The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  • • •

  Jesus Christ,” says Spencer.

  “That’s a new one,” says Linehan. They’re still hanging on—just barely. The engines next to them have shut off. The newly visible engines of the newly shortened presidential ship have switched on, powering the craft away from the derelict that’s now drifting through space.

  “Guess they thought we were Rain,” says Spencer.

  “Or else the Rain’s inside this piece of tin.”

  “Which could be about to detonate.”

  “Which is why I’m bailing,” says Linehan, and he hits his jets, swans away from what’s now a floating island. Spencer looks at him receding and lets go, follows him. Stars glimmer all around.

  “What now?” he says.

  “Now we give you a lift,” says the voice of the Operative.

  The combat’s intensifying. More explosions. More shooting. More speakers falling silent. “They’re cutting through the perimeters,” says the voice of the Throne—tense, taut. “Can’t stop them.”

  “Fall back,” says Haskell. “We’ll cauterize other sections.” Which is when her bodyguard is suddenly slammed against the wall. He pitches over even as the other bodyguard’s whirling and getting shot through the chest by a nasty-looking heavy pistol wielded by the ship’s navigator. The pilot and copilot are drawing weapons, too, vaulting from their chairs. Haskell hits the ship’s zone and is pushed back: someone’s activated a point-blank jammer. The conduit to which she’s connected has been switched off. The pilot yanks the razorwire from her head. “The Manilishi,” he says.

  “Which one are you?” she asks.

  “You forfeited the right to know.”

  “You’re Iskander. Right?”

  “Enough of this,” snaps the navigator. “We’re here for the Throne. Not her.”

  “I’ll cooperate,” says Haskell.

  The navigator sneers, kicks off a wall, reaches Haskell. Shoves his gun against her visor.

  “Cooperate with this,” he says—starts to pull the trigger—just as the windows of the cockpit explode and shots start riddling the space within. The navigator crashes into Haskell, gun firing wildly as they both go over. Haskell grabs the hand that holds the gun, turns it toward its wielder, only to realize that there’s no resistance. She seizes the pistol, shoves the navigator’s body away from her. The bodies of the pilot and copilot are floating lifeless, suits shredded. The windows of the ship are gone. But in that space float more suited figures. They fire their jets, enter the cockpit. She recognizes them.

  “Hi guys,” she says.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” says Carson to her and everybody else. “Claire, you’re going with Leo. Lynx and I are going to bail out Harrison. Linehan and Spencer: stay here and hold the cockpit.”

  “Splitting up?” asks Haskell. “Is that a good idea?”

  “We need to get you away from the Rain,” says Carson. “You can work this ship’s zone from the next ship over.”

  “There’s not much of a zone left,” she says.

  It’s true. In the moments after the Rain jacked her, they hacked the microzone aboard the ship. She’s reversing the hack now, but the damage has already been done. The ship’s defenders are no longer reachable. Carson pulls open the cockpit door and Lynx goes through with his guns at the ready. Carson turns, follows him. Linehan hovers in the doorway covering them. Spencer takes the ship’s controls while Sarmax gestures at Haskell. “Let’s go,” he says.

  Through the cockpit doors and they’re off. The ship is large enough to make that complicated. There’s combat going on across both decks. The internal monitors are fucked. Everything’s being jammed. The Operative doesn’t know where the Throne is. He doesn’t know the exact location of the Rain. He’s only got one thing going for him.

  “The Rain think they’ve got him caught between them.”

  “They’ll be driving him toward the cockpit,” says Lynx.

  The Operative has no intention of waiting for them to get there. He and Lynx charge through another doorway, through a chamber, through an engine room …

  “How many fucking engine-rooms are there on this bitch?” asks Lynx.

  “Nowhere near enough,” replies the Operative.

  Haskell follows Sarmax up through the shattered windows and out onto the ship’s roof. The Euro interceptor sits atop it, tethered just aft of the cockpit. Its canopy is up. The back’s packed with weapons and extra spacesuits.

  “We need all those?” says Haskell. “The Euros were into redundancy,” says Sarmax. “For all the good it did them.”

  Sarmax nods, then starts the motors as Haskell straps herself in.

  • • •

  Linehan’s crouching at the side of the door, ready for whatever might come through it. Spencer’s at the controls. He’s watching as the Euro craft sails past the cockpit, engines glowing. It hurtles out ahead of the ship they’re in, swings off to the left. As soon as it’s out of range of small-arms fire, it matches speed. Sarmax’s voice echoes through the cockpit.

  “We’ll hold here,” it says. “Maintain open comlink by laser. Give us the heads-up if you see anything.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” mutters Linehan.

  The Operative can guess what’s happening. A Rain hit team on the warpath is virtually impossible to stop. Especially in a situation where an opponent can retreat in only one direction. The Praetorians outnumber the Rain by at least ten to one. But with the makeshift zone gone, they can’t coordinate with one another. They’ll be going down like ninepins. The Operative and Lynx crash through a wall, past more engine blocks, through another wall, through a weapons chamber from which all the weapons have been stripped. They crash through into the chamber where the Throne briefed his senior officers so recently. Two of them drift there now.

  “Fuck,” says the Operative. He leans toward them while Lynx covers him. “Fuck. Both dead.”

  One of the men he’s looking at opens his eyes. The Operative leaps backward, his arms up, guns at the ready.

  “No,” says the man. He’s barely whispering. “Carson … save … save …”

  “Where is he?”

  “They … cut us off.”

  “Murray. Where the fuck is he?”

  “Engine block,” says Murray. “Third,” he adds—coughs. Chokes. Dies.

  “Engine block number three,” says the Operative. “What the fuck’s he trying to do there?”

  “Stay alive,” says the Operative—hits his jets.

  Sarmax gazes at the screens. The president’s ship is down to three of its six segments. It’s hurtling toward the Earth. But by the time it gets there, this’ll be long over.

  “How can two men succeed where a whole shipful of Praetorians couldn’t?” asks Haskell.

  Sarmax looks at her. “I doubt they can.”

  “In which case?”

  “We nuke that ship and head for Earth.”

  “To see if I can reconfigure our zone there?”

  He nods. Something on the screens catches her eye. She gestures at it.

  “Hello,” she says.

  Sarmax stares.

  And starts screaming orders.

  Spencer! Cauterize and go!”

  Spencer needs no urging. Titanium doors slam shut two rooms back. Engine block number one blasts to life. The new ship starts roaring forward. Though it’s not much of a ship. It’s basically the cockpit and the engines, speeding away from what’s left.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asks Linehan.

  “The Throne’s on the hull,” says Spencer.

  • • •

  Jets and minds racing, the Operative and Lynx hit the engine room, which has just gone silent, surge across the chamber, past the turbines and into the crawlspace that’s still warm with the heat signatures of the armor that just passed through. The Operative leads the way, finds the point where the engine shaft’s been melted through with thermite. He goes through, rockets down i
t and into an adjoining vent. Lynx follows him. His voice crackles in the Operative’s ears.

  “We’re sitting ducks in here!”

  “Shut up and get ready to fight!” screams the Operative.

  Sarmax floors it, starts piloting the craft along an arc that turns it back toward the bulk of presidential ship. It’s shooting headless through space. Ten more seconds, and he can start bringing the forward guns to bear. Haskell works the cameras, adjusts the magnification.

  “What we got?” asks Sarmax. “Two assholes after the Throne.”

  Fuck,” says Linehan, “can’t you hold us steady?”

  “It’s tougher than it fucking looks,” hisses Spencer.

  He’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The truncated cockpit-ship’s maneuverability is for shit. He’s trying to bring it round and back toward the scene of all the action. The debris that constitutes what’s left of the Europa Platform is a speck upon the screen. Spencer’s getting the ship under control, turning it …

  • • •

  The Operative and Lynx blast out of the vent to find themselves in a wilderness of panels and struts and wires. No one’s in sight. “Spread out,” says the Operative.

  Lynx knows the drill. The two men get some distance between them. They’re keeping low, keeping each other in sight the whole time. And now the voice of Sarmax echoes through the Operative’s ears.

  “Carson,” it says, “they’re on the other side. We’ve got visual on them. We’ve—Shit!”

  “Talk to me, Leo,” snarls the Operative—even as he sees what Sarmax is talking about.

  He must have stashed it out there,” says Haskell. A man who thinks ahead: the rocket-sled that’s now streaking from the ship’s hull is piloted by the president himself. It’s scarcely bigger than his own suit. It’s making good progress all the same.

  “Let’s get in there,” says Sarmax.

  “I don’t think so,” says a voice.

  Haskell whirls along with Sarmax. One of the suits in the back is stepping forward, reverting from its Euro trappings to its real ones in a swirl of shifting hues. A minigun’s sprouting from its shoulder. A woman’s face smiles mirthlessly behind the visor. Her face isn’t familiar. But Haskell can see that Sarmax is shaking anyway.

  “Indigo,” he says.

  “You’ve forfeited the right to know,” says the woman.

  “For fuck’s sake, talk to me.”

  “Sure, I’ll talk to you. Take us thirty degrees left or I’ll blast you both into that dashboard.”

  • • •

  He’s veering away,” says Spencer.

  “So ask him why.”

  “He just cut off contact.”

  “Christ,” says Linehan, “that’s a fucking sled out there.”

  “What?” asks Spencer, and suddenly feels something smack against his shoulder and lodge there. He turns in his chair, sees that he’s been hit by a strange-looking gun. It’s held by the ship’s navigator, who’s still slumped against the wall, blood clearly visible behind his visor—but he’s turning the gun on Linehan all the same. Spencer dives from his chair, bringing his own guns to bear.

  Even as his armor freezes, shuts down as a hack pours from the projectile now embedded within it. Spencer tries to fight it—gets shoved back into his own skull. He floats against the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Linehan drifting helpless, fury on his face. The navigator pulls himself forward to the instrument panel. Blood’s dripping from his mouth. He starts working the controls. His words sound in Spencer’s head.

  “I’m dying,” he says. “But you’re already dead.”

  The Operative gets a glimpse of metal falling away, feels himself being hauled out into space. Lynx is about ten meters behind him. They’re both hanging onto tethers they’ve fired at the president’s sled. Problem is, they aren’t the only ones. “Light them up,” snarls the Operative. But that’s tough when the ones you’re targeting are between you and the sled’s rider: two members of the Rain are about twenty meters ahead, clinging onto tethers, one firing at Harrison, the other firing back at the Operative and Lynx—who ignite their suit-jets, dart aside, return fire. The Operative can see Harrison slashing out with a laser, slashing at the tethers—and then sprawling against the sled’s controls as shots from the Rain strike him. The sled accelerates. Light fills the Operative’s visor.

  A white flash from the direction of the presidential ship. It’s disintegrating, breaking apart. Pieces of : flying everywhere. “What the hell,” says Haskell. “The Throne’s last card,” says the woman. Haskell stares at her—is met by an expression of pure resolution.

  “It won’t save him,” the woman adds. “Ships beat suits any day.”

  “Depends who’s wearing them,” says Sarmax. “Enough,” she snaps. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

  The wayward cockpit accelerates again. Spencer slides across the floor, drifts against the wall, turns his head within his helmet to behold the navigator putting the ship through a series of maneuvers. Spencer hurls himself against the hack once more, practically gets brain-fried for his troubles.

  “Take it easy,” says the navigator. “It’s almost over.”

  Contingency planning: the Throne had set charges over his ship to detonate after he’d gotten clear—though clear is a relative concept. Debris is flying everywhere. The Operative feels like he’s heading through an asteroid belt. It’s all he and Lynx can do to shoot at the Rain while they’re dodging. Shots whip past the Operative: he reels in the tether, sees the sled rushing closer, sees that one of the Rain’s just had his suit perforated by ship fragments. The lifeless suit flies past the Operative, almost knocks him off. But the other member of the Rain has slid forward, reached the sled several suit lengths ahead of the pursuit, and slashed a laser through one of the tethers.

  “Fuck,” says Lynx.

  And tumbles past the Operative. Who can see all too clearly that he’s next.

  The Euro interceptor gives the expanding field of debris a wide berth. It starts turning one more time along vectors laid down by the woman with the guns.

  “How many of you are there left?” asks Haskell.

  “Tell this whore to shut up,” says the woman.

  “What did she do to you?” asks Sarmax.

  “Betrayed us, Leo.”

  “And you betrayed me.”

  “You’ve lost it. You don’t even know—”

  “I know you’re Rain,” says Sarmax. “That’s enough.”

  “So shut the fuck up and prime this ship’s weapons.”

  Every plan of ours contains another plan,” mumbles the navigator as he works the controls.

  “Every device another device.” Spencer’s hardly listening. He’s just thinking furiously. If he could find a way to trigger one of his suit’s weapons on manual … if he could explode his suit’s ammo … if he could do fucking anything. He hurls himself back and forth against his suit in a vain attempt to move it. He exhales, tries to pull his arm into the space reserved for his torso. But it’s way too tight a fit. Out of the corner of his visor he can see Linehan struggling through similarly unsuccessful contortions.

  “Thus it is with humanity” says the navigator. “Trapped in a cage while we gaze between the bars.”

  They hurtle toward the wreckage of the Throne’s last ship.

  Rain is cutting off the competition. Or trying to—but the Operative fires his jets, surges from his tether, streaking off at an angle as he fires a burst from a wrist-gun at the sled. Shots slam into its motor in precisely calibrated points, knocking its nozzles sideways, sending it careening from its course, straight onto that of the Operative—who reaches out and leaps on to grapple with the suit within.

  Bring up the targets,” says the woman. “Lock them in.”

  “Lynx is easy enough,” says Sarmax. “He’s going nowhere. But Carson’s hand-to-hand with your own—”

  “Gun them both down,” snarls the woman. “
It’s the Throne’s skull I want.”

  “Don’t do it,” says Haskell.

  “One more word and I’ll do you.”

  “You’re going to kill us anyway!”

  “At least let her live,” says Sarmax.

  “Long enough for a little brain surgery.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” snarls Haskell.

  “Back on Earth, we’ll find out what makes you tick.”

  “Never in hell.”

  “My minigun’s quite the surgeon too. Leo: lock in the targets.”

  Sarmax complies.

  Crossfire time,” mutters the navigator. Spencer can’t see what he’s looking at. But the tone of triumph in the navigator’s voice is unmistakable. He can see that the man is priming the ship’s weaponry, getting ready to fire.

  But then he sees Linehan.

  Who’s hit his suit’s manual release. Who’s holding his breath. His face is already blistering in the vacuum. His expression’s one of total mania. He’s hurling himself upon the navigator.

  Who turns—

  The sled’s turning in circles. The Operative pivots against his foe’s armor, smashing the other man’s helmet. For his trouble, Carson gets a boot to his face, falls backward across the limp figure of Harrison—who’s sprawled out unconscious against the steering equipment, barely breathing, his suit holed and cauterized in the lower back. But the Operative’s got other things on his mind, like fending off the laser cutter that’s slashing toward his face. He ducks in under it, fires his suit-jets, slams head-on against the man, grabs onto his arms and tries to bring his minigun to bear. But they’re both too close. Over the man’s shoulder the Operative can see the dwindling figure of Lynx, opening up on ships that are closing in …

  • • •

  Shots streak past the cockpit.

  “Waste them,” says the woman.

  “First tell me Indigo’s still alive.”

  “She is.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “You’re her,” says Sarmax.

  “So what—” The woman triggers the minigun, just as something hits the ship. Something that’s not small. Velasquez is hurled against the wall, her shots ripping through the ceiling. The other wall’s tearing to reveal space—and the cockpit of the president’s ship, jammed right alongside theirs. An unsuited man’s leaping though the tear, his face more burn than face.