The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  The Operative’s letting rip with his flamer, but the other man turns his helmet to avoid the fire, letting it boil off into space, shoving against the Operative, and then firing augmented wrist-jets to suddenly pin him against the sled’s rear. The Operative fires his own jets, but to no avail. He’s being pushed against the sled’s engines—against the reaction-mass still churning from them. His suit’s temperature’s starting to rise. He lets razorwire extrude from his suit, plunge into his assailant’s, feels his mind slam up against the other’s even as he starts to smell smoke. But the other man’s got razor capabilities too. He’s holding his own, keeping the Operative at bay while he shoves him against the heat searing from the sled. In the distance the Operative thinks he can see spaceships colliding. Worlds imploding. His suit’s going critical. His failsafes are overloading.

  • • •

  Sarmax hits the jets, knocks Linehan aside, crashes into the woman, knocks her into the rear of the ship. Haskell gestures at Linehan, pops the canopy, goes through it with Linehan hanging onto her foot—

  –holding on for fucking life as cosmic rays lacerate him. Everything’s going black. But the hardware that augments his heart keeps chugging away even as his oxygen levels plunge—even as Haskell he’s just saved hauls him back into the ship he’s just left. His suit’s floating where he left it. His field of vision collapses in upon it. Everything spirals in upon a single point—

  –as the woman shoves against Sarmax, pushes him away from her.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” says Sarmax.

  “Oh yes it does,” she replies, and starts unloading the minigun at him. He fires his jets, roars under the trajectory, cannons against her, rips the gun from her shoulder. She whips up her legs, kicks him in the chest, vaults backward, then raises her hands and starts firing with her wrist-guns. He does the same. They pour shots into each other. Neither’s trying to dodge. Neither’s trying to evade. They’re just soaking up each other’s munitions. The outer layers of their armor are getting shredded. Their visors are starting to crack.

  • • •

  The Operative’s helmet is pretty much at one with the rocket flame. He’s seeing stars for real now. He can’t budge his opponent. Can’t hack him either. At least not with his own mind—he reaches out, extends more razorwire; his assailant shifts slightly to dodge it and the Operative plunges the metal into the prone figure of Harrison. The president may be out of commission, but his software isn’t—and now the Operative’s running codes given him by the Manilishi, drawing on that software, sending the merest fraction of the executive node surging out and through his own suit and into the suit of another. And from there into his brain.

  The man convulses. The Operative kicks him off into space—and then leaps up to see what’s hurtling toward him.

  Any second now,” mutters the woman.

  “We’ll hit Valhalla together,” says Sarmax. “Not if I can help it,” says Lynx, streaking past the ship and tossing a shape-charge through the gap in the wall and onto the woman’s back.

  “Fuck,” she says.

  The charge explodes, blasting clean through her back and chest, knocking her forward toward Sarmax. He grabs her in his arms. But she’s already dead. He shoves the body away, starts broadcasting how he’s going to kill Lynx and leave him to rot in vacuum. But now Carson is vaulting into the ship, grabbing him, remonstrating with him. Sarmax switches back into business mode.

  “Where’s the Throne?” he snarls.

  “Haskell’s on it. With Linehan and Spencer. She restarted their suits. Which the Rain fucked.”

  “So that’s why that nut job was running around without one.”

  “Apparently he’s pretty fucking enhanced.”

  “I’ll say. What happened to the other Rain guy?”

  “Dawson,” says the Operative. “It was Dawson. Though I didn’t know it till the end.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “For sure.”

  “It’s finished,” says Lynx.

  “But we aren’t.” Sarmax’s voice is dangerously calm. “And you’ll get it too, Carson. For stopping me from nailing him.”

  “Jesus Christ,” says the Operative, “you seriously want to go head to head with us now?”

  “There’ll be another time,” says Sarmax.

  It’s another time. An hour later. A very jury-rigged ship is starting its journey back toward the Earth. It consists of the remnants of two ships held together by bolts and wires.

  “Precarious,” says the Operative.

  “But functional,” says Sarmax.

  The two men are sitting in the pilot seats of the Euro craft. The Operative is at the controls. He glances at Sarmax.

  “It wasn’t her,” he says.

  “What?”

  “That wasn’t Indigo who Lynx killed.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asks Sarmax softly.

  “I did a DNA test on what was left.”

  “Ah, fuck,” says Sarmax.

  The Operative opens up a channel. “How’s it looking back there, Claire?”

  “He’s still stable,” says Haskell. “He might even make it.” She’s sitting beside the president. His sightless eyes stare past her. Wires run from her to him.

  “And Linehan?”

  “He’ll be fine,” says Spencer. He and Linehan are sitting in their suits, in the remnants of the presidential cockpit. Spencer’s at the controls while Linehan siphons oxygen from the heaped-up Rain suits from which the bodies have been stripped.

  “You know,” says the Operative, “if you hadn’t pulled that stunt we’d have been fucked.”

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” asks Lynx.

  “I’m talking to Linehan.”

  “What was that?” asks Linehan.

  “He said without you our asses would be grass,” says Spencer.

  “Guess you could look at it that way,” says Linehan.

  “You guess?” The Operative laughs. “It’s a fact, man. A fundamental fucking truth. You saved us all. The whole fucking planet, maybe.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to visit it again sometime,” says Linehan.

  Up ahead that world draws closer.

  My fellow Americans.”

  It’s four days later. The U.S. president is on the screen. Short-cropped grey hair above grey eyes. Mouth set in that familiar, reassuring way. Words that say everything his people need to hear.

  And nothing that they don’t.

  “It is with a heavy heart that I address you tonight. But also with fresh hope. The paralysis of the worldwide nets by the terrorists who called themselves Autumn Rain is over. We have defeated them. In attacking the Europa Platform, they hoped to expand their war of terror to neutral targets—targets that lacked the defenses necessary to withstand the Rain’s assault. It is my duty to inform you that the Europa Platform has been entirely destroyed, along with the cities of New London and New Zurich. The loss of life was catastrophic. May God help me to tell you the death toll is numbered in the millions.

  “But in striking at L3, the Rain overreached themselves. In the aftermath of that terrible crime, we were able to trace the routes of their hit-teams back to the bases from which they struck. We were able to penetrate their lairs and eliminate them wholesale. We have ended the menace of Autumn Rain. Their leaders have been destroyed in the bunkers from which they were planning the world’s demise. Their strike forces have been cut down while still en route to their targets. This war is over.

  “Our nation has borne the primary role in ending this threat, but we were not alone. Eurasian forces cooperated with ours in bringing the Rain to justice. The East’s data was invaluable in building up a full picture of the Rain’s location, making our triumph all the swifter. They are our partners, and they should be honored as such. Let the rumors that they were in any way connected to the Rain be laid to rest, along with all talk of a return to the dark nights of cold war. Those days are gone forever.
<
br />   “Even as I speak, our diplomats are meeting with those of the East in Geneva. Not out of some misplaced fear that the pact of Zurich is on the verge of becoming a dead letter. Nor out of some futile need to seek remedial action to bolster a fragile peace. Mark my words: the peace of Zurich is as strong as it ever was. Even stronger, now that the Rain have vanished from the scene. But we shall not miss this opportunity to consolidate our friendship still further.

  “And we cannot ignore the reality before us. The Rain hid behind the borders of neutral nations for a reason. They knew that trying to base themselves within either superpower was an impossibility. Knowing the neutrals’ military weakness, they used their territory, first as staging grounds and then as targets. Nor can we be tempted by the Rain’s destruction to deceive ourselves into thinking that future elements opposed to civilization and all it stands for will not follow the same strategy. The course before us is clear.

  “We are thus coordinating with the Eurasian Coalition to extend our protection to the neutral territories. In doing so, we contemplate no violation of sovereignty. We shall not force ourselves upon any unaligned nation. However, we have every intention of offering aid to those neutrals who wish to secure themselves from future onslaughts like the one that engulfed the Europa Platform. It would be the epitome of injustice to deny intelligence data, military training, and advisers to countries that wish to protect their own citizens.

  “Our initial efforts have focused on the Far East, where the Governing Council of HK Geoplex has already invited the superpowers to replace the local police and security units that were destroyed in the anarchy that the Rain unleashed. Rather than allow that city to continue to suffer, we have accepted the invitation. Our troops have taken up residence across one half of Hong Kong; the Coalition occupies the other. While this arrangement is merely a few hours old, we have already brought that great city a peace that its inhabitants had despaired of ever seeing.

  “It is inevitable, of course, that there will be some in the neutral nations who disagree with our course of action. To them, we can only say that we hope to have the chance to prove ourselves worthy of your trust. But should anyone attempt in any way to harm our soldiers, we will treat them the same way we did the Rain. Let there be no mistake: if attacked, we will retaliate with a force that will ensure our blow will be the last.

  “And to the American people, I say we are not about to underestimate the gravity of the course that we are now embarked upon. We must extend our shield across the world for the good of all. We must render sterile all ground from which the seeds of a future Rain might spring. And we must cement our partnership with the Coalition so that we may enjoy the fruits of a lasting peace.

  “These last few days have witnessed the greatest trials faced by our nation since the signing of the Zurich treaty. We have paid a heavy price. But we have withstood adversity. Those voices who called for the unjust punishment of the Coalition have not been heeded. Those voices who said we could not defeat the Rain have fallen silent. As have the Rain themselves. We shall not hear from them again. May God be thanked for that. May God defend the United States—”

  Linehan switches the vid off. The reflection on the empty screen shows Lynx standing in the doorway.

  “Anything interesting?” he asks.

  “The usual horseshit,” says Linehan. “Are we outta here?”

  “Believe it.”

  The room is lavishly furnished. Mahogany everywhere. The rugs are practically knee deep. Paintings hang along the walls. Set between two Flemish masters are several screens. The woman on the topmost one looks like someone caught between duty and fear:

  “—that this is the latest shooting this morning. The victim, Shuryen Ma, was an outspoken critic of the Chinese leadership. We believe that his parents died in a camp in Burma in the 2080s and that he arrived in HK in 2095, but have yet to confirm this. According to our sources, Eurasian soldiers burst into his home without warning and shot him. Several witnesses were arrested.”

  “How’s it looking?” asks Spencer. His voice echoes through the room from an adjacent one.

  “So far, so good,” says Sarmax.

  He’s sitting in the corner of the room behind a table. He spares scarcely a glance at the news. His attention’s almost totally monopolized by the camera feeds that show what’s going on in the rest of the city. His eyes dart among them as the broadcast continues.

  “—and we must advise our viewers in the strongest possible terms not to attempt to cross from this part of the city into what’s now American territory. Again, we have confirmed reports that Eurasian soldiers have adopted a shoot-to-kill policy toward anyone trying to move between the sectors. And we have reports of mass arrests now under way in the American sector.”

  “All depends on whose list you’re on,” Sarmax mutters to himself as he looks around the room. The body that’s sprawled on the rugs seems to have stopped bleeding.

  “You done with this guy?” he yells.

  “Not yet,” says Spencer as he emerges from the other room. His hands are covered with blood. So is his shirt. Razorwires hang from his head. Sarmax looks at him. Spencer shrugs.

  “Turns out he’s got some kind of spinal backup,” he says—turns to the body, extends a laser scapel, scoops out the chip at the base of the spine.

  “How much longer?” says Sarmax.

  “How about telling me who I’m dissecting?”

  Sarmax looks at him. Says nothing.

  “Have it your way,” says Spencer, “but you’re slowing us down. The core data structures are a really weird hybrid. In fact—”

  “A traitor,” says Sarmax.

  “What?”

  “The man was a traitor. Alek Jarvin. The main CICom handler in HK.”

  “CICom? As in Counterintelligence Command—”

  “Sure.”

  “But the Throne had CICom annihilated when he locked up Sinclair.”

  “All of CICom he could get his hands on, sure. Jarvin cut loose and hit the streets.”

  “The streets? This is his fucking house.”

  “No,” says Sarmax, “it’s his fucking safe house. From which he was building up as large a stockpile of data as possible in the hopes that he could stay alive for as long as possible. And maybe even win his way back into our good graces.”

  “Guess that last one was a bit ambitious,” replies Spencer as he walks back into the room and shuts the door behind him. Sarmax shakes his head, turns his attention back to the screens where the action’s starting to pick up.

  “—we’re getting reports now of shooting outside the studio.” The newscaster’s voice is edging toward panic now. Noises are coming from somewhere off-camera. “No, in the studio.” The woman’s standing up now. “I apologize but—”

  Her body convulses, drops. She’s been hit by a taser. A suited Eurasian soldier steps in front of the camera, grabs the kicking woman by the legs, drags her off-screen. For a moment the camera’s focused on an empty chair.

  And then a man enters, sits down where the woman was sitting. He looks like any normal newscaster.

  “We apologize for the interruption,” he says. “We are pleased to resume normal service. The attacks against the Coalition’s liberating forces will continue to be dealt with severely. We are compiling a comprehensive list of all enemies of the people believed to be in residence in this city’s sector. There are substantial rewards for any information that leads to an arrest. Tune in to the following site for more information—”

  Sarmax switches the screen off. “We’re out of time,” he yells.

  “Five more minutes,” says Spencer.

  “Try one.”

  “I need more than that to make sure there’s nothing else in Jarvin’s files.”

  “Bring ’em with us.”

  • • •

  She’s waking up again.

  Or at least, she thinks she is. She thought she was awake awhile back too. But then fire flared against her. Lava
fell across her. She was dreaming. She was glad of it.

  But now she’s in a metal-walled room. Strapped into a chair, in what feels like zero-G. She’s wearing civilian clothing. She tries to move—and can’t. She tries to access the zone, only to find that she’s cut off. The room’s clearly been sealed to wireless access. She’s not going anywhere. Nor can she remember how she got here in the first place.

  All she knows is that something’s very wrong. She tries to think back to something … anything … grasping to remember something that feels real. But it’s like reaching for land in a world of endless water. Nothing’s solid.

  Except for the Rain.

  She remembers now. After she and the Throne and his operatives reached Earth, she restarted the zone, and the Eurasian zone restarted with it.

  That made him angry. She remembers the expression on his face as he lay there with his doctors attending to him. She told him it wasn’t her fault the two zones rebooted at the same time. It was just the way the Rain configured the whole thing, though she didn’t like the expression on the president’s face. It was one of missed opportunity. It was a question in her mind: who knows what he would have done had he been confronted with the temptation of an undefended East? She hates to even ask the question. But Harrison had to be content with settling with the Rain—and even before he could walk again, she was merging her mind with his once more in that strange congress, using the amplified executive node to finish the job they’d started together back at the Europa Platform.

  Only this time the Rain had no counterplans ready. They were caught. They knew it. And there were so few of them left. A triad in Zurich, a triad in London, another in HK … she helped the Praetorians wipe them out. She wept while she was doing it. She knew all their names, remembered them all too well. But she didn’t trust her memories of them. And she’d already chosen sides.

  Or so she thought. Now she’s a lot less certain. She stares at the room around her, tries to remember what she’s missing.