The Burning Skies

“My side’s your side now,” Spencer reminds him. “And the answer’s no.”

“The list of bosses I’m gonna fuck over before it’s all over just gets bigger and bigger.”

“I’m sure Montrose is quaking in her boots.”

“But she didn’t give you the specs of this ship.”

“Goddammit, Linehan! She didn’t give me shit. We’re going to have to figure this one out for ourselves. Working with what we know. We’re InfoCom operatives—”

“You’re taking that on faith.”

“If we’re no longer InfoCom then we may as well give up trying to figure out anything.”

“Have it your way” says Linehan. “We’re InfoCom operatives. We’re on board a Praetorian ship. A ship that must be getting close to wherever the fuck it’s heading because everybody’s getting woken up. Maybe we’re part of some Montrose power play aimed at setting the Throne back a notch or two.”

“Montrose has been the Throne’s most loyal supporter,” says Spencer.

“Who better to fuck him over?”

“If we’re a weapon aimed against these Praetorians, then—”

“We’re meat,” says Linehan.

“Probably,” replies Spencer.

“Can you think of any other reason we’re here?”

“Don’t know if this is just me rationalizing, but we could be a hedge.”

“A what?”

“The Throne might be using InfoCom the way he used to use CICom. As a hedge against potential disloyal elements.”

“You’re saying that the Throne might suspect his own guys.”

“I’m saying I don’t know.”

“Damn right you don’t. Keep in mind that the Throne dumped CICom’s whole crew into the furnaces.”

“No one ever said this game wasn’t twisted.”

“Twisted enough to make me wonder whether there might be someone else on this ship who isn’t a Praetorian,” says Linehan.

“Can’t rule it out,” replies Spencer.

“I’d say it’s one of the more likely scenarios—that we’re the monkey wrench.”

“To fuck with someone who thinks they’ve beaten this ship’s defenses—” But as Spencer transmits these words, he notices one of the technicians approaching his cryo-cell. Notices, too, that he’s one of the only ones left in his cell. “In any case, we need more data.”

“And we need to make sure we don’t get caught,” says Linehan.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Spencer looks at the technician, who starts to speak—only to be cut off as a siren starts wailing at full volume. The noise is almost loud enough to drown out the shouting that it’s triggering. Panels start sliding open in the walls. Suits are sprouting from them. People are clambering into them. The ship’s engines are changing course.

“Call you back,” says Spencer.

The container that Haskell’s in is moving along a vast maze of railed corridors that exist solely to propel containers like hers through the bowels of the spaceport where they’ve been unloaded and out into the depths of the city. She’s working the levers of the zone to make sure her container makes all the right turns. She’s flung this way and that, her suit’s shock absorbers cushioning the impact on her body.

So far everything’s going like clockwork. She’s running sleek and perfect. The zone around her can’t touch the tricks she’s playing on it. A million eyes are no match for feet too quick to catch. She’s cutting in toward her target like a torpedo.

And all the while she’s trying to restrain the fear that’s rising up within her, ignited by the patterns on her skin, fanned into full fury by the patterns all around her. She can fucking see them now, coming into focus, patterns that extend from zone and out into the universe beyond. She’s terrified of what she’s becoming—scared shitless of what she’s heading into. It’s like a wave that’s swelling up to swamp her—like the crossroads of fate itself. A nexus upon which all possibilities converge.

And from which none emanate.

We’re right in the middle of this,” says Lynx. “So what’s new?” says the Operative. “What the fuck are you guys going on about?” asks Sarmax.

“You tell him,” says Lynx.

“My armor’s tracking something right now,” says the Operative.

“So’s mine,” says Lynx.

“Why not mine?” asks Sarmax.

“Because you’re not a razor,” says Lynx.

“Neither’s Carson,” says Sarmax.

“Carson’s a bastard,” says Lynx. “And don’t play stupid with me, Leo. I know you know damn well he’s not just a mech.”

“Didn’t know you knew that,” says Sarmax.

“Didn’t have the chance to tell you,” says the Operative.

“Well,” replies Sarmax, “who cares? Christ, Lynx: Carson was holding out on both of us at one point. I’m over it. Are you?”

“Not even vaguely,” says Lynx.

“Because you thought you were pulling my strings,” says the Operative. “And all the while I was pulling yours. Listen, guys, I hate to break this up, but we’ve been thrust way beyond the front lines and the clock’s ticking. We’ve got a target that we need to catch. We’ve—”

“—got to start making sense,” says Sarmax. “How do you know there’s a goddamn target if you’re shorn from zone?”

“Apparently we’re not,” says Lynx.

“Christ,” says the Operative, “you haven’t jacked in, have you?”

“Fuck no. My head keeps screaming that’s a really bad idea.”

“Probably because it is.”

“But there’s some kind of interface in my armor that’s just switched on. That’s working on the zone all the same.”

“Same here,” says the Operative.

“Though it’s like no zone interface I’ve ever seen.”

“Same here,” says the Operative. “All I’ve got is a local map and something marked incoming.”

“Something’s tripped our fucking perimeter,” says Lynx.

“And it’s heading this way.”

“Probably because it’s coming for us.”

“This map of yours,” says Sarmax.

“Yeah?”

“Give it here.”

“It’s local,” says the Operative. “It only shows a fraction of wherever the fuck we are.”