The Burning Skies

remembers a garden at night. There was nothing then. No sense of destiny. No sense of mission. No sense they’d ever get old. They were just children. They were just there.

And then they weren’t. She was separated from them. She never saw them again. She and Jason are the only ones left. They’re brought up, trained as CICom agents. The others get pushed beyond the brink of memory. Replaced by a man who she’s forgotten until now. But there’s no such thing as forgetting. Particularly not this man.

Who calls himself Carson.

“No,” she says.

“You made it,” he says.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that all you can say to an old friend?”

“You weren’t my friend.”

“No,” he says. “I wasn’t. Tutors don’t befriend their pupils. They can’t. They—”

“You taught me nothing.”

“I taught you how to forget.”

“Fuck you,” she repeats.

“How to keep out of sight from yourself,” he continues. “How to build up your talents till you were bursting at the seams and didn’t even know it.”

“I didn’t even know I wanted it.”

“But you did.”

“And I’d trade it all for—”

“You were a trojan horse, Claire. One that contained yourself. We didn’t even know what you were becoming.”

“You still don’t know.”

“We’re still finding out.”

“And thus you’re here.”

“You’ve got your missions, I’ve got mine.”

“The Throne ordered you to—”

“Get right up inside you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I wouldn’t be averse. Especially now that you’ve broken all your chains.”

“Except the one you’re holding.”

“Guess I’d better hang onto that one, huh? At least until the runs are over.”

“You mean until the war’s finished.”

“The war will end in a single strike.”

• • •

The SpaceCom flagship Montana. The first permanent structure established at L2. Forty years ago it was little more than a glorified tin can. But that was before decades of near-continuous construction. Now it’s a little more impressive.

“The hub of it all,” says Lynx.

Three massive metal wheels are rigged around a central structure that’s larger than any of the colony ships will ever be. It bristles with gun-platforms. It shimmers with lights. The shuttle starts its final approach toward a landing bay that’s opening like some giant mouth.

“How’s it feel to be back?” asks Lynx.

“What makes you think I ever got inside this thing?”

“You never did?”

“Christ no. I was strictly outer perimeter material.”

“So you’re moving up in the world.”

“So?”

“So congrats.”

The landing bay engulfs them. The shuttle slides into its dock. The hangar that’s revealed is a flurry of activity. Ships are getting prepped, worked over. An airlock tube locks against the shuttle’s hatch, which then slides open.

“Leave your suits here,” says the pilot.

“What?” asks Linehan.

“Standard procedure,” says Lynx on the one-on-one.

“But this is a fucking officer’s battlesuit—”

“And you really think they’re nuts enough to let you run around in here with it?”

Linehan grimaces. Starts to take off his suit. Lynx does the same.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll get you another one.”

They leave the suits behind, exit via the docking tube, which leads through the hangar wall and into a room that’s clearly intended as a waiting area. The hatch to the docking tube slides shut with a hiss.

“Now what?” asks Linehan.

“Now I shoot you.”

“Very funny.”

“No, really” says Lynx—and flicks the dart gun that’s set into his wrist, sends a dart flying into Linehan’s forehead—even as the man launches himself at Lynx, who steps lightly out of the way, lets paralyzed flesh drift past him.

“Don’t fight it,” he says.

Linehan definitely is. He’s trying to speak. He’s not succeeding.

“I’m serious,” says Lynx. “You just said hi to a curare derivative. One that plays hell with your software interfaces and your voluntary muscle functions. People get aneurysms trying to be heroic. Everything’ll be fine.”

Linehan clearly has his doubts about that. Or else he no longer gives a fuck. He’s foaming at the mouth. Garbled transmissions on the one-on-one reach Lynx’s brain.

“Ahh shut up,” says Lynx. He fires a second dart into Linehan’s back, turns to the two suited marines now entering the room. “Was wondering when you guys would get here.”

The marines salute, say nothing—just start strapping Linehan onto a gyro-powered gurney They fire the gyros up. One pushes the gurney. The other gestures at Lynx.

“After you, sir.”

Lynx smiles, starts moving. They leave the room, proceed down a corridor, transition into one of the Montana’s rotating areas. Gravity kicks in. They step inside another room. Sensors sprout from every corner, along with what are presumably weapons. Lynx feels the prickle of spectra probing him. He feels the software in him going dormant. He stretches. Yawns.

“Looks like you got them all,” he says.

“Sir,” says one of the marines. He gestures. The sensors switch off. One of the walls slides away.

The office that’s revealed looks like it could have been ripped straight out of any modern corporation. Lavishly appointed furnishings center on an oversize desk. A man’s got his feet up on the desk. The name on his uniform says JANSEN. He claps slowly. Almost mockingly.

“The prodigal son returns,” he says.

“Just in time for the mother of all parties,” says Lynx.

Somewhere beneath the largest mountain chain on Earth is a tunnel. Just one among many. Only this one’s much darker than the rest. It’s off all the maps. No wires are strung along the walls. The maglev doesn’t