The Burning Skies (4 page)

And for her. She can’t see the Rain, though. She hasn’t seen them since their defeat four days ago—in the minutes after that defeat, she got a read on them receding into zone like a leviathan fading beneath the waves: just a quick glimpse of scales and teeth, and then it was gone. She saw enough to realize just how much of a threat they still were. It worries her that she hasn’t seen them since. It worries her even more that they might have seen
her
. That they might have found some way inside her, and she might not even know it. Even if she
is
Manilishi, that doesn’t mean she can’t lose.

So she takes what precautions she can. If the Rain retain some secret thing inside her—some secret key to her, in spite of all her precautions—they might see what’s in her brain’s software. They might see what’s in her mind.

But they won’t see what’s on her own skin—what she’s drawn upon it. Across the hours, in the oily darkness of the holds of spaceships, surrounded by the clank of machinery, she’s pricked maps upon that skin, scarred that skin, painted it all in her own blood: all her calculations, all her strategy, whole swathes of blueprint of zone upon her limbs and chest—
both
zones, and the neutral ones, too—endless geometries of virtual architecture, endless coordinates in no-space. Insight’s a myriad bloody slashes all across her. Knowledge is no longer fleeting now that it’s etched upon her.

She studies endless patterns, looking for what all the others
may have missed. Twenty-four hours since thwarting the war, and a nagging disquiet is stealing through her. Forty-eight hours, and that disquiet has become a fear unlike any she’s ever known.

Now it’s been ninety-six hours. The conversation with Sinclair has confirmed what she’s been thinking. She’s so scared she feels like her mind’s coming apart. Worse, as long as she was slicing herself, she was forgetting Jason. But now she’s got nothing more to cut.

She’s got nothing more to learn either. She knows exactly where she needs to be: right where she is now. Crosshairs slide together in her mind. She feels herself start gliding forward.

T
he chamber in which Leo Sarmax awoke is almost identical to the one that the Operative just left. The difference is it contains only a single additional door.

And a phone.

“A what?” asks Sarmax.

“A phone,” says the Operative, gesturing at the small device that’s set into one wall. “Archaic communication device phased out by the middle of the last century.”

“Carson. I know what a fucking phone is.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Because that’s not a phone.”

“Yeah?”

“That looks like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because it’s a real antique.”

“Yeah?” asks Sarmax.

“Ma Bell, baby. Twentieth century.”

“So what the fuck’s it doing here?”

“I’m guessing somebody rigged it.”

“Why?”

“Well,” says the Operative, “that’s the big question, isn’t it?”

“And you don’t remember the answer?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You don’t remember
anything
about why we’re here?”

“That’s a negative.”

“Those fucking
bastards
,” says Sarmax.

“So what’s new?” replies the Operative tonelessly.

“Would have thought you’d have been promoted above this kind of bullshit.”

“Career trajectory’s a bitch.”

“Would have thought the handlers would be showing me more gratitude for walking back in their door.”

“Gratitude’s
not in their vocabulary, Leo. We need to figure this out from first principles.”

They stare at each other.

“You first,” says Sarmax.

“Okay,” says the Operative. He gestures at Sarmax’s rifle. “For a start, we’ve got some new tech.”

“Not just my rifle. My armor.
Your
armor.”

“Straight off the Praetorian R&D racks, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s hope so,” says Sarmax.

“And we were placed in rooms in close proximity to one another.”

“But not in the same room.”

“Presumably to allow each of us some warning time if the other got nailed. Have you tried that door out of here?”

“It’s sealed,” says Sarmax. “Could blow it open, but I’m not sure that’s a good move. Have you tried the zone of wherever the fuck we are?”

“The zone’s off-limits.”

“Meaning what?”

But the Operative’s not sure he has the answer. All he’s got is the fact that the zone-interfaces in his armor are switched off, as are those within his head. He could switch them on, but he doesn’t. Because a certain feeling’s brewing
in him. He’s starting to piece together what this all must mean in aggregation.

“We’re on a stealth mission.”

“Which makes no sense,” says Sarmax.

“Doesn’t it,” says the Operative mildly.

“Obviously. How the
fuck
can we be stealthy if you can’t cover us in zone?”

The Operative mulls this over. He understands Sarmax’s anxiety. All the more so because he shares it. Hacking an enemy’s systems is how one stays undetected. It’s how one stays ahead of the eyes. But these last few days have witnessed the death of a lot of assumptions. And the current situation is setting in motion some nasty questions.

“The Throne’s handlers are changing up the game,” says the Operative carefully. “They’re reversing the normal procedure. They’re terrified of Rain penetration of the zone. Clearly whatever terrain we’re in—”

“And we don’t know where that is.”

“—clearly it’s vulnerable. But as long as we’re off the zone we’re probably running silent.”

“Silent? We step in front of
one
camera with the wrong camo settings and
we’re fucked.”

“Have you seen any cameras, Leo?”

“What?”

“Have. You. Seen. Any. Cameras.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“I don’t like this one fucking bit.”

“Wish you were back administering your little corporate empire?”

“Not with the Throne unwilling to leave me the fuck alone.”

Not with my lover dead
, he might have said.
Can’t beat ’em, join ’em
, he could have muttered. But he doesn’t. And the Operative knows better than to press the point.

Suddenly there’s a jangling noise. It’s coming from the vintage phone.

“Pick it up,” says the Operative.

“You must be joking.”

“That’s our connection with whatever’s going on beyond these rooms.”

Apart from what’s happening in the Operative’s skull. For even as the phone rings, something’s expanding within his mind. Some kind of heads-up display—set on automatic release?—he doesn’t know. He suddenly realizes who’s on the other end of the line, gets a glimpse of what’s really going on. He picks the receiver up, holds it between himself and Sarmax while the helmets of both men amplify the sound.

“Carson,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx. It sounds tinny. The Operative wonders how the twentieth century dealt. “That you?”

“Of course it’s me.”

“Don’t suppose Leo’s with you?”

“He is,” says Sarmax.

“Hey Carson,” says Lynx, “did something strange just happen in your head? Like, right when you picked up the phone.”

“You too, huh?”

“Fuck,”
says Lynx. “They’ve hung us out to fucking dry.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“All I need to do is fucking
step.”

C
old storage has an expiration date: right now Usually it’s used for long-range trips, like Mars or the rocks. But Spencer’s instruments show he’s only been out for about two days. Meaning that the normal rationale for cryo doesn’t apply.

Spencer can think of other reasons, though. He’s mulling
them over as he listens to Linehan rant on about getting fucked over yet again. More of the personnel in this room are up and moving about, floating through the zero-G, climbing rungs along the walls, dispersing to their various duties. Some of them are still recovering. Among them’s Spencer, reclining in his cryo-cell, stretching his muscles. He’s handed back the jack that the technician was using to calibrate his zone-reflexes. As far as that technician knows, he’s off the zone.

The reality’s a little more complex.

“You’re in the rear troop areas,” Spencer says—though his lips aren’t moving. His neural link broadcasts silently, bracketed along limited range, aimed at where Linehan has indicated he is.

“And you are?”

“In the forward cryos.”

“Who’s up there?” asks Linehan.

“Mainly crew.”

“What kind of crew?”

“Gunnery personnel. Bridge personnel. Various other hangers-on. What’s back there?”

“What’s back here is a shitload of Praetorian marines. I’ve never seen anything like—”

“Is that what you are?”

“Sorry?”

“A Praetorian marine—is that what you are?”

“Meaning
is that what I appear to be?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“Sure, Spencer. I’m decked out as a Praetorian marine. I’m surrounded by the motherfuckers. We’re all just hanging out. Awaiting orders, apparently. Christ man, if you weren’t even briefed on
me
then we are fucking
dead
—”

“Just
tell me what you remember.”

“They fucking reconditioned me!”

“Who?”

“Your own team. InfoCom. Orders from that whore
Montrose, I’m sure. Trance, drugs, the works. They said I’d be loyal to them from now on. Loyal to
you
. They said I’d be the perfect bitch for you, you fucking bitch—”

“Will you calm
down?
All they told me is that it was going to be some off-Earth operation. Next thing I know I’m waking up from cryo-sleep with the identity of a Praetorian razor.”

“That makes me feel so much fucking better.”

“How long were you trying to find me?”

“I wasn’t. You know I’m no razor, Spencer. First thing I knew of a zone connection is when you suddenly activated it.”

“How long had you been awake before I called you?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Looks like they’re waking up this ship in batches,” says Spencer. “What do you know about this craft?”

“From the inside, it looks like a Praetorian warship.”

“And from the outside?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“Based on what you’ve seen so far, what class of warship?”

“Been trying to find out. It doesn’t conform to any specifications I know. What are you seeing on the zone?”

“Not much,” says Spencer. “All I can see are parts of this ship’s microzone. Nothing outside a very local firewall.”

“And what you can see doesn’t help?”

“Not really. The ship’s obviously in lockdown. And specs on the interiors of these things aren’t exactly a matter of public record—”

“And your side doesn’t have them?”

“My side’s your side now,” Spencer reminds him. “And the answer’s no.”

“The list of bosses I’m gonna fuck over before it’s all over just gets bigger and bigger.”

“I’m sure Montrose is quaking in her boots.”

“But she didn’t give you the specs of this ship.”

“Goddammit, Linehan! She didn’t give me
shit
. We’re going to have to figure this one out for ourselves. Working with what we know. We’re InfoCom operatives—”

“You’re taking that on faith.”

“If we’re no longer InfoCom then we may as well give up trying to figure out anything.”

“Have it your way” says Linehan. “We’re InfoCom operatives. We’re on board a Praetorian ship. A ship that must be getting close to wherever the fuck it’s heading because everybody’s getting woken up. Maybe we’re part of some Montrose power play aimed at setting the Throne back a notch or two.”

“Montrose has been the Throne’s most loyal supporter,” says Spencer.

“Who better to fuck him over?”

“If we’re a weapon aimed against these Praetorians, then—”

“We’re meat,” says Linehan.

“Probably,” replies Spencer.

“Can you think of any
other
reason we’re here?”

“Don’t know if this is just me rationalizing, but we could be a hedge.”