The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  “How many of them?”

  “A man and a woman.”

  “Or not.”

  “Might have just been robot proxies,” admits Linehan.

  “Might have planted anything inside you.”

  “I used to worry about that. But now I figure if the Manilishi couldn’t find it, we’re all fucked anyway.”

  “Well,” says Spencer, “at least that story’s the same one you were telling InfoCom’s interrogators four days back. No one’s fucked with it since.”

  “By changing up my memory?”

  “I’m just checking. It’s all I can do.”

  “Not for much longer. The Rain’s going to have to fire this party up before the Throne …” Linehan pauses, stares out the window at the Earth.

  “Before what?” asks Spencer. Linehan looks back at him with a strange expression on his face.

  “Before the Throne finds a way out,” he says.

  “You mean by incinerating himself.”

  “Sarmax was hinting to me that if he does that, the Rain may take over regardless.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “That the Throne might just try to get out the same way he got in.”

  A pause. Then: “You’re not serious.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “He sure as fuck can try.”

  They’ve left that chasm behind. They’re moving into the very heights of the city. The gravity’s dropping away around them. There are signs of more combat here: buildings flattened like something’s plowed through them. The remnants of something lies in the middle of the street in front of them.

  “One of our shakers,” says the Operative.

  “Must have got nailed right out of the gate,” says Lynx.

  The droids that did it lie in pieces all around. The main Praetorian spearhead exited the city far lower—went through the basements and then surged out into the suburbs. This was one of the flanking formations. Another shaker’s laying on its back, farther down the city slope, in the middle of a crushed bridge. The Operative maneuvers round it, takes the Remoraz up stairs that become ladders that lead past some of the more rarefied neighborhoods. Conventional wisdom says that people prefer gravity to its lack. But conventional wisdom ended up playing second fiddle to the law of scarcity. The views up near the axis are exclusive.

  Maybe even more so now. The city falls away beneath them like a wall down the side of some dark well. Electric lights stutter here and there—stand-alone generators still holding out against the odds. The valleys beyond are just black, lit up by the occasional streak of sun. Nothing moves in all that gloom. Nothing visible, anyway.

  The Operative works the controls. Their vehicle leans off the ladder, leans against a wall, kicks off with its back feet, drops down to a balcony, its front feet extended. Laser cutters set within the feet trace arcs in the window before them. The craft extends its nose, shoves. Plastic gives way. The Operative gestures at the shadowed city on the rear screens.

  “Take a good look,” he says. “Might be your last.”

  “Let’s hope so,” says Lynx.

  “Let’s do it,” says Sarmax.

  They start their journey into the interior.

  Another rumbling shakes the room. The floor vibrates. “What the fuck,” says Spencer. “Take a wild guess,” says Linehan. The rumbling intensifies. The gun beneath their feet starts swiveling on automatic. They can feel it sliding back and forth, seeking targets, sensing them close at hand … “Jesus fucking Christ,” says Spencer. “Like he gives a shit,” replies Linehan. The vibrations are relentless now. The sensors show they run the gamut—ranging from almost undetectable to off-the-charts unmistakable. It’s almost impossible to discern the exact nature of any one of them. But in aggregation they tell Linehan and Spenser all they need to know about what’s clearly taking place. Explosions ripping apart bulkheads, shakers grinding through walls, shots slamming into everything and then some—combat’s under way. The two men eye the windows, the door, the corners. Almost as though they suddenly expect their enemy to spring from the walls. Which may not be an illogical assumption.

  A gun-tower off to the side suddenly balloons outward, silent explosion tearing its turret off and tossing it into space. Suited Praetorians are emerging from a bunker nearby, firing at something still unseen. Even as they do so, a frag-shell lands among them, shreds their suits, leaves pieces floating lifeless.

  “Getting hot,” says Spencer.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  A new rumbling’s shaking the room, coming from straight out beyond the perimeter. It bears a familiar vibration signature.

  “That was what we heard earl—”

  “I know,” says Linehan.

  And now they’re seeing it again too: some strange object protruding just beyond the asteroid’s horizon. Something that’s not small. And that’s rising steadily from the horizon. Not because it’s getting any larger. But rather …

  “It’s heading straight for us.”

  “What the fuck is it,” says Spencer.

  “I’m not sure it matters,” replies Linehan.

  The basements of the shattered city that reigned as queen of neutral space give way to maintenance corridors that give way to freight conduits that give way in turn to ….

  “These look familiar,” says Sarmax. “They should,” replies the Operative.

  Because this is where it all kicked off. The warehouses through which they’re moving are the ones from which the shakers set off on their breakneck haul across the cylinder more than twelve hours back. They’re empty now. Backup filaments cast a feeble light. The Operative wonders how many of the soldiers who waited here are still alive. He lets the vehicle prowl up a ramp and rise through more trapdoors and into another corridor. A vaultlike door lies open at its end.

  “Fucking déjà vu,” says Lynx.

  They head through, into a familiar double-leveled chamber. The darkness is near total, save for the light of stars coming in from the window facing space. The Operative amps the craft’s photo-enhancers, uses the starlight for a close inspection of the room.

  Not that there’s much to see. It’s mostly empty. Though it’s obviously been ransacked since the Praetorians took off. Wall panels have been ripped down, tossed aside. Flooring’s been torn up. The area where the Manilishi and the ruler of the United States once stood shows signs of special attention.

  “Due diligence,” says Sarmax.

  “They’ll have found nothing useful,” replies the Operative.

  But he understands the thinking. Make sure you’re in a position to capitalize on every fuck-up. Or anything that even looks like one. Which is why the Operative has crossed from pole to pole again. Why he’s come back to this room. And why he’s turning to the men behind him.

  “It’s time,” he says.

  • • •

  The final stage of the last battle’s under way. The Rain’s machine proxies are hitting the Praetorians all along the perimeter. They’re pressing for a breakthrough along several fronts. Spencer and Linehan are right in the middle of one such area. They’ve never been so fucked. Nor have they ever seen anything like what’s now bearing down upon them.

  “Look at the size of that fucker—”

  “I noticed,” says Linehan.

  There’s no way he couldn’t have. It’s three stories high. It’s like a medieval siege-tower on acid. Guns are mounted all along it. Magnetic treads drive it forward. It’s some kind of modified construction robot. It used to dig out chambers in this asteroid. Now it’s going to plow like hell all the way to the Hangar, racking up a fuck-sized body count as it does so.

  “We’ve got to get below,” says Linehan. “We stay here, we’re just a speed bump.”

  “Someone’s got to stop it,” says Spencer.

  “No reason it has to be us.”

  Plasma starts streaking past them. Guns mounted atop the behemoth are fi
ring. Shots are striking home along the inner perimeter. Their bunker’s own gun is firing back. And being targeted.

  “We’re outta here,” says Linehan.

  “Agreed,” says Spencer.

  They haul open the trapdoor, pull themselves into the corridor beyond. Rumbling cascades through it. But it’s still empty.

  “Back the way we came,” says Spencer.

  “Fuck,” says Linehan, “the Praetorians’ll shoot us if we run that way.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  “Admit we’re out of options.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning get unpredictable.”

  • • •

  The three men get busy getting ready, pulling their stashed equipment out of the vehicle, snapping pieces together, soldering others, configuring what’s taking shape before them.

  “Faster,” says the Operative.

  They’re trying, but it’s tough work. Not to mention tense. At any moment something might streak into the chamber and crash their little party. They keep on pulling pieces from compartments, unloading the cargo they’ve brought with them.

  “Looking good,” says Sarmax.

  So far. The composite structure is almost the length of the Remoraz. But it’s still taking shape. And they’re pretty much out of things to add to it. The cargo they packed is almost gone. In fact—

  “We’re out,” says Lynx.

  “Somebody fucked up,” says Sarmax.

  “Relax,” says the Operative. “We got everything we need.”

  They look at him.

  “Oh,” says Sarmax. “Got it.”

  “Knew you would,” says the Operative.

  So what the fuck are you suggesting we do?” yells Spencer.

  “I’m making this up as we go!” screams Linehan. He fires his suit-jets, starts heading out beyond the perimeter, down a corridor that seems like it’s going to buckle at any moment.

  “Linehan! Come back!”

  “Come with me!”

  Spencer curses—but heads after Linehan. Who he figures has finally lost it. Or just bowed to the inevitable. Because the shit’s hitting from every side. And Linehan’s right. Everyone who retreats is going to get run down or else be butchered by their own side. Spencer’s on the point of trying to do exactly that to Linehan. But instead he just keeps on racing after him, even as he realizes what the man’s up to.

  The Remoraz,” says Lynx. “Yeah,” replies the Operative—and ignites a flamer, starts getting to work. Their vehicle’s skin looks so real he almost expects it to start screeching in pain. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, gives itself up to one last service.

  “Did they build it like this?” says Sarmax.

  “They built it with all ends in mind,” replies the Operative.

  Because there are only so many reasons to do the infiltration run. You’re either taking a closer look or busting up the china. If it’s the latter, then you need to make sure you can pack a punch. Their vehicle’s got rear and aft KE guns, not to mention micromissile batteries. But sometimes you need a lot more than that.

  “Tap its generators,” says the Operative.

  “Tapping,” replies Lynx.

  “Load the nukes.”

  “Loading,” says Sarmax.

  “Target sequencing,” says the Operative.

  “Initiated.”

  They’re stumbling forward as the floor shakes beneath them. The walls are buckling. Vibration churns within their suits. Repurposed police droids are appearing at the end of the corridor. Three of them. One looks like a large spider; it clambers down the walls toward them. The others rev their treads, close in. But Spencer and Linehan are already firing: letting their armor absorb shots, spraying KE into those treads, dissecting legs with a fusillade of fire. They charge past the wreckage, keep on going.

  “Fuck yes,” says Spencer.

  “We’ll break on through,” says Linehan.

  Not that there’s much of a plan beyond that. Apparently Linehan’s just figuring that they might be able to get into an area of the asteroid that’s less trafficked. Somewhere they can await events. But those events have caught up with them anyway. Smartdust’s swarming into the corridor on both sides. Spencer’s suit is flinging out thousands of flechettes. He’s pumping hi-ex down the corridor. Linehan’s doing the same. The microshit disappears in sheets of light. The corridor crumbles under the blasts. The two men are knocked sprawling. The floor starts rising up behind them.

  “What the fuck!” yells Spencer. He’s trying to get to his feet, gets tossed off them yet again. Linehan is firing his thrusters. He rises, grabs onto the shaking wall. Just as the floor bulges—and breaks. A huge tread smashes through it.

  “That bitch is right on top of us!” yells Spencer.

  “Below us,” screams Linehan.

  “Whatever!” Spencer fires his thrusters, only to switch them off again as minidrones start pouring into the corridor’s far end. They’re a fraction of a meter in length. There are hundreds of them. They roar in toward Spencer and Linehan, who fire bombs down the corridor toward them. Explosions start tearing targets apart. But …

  “Not enough!” yells Spencer.

  “Only one way out of this,” says Linehan.

  He gestures behind them, where the tread’s still slicing through the floor, leaving torn metal in its wake. Through that gaping hole Spencer can see stars. Linehan hits his thrusters, blasts out toward them.

  • • •

  Their vehicle’s looking more than a little skeletal. Strips have been torn from its sides. Half its head is gone. But the power plant in its belly is still intact. Cables run from beneath it to the multibarreled contraption that’s taken shape alongside.

  “Stand by,” says Lynx.

  “Scanning for target,” says Sarmax.

  He’s looking down a barrel five meters long: straight out the window that looks out into space strewn through with stars. Some of which aren’t stars. Some of which have shown up a little more recently. Some of which are proving to be a real pain in the ass.

  “At power threshold,” says the Operative.

  “Main target acquired,” says Sarmax.

  The Helios is only eighty klicks away. It’s far too big to miss. Nailing it is going to be a piece of cake. The real problem is nailing what counts within it.

  “Acquire nexus,” says the Operative.

  “Scanning,” says Sarmax.

  Which is when lights suddenly start filtering into the room through the open door—lights of something coming their way. Something that’s not in the mood to be stealthy.

  “Acquire nexus,” repeats the Operative.

  “I’m working on it,” hisses Sarmax.

  The two men shoot through the rift in the asteroid hull, surge on out into space—and total chaos. The spectrums are on overload. Directed energy’s flying everywhere, all too much of it aimed at the thing that’s towering above them. Linehan darts in toward it.

  And Spencer follows. Because he sees the logic, mad though it may be. The only thing this thing can’t hit with its guns is itself; he charges after Linehan, thrusters flaring, as the surface beneath him erupts anew. The charges Linehan tossed down there are detonating. The drones are getting shredded. But the two men have bigger things to worry about.

  One giant thing, in fact. Whose lowermost rear guns are lowering still further, unleashing plasma that’s spraying over their heads as they dart past it, grabbing onto metal paneling and …

  “Get in there!” screams Linehan.

  Got it!” yells Sarmax.

  “Preliminary burst,” says the Operative. Energy streaks from one of the barrels of the gun, strikes the room’s window, melts a hole in it, melts the edges around the hole. Plastic drips. The light in the doorway’s growing brighter.

  “Zero margin,” says Lynx.

  “So take the shot,” says the Operative.

  “With pleasure,” says Sarmax.

  Energy st
reaks from the main barrel out into space.

  They’ve got their laser cutters out, ripping away at the metal in this beast’s side. Linehan’s almost gotten a whole panel off. Spencer’s halfway through another when the panel suddenly slides aside—he moves with it just in time to evade the burst of KE rounds from the minigun that’s extending from the space within. In the next instant he’s slicing the barrel in two and pivoting past it, cutting through the metal beyond to reveal an opening. He and Linehan crawl through it as fast as they can go. As if sensing their intentions, the vehicle starts speeding up, trundling along the surface toward the hangar. More shots slam against it. Spencer and Linehan pull themselves up a narrow chute. A clawed drone leaps at them. They waste it, keep on climbing as the behemoth in which they’re riding accelerates.

  First shot’s away” says Sarmax.

  “And we’re still alive,” says Lynx. Meaning the Manilishi called it. Their laser just struck one of the antennas along the Helios, sandwiched between a solar panel and one of the microwave guns. Codes devised by the Manilishi and enclosed within the wavelengths of the laser are going to town, moving straight to the primary targeting system and paralyzing it. It won’t stay that way for long. Whoever’s aboard will find a way to beat it. Or else they’ll cut the wires and jury-rig the targeting.

  But the Operative doesn’t intend to give them the chance.

  “Round two,” he whispers.

  And triggers the gun’s third barrel. This one isn’t a laser at all. Coils touch; electromagnetism surges; nuclear-tipped projectiles sail off into space. Even as machinery bursts into the room: three hunter-killer droids. The Remoraz’s rear guns start firing, lacerating targets. The three men spread out as they blast the intruders, trying to maximize cross-fire. Two of the droids are down. The third retreats.

  “After it!” yells the Operative.

  But Sarmax is already putting micromissiles down the corridor. There’s a large explosion.

  “Scratch one metalhead,” he says.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” says the Operative.

  “And leave those?” asks Sarmax, pointing at the laser cannon and the vehicle.

  “Along with some souvenirs,” says the Operative.

  • • •