The Burning Skies

Haskell’s now off the train and onto another one that’s drawn up alongside—a railcar that’s as off the zone as she can make it, even as the train she’s stepping from hurtles on with one of her decoys enscribed hastily upon it. She’s just over twenty klicks north of the South Pole. She feels like she’s falling in toward it, towed in by the weight of the future. She’s about to break through another defensive screen, but her decoys are going to drop behind her, hang back a little, lead the defenders on a merry little chase that goes exactly nowhere.

Problem is that those defenders are exhibiting some strange behavior. They were starting to respond at first—they looked like they were scrambling. But now they’ve stopped altogether. Have they lost track of the decoys? Are they awaiting orders? Or is there something else that’s going on? Maybe she’s missing something. Because she’s perfectly aware that these aren’t normal defenses. Not down here. The disabled cameras and sensors testify to that. The only working cameras she’s seeing look like they’re newly installed. She’s got her camouflage cranked—she’s hoping that all anyone who’s watching is going to see is just a redeploying railcar. And maybe not even that. Because now her mind’s leaping in to hack those cameras.

And failing. Turns out they’re totally bereft of wireless interface. Haskell wonders where their wires lead. She’s got no access to them—meaning they’re not connected to the Euro zone. And their feeds aren’t viewable by the Euro police forces, most of which seem to be back at the city anyway. She’s seen the occasional robot sentinel in these tunnels. But she knows that most of the Euro forces that aren’t in New London are stationed at the South Pole mountains, to stop intruders from getting through to the cylinder’s Aerie—in theory. But in practice, she’s got a feeling that the forces controlling the approaches to the asteroid have been co-opted. She wonders if the defenders she’s running rings around know that. She accelerates her railcar, skirts past the defenders halted in their tracks, and streaks into the sections of underground that lie beyond.

Look,” says the Operative, “it’s really quite simple.”

“This I’m just dying to hear,” says Lynx.

“You already heard it. My orders say targets with this signature get taken alive.”

“That’s not true, Carson.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean my orders say all targets get wasted.”

“Your orders come from me!”

“And the handlers, Carson, who told me this thing dies.”

“They told me to spare it.”

“When?” asks Lynx.

“It’s on memory trigger. How the fuck should I know?”

“Well, my orders say otherwise.”

“Or so you remember.”

“So? That’s the way this whole thing’s been working.”

“Yeah,” says the Operative, “but now it’s not working, is it?”

“While we talk, this thing’s getting away from us!”

“At least it doesn’t seem to be hunting us now.”

“Because it’s probably after something else. Shit man, they really told you to spare the target?”

“They really did,” says the Operative.

“Jesus, this isn’t good.”

“You’ve been fucked with.”

“I think it’s the other way around, Carson.”

“Are you really Lynx?”

“Are you really Carson?”

“Of course I’m Carson!”

“Of course you are. The same Carson who pulled my strings so adroitly back on the goddamn Moon. The same Carson who’s had the opportunity for endless off-the-record bullshit. The same Carson who’s got all the higher-ups eating out of his goddamn hand.”

“If they really were, you think I’d have to put up with this shit?”

“You think I can’t see what’s going on here, Carson? You think I haven’t figured out your little secret?”

“My little secret?

“About which I have a theory.”

“What’s your theory?”

“That I’m going to reach this target first.”

The voice cuts out. The Operative disconnects.

“Sounds like that didn’t go so well,” says Sarmax.

“Why are you pointing that pulse-rifle at me?”

“Like you can’t guess,” says Sarmax. He keeps the weapon trained on the Operative—primes it. There’s a low humming noise.

“This just gets better and better,” says the Operative.

“Shut up,” says Sarmax. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

• • •

What do you mean, witch?”

“Knew you were gonna ask me that. I’ve got no fucking idea. And neither does anyone else down here.”

“Well, what else are they fucking saying?”

“Nothing coherent. Just that it’s not just the Rain we’re after. That we’re also gunning for some kind of Rain witch or something. They’ve also used the word queen. And some of them are saying it’s not Rain at all, that there’s something else on the loose.”

“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.”

• • •

Haskell’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