The Burning Skies

by David J. Williams

  “Why so surprised?”

  “Morat told me it was after Harrison assumed power.”

  “Second-generation team—your team—sure. Not the first. Not us. Besides, Morat was a low-grade punk. He never knew the half of it. How the fuck do you think Harrison and Sinclair took over? Me and Lynx and Sarmax took out everyone opposed to them. But Sinclair was keeping his own options open the whole time. And by augmenting himself, he must have figured he’d be ready if the shit ever hit the fan.”

  “But why did he let them put him in the L5 prison?”

  “I’m pretty sure he thinks that’s the safest place to be.”

  “I’d rather be within some kind of rock when the shooting starts,” she says.

  “Makes two of us,” he replies.

  She nods. The ship drops toward the Moon.

  We were seduced,” says Szilard.

  He steps away from Linehan, steps out onto the lunar map that dominates the floor. “That’s far enough,” says Linehan. Szilard stops. Looks back at him. Holds up his hands in what looks almost like a protest. “But we were,” he says.

  “Perhaps Sinclair was, too. Because it wasn’t just their lack of inhibition. Any sociopath can do as well. What made the Rain so lethal was a radioactive creativity. Seeing patterns where ordinary people see only chaos. An ability to grasp opportunities invisible to anyone else. It wasn’t just the telepathy either. Look at the games they’ve been playing. So twisted you can’t even follow the threads. They’ve got all of us wrapped up in the same fucking web and all they need to do now is suck out the goddamn juice.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” asks Linehan.

  “Because you’re just one of the victims,” says Szilard.

  “Yeah?” asks Lynx. His voice echoes from an open hatch in one of the mainframes. “Is that a fact, Jharek?”

  “It is. You’re using this man.”

  “I’m giving him the chance to kill you.”

  “And I wish you’d let me go ahead and do it,” says Linehan.

  “You’re just a jackal on a leash,” says Szilard.

  But Linehan only laughs. “I’m riding shotgun on history, and I’m about to put the head of my original boss all over that wall. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Maybe you should ask your drug-snorting Rain razor what he intends to do with you once I’m dead.”

  “Hey Lynx,” says Linehan, “what’s next?”

  “We unleash the war.”

  “And what’s my rank?”

  “My bodyguard.”

  “And what’s yours?”

  “I thought I’d start with commander of the L2 fleet.”

  “Fucking cool,” says Linehan, “let’s do it.”

  • • •

  Two men sit in a room in some structure beneath the Himalayas. The pieces of that structure are like a grid within Spencer’s mind. He’s trying to grasp the nature of this place. He’s trying to focus on the face of Sarmax, but it’s as if the walls are blurring around him—as if the floor is undulating beneath his feet. Everything’s starting to swirl inside his head.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  “Don’t fight it,” says Sarmax.

  “Ayahuasca,” says Spencer. “It’s resurging—”

  “Is that what it feels like? Being mind-melded with the Manilishi can’t be easy—”

  “Fuck’s sake—”

  “—especially now that bitch has been trying to pull your strings. And all the while we’ve been pulling hers.”

  Spencer stares at him. But he can no longer speak. Pressure keeps on growing in his chest. The images of the pages of the book pulsate within his head. The face of the Manilishi blazes like some dark sun inside him.

  What the hell are you doing?” she mutters. “Having my way with you once more.” Though really he’s just holding onto the wall right in front of her while the ship shakes about them, dropping through ten thousand meters. The dome of Congreve is visible below. Haskell’s struggling to remain calm. Carson’s smile isn’t helping. Nor is what he’s doing to her mind.

  “You miss the essence of the problem,” he says. “The Rain weren’t some mythical force. They were just men and women who had been engineered to think without fetters. The solution to an equation no one had even dared to postulate. Not a question of ends—”

  “But means. Carson, I know this. But—I—fuck!”

  “Sure you do. But you were never asked to prove it. You were kept within the system and everything stayed nice and simple. And all the while the ones with whom you were bred were out in the cold thinking like normal humans never could. Putting together a plan more convoluted than a goddamn Gordian knot.”

  “Which was nothing compared to what you were doing.”

  “Which just proves the point,” he says.

  “Even though none of it was your fucking idea.”

  “At least I know a good one when I see it.”

  “Christ, Carson, you’re hurting me.”

  “Someday you’ll forgive me.”

  “I’m damned for ever having known you.”

  “But let’s try to make the most of it, anyway,” he says. “Some kind of process, right? But what? What was it that the Rain were made of? Sinclair knows it all, and everyone else is in the dark. But somewhere in you—”

  “No one besides Sinclair? Not even the Throne? Or you?”

  “I know only fragments.”

  “What did you use to bind me to Spencer?”

  “Death.”

  “What?”

  “We killed you. When we got back to Earth.”

  “That was a risk.”

  “The Throne said you’d have to be executed anyway unless we could find a way to harness you. And the Praetorian med-teams know what they’re doing: simultaneously flat-lined you and Spencer and then shocked you back while your minds were wired together on the zone. Sinclair had already given me the sequence and Harrison was the one who gave the order but I’ve no idea how he—”

  “And why not Lynx?”

  “Too risky. It had been done to him once already, right? And Spencer’s mind had been dosed with ayahuasca, which made him particularly receptive. But the real question isn’t what was done to him a few days ago or what was done to me and Lynx and Sarmax more than two decades back; the real question is what was done to you and the rest of the Rain when you were in the fucking incubator. The first team was jury-rigged and the second was created wholesale. And only Sinclair knows that formula—”

  “And Harrison—”

  “—thinks he does, but his files are rigged with false data.”

  “You really think you’ve beaten the Praetorians?”

  “You’re the one who’s done that. It’s what you were designed for. Though finding out how much of you goes beyond anybody’s planning is what I’m setting in motion tonight.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” she says, and she can’t help but say the words. She can’t help but tell him everything she can and then some. She has no idea what he already knows. She has no idea how she knows what she does. It doesn’t matter. Her mind twists and turns and it’s all she can do to hang on …

  “I was to be the key node in the Autumn Rain mass-mind.”

  “Go on.”

  “The one that the second generation became. The one that Marlowe and I were shorn from.”

  “The one you detected traces of at the Europa Platform.”

  “And that I killed every last member of.”

  “You sure about that?”

  She stares at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You sure you got them all?”

  “Are you saying that—”

  “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Don’t—fucking do this—”

  But he’s already pulling more levers somewhere deep within the canyons of her skull. Everything blurs around her—

  “For the love of Christ, stop fucking with my—”

 
And suddenly her vision’s burning white.

  Let’s get this show on the road,” says Lynx. He emerges from an open hatch in one of the mainframes, wires trailing from it to multiple places in his skull. He looks at Szilard.

  “Kill him,” he tells Linehan—but Linehan’s already opening up on Szilard, even as his target dives away, starts rolling across the floor. But he’s got no chance against a suit of armor. Linehan turns, catches up with Szilard in a single stride. Laughs.

  And stops. For a moment he’s balanced on one foot. And then he topples over. His armor hits the floor with a crash. Szilard’s on his feet, leaping Linehan’s toppled suit, running straight at Lynx. Who’s fumbling for his pistols, raising them, opening up as Szilard hurls himself to one side once more and darts behind the mainframe to which Lynx is attached. Just as the back of the armor that’s sprawled on the floor opens and a very pissed off Linehan climbs out.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” he screams at Lynx.

  “What the fuck’s yours?”

  “My armor just got hacked, and you didn’t stop it!”

  “I never even saw it! For fuck’s sake, this is a live situation! He’s behind this console! He’s fucking with it and I’m losing control!”

  “Give me that,” snarls Linehan, snatching one of the pistols from Lynx’s grasp. He turns toward the consoles, starts firing, advancing on the place where Szilard vanished.

  “Does he have a way out of this room?” he yells.

  “Back there? There’s nothing.”

  “You hear that?” shrieks Linehan. “Szilard! This is it! You’re dead!”

  “Don’t just tell me about it,” screams Szilard, “come over here and fucking do it !”

  With an unearthly cry, Linehan starts forward.

  You lose, Leo.”

  “What?”

  “I just lost the Manilishi.”

  “She’s—”

  “Not calling the shots anymore. And neither’s Carson.”

  “Where the fuck did they go?”

  “How the fuck should I know? I’m my own man now.”

  And he is. The waters of his life roar around him and he lets himself get caught in the rush. His mind’s still ablaze with static, but now it’s all insight that he’s gathering into himself. He focuses on Sarmax, wonders whether he should pull the trigger.

  “One last chance,” says Sarmax.

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “I’m serious. Join us.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck man, we’re inside the Eurasian superweapon. No reason you can’t have it once I’m ruling bigger empires.”

  “You’d put one through me as soon as you saw an opening. I’m not one of your fucking trinity.”

  “I hate both those fucks, Spencer. Don’t—”

  One of the doors slides open. A suitless Russian soldier enters the room. His eyes go wide with astonishment.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” says Spencer.

  “Drop your weapon,” says the soldier—and tries to signal backup. But Spencer’s hacking the signal. The soldier’s backing up through the door, but Spencer gets his mind around the door, slides it shut with full force, smashing the soldier against the doorway, crushing his rib cage—but not before the man’s gotten off a shot. Spencer leaps aside as the projectile sears past him—even as Sarmax whirls to face him. Their guns are right up against each other’s visors.

  “Shoot and you’ll lose your zone coverage,” says Spencer. “Shoot and you’d better believe I’ll get a shot off,” says Sarmax.

  “I’m your only hope to crack the handler’s files.”

  “I’ve done more runs against the East than anyone alive.”

  “So? You still need me more than I need you—”

  “To do what?” yells Sarmax. “To do fucking what? Are you going to try to take down this place or are you going to take this all the fucking way? Don’t you get it? The secret of the Rain is out there and whoever finds it can build more of them. And you really think you can get to the next level of this fucking game when you’re flying solo?”

  “I think we should see what the hell’s in here with us.”

  “I can think of worse ideas,” says Sarmax. Spencer nods.

  What the fuck,” says Haskell. “What are you seeing?” says Carson. “You just overwrote half of Lynx’s hacks! And God knows what you just did with my link to Spencer!”

  “Never mind that,” snarls Carson, “tell me what you’re fucking seeing!”

  She knows damn well what he means even though she doesn’t know how the fuck it’s happening. All she knows is that there’s a new light burning out on the edges of her awareness—a light that’s like a cross between a star and fire, that can only be one thing—

  “Another mind,” she whispers.

  “Not Spencer’s either.”

  “Rain—”

  “Yes,” he says. “Go on.”

  “It’s—Autumn Rain—someone—”

  “Who?”

  “I—can’t tell—”

  “Who? How many?”

  “I can’t tell—it’s blurring—”

  “Location,” he says, and his voice is very calm.

  “L5,” she answers without hesitation. Vast mental geographies loom around her. “But—that’s where Sinclair—”

  “That’s no coincidence.”

  “But it’s not him—”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’s got someone else up there.”

  “Maybe more than that.”

  “Not all the original batch went rogue,” she mutters.

  “And not all of the Praetorians who guard Sinclair are who they seem.”

  “So I see.”

  “Sinclair told me you’d read it loud and clear.”

  She nods. Her mind is blasted open. She’s draped in the glow that lights up the no-sky of no-zone. She can’t communicate with whoever’s out there—doesn’t even know who the fuck it is—but it’s Rain, of that much she’s certain, because the mere presence in her head is more vivid than anything she’s ever known. And yet it’s all a mere fraction of how it was all supposed to be. Horizon sets within Haskell’s mind even as realization dawns. Lines align within her head, and it’s all she can do to keep up with them. Someone she was born with is still alive—she’s weeping and she’s conscious of almost nothing else.

  And then there’s nothing she’s not conscious of. Reality clicks around her and something just folds. She gazes at Carson and it’s like his face is falling away from her down some endless shaft …

  “What am I really?” she asks softly.

  “Something that’s come unstuck in time.”

  “That Sinclair can’t predict.”

  “Presumably.”

  She exhales slowly. “And the rest of the Rain?”

  “May be related to that fact.”

  “I can feel the Moon out there,” she mutters. “It’s hauling against me like a fucking lodestone.”

  “It may yet drag you under.”

  “What the hell’s happening?”

  “You’re changing.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve been doing my best to crank you up across the last few hours. That suit I’ve rigged you with is worth the price tag. Overstimulating your system with electric shock and circuit overload and—”

  “Fucking bastard.”

  “We’re still not sure what we’ve got in you, Claire. And maybe it doesn’t fucking matter: off-the-charts AI or ESP gateway or crack in the fucking cosmic egg—doesn’t matter what we call it as long as we can use it. And with the East about to bring its own superweapon online we’d better make sure we’re maxing out on ours.”

  “So why the fuck did you just shove both missions off the goddamn rails?”

  “Getting exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Because you fear Lynx and Sarmax more than anything else?”

  “Because I’m giving up
on breaking you open. For now.”

  “You’re—”

  “Out of time. And remember what I said about multiple bosses? I got way too many assholes on line one.”

  “Christ almighty, Carson. Are you obeying Sinclair’s orders or have you sold him out too?”

  “I like to think I’m carrying out the spirit of them.”

  “And all your talk of love?”

  “Just talk. But there’ll be time for action later.”

  “I swear to God I’ll destroy you if I ever get the chance.”

  “That’d be by boring me to death with your threats?”

  The door slides open. Armored Praetorians enter the room. They’re wearing the uniform of the Core. They fan out, take up positions. Carson looks at them. One of them salutes.

  “Sir,” he says.

  “Half of you come with me,” says Carson. “The other half stay here. Seal this door. Don’t let anybody in until we’ve landed.” Soldiers head back through the door. Carson follows them—and stops as Haskell starts screaming at him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Like you even need to ask,” he says.

  The door slides shut behind him.

  Laughing like a maniac, Linehan fills the air with fire while he strides toward the console. Lynx has his last pistol trained on the only other exit from behind the equipment. He’s waiting for Szilard to come running out to get shot down like a dog. He’s desperately trying to bolster his disintegrating zone position through the wires that sprout from his skull. His connection with the Manilishi has been severed. He has no idea why. But something’s obviously gone wrong. And it’s rapidly getting worse. Szilard’s marines are right outside the door, trying to burn their way through.

  But it’s not too late to salvage the mission. Linehan leaps forward, just as Szilard springs out from behind the console, dodges under Linehan’s gun, starts grappling with him. Staff officer versus wet ops veteran: it’s no contest. Linehan seizes Szilard, tosses him out toward the center of the room. Szilard mutters something.

  “Finish him!” screams Lynx.

  “Or you,” says Linehan—and turns, grabs Lynx, knocks the pistol out of his hands, hauls him bodily away from the mainframe. Lynx screams as the wires extruding from his skull snap. Linehan hurls him against the console.

  And shrugs.

  “I’m a conflicted man,” he says.