The Burning Skies

—”

“And we don’t know where that is.”

“—clearly it’s vulnerable. But as long as we’re off the zone we’re probably running silent.”

“Silent? We step in front of one camera with the wrong camo settings and we’re fucked.”

“Have you seen any cameras, Leo?”

“What?”

“Have. You. Seen. Any. Cameras.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“I don’t like this one fucking bit.”

“Wish you were back administering your little corporate empire?”

“Not with the Throne unwilling to leave me the fuck alone.”

Not with my lover dead, he might have said. Can’t beat ’em, join ’em, he could have muttered. But he doesn’t. And the Operative knows better than to press the point.

Suddenly there’s a jangling noise. It’s coming from the vintage phone.

“Pick it up,” says the Operative.

“You must be joking.”

“That’s our connection with whatever’s going on beyond these rooms.”

Apart from what’s happening in the Operative’s skull. For even as the phone rings, something’s expanding within his mind. Some kind of heads-up display—set on automatic release?—he doesn’t know. He suddenly realizes who’s on the other end of the line, gets a glimpse of what’s really going on. He picks the receiver up, holds it between himself and Sarmax while the helmets of both men amplify the sound.

“Carson,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx. It sounds tinny. The Operative wonders how the twentieth century dealt. “That you?”

“Of course it’s me.”

“Don’t suppose Leo’s with you?”

“He is,” says Sarmax.

“Hey Carson,” says Lynx, “did something strange just happen in your head? Like, right when you picked up the phone.”

“You too, huh?”

“Fuck,” says Lynx. “They’ve hung us out to fucking dry.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“All I need to do is fucking step.”

Cold storage has an expiration date: right now Usually it’s used for long-range trips, like Mars or the rocks. But Spencer’s instruments show he’s only been out for about two days. Meaning that the normal rationale for cryo doesn’t apply.

Spencer can think of other reasons, though. He’s mulling them over as he listens to Linehan rant on about getting fucked over yet again. More of the personnel in this room are up and moving about, floating through the zero-G, climbing rungs along the walls, dispersing to their various duties. Some of them are still recovering. Among them’s Spencer, reclining in his cryo-cell, stretching his muscles. He’s handed back the jack that the technician was using to calibrate his zone-reflexes. As far as that technician knows, he’s off the zone.

The reality’s a little more complex.

“You’re in the rear troop areas,” Spencer says—though his lips aren’t moving. His neural link broadcasts silently, bracketed along limited range, aimed at where Linehan has indicated he is.

“And you are?”

“In the forward cryos.”

“Who’s up there?” asks Linehan.

“Mainly crew.”

“What kind of crew?”

“Gunnery personnel. Bridge personnel. Various other hangers-on. What’s back there?”

“What’s back here is a shitload of Praetorian marines. I’ve never seen anything like —”

“Is that what you are?”

“Sorry?”

“A Praetorian marine—is that what you are?”

“Meaning is that what I appear to be?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“Sure, Spencer. I’m decked out as a Praetorian marine. I’m surrounded by the motherfuckers. We’re all just hanging out. Awaiting orders, apparently. Christ man, if you weren’t even briefed on me then we are fucking dead—”

“Just tell me what you remember.”

“They fucking reconditioned me!”

“Who?”

“Your own team. InfoCom. Orders from that whore Montrose, I’m sure. Trance, drugs, the works. They said I’d be loyal to them from now on. Loyal to you. They said I’d be the perfect bitch for you, you fucking bitch—”

“Will you calm down? All they told me is that it was going to be some off-Earth operation. Next thing I know I’m waking up from cryo-sleep with the identity of a Praetorian razor.”

“That makes me feel so much fucking better.”

“How long were you trying to find me?”

“I wasn’t. You know I’m no razor, Spencer. First thing I knew of a zone connection is when you suddenly activated it.”

“How long had you been awake before I called you?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Looks like they’re waking up this ship in batches,” says Spencer. “What do you know about this craft?”

“From the inside, it looks like a Praetorian warship.”

“And from the outside?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“Based on what you’ve seen so far, what class of warship?”

“Been trying to find out. It doesn’t conform to any specifications I know. What are you seeing on the zone?”

“Not much,” says Spencer. “All I can see are parts of this ship’s microzone. Nothing outside a very local firewall.”

“And what you can see doesn’t help?”

“Not really. The ship’s obviously in lockdown. And specs on the interiors of these things aren’t exactly a matter of public record—”

“And your side doesn’t have them?”