operative.

  “You mean the Throne.”

  Another vibration churns the room. It’s coming from the direction of the Hangar. A whole section of the wall is sliding away; one of the gunships is emerging from the space revealed, turrets extended, Praetorians holding onto its sides. The ship adjusts for Coriolis spin, swans in slowly toward the gate opposite it, which is already opening.

  “And he expects you to do your utmost,” says the Operative.

  She couldn’t ask for anything else. They’re well into the mining areas that ring the Hangar. They’re almost there. But she can feel the Rain closing in from both flanks now. She glances at the man beside her.

  “The cat’s out of the bag,” she says.

  “Of course it is,” he replies.

  “And Huselid?”

  “A role I play.”

  A necessary fiction for the man who’s really Andrew Harrison. She wants to ask him who the unknown soldier was. That man in the Window, giving orders in the Throne’s name: Did he even know the game he was in on? Was he an actor, or just a puppet? It doesn’t matter now. The point is he played his part. Now the ones he died for have to do the same.

  “They’re pressing,” she says.

  “Might have thought that chip would have led them on more of a wild-goose chase,” he says.

  “Not if the Rain’s razors activated it immediately.”

  Which they almost certainly did—tried to run the whole U.S. zone through the fragment they’d pulled from a shattered skull … only to find it wasn’t capable of switching on a washing machine. That, as complex as it looked, it was really just a maze of dead-ends whose only functionality was pretending to be something it wasn’t, creating a zone-node that looked like all the wires led back to it. Even she was fooled at first. Back on the other side of the cylinder—back to what seems like years ago—she’d thought she was gazing at the executive node, and in reality all she was doing was dealing with its reflection, while the vessel of the real one stood beside her.

  Just like he’s doing now.

  “How much strength is left at the Hangar?” she asks.