The Burning Skies

“I’m guessing all we need to do is wait.”

“We need more data before we ride this thing all the way in.”

“Good point.”

Though either way it’s a risk. They adjust their camouflage, leap lightly from the train, roll along the ground, stop just short of the edge. The camo makes minute refinements. They peer over. Vertigo kicks them in the face.

“Holy shit,” says Sarmax.

But Spencer’s saying nothing. He’s just looking down what must be at least half a kilometer. He feels like his eyes are rebelling at what they’re taking in. As if he’s lived all his life to see something so completely gone.

“What in God’s name is it?”

“Christ only knows.”

If that. It’s some impossibly mammoth structure—the top of a huge dome, curving down to where it’s swallowed by a webwork of platforms and catwalks. The exact size is impossible to discern. But if the curve of what’s visible is any indication …

“Fucking insane,” says Sarmax.

“It must be at least a klick high.”

“Sure, but what the fuck is it?”

“I think the better question is what does it contain?”

“You still can’t access zone?”

“There’s clearly one down there. Lot of wireless activity.”

“But the answer’s no.”

“The answer is I’m working on it.”

“We need to get inside.”

“I realize that.”

“Any ideas?”

“How’s this for starters …”

This is bullshit,” she says. “Is it?”

“It’s something you’re projecting.”

“You don’t think it’s real?”

“I think you’re making me hallucinate.”

“Or maybe …” says Carson.

“Or maybe what?”

“What else would account for what you’re seeing?”

“Don’t do this to me, Carson.”

“Think about it, Claire.”

“It’s fucking real, goddammit!”

“Of course it is.”

“You’re fucking with my mind.”

“Of course I am. But not with that image.”

“But what the hell am I seeing?”

“The Eurasian superweapon. Obviously.”

She keeps on staring at the image in her head. It’s a structure that would be regarded as large were it standing on the Earth’s surface. The fact that it’s beneath the ground makes it pretty much unprecedented. Haskell looks down toward it. She takes in the platforms that jut out to encompass it, the doors here and there along its vast sloping wall …

“No,” she says. “Spencer’s right. That’s not the weapon. That’s a fortress. Which contains the weapon.”

He stares at her. Almost as though he expects her to continue. Yet she’s got nothing more to say.

But then she realizes she does.

“And the Rain,” she whispers.

Alarms are howling, but Lynx can barely hear them. Vibration’s pounding through the walls, but he can barely feel it. All he’s got is his own mind, lancing out in all directions and gathering everything in under its sway. The mainframes of the Montana are giving up the ghost. The ship’s defenses are going down before him.

And Linehan as well, who’s blasting his way through strongpoint after strongpoint and none of the defenders even see him coming. All their sensors show the threat’s coming from some other angle. They show Linehan as friendly. By the time they realize otherwise it’s way too late. Linehan’s leaving only mangled flesh drifting in his wake.

Though he’s getting more than just a little help. Lynx has unleashed viruses through the armor of everyone who’s standing in Linehan’s way. The only thing that’s out of reach is this station’s own inner enclave. Which is where Szilard’s holding out. Linehan’s heading there as fast as he can shoot. Lynx is doing the same, along a different route. He’s taken off his armor. He’s taking one hell of a risk. But that’s the only way he’s going to be able to squeeze through the spaces he needs to.

Though it’s still a tight fit. Even the larger maintenance shafts aren’t intended to be serviced by humans. They’re accessed instead by a whole taxonomy of robots that double as sentinels. Clawed drones, welders, moving drills—they’re hurling themselves from out of the dark and onto Lynx, doing their best to cut him to ribbons.

Only they can’t. They’re getting stopped just short of him. They’re getting out of his way. It’s not their fault. Lynx has reached into their brains, giving them a little twist, making them forget just why the hell they were getting so agitated. He’s the one thing in these tunnels that’s managing to stay focused. He keeps on moving.

And now he’s in the inner area. He can see the blueprints of this section stretching all about him. All twenty levels of it. All of the Montana beyond it, and the whole fleet stretched out beyond that. The word’s spreading among the closest of those ships that something’s going down on the Montana. But they’re also getting word that the situation’s under control. That any attempt to land forces on the Montana will be seen as insubordination. An attempt to seize Szilard’s power. It’s all playing out as Lynx intended. All he’s doing is taking advantage of the underlying contours. This fleet is as divided against itself as the whole fucking country—as the whole fucking world. Leaving the game wide open to those who can play every end against the middle. Lynx crawls down one last shaft, wedges down one last vent. He kicks a metal grille aside.

And leaps feet-first into the Montana’s control center.

They’re dangling on a tether that’s feeling ever more precarious, descending toward a sheer wall of metal that drops down into eternity. Their camo is put to the ultimate test as they close in on the structure’s summit. Neither man says anything. They’re preserving absolute radio silence.

Though Spencer can sense the Manilishi in his head anyway, echoing through his software. He still has no idea how the fuck she’s doing it. And he’s got other things to think about anyway. Because the curve of the dome wall’s stretching in toward him. They’re close enough to make out lettering painted upon it. Cyrillic and Mandarin, telling the ones who read it absolutely nothing other than where the doors are. There aren’t that many. They’re so airtight they’re almost impossible to spot. Spencer’s praying he is too. Most of the activity he can see is confined to the labyrinth of catwalks that obscure the foundation of this gigantic building. But there are eyes and