The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  “Can she stop the Rain?”

  “I guess we’re going to find out.”

  They reach a door. Praetorians are positioned on both sides. Garrick flashes codes, confirms by retina—slots back his eye, confirms via the real retina behind it.

  “Neat,” says the Operative. He lets the light flash across his own retina, gestures at Sarmax and Lynx to do the same.

  “Thanks,” says Garrick. “But it doesn’t remove the problem.”

  “How to make precautions Rain-proof,” says Sarmax.

  “Exactly,” replies Garrick.

  “Don’t wander off alone,” says the Operative. “That’s how.”

  The door slides open. The soldiers within regard the ones now entering.

  “Sir,” says one.

  “At ease,” says Garrick.

  A tarpaulin’s draped over what looks to be some kind of vehicle—five or so meters long, about the size of one of the smaller earthshakers. The contours are strange, though. So is the tarp: it’s wrapped pretty tight. None of its edges are visible. And even the most cursory of glances reveal that it’s resistant to all scanning. The soldiers eye it nervously.

  “In one piece?” asks the Operative. “Yes, sir,” says one of the soldiers.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” snaps Garrick. “We were told not to remove the cover.”

  “And I’m glad you didn’t,” says the Operative. “Because it’s booby-trapped,” says Sarmax. “Tell your men to get out of here,” says Lynx. “You heard the man,” says Garrick.

  Ever get the feeling you’re being stalked? Here’s how it works. Everywhere you look there’s nothing. Not a thing—just the hollow sound of your own breath echoing through your helmet as you follow the sergeant along a corridor that feels way too empty. Linehan’s keeping an eye on the rear. Spencer’s keeping an eye on the sergeant. In this fashion they carry on their conversation.

  “Tell me about these cables,” says Linehan, gesturing at what’s strung along the wall.

  “That’s how we receive the word from center,” says the sergeant. “They’ve been strung all the way from the hangar.”

  “Primitive,” says Linehan.

  “Try realistic,” says the sergeant. “Anything that could be intercepted is right out. If we can see each other, we signal each other via tightbeam laser, and if we can’t see each other, we don’t signal. End of story.”

  “So if you’re not in line of sight and you’re not near a cable, you’re not talking.”

  “Most of it was pretty tedious anyway,” says the sergeant.

  “But they’re not even trying to deny a zone to Autumn Rain,” says Spencer.

  “Fine by me,” says the sergeant. “I don’t need nothing fancy. All I want to do is get those bastards in my sights.”

  “You’ll get that soon enough,” says Linehan.

  “You’ll probably get it sooner,” says the sergeant. He descends a spiral staircase. They follow him down it. He opens a door. They stare within. Spencer whistles.

  “Shit,” says Linehan.

  “Outpost LK,” says the sergeant.

  Jesus Christ,” says Garrick.

  “What the fuck is it?” asks Lynx. “A secret weapon,” says the Operative.

  One that bears an uncanny resemblance to a miniature brontosaurus. Four legs sprouting off an elongated body that narrows into a kind of head. It seems more organic than mechanic. It doesn’t even seem to be made of metal. More like …

  “Is that skin?” asks Sarmax.

  “Let’s not get carried away,” says the Operative. “This thing’s pretty much a tweaked-up Mark IIB crawler.”

  “Some tweak,” says Garrick.

  “Fuck, I hope so,” says the Operative. “It’s pretty much soundless. And what looks like skin is actually a kind of grown plastic. The latest camo alloys we could dream up.”

  “Have they put this thing into production yet?” asks Lynx.

  “No,” says the Operative. “It’s a prototype. The Remoraz.”

  “How did it perform in field testing?”

  “Who said it had been field tested?”

  “Let’s load up,” says Sarmax.

  They start unloading their containers, slotting pieces of machinery into the machine that crouches before them.

  • • •

  Almost makes me wish we were still part of Carson’s entourage,” says Linehan. “No it doesn’t,” says Spencer.

  “I said almost.”

  But even when the Europa Platform was running like clockwork, this place probably wasn’t a destination spot. It’s basically a single room, a bunker that bulges out slightly from the curved edge of the asteroid. Narrow windows slice through the walls on all sides. And in those windows …

  “Did you see the expression on his face?” asks Linehan.

  “Whose?”

  “The sergeant’s. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “What the hell did you think he was going to do, break out a flask and share it with us?”

  “He could have at least said thanks.”

  “Linehan. We’re in a fucking war. No one says thanks. All they say is go here and die.”

  “And here we are.”

  “With the only suspense being whether we’ll even see it coming.”

  Though they certainly have a good enough view. Protruding over one end of the sharply curved horizon are the topmost ramparts of the gun-towers that form the inner perimeter around the hangar. The fact that they’re only just visible gives the two onlookers a sense of just how far out on the edge of things they are. The view in the other direction confirms it: a couple of strategically placed mirrors extend the line of sight into the field of fire of the Helios, show the asteroid falling away along a slope of rock and metal. Beyond that’s the mammoth hulking shape of the cylinder itself, the nearer parts illuminated by the sun, the farther parts largely in shadow, though visible nonetheless as a gigantic shape carved among the stars.

  Spencer blinks.

  “Did you see something move?” he asks.

  “You’re imagining things,” says Linehan.

  “I don’t think so,” says Spencer, and downloads the vid-feed he’s just taken to Linehan. “Take a look at that.”

  Linehan does. Frowns. “That’s just a shadow—oh.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s gone now.”

  “The way it was moving—almost looked like some kind of animal.”

  “In a vacuum? I don’t think so.”

  “At least it was heading away from us.”

  “If it comes back this way, we nail it,” says Spencer. He makes some adjustments to the control board that’s connected to the plasma minicannon mounted beneath their feet. Linehan snorts.

  “How many shots do you think we’re gonna get off with that thing?”

  “One if we’re lucky,” says Spencer.

  Get your foot out of my ear,” says Sarmax. “Sorry,” replies the Operative. “Any way you can move your left arm back a little farther?” says Lynx.

  “I’m trying,” says Sarmax.

  Though he doesn’t have much room to maneuver. None of them do. It’s a tight fit, especially since they’ve got a lot of equipment and the Operative has insisted they keep their suits on. He’s driving. He’s pushed himself forward, into the head/cockpit. Sarmax is ensconsed in the midquarter, Lynx in the rear. Screens are slung all around them, showing the corridors through which they’re creeping. They started off across the exterior of the asteroid—and then cut back inward, crawled up a long network of elevator shafts. It’s heavy going. And conditions inside aren’t making it any easier.

  “So maybe we should talk about the mission,” says Lynx.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” says the Operative.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “We saw how far that got us earlier,” mutters Sarmax.

  “Hey man, I
’m clean now. Superbitch scrubbed me.”

  “She should have cauterized your mouth while she was at it.”

  The Remoraz keeps moving. So far they’ve avoided combat, but not without some close shaves. Once some nano flew by while they sat there, frozen—swirled past them without noticing that they weren’t just some lumpy feature of the shaft-walls. Another time they saw some droids hauling what looked like a piece of artillery. They weren’t about to put it to a close inspection. But the overall picture’s clear enough. The Rain are building up hardware all along the Praetorian perimeter.

  But this thing they’re in seems to have made it through the siege lines. They’re now near the axis of the asteroid, moving through rooms in which the first round of fighting took place. Ripped-apart Praetorians are everywhere. Holes pock-mark the walls. The Operative switches gears, transitions into zero-G mode. A faint vibration passes through the craft.

  “Normally a little louder inside a crawler,” says Sarmax.

  “Nothing’s normal about this thing,” says the Operative.

  He’s not kidding. Background noise is virtually nonexistent within the Remoraz’s cramped compartments. But the movement of the craft keeps humming against them all the same. It’s almost as if it’s sidling along somehow—a loping rhythm that starts to permeate the brain. A rhythm that’s getting all the more insistent now that they’re making their way through shattered walls and into …

  “Check it out,” says the Operative

  “Do you know a way through?” asks Lynx.

  “Gonna have to improvise.”

  Or just get lucky. The asteroid staved in the entire south end of the cylinder, turning a chunk of itself to rubble in the process. Any trail that now winds through that rock probably wasn’t a trail to start with. But the Manilishi’s been analyzing collision vectors, overlaying them against the blueprints of the asteroid, taking her best estimates as to where the resultant hollows might be. So now the craft crawls slowly through space that was solid an all too brief time ago.

  “Strange that we fought our way through here so recently,” says Lynx.

  “We were heading the other way then,” replies the Operative.

  “Looks a little different now,” says Lynx.

  That’s for sure. The fissures through which they’re creeping are strewn with floating rock and metal. The Remoraz probes on a few spectra, stays quiet on most. Twice they reach dead ends and are forced to retrace their route, make different choices. They head into a side tunnel that looks to be what’s left of a much larger gallery. From the looks of the walls they’re now in the infrastructure that ran beneath the south pole mountains. Or maybe they’re still in the asteroid. Everything’s so smashed up it’s hard to tell. Rocks rattle against the hull. The craft’s maneuvering through a narrow space that’s thick with dust, though greenery is strewn along one wall. The Operative quickens the speed. The space through which they’re moving is getting ever narrower. But their craft’s like a cat: it retracts its legs, distends its body to the point where it’s almost wriggling. It kicks from side to side. It slides forward—and then it’s through. The screens light up with enclosed space that stretches out into forever.

  • • •

  Okay,” says Spencer. “Something’s moving again.” It’s ten minutes later. They’ve been floating in this room for far longer than they’d like. They’ve seen plenty of Praetorian hardware being shifted around in the direction of the hangar—breaking the horizon here and there, then dropping back below it. That’s not what’s got Spencer worried.

  “Where?” asks Linehan.

  “There.”

  Way out in the other direction. Almost out of the angle of the mirrors. Spencer and Linehan triangulate. Focus. On—

  “That.”

  “Yeah,” says Linehan. “That’s definitely something.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  “Hard to say. It’s only just scraping the top of the horizon.”

  “Is it on the cylinder?”

  “It’s on this rock or I’m a mountain goat.”

  “Maybe you are. I don’t see it now. Not anymore.”

  “It’s right th—No.” Spencer shakes his head. “It’s gone. Fuck.”

  “Don’t know what you’re complaining about,” says Linehan. “At least it’s not heading this way.”

  “Yeah, but they’re moving something around out there.”

  “Sure they are,” says Linehan. “Probably a lot of stuff too. But it’s what we can’t see that should have you worried.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning who the hell’s responsible for keeping an eye on all the corridors that lead into this room?”

  “I presume other Praetorians—”

  “I wouldn’t presume anything, Spencer. We’re not on the perimeter, we’re past it.”

  Spencer shakes his head.

  “And I don’t know what you mean by other,” adds Linehan. “It’s not like we’re part of that gang—why are you laughing?”

  “Because we’re Praetorians whether you like it or not.”

  Emptiness stretches all around them. The fighting’s long since over. All the fires are out. There’s no oxygen left, just vacuum filling thirty kilometers that were once the pride of the Euro Magnates. Only a fraction of those kilometers are visible. Light gleams in a few places, reflected off the remnants of the mirrors that still hang from the sides of the cylinder. But mostly it’s just dark. If there are still survivors out there, they’ll be huddled in sealed rooms watching their air dwindle. Wondering what happened. Wondering how soon they’ll join everybody they ever loved. They won’t be waiting long.

  “Hope neither of you owned any property here,” says Lynx.

  “I shorted the market,” says Sarmax.

  “You probably did,” says the Operative.

  Lynx laughs a dry chuckle. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

  “Act like we’re part of the scenery,” replies the Operative.

  The craft starts creeping through the rocks that descend into the blackened valley beneath. Though creeping doesn’t exactly describe it. It’s more like a kind of loping. It’s super stealthy nonetheless. Camo programs barely off the drawing board are working overtime. The craft’s paws are barely touching the surface. There’s almost no vibration to speak of. They leave the chaos of the collapsed mountain behind, move out into the valley.

  “Carson,” says Sarmax on the one-on-one.

  “Yeah,” says the Operative.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s up here.”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t sound surprised,” says Sarmax.

  “You’ve been acting kind of funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “The way you always act when she’s on your mind.”

  “She’s always on my mind.”

  “Really getting to you, then.”

  “Because she’s up here.”

  “How do you know that?” asks the Operative.

  “I saw her.”

  “Hey,” says Lynx on the general channel, “wouldn’t we be better underground?”

  “Why’s that?” asks the Operative as he puts the one-on-one on hold.

  “Surely it’d be harder to see us.”

  “Seeing’s one thing,” replies the Operative. “Doing something about it is another.”

  Meaning it’s a judicious balancing act. Anything they run into in the cylinder’s basements is likely to be right on top of them. Anything that spots them in the vast interior is going to have a lot more difficulty sneaking up on them. Doesn’t mean it’s impossible. If this was a normal crawler or an earthshaker, they may as well strap a homing beacon to their ass. Because there’s almost certainly plenty of hardware at large in this cylinder. Along with God knows what else …

  “Yeah,” says Sarmax, back on the one-on-one. “I saw h
er.”

  “Where?”

  “In front of the gate to the Hangars. Right after I got blasted against a wall.”

  “And knocked your head up pretty bad.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  “Is she?”

  “You killed her.”

  “That’s what I thought too.”

  “Holy shit,” says Lynx, once again on the general line.

  “I see it,” says the Operative.

  “Jesus,” says Sarmax.

  The valley above them is even more shrouded in shadow than the one they’re in. But the angle of the cylinder’s rotation allows reflected sunlight to dribble across its upper reaches. The surface revealed is alive with movement. All of it going in one direction …

  “The asteroid,” says Lynx.

  “Going to be quite a slam-dance,” says Sarmax.

  Only question now is when it starts.”

  “It may already have,” says Linehan. “Meaning?”

  “They may have already gotten inside the perimeter.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Maybe sooner.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Spencer. “It means you and I are big fucking asterisks.”

  “Said the man who used to be a SpaceCom assassin.”

  “Used to be?”

  “You about to tell me something I don’t want to hear?”

  “Turns out they got in here as well,” says Linehan. “Who?”

  “SpaceCom.” “What?”

  “While you were out hunting ammo, I was talking with some of the marines.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. They said that SpaceCom managed to infiltrate a bunch of assholes into the Platform to take down the Throne.”

  “They were trying to use the Rain again?”

  “No one uses the Rain. The Com learned that lesson the hard way last time. No, this was a separate plot, aimed right at the president.”

  “And they didn’t make it.”

  “Didn’t get near him.”

  Spencer’s eyes narrow. “And were you part of this?”

  “If I had been, I’d be dead instead of just thrust out beyond the perimeter about to get dead.”

  “The Manilishi definitely cleared you.”

  “But the Throne still didn’t like the looks of me.”