The Burning Skies

across the eastern half of New Guinea. By the early twenty-second century, that sprawl is the largest neutral metropolis on the planet.

Though it doesn’t feel so neutral anymore.

The soldiers now shoving their way into the brothel are behaving like a conquering army. Which is pretty much exactly what they are. They hit the Little Moscow district this morning, cleaned out the enemies of the state who thought they’d escaped that state, sent them to makeshift interrogation chambers, or just shot them on the spot. The lucky ones got sent back to Mother Russia for special treatment.

But that’s no concern of the soldiers now carousing in this brothel. Get their armor off and get enough vodka in them, and they almost feel like they’re on leave back home. But back there they can’t get their hands on women like these. These girls come from all over the world. They’ll do just about anything. And the soldiers now taking them don’t even have to pay. Better yet, they can make the girls pay. And some of them are doing just that.

There are two in particular who are really going to town. Two soldiers who are less interested in sex and more interested in simple violence. They’ve got some girls in a room all to themselves. They’re tossing them all over the place. The screams of the girls can’t be heard over the noise of the party that’s going on in all the adjacent rooms. And even if they could be, it’s not like anybody gives a shit. Not when the madam’s getting gang- raped and at least one girl’s been shot for resisting.

“Hey asshole,” says Sarmax.

The naked man turns round, his eyes widening as he sees the pistol and silencer protruding from under the bed—and then he pitches backward as a bullet crashes through his skull. The second Russian turns around casually from where he’s about to bring his fist down against the woman’s face—but even as he starts lunging toward his weapons, Spencer’s emerging from a closet and shooting him through the face. Both men lie there. Both girls start screaming.

“Shhhh,” says Sarmax, emerging from beneath the bed. The girls ignore him, keep on screaming. Sarmax fires quick shots into each of their heads. Bodies tumble while Spencer rounds on Sarmax.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snarls.

Sarmax looks at him. “What’s yours?”

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You got signed up for it, asshole. And I’m not leaving any witnesses. Now how about you do what you’re here for?”

Spencer’s about to protest further, but the look in Sarmax’s eyes stops him. He kneels next to one of the Russians, stabs razorwire into his eye socket. The head wound his victim received was calibrated to avoid key circuitry. And now Spencer’s in that circuitry, dropping in amidst all the software, running the hacks he’s been preparing, siphoning off the codes and uploading them into his own head. His new ID clicks into place: he locks it in, turns to the second Russian, repeats the procedure. Only now he downloads the ID wirelessly to Sarmax—who accepts the codes and starts putting on one of the light armor suits that’s standing in the corner.

Spencer kneels on the floor and closes his eyes while he lets his mind waft out beyond the two nodes he’s just co-opted, out to where a broader zone awaits. It’s a zone he’s never seen before, save in the training modules through which his brain’s been prowling for almost two days now. Ever since they got their new orders from the Throne. Ever since they got sent to HK to do what Spencer’s doing now: making an incursion into the Eurasian zone.

And looking around.

At difference. Different colors, different lettering, different symbols—a whole new universe of net. Grids of light billow out all around him. Spencer sees the way those grids overlay against the prostrate HK zone. That net’s been commandeered at key points by Eurasian razors—and sliced down the middle too, cut off by what looks like an impenetrable wall, behind which the Americans are presumably up to pretty much the same thing the Eurasians are.

“Hurry it up,” says Sarmax.

Spencer’s working on it. He’s climbing up the ladder from the two Russians he’s just offed. Ascending a long stairway of codes: to the squad sergeant … the platoon lieutenant … the regimental colonel … the divisional general. Who’s at the level that Spencer wants. He reaches in, hacks into the staff plans that give him access to the troop deployments throughout the city.

“Time’s up,” says Sarmax.

Spencer jacks out, opens his eyes. All the bodies are gone, though patches of blood are still visible on the walls.

“Where did everybody go?”

“The closet,” says Sarmax.

“Not gonna help. This place looks like an abattoir.”

“I’ve also got this,” says Sarmax. He holds up another thermite bomb. Tosses it under the bed, turns back to Spencer: “By the way, question me again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Now get that armor on.”

“Jesus,” says Spencer, “relax.” He starts putting on his new armor. He’s almost finished when a blast shakes the room from somewhere close at hand. He looks back at Sarmax.

“That what you rigged back along that passage?”

“No, that was my bike.”

Another blast shakes the room. It seems to be much larger than the previous one. Much farther, too.

“That was the passage,” says Sarmax.

But it’s all the same to the soldiers in the rooms all around theirs. They’re getting the hell out of the brothel. They’re hitting the streets. Someone hammers on the door.

“I’m on it,” yells Sarmax in Russian. Turns back to Spencer. “Got some assignments for us?”

“I’m starting by having us ordered away from everybody who might know us.”

“And then?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Works for me,” says Sarmax.

They lower their visors and exit the room.

I figured it would be you,” she says. “Naturally,” replies the Operative.

He pulls himself into the room. He’s not wearing a suit. He closes the door behind him and she hears it lock. He smiles a smile that’s almost shy.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he says.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“It’s for your own protection.”

“Bullshit.”

“I wish it were.”

“I can protect myself just fine.”

“And therein lies your problem.”

She stares at him. He gazes back at her in a way that makes her realize he’s running some kind of scan. She feels the prickle of spectra upon her skin. He reaches around to the back of her chair, types in codes. The locks that bind her release. She floats free.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Has anybody been here?” he asks.

“Here being where?”

“This room.”

“Since when?”

“Since you got here.”