The Burning Skies

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.

Strands 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.”

The fucking Eurasians,” says Linehan. “They’re here too.”

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

“That’s what the officers are