The Burning Skies

Manilishi’s been analyzing collision vectors, overlaying them against the blueprints of the asteroid, taking her best estimates as to where the resultant hollows might be. So now the craft crawls slowly through space that was solid an all too brief time ago.

“Strange that we fought our way through here so recently,” says Lynx.

“We were heading the other way then,” replies the Operative.

“Looks a little different now,” says Lynx.

That’s for sure. The fissures through which they’re creeping are strewn with floating rock and metal. The Remoraz probes on a few spectra, stays quiet on most. Twice they reach dead ends and are forced to retrace their route, make different choices. They head into a side tunnel that looks to be what’s left of a much larger gallery. From the looks of the walls they’re now in the infrastructure that ran beneath the south pole mountains. Or maybe they’re still in the asteroid. Everything’s so smashed up it’s hard to tell. Rocks rattle against the hull. The craft’s maneuvering through a narrow space that’s thick with dust, though greenery is strewn along one wall. The Operative quickens the speed. The space through which they’re moving is getting ever narrower. But their craft’s like a cat: it retracts its legs, distends its body to the point where it’s almost wriggling. It kicks from side to side. It slides forward—and then it’s through. The screens light up with enclosed space that stretches out into forever.

• • •

Okay,” says Spencer. “Something’s moving again.” It’s ten minutes later. They’ve been floating in this room for far longer than they’d like. They’ve seen plenty of Praetorian hardware being shifted around in the direction of the hangar—breaking the horizon here and there, then dropping back below it. That’s not what’s got Spencer worried.

“Where?” asks Linehan.

“There.”

Way out in the other direction. Almost out of the angle of the mirrors. Spencer and Linehan triangulate. Focus. On—

“That.”

“Yeah,” says Linehan. “That’s definitely something.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“What the fuck is it?”

“Hard to say. It’s only just scraping the top of the horizon.”

“Is it on the cylinder?”

“It’s on this rock or I’m a mountain goat.”

“Maybe you are. I don’t see it now. Not anymore.”

“It’s right th—No.” Spencer shakes his head. “It’s gone. Fuck.”

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about,” says Linehan. “At least it’s not heading this way.”

“Yeah, but they’re moving something around out there.”

“Sure they are,” says Linehan. “Probably a lot of stuff too. But it’s what we can’t see that should have you worried.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning who the hell’s responsible for keeping an eye on all the corridors that lead into this room?”

“I presume other Praetorians—”

“I wouldn’t presume anything, Spencer. We’re not on the perimeter, we’re past it.”

Spencer shakes his head.

“And I don’t know what you mean by other,” adds Linehan. “It’s not like we’re part of that gang—why are you laughing?”

“Because we’re Praetorians whether you like it or not.”

Emptiness stretches all around them. The fighting’s long since over. All the fires are out. There’s no oxygen left, just vacuum filling thirty kilometers that were once the pride of the Euro Magnates. Only a fraction of those kilometers are visible. Light gleams in a few places, reflected off the remnants of the mirrors that still hang from the sides of the cylinder. But mostly it’s just dark. If there are still survivors out there, they’ll be huddled in sealed rooms watching their air dwindle. Wondering what happened. Wondering how soon they’ll join everybody they ever loved. They won’t be waiting long.

“Hope neither of you owned any property here,” says Lynx.

“I shorted the market,” says Sarmax.

“You probably did,” says the Operative.

Lynx laughs a dry chuckle. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

“Act like we’re part of the scenery,” replies the Operative.

The craft starts creeping through the rocks that descend into the blackened valley beneath. Though creeping doesn’t exactly describe it. It’s more like a kind of loping. It’s super stealthy nonetheless. Camo programs barely off the drawing board are working overtime. The craft’s paws are barely touching the surface. There’s almost no vibration to speak of. They leave the chaos of the collapsed mountain behind, move out into the valley.

“Carson,” says Sarmax on the one-on-one.

“Yeah,” says the Operative.

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s up here.”

“Really.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” says Sarmax.

“You’ve been acting kind of funny.”

“Funny?”

“The way you always act when she’s on your mind.”

“She’s always on my mind.”

“Really getting to you, then.”

“Because she’s up here.”

“How do you know that?” asks the Operative.

“I saw her.”

“Hey,” says Lynx on the general channel, “wouldn’t we be better underground?”

“Why’s that?” asks the Operative as he puts the one-on-one on hold.

“Surely it’d be harder to see us.”

“Seeing’s one thing,” replies the Operative. “Doing something about it is another.”

Meaning it’s a judicious balancing act. Anything they run into in the cylinder’s basements is likely to be right on top of them. Anything that spots them in the vast interior is going to have a lot more difficulty sneaking up on them. Doesn’t mean it’s impossible. If this was a normal crawler or an earthshaker, they may as well strap a homing beacon to their ass. Because there’s almost certainly plenty of hardware at large in this cylinder. Along with God knows what else …

“Yeah,” says Sarmax, back on the one-on-one. “I saw her.”

“Where?”

“In front of the gate to the Hangars. Right after I got blasted against a wall.”

“And knocked your head up pretty bad.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Because she’s dead.”

“Is she?”