The Burning Skies

Static. Then: “I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”

“That’s all there is,” says Spencer. “A single thing.”

The far edge of the door passes the near the edge of the wall.

“Stop right there,” yells Sarmax, his voice blasting through the room on amplification.

The door stops moving.

“Stand by to receive primary code,” says an amplified voice on the door’s far side.

“Standing by” says Sarmax. She realizes he’s beaming the code to Carson. Who nods.

“Get in here,” yells Sarmax.

The door gets moving again. Suited figures start to sail into the room. Haskell notices that Carson continues to wait where he is, one hand on her arm, his back to the window, poised to blow that window and blast them both into space. Though once he sees their uniforms he relaxes almost imperceptibly.

And once he sees how many of them there are, he relaxes visibly—but still at the ready, facing the first of the suited figures, who’s now almost reached him.

That figure wears Praetorian colors. She wonders at that but decides that somebody probably figures that if these troops see combat, it no longer matters what makes the news. But the colors they wear aren’t the usual Praetorian ones the news-channels feature: slashes of dark blue set against a darker grey. The ones she’s looking at have replaced that blue with an almost reddish purple. But everything else about these suits—the shape of the helmets, the weapons configurations sported by the armor, the way in which insignia are displayed, all of it—is classic Praetorian. Haskell realizes that she’s looking at something she’s never seen—the uniform of the Praetorian Core. And now the soldier in front of her is saluting Carson.

“Sir,” he says.

Carson returns the salute. “What’s the situation, Lieutenant?”

“Under control, sir.”

“And his ETA?”

“Within the minute, sir. Via max-speed maglev.”

“See this lady?” says Carson.

“Yes, sir,” says the lieutenant.

“Her life is more important than yours. You’ll die for her without hesitation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Inform your soldiers of this. Prepare this room’s defenses.”

“Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The lieutenant turns. Carson lets go of Haskell. She doesn’t move though—just glances over to where Lynx is being neural-locked by two soldiers. His helmet’s off. His back’s to her. She notices Sarmax drifting over to where she and Carson are.

How’s Lynx taking it?” asks the Operative on the one-on-one. “How do you think?” replies Sarmax.

“The Rain almost fucked us.”

“You really think they got to him?”

“No question.”

“So now we space him?”

“Probably. But for now they’ve taken him to where the marines from the ships are setting up the outer perimeter.”

“Those guys have brought in some heavy equipment, huh?”

“Nothing that doesn’t suit the occasion. Lynx really got strapped to the railroad tracks this time.”

“With the Hand driving the shit-train to end all shit-trains.”

“And that guy breaks for nothing.”

Sarmax looks amused. “If you’re pressed for conversation when he gets here, you might consider asking him to go easy on Lynx.”

“Are you nuts?”

“It’d look good—you know, plead his case, show some concern and all that.”

“Tell you what, man, why don’t you start shooting into the ceiling or something just so it’s totally obvious to everybody that I have no ability to lead a fucking team whatsoever.”

“Maybe they’ll even give me back the job,” says Sarmax.

“Like you’d want it.”

“I’m starting to think I might.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What are you guys talking about?” asks Haskell.

They look at her.

“She’s quick,” says Sarmax.

“She is,” says Carson. “We were just talking about the situation.”

“Which is?”

“Precarious.”

What do you know about him?” asks Linehan. “Just the usual stuff you hear around the campfire,” says Spencer. “The Hand’s second only to the president in the Praetorian hierarchy—”

“And responsible for one thing.”

“The security of the Throne.”

“Meaning the Throne’s taking one hell of a risk if he’s really sending him in.”

Spencer mulls this over—and then sees the captain suddenly signal to the gunnery officers on the left of the bridge. He watches numbers race one another across his screens as the ship’s batteries start responding.

“Hey,” he says. “They’re priming the DE cannon.”

“Which ones?”

“That’d be all of them.”

• • •

The Praetorians have set up heavy weapons pointed at both windows—two-person gatlings that take about fifteen seconds to configure—and are also boring holes in the ceiling and floor, shoving wires through them to communicate via direct transmission with their brethren who apparently have occupied the adjacent floors. Haskell’s assuming it’s all still off the zone—that it’s all been worked out in advance. She floats near the inner deck with Carson and Sarmax hovering nearby. She counts at least thirty soldiers. She wonders how many are in the structure around her—wonders if the millions who dwell in the city all around have any idea what’s taking place within their midst.

More Praetorians enter the room. They’re bunched tightly around a single figure who wears the same uniform as they do—but who now separates from them, rockets in toward her and Carson and Sarmax accompanied only by two other Praetorians. Haskell notices that the approaching suit has no rank. It seems like he’s moving toward her over some infinite distance; like she’s seen him so many times before. Carson and Sarmax come to attention as the man brakes in front of them.

“Sir,” says Carson.

“At ease,” says the man.

“This is the woman, sir,” says the Operative.

“Good,” says the man. The face behind his visor is much older than she was expecting. His hair’s as