The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  Somewhere beneath the largest mountain chain on Earth is a tunnel. Just one among many. Only this one’s much darker than the rest. It’s off all the maps. No wires are strung along the walls. The maglev doesn’t go down here.

  But something a little more primitive does.

  The train now rushing down the tunnel was built to ride magnetic current. But it was also configured for old-fashioned rails—and the wheels that have extended out along each side are making for a far more bumpy ride than any modern mode of transport. Though the two men who just got aboard aren’t complaining.

  “And here we are,” says Spencer.

  “But where’s that?” mutters Sarmax.

  It’s a good question. They’ve dropped from the tunnel ceiling. They’re spread-eagled in their suits, on the roof of the third car back. They’re worming their way into the gaps between the cars.

  “Somewhere off the zone,” says Spencer.

  But somehow the Manilishi’s still with him all the same. He’s trying to figure out how she’s doing it. He’s guessing that she’s staging in from the end of the maglev rails—broadcasting via wireless down the tunnels. But that seems more than a little risky. Not to mention increasingly difficult as the tunnel steepens and the descent continues …

  “The Eurasians rigged a classic tech barrier,” says Sarmax.

  “Only way to beat the zone is to end it,” says Spencer. “But where exactly are we going?”

  The last of the lights overhead are gone. They’re in total darkness now. The train’s accelerating. Spencer’s not even sure anyone’s really at the helm.

  “Where indeed,” says Sarmax. “Any thoughts?”

  “I’ve got lots of thoughts. The question is—”

  “What the hell the handler wrote down,” says Sarmax.

  And Spencer’s making progress. The second part’s definitely a technical treatise. Of that much he’s now sure. Or rather, the Manilishi is. She’s cranking away behind the scenes while he’s struggling to keep up. The specifics are still holding out. But he’s ready to make some guesses.

  “There are only so many things it could be,” he says.

  “Right,” says Sarmax. “Let’s list out possibilities. Work from there.”

  “Well, for a start, how about another breed of nano.”

  “Christ, let’s hope not.”

  “They’d have had to solve the hack vulnerability.”

  “Which won’t have been easy. But I think we’re thinking along the right lines.”

  “With nano?” asks Spencer.

  “Actually I meant with some kind of zone breakthrough. Look at the sort of hacks that the Rain unleashed. What if the Eurasians were working on similar lines?”

  “Then they wouldn’t have let themselves get buttfucked in their Aerie so easily.”

  “Maybe,” says Sarmax. “Maybe not. But we’re heading into something that’s been cauterized from the rest of the zone, right? That’s not online, right? Maybe studying the Rain’s incursions allowed the East to put the finishing touches on their own stuff. Or maybe this lot just got caught napping.”

  “You could be right,” says Spencer.

  “You don’t agree.”

  “I think we ignore the physical at our peril.”

  “Got something in mind?”

  “I’ve got too many things in mind,” says Spencer. “Fifth-generation nukes. Tesla disruptors. Weather control. Anti matter bombs. Gamma ray pro—”

  “Half that shit isn’t even possible.”

  “Leo. We’re riding a train going Christ knows where beneath the Himalayas precisely because we don’t know what’s possible.”

  “But we’re about to find out,” says Sarmax.

  And gestures at the faint light that’s growing up ahead.

  So what the hell are they heading for?” says Haskell.

  “Don’t know,” says the Operative. And how the fuck am I even seeing this?”

  “The zone,” he replies.

  “But Spencer’s cut off from zone.”

  He and Sarmax vanished beyond its edges five minutes ago. There’s been no sign of them since they took the train into the dark. But now this image is wafting through her head. She doesn’t know where it’s coming from. She can’t see why it should even be here. Unless she’s somehow found a way into whatever shard of zone Spencer’s now in. Or—

  “You’ll figure it out soon enough,” he says.

  “None of this adds up.”

  “Not everything does.”

  “And the fact that you don’t know what the fuck they’re making for doesn’t make you think twice about starting a war?”

  “It doesn’t even make me think once. Because whatever it is, we’re about to take it out.”

  “And I can’t do anything save fly cover.”

  “Not as long as I’m right here with you.”

  She looks at him. He’s just like the Carson she remembers. He’s the man whom time never seemed to age. He’s been with her all this time. Ever since the day when he first came to her. Ever since she asked him how he could possibly teach her anything.

  Ever since he told her.

  “Why did you sell out to Szilard?” she asks.

  He laughs. “You really think that’s what’s going on?”

  “You’re saying Lynx isn’t under your control?”

  “You think he ever was?”

  “You think I can’t see through the game you’re playing.”

  “Maybe you should spell it out for me.”

  “Your team’s gone rogue. You’re going to hand the Throne over to the Lizard.”

  “Along with my fucking sanity? Fuck, Claire. I practically lost my life battling the SpaceCom conspiracy on the Moon.”

  “Not the SpaceCom conspiracy, Carson. A SpaceCom conspiracy. One among many that Szilard maintained outside of normal command channels. Only this particular network got infected by Autumn Rain. Szilard tried to use the Rain, and they just ended up playing him. He knew when to cut his losses.”

  “He still wants to be president, though.”

  “God only knows what contortions he’s going through to keep his game afloat.”

  “Nothing anywhere near as contorted as the logic twists you’re putting your own mind through.”

  “But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “You think so?” he asks.

  “You’re testing my capabilities even as you try to figure out what makes me tick. You want me running new theories through my feedback loops, so that you can study me all the closer.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Oh you bastard. Why did you sell the Throne out?”

  “I haven’t. I’m still loyal.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “I’m the one guy who’s stuck with him through everything.”

  “You’re the one guy capable of this kind of treachery. Harrison’s a fool to have trusted you. And for that matter, so’s Szilard.”

  “Though it certainly made it a lot easier to finish the job against SpaceCom small-fry like Matthias.”

  “So you’re admitting it.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ve been working for the Lizard.”

  “In this game, the more bosses you have, the more leverage you get.”

  “But sooner or later you’ve got to prioritize.”

  “Well,” says Carson, “that’s the art.”

  So you made it,” says Rear Admiral Jansen.

  “So yeah,” says Lynx. Jansen stretches, comes out from behind the desk, walks to where Linehan’s strapped to the gurney Looks at Linehan, who stares up at him helplessly. Jansen laughs, nods to the marines who stand in front of the door. “Wait outside,” he says.

  The marines salute, exit the room. The door slides shut behind them. Jansen walks back behind the desk. Looks back at Lynx.

  “It’s about fucking time,” he says.

  “I got here as fast as I could. A m
ore direct way wouldn’t have been safer.”

  “Don’t I know it. The fleet’s riddled with traitors of every stripe.”

  “And the Montana?”

  “Far too quiet.”

  “What about Szilard?”

  “He sees no one.”

  “Not even his bodyguards?”

  “You mean his latest bodyguards?”

  “Guess I just answered my own question.”

  “You bet your sweet ass. Christ, fuck the bodyguards: that’s how the Rain got in the last time. That’s how the Lizard beat the Rain’s hit team—purged his bodyguards and everybody else while he was at it. And then he ripped the head off the intelligence apparatus and placed me atop the bleeding stump.”

  “He’s lucky he had his own private network to draw from.”

  “Not lucky. Farsighted. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on is that the Praetorians sent me in here to kill Szilard.”

  “That’s as predictable as it is funny.”

  “They’re coming apart at the seams. They’ll do anything to hang onto power.”

  “Like setting off a war?”

  “How do you know—”

  “You’re not the only agent we’ve got in the field.”

  “Yeah? Got anyone aboard the president’s ship?”

  “You’ve got the location of his fucking ship?”

  “For you, anything.”

  Jansen gestures at Linehan. “And what about him?”

  “The last piece of the puzzle,” says Lynx. “The key to stopping the Rain once and for all.”

  “Aren’t the Rain history?”

  “I’m sure they’d like you to think so.”

  “Go on.”

  “This man Linehan—they met with him. They rigged him. In HK. He’s still got their software in his head. Reverse-engineer that and we can figure out how they ran rings around Matthias. How they brought down the zones. How they got into the Platform. How they got in here.”

  “You’re going to be moving up in the world,” says Jansen.

  “You too,” says Lynx.

  They look at each other.

  “You really think they’re still on the loose?”

  “I don’t think it,” says Lynx. “I know.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Call it a hunch,” says Lynx—just as a sentinel beam on the wall spits fire, strikes the acting head of SpaceCom intelligence in the back of the head, knocking him face first onto the desk. The smell of seared meat fills the room.

  Lynx looks around. He gets up, turns as the door slides open and the two suited soldiers enter the room; next moment, they’re sprawling on the floor as their armor malfunctions and electrocutes them. The door slides shut.

  For a moment Lynx stands there. Then he steps over to one of the dead soldiers, opens up the suit, pulls out the body, climbs in to take its place. The sweat of the man he’s just killed fills his nostrils. He pays it no heed, turns to Linehan, injects him. Another moment and Linehan has his bare hands around Lynx’s armored neck.

  “That’s not constructive,” says Lynx.

  “You twisted fuck.”

  “Look, I’ve got this room in lockdown but I don’t know how long I can keep it that way.”

  “What the fuck was that about me being rigged by the Rain?”

  “Total bullshit. And by the way, while me and Admiral Dead were talking, the queen-razor Manilishi has been shutting down the Montana’s defenses. So how about you get in that other suit and let’s go waste the Lizard.”

  Linehan releases him. He stares through the visor at Lynx’s face. He’s so angry he looks like he’s about to lose his mind.

  “And then I’ll waste you,” he says.

  “And then you can try.”

  This is just demented,” says Spencer. “Tell me something I don’t know,” says Sarmax.

  The train’s bending right, along a curve. The angle of descent has steepened. Immediately to the left is a wall. About ten meters to the right is an edge. And past that edge …

  “Christ almighty,” says Spencer.

  “It’s at least a kilometer across,” breathes Sarmax.

  They’re in a cavern that redefines the word vast. The railway runs along a route carved into the cavern’s edge, descending in long circles along a spiral. Sarmax and Spencer can see all the way to the other side of the cavern, to where another train that’s farther ahead has descended to the level beneath. Rows of lights line the cavern ceiling above, illuminating what lies below. Whatever’s down there isn’t visible from the current vantage point. The train keeps on rumbling downward.

  “Let’s get out and take a look,” says Spencer.

  “I’m guessing all we need to do is wait.”

  “We need more data before we ride this thing all the way in.”

  “Good point.”

  Though either way it’s a risk. They adjust their camouflage, leap lightly from the train, roll along the ground, stop just short of the edge. The camo makes minute refinements. They peer over. Vertigo kicks them in the face.

  “Holy shit,” says Sarmax.

  But Spencer’s saying nothing. He’s just looking down what must be at least half a kilometer. He feels like his eyes are rebelling at what they’re taking in. As if he’s lived all his life to see something so completely gone.

  “What in God’s name is it?”

  “Christ only knows.”

  If that. It’s some impossibly mammoth structure—the top of a huge dome, curving down to where it’s swallowed by a webwork of platforms and catwalks. The exact size is impossible to discern. But if the curve of what’s visible is any indication …

  “Fucking insane,” says Sarmax.

  “It must be at least a klick high.”

  “Sure, but what the fuck is it?”

  “I think the better question is what does it contain?”

  “You still can’t access zone?”

  “There’s clearly one down there. Lot of wireless activity.”

  “But the answer’s no.”

  “The answer is I’m working on it.”

  “We need to get inside.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “How’s this for starters …”

  This is bullshit,” she says. “Is it?”

  “It’s something you’re projecting.”

  “You don’t think it’s real?”

  “I think you’re making me hallucinate.”

  “Or maybe …” says Carson.

  “Or maybe what?”

  “What else would account for what you’re seeing?”

  “Don’t do this to me, Carson.”

  “Think about it, Claire.”

  “It’s fucking real, goddammit!”

  “Of course it is.”

  “You’re fucking with my mind.”

  “Of course I am. But not with that image.”

  “But what the hell am I seeing?”

  “The Eurasian superweapon. Obviously.”

  She keeps on staring at the image in her head. It’s a structure that would be regarded as large were it standing on the Earth’s surface. The fact that it’s beneath the ground makes it pretty much unprecedented. Haskell looks down toward it. She takes in the platforms that jut out to encompass it, the doors here and there along its vast sloping wall …

  “No,” she says. “Spencer’s right. That’s not the weapon. That’s a fortress. Which contains the weapon.”

  He stares at her. Almost as though he expects her to continue. Yet she’s got nothing more to say.

  But then she realizes she does.

  “And the Rain,” she whispers.

  Alarms are howling, but Lynx can barely hear them. Vibration’s pounding through the walls, but he can barely feel it. All he’s got is his own mind, lancing out in all directions and gathering everything in under its sway. The mainframes of the Montana are giving up the ghost. The ship’s
defenses are going down before him.

  And Linehan as well, who’s blasting his way through strongpoint after strongpoint and none of the defenders even see him coming. All their sensors show the threat’s coming from some other angle. They show Linehan as friendly. By the time they realize otherwise it’s way too late. Linehan’s leaving only mangled flesh drifting in his wake.

  Though he’s getting more than just a little help. Lynx has unleashed viruses through the armor of everyone who’s standing in Linehan’s way. The only thing that’s out of reach is this station’s own inner enclave. Which is where Szilard’s holding out. Linehan’s heading there as fast as he can shoot. Lynx is doing the same, along a different route. He’s taken off his armor. He’s taking one hell of a risk. But that’s the only way he’s going to be able to squeeze through the spaces he needs to.

  Though it’s still a tight fit. Even the larger maintenance shafts aren’t intended to be serviced by humans. They’re accessed instead by a whole taxonomy of robots that double as sentinels. Clawed drones, welders, moving drills—they’re hurling themselves from out of the dark and onto Lynx, doing their best to cut him to ribbons.

  Only they can’t. They’re getting stopped just short of him. They’re getting out of his way. It’s not their fault. Lynx has reached into their brains, giving them a little twist, making them forget just why the hell they were getting so agitated. He’s the one thing in these tunnels that’s managing to stay focused. He keeps on moving.

  And now he’s in the inner area. He can see the blueprints of this section stretching all about him. All twenty levels of it. All of the Montana beyond it, and the whole fleet stretched out beyond that. The word’s spreading among the closest of those ships that something’s going down on the Montana. But they’re also getting word that the situation’s under control. That any attempt to land forces on the Montana will be seen as insubordination. An attempt to seize Szilard’s power. It’s all playing out as Lynx intended. All he’s doing is taking advantage of the underlying contours. This fleet is as divided against itself as the whole fucking country—as the whole fucking world. Leaving the game wide open to those who can play every end against the middle. Lynx crawls down one last shaft, wedges down one last vent. He kicks a metal grille aside.

  And leaps feet-first into the Montana’s control center.

  They’re dangling on a tether that’s feeling ever more precarious, descending toward a sheer wall of metal that drops down into eternity. Their camo is put to the ultimate test as they close in on the structure’s summit. Neither man says anything. They’re preserving absolute radio silence.