The Burning Skies

counterparts warily. The crawlers roar parallel to the barricades.

They enter a complex that was obviously a school until very recently. Now it’s been turned into some kind of strong-point. The vehicles come to a halt in a courtyard. An officer barks orders; soldiers start to bring out captives in electrocuffs and eyeless helmets.

“You called it,” says Sarmax.

“Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

He and Spencer watch from atop the crawler as the captives are shoved through a door in the vehicle’s side. Spencer runs through the dossiers in his head: arrested HK scientists, with a special destination. The engines start back up. The crawlers get moving again, away from the border and the checkpoints and back toward the center of the brave new city. He and Sarmax are on escort duty now, charged with carrying out the one rule of such assignments: stick close to what you’re trying to protect.

“We’ve got company,” says Sarmax.

“I noticed,” says Spencer.

There’s no way he could have missed it. The vehicles now swerving in behind theirs are accompanied by new developments on the grids of the Eastern zone. Developments that underscore all too clearly the tensions within it. Spencer extrapolates along those tensions—follows them as they branch out along the fault lines so cunningly concealed from low-grade razors. Fault lines that are all too obvious to him. Because, in reality, the Eastern zone isn’t just one zone.

It’s two.

“The fucking Chinks,” says someone.

“Stow it,” says the officer.

But the point’s been made. The sentiment’s been voiced. The vehicles behind this one are Chinese, as are the soldiers atop them. Spencer can’t see what those soldiers are saying to one another. For all he knows it’s something nasty about Russians.

Not that it really matters. The Eurasian alliance isn’t built on mutual love. It’s built upon a common foe. Standing up against the Americans will call for sacrifice. Thus the integration of the zones and the merging of the war machines. Thus a partnership that has endured for decades—a partnership whose watchword is joint ownership. And whose golden rule is keeping your ally apprised.

As far as anyone can tell.

“Makes sense,” says Spencer. “We’re riding shotgun on some big-time shit.”

“So now they are too,” says Sarmax.

That’s just the way it works round here. But it’s useful confirmation for Spencer as to the value of the cargo he’s snagged. Even though he was never really in doubt. The custom hacks furnished him by the Throne were just too good. If they’re going to get caught it’s unlikely to be here. It’ll be somewhere deeper.

“Here we go,” he says.

The crawlers are emerging from between buildings, rolling through a cleared area carved out of mountain slope. One of HK’s airports is up ahead. The civilian craft have been shunted aside. The vehicles of the new order are everywhere. Some are lifting off from runways. Some are landing. Some are disgorging equipment.

Some are waiting.

“That’s the one,” says Sarmax.

“Looks that way,” says Spencer.

“And we’ve got tickets?”

“Christ I hope so.”

They roll toward the waiting jet-copter.

• • •

Two people in a room bereft of windows. The man seems far too calm. The woman’s struggling to remain so.

“Is this about the Rain?” asks Haskell.

“The Rain are finished,” replies the Operative.

“We can’t be sure of that.”

“They’re finished,” he repeats.

“How do you know that?”

“You destroyed them.”

“I destroyed all the ones I could find. I need the president to link with the East to—”

“He can’t do that, Claire.”

“Why not?”

“Because the East can’t be trusted.”

“It’s not a matter of trust. I can monitor—”

“But who monitors you?”

She looks at him like she’s just been slapped. She starts to speak. Stops. Starts again.

“So it’s me the Throne fears.”

“Why else would you be his prisoner?”

“His prisoner? Or his property?”

“Do I look like a lawyer, Claire?”

“I’ve been naive,” she mutters.

“There are worse crimes,” he replies.

“Such as?”

“Treason.”

“Is that what you’re accusing me of?”

“Technically, you’re already guilty of it.”

“For what?”

“Aiding and abetting the traitor Matthew Sinclair.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says. “I was a CICom agent. I was acting under his orders!”

“Are you still?”

“If you’re serious about that question, the last thing you deserve is a fucking answer.”

“What about what you did before it all started up at the Europa Platform?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Isn’t it true that you spoke with Sinclair?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m not just saying it. I know it. You hacked into the L5 fortress. That alone could get you tossed out an airlock.”

“So go ahead and toss me.”

“I’d rather you told me why you made the call.”

“I wanted to talk to him.”

“And what did you discuss?”

“I needed to find out if he was guilty.”

“But you already knew he was.”

“Oh?”

“Why else would the Throne arrest him?”

She stares at him. He laughs. “That’s a joke,” he says.

“You’re really funny.”

“But Sinclair really was guilty.”

“But I had to put that question to him. I had to see how he’d respond.”

“And did he admit it?”