The Burning Skies (8 page)

“Maybe one of those Rain-type creatures we keep hearing about.”

“The cool kids don’t talk to me, Spencer. What have you heard?”

“Apparently the Praetorians tried to copy some of the Rain’s tech. Which the Rain then tried to steal right back. There was a rumor some kind of robot was on that spaceplane that—”

“The one that deep-sixed in Hong Kong four days back?”

“Yeah. And I heard that some kind of supercomputer ended up on the Moon, but it was autonomous, so that—”

“God only knows what the fucking truth in all of this is,” mutters Linehan. “That’s probably what they want: to keep us guessing. We gotta go back to basics, man. Because we’re not the only gang of assholes that’s camped out on the Platform tonight.”

“You mean the Rain?”

“Never mind the fucking Rain. Of course they’re in this somehow. I’m talking about the
other
lot that’s somehow managed to get themselves dealt into this lousy game.”

“Oh yeah,” says Spencer, “those.”

• • •

H
askell’s leaving the equator behind. She’s changed it up again, too, partially out of respect for those strange cameras, but mostly she’s just running on intuition. She feels the scratches on her skin flaring as though fire’s dripping over them. She feels those symbols turning within her brain. She’s dropped through additional layers of infrastructure and is almost at the outer layer of cylinder-skin while she leaves the equator behind. Gravity’s now in excess of normal. Walls are surging past her. She’s left the domain of maglev behind. She’s in what’s essentially a giant conveyor belt. One that’s designed to haul exactly one thing.

Ice. Haskell has melted partially through the chunk upon which she’s riding, and let that ice refreeze over her armor, making her that much harder to spot, especially given how much of the cylinder’s infrastructure is dedicated to the processing of water. Haskell feels the pressure build around her. Everything’s coming down to this, a woman become bullet about to crash through to the world beyond the South Pole. The howling of her sixth sense has reached fever-pitch. Her skin’s burning like a sun’s coming to life within it.

S
trands of light whip past the roofless two-person railcar as it shoots through the tunnel. The man who’s driving is standing up front. The other man’s sitting at the back. He keeps his pulse-rifle pointed at the driver.

“So,” says Sarmax, “now that we’ve got some speed, let’s talk.”

“About fucking time.”

“We’ve got a real problem.”

“Lynx has overdosed again.”

“It didn’t sound that simple. One of you is being fucked with, and neither you nor I is in a position to determine who’s the lucky guy.”

“Which is why you’re pointing that gun at me.”

“It seems like the prudent option,” replies Sarmax.

“Does that mean you have a plan?”

“It means I’m still thinking of one.”

“If you shoot me you won’t have a hope of finding the target.”

“Your
armor’s
what’s tracking the target, Carson. Not you.”

The Operative shrugs, shifts slightly left as the tunnel undergoes a slight bend. He’s providing Sarmax with the real-time feed from his tracking—factoring out what he’s decided are decoys. Sarmax has made it clear he’ll shoot if that stops. The Operative’s tempted to hit the brakes way too hard. But he knows that’s the oldest trick in the book—and that there’d still be an opportunity for Sarmax to get off a shot, with a weapon that—when it comes to survivability at point-blank range—may as well be a heavy laser cannon.

“You’re not that dumb, Leo. It’s my
interface
with the armor that’s doing the tracking.”

“And that possibility is why I haven’t put one through you yet.”

“It’s a possibility you’re going to have to get used to.”

“Until we reach the target.”

“You’re really putting pressure on me to make a move in the meantime.”

“Go for it,” says Sarmax. “You’ll die before you can even turn around.”

“Have to admit you have the advantage.”

“The
Rain
have the advantage, Carson.”

“To which I can only agree.”

“They’re totally inside us.”

“There’s still the chance to beat them yet.”

“Sure there is. And it starts with me killing you
and
Lynx.”

“You mean to be sure.”

“Sure. Shit man, what would
you
do?”

“Exactly that—
if I
was sure I wasn’t being fucked with myself.”

“I’ll take my chances,” says Sarmax.

“Not that it matters,” mutters the Operative. “Lynx will still be way ahead of us, even with our taking this train.”

“So we make up for lost ground with a new route,” says Sarmax. Coordinates light up on the map within the Operative’s head.

“That dotted line means it’s still under construction.”

“But near completion,” replies Sarmax.

“Even you aren’t that insane.”

“Twenty seconds, Carson. You make that turn or I’ll blast you into the next world.”

“The one where your Indigo is waiting?”

Sarmax doesn’t reply.

“You killed your girl,” says the Operative. “That’s okay. She was Rain. She had it coming. But now you’ve got a death-wish and you want to nail us all to your fucking ferry.”

“Who are you, Sigmund fucking Freud? Ten seconds.”

“You’ve gone crazy.”

“I’m the only one who’s definitely sane.”

“Which won’t matter if this railcar bites it.”

“Carson, I’ve got to be the one who makes the decision about the target. I can’t trust you or Lynx to do it. Two seconds.”

“I see it,” says the Operative—and with that he sends the car hurtling down a much narrower tunnel. There’s only one other rail besides theirs. But then that other rail cuts out.

“Faster,” says Sarmax.

“Can’t,” says the Operative. “Not without fucking with the zone to get this bitch beyond capacity.”

“Fuck that,” says Sarmax, “zone’s a party everybody’s gate-crashed.”

Gravity increases. The walls start to flicker on either side.

“Hello,” says the Operative.

“Jesus,” says Sarmax. “Is that what I think it is?”

It is. It’s space. They speed out of the tunnel and into the construction area. There’s nothing below their rail save vacuum. Scaffolding’s all around. The completed hull of the cylinder stretches right above them like some impossibly massive ceiling, sloping down to where their rail enters still another tunnel …

“This rail’s really starting to vibrate,” says Sarmax.

“That’s because it’s about as stable as you are,” says the Operative—and ducks his head as they rush into the tunnel. It’s narrow. There’s barely enough room for this single rail.

“Sure wish we had a better map,” says Sarmax.

“We’re through,” says the Operative.

And now gravity’s lessening slightly as they race out into a broader tunnel. But even as they do, something unfolds within the Operative’s head. He stares at the pattern that’s revealed. He traces all the implications.

And then suddenly he gets it.

“Leo.”

“Yeah?”

“I just woke up to what’s so critical about this target.”

“So talk fast.”

T
he fucking Eurasians,” says Linehan. “They’re here too.”

“Is that what the rumor mill’s saying?”

“That’s what the
officers
are saying! What the hell’s going on?”

“Sounds like you already know it.”

“You
were
going to tell me, right?”

“I only just found out myself,” says Spencer.

And it’s all he can do to keep up. To say this operation’s need-to-know is an understatement. But the data overlays now lighting up across the bridge are nothing if not precise. On the opposite side of the Platform’s orbit are eight Eurasian ships, spread out the same way the American ships are, able to support each other and cover the Platform simultaneously.

“They’re with us,” says Spencer. “Not against.”

“You sure about that?”

“Do I sound like I’m sure of fucking
anything?
I’m just saying what they’re telling us up here.”

“Down here, too. This is a joint operation.”

“Aimed at Autumn Rain.”

“Or the Euro Magnates,” says Linehan.

“Who may be the same thing by now.”

“Who may have always been.”

“You really think they’ve been pulling the Rain’s strings?”

“I think you’ve got it backward, Spencer. What’s the story with that chase you’re monitoring?”

“Getting weirder by the minute.”

I
ce and tunnels and speed and it’s all falling short. They’ve got her number, suddenly springing to life, sweeping past her decoys, closing from both sides. Haskell shunts her ice-chunk off the main belt, sends it racing down an ancillary belt as she tries to figure out how the hell they’re tracking her. And while she’s at it, she’s trying to hack them directly.

But she’s unable to. She can’t seem to come to grips with them and has no idea why. It’s almost as though they’re not actually there, as though she’s clutching at illusion. It’s like they’re ghosts.

Which makes no sense.
She’s
the ghost. The one who slips through perimeters like a phantom. But not this time—she’s bringing all her force to bear upon the problem and she’s still coming up short.

Leaving only one possible answer. Her pursuers have found a back door to her. One that she needs to neutralize fast. But first she needs to find it. She starts racing through the code of her own brain even as her mind races through the Platform’s zone. She’s sending the ice she’s in forward through a tube whose heated walls start to liquefy what’s encasing her, causing water to pour across her visor. She’s caught up in that surge now, charging out beyond the frontiers of her own brain, closing in on the door that’s out there in that limbo—but everywhere she turns is dark. She sees exactly what she’s going to have to do if she can’t find the route they’ve found to her. Bailing out of zone is an act of desperation, but her pursuers are closing in. Before she pulls the plug, she tries one more thing—amplifies her decoys, sends them hurtling out in new directions.