The Burning Skies

“Looks like it might be both.”

Making this a tough call. The Operative knows there comes a time in every run when you make your break. When you change directions sharply and go flat-out. But the timing’s a little suspect on this one.

Or else whatever is causing this signal is just really good at guessing.

“Closest one is moving in fast,” he says. “On one of the core maglevs.”

“How can you tell it’s genuine?”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Let’s hope Lynx is getting this.”

“We need to coordinate with him,” says the Operative.

“By breaking radio silence?”

“There’s another dedicated landline just ahead. If he’s got the same signal we’ve got he’ll be waiting for us.”

“Another landline?”

“For sure.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because the coordinates are sitting in my fucking head.”

“They were put there?”

“No, I was born with them,” says the Operative. “And so was Lynx. And we knew a priori from the fucking cradle that we had to pursue a certain target along certain trajectories and if that target deviated suddenly we’d need to coordinate in a way that couldn’t be detected by anyone on the zone.” The Operative is pretty much ranting now. “Obviously they were put there, asshole!”

“I get that,” snaps Sarmax. “And get this: this is why I fucking left. Because these runs always end up with us like rats stuck in some custom-built maze.”

“Though usually not this intricate,” says the Operative.

“Too right,” replies Sarmax. “This whole terrain has been prepared. Like some ancient battlefield where they dug the goddamn elephant traps in advance. I mean, that’s what, the tenth camera we’ve seen that’s been ripped out at the wires? God only knows how we fit in. All we’re doing is running against some fucking program.”

“Speaking of,” says the Operative—he brakes to a halt, turns and pivots onto the wall, and rips a panel aside. The phone that’s revealed is more modern than the last one. It’s already flashing. The Operative pictures the wires that lead away from that phone, wending through walls to wherever Lynx is crouching, completely shorn from all the others in here. Or so he hopes. He picks up the phone.

“Carson,” says Lynx.

“Yeah,” says the Operative—and once again feels something light up within his skull. It’s a sensation he’s almost starting to get used to. This one’s some kind of response to the data he’s been accumulating about their target. Something he needs to tell Lynx.

Right now.

“This just got a lot more difficult,” he says.

“I’ll say,” replies Lynx.

“You just got a newsflash in your head too?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Simple,” says the Operative. “We need to take this thing alive.”

“Like fuck we do,” says Lynx.

Lights upon a grid, converging on an area about ten klicks south of New London. Tension mounts on the bridge and not a word’s being spoken among the crew. Everything that needs to be said is going down within their heads.

Which can have its drawbacks.

“This is getting tight,” mutters Linehan.

“Tell me about it,” says Spencer.

“Can you see the Platform from up there?”

“I’m on the goddamn bridge, Linehan. Of course I can fucking see it. Where the hell are you now?”

“Sitting in a drop-ship.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting ready to drop, you moron.”

“To the Platform?”

“They’re briefing us on its layout right now.”

“Have they set a countdown?” asks Spencer.

“Not that they’ve told us. Are you seeing one up there?”

“Not a goddamn thing. This whole thing’s compartmentalized pretty tight.”

“They may still be deciding whether to deploy us. Send me downloads of the view from the bridge, will ya? And the camera footage of how that view’s changed since we started orbiting.”

“Done,” says Spencer. “What are you thinking?”

“A lot. What are you seeing up there?”

“There’s some kind of shit going down on the Platform. We’ve got at least two units down there, with multiple signals closing on them.”

“Way too late to tell me that,” says Linehan. “Get me the coordinates.”

“Done.”

“Any more data about this thing we’re in?”

“We’re tarted up as a Harappa-class freighter. Registered to a firm in Paris, left the Zurich Stacks in low-orbit two days ago and came straight here.”

“And before that?”

“There was no before. This is our maiden voyage.”

“How convenient.”

“Especially because we’ve been built with a few modifications.”

“Like what?”

“Like the one you’re sitting in. Fast dropship deployment capacity. Looks like there’s four more down there in addition to yours, each full of marines.”

“Packed in like sardines,” says Linehan. “What about the ship’s weaponry?”

“Four heavy directed-energy batteries and two kinetic-energy gatlings. All of it locked away and out of sight.”

“But once they extend those barrels it’s going to be pretty fucking obvious that we’re not a bunch of Swiss carrying second-rate tungsten.”

“It may already be pretty fucking obvious. We’re tracking the Rain and the Rain may be tracking us.”

“Don’t I know it, Spencer. The officers down here are going on about how we’re going to stop the Rain for good. But the rank-and-file’s saying something else.”

“Don’t put too much stock in rumors, man.”

“You ignore them at your peril, Spencer.”

“So what are they saying?”

“That we’re out to bag ourselves a witch.”