The Burning Skies

“That’s a damn sight more than I’ve got.”

“Here,” says the Operative, sending the map whipping into Sarmax’s input jacks. Sarmax stands there for a moment.

And blinks.

“Fuck,” he says, “we are in some fucked-up terrain for sure.”

“In both real and zone,” says the Operative.

“And you can’t hack the target?” asks Sarmax.

The Operative shrugs. “Apparently all we can do is track it.”

“And catch it,” says Lynx.

“We’ve got limited options,” says the Operative. “We’re clearly trying to remain as invisible to the rest of the zone as possible. Presumably that’s why we’re not supposed to run any comprehensive scans on it.”

“So we’re pretty much blind,” says Sarmax.

“No,” says Lynx, “just very specialized.”

“Sounds precarious,” mutters Sarmax.

“You think?” The Operative sounds more amused than he is. “Think about it, guys. We’re sitting in the equivalent of a zone Faraday cage. We’re using black-ops tech. We’re way past the point at which we’d normally remember whatever the fuck we were told in the briefing-trance. Someone’s really pushing the envelope here.”

“Agreed,” says Lynx. “The whole thing points to only one conclusion.”

“Rain,” says Sarmax.

“Bingo,” says the Operative. “Let’s prep tactics.”

The door slides open.

Klaxons keep sounding. Lights keep flashing. Spencer’s cut off contact with Linehan. He’s got his hands full just keeping up with events around him. He’s in his suit, holding onto a handle that’s sliding along the wall of a metal-paneled corridor—one among many handles sliding in that direction, with the opposite wall containing those going the other way. One in every three or four of those handles are gripped by a crewmember. Every one’s going somewhere. Everyone’s racing to his station.

Including Spencer. He can see he’s been assigned to the bridge of the Larissa V, which is going to place him under the microscope for sure. But maybe that’ll let him figure out what the fuck’s going on. He hopes things will be a damn sight clearer when he gets there.

If he gets there. He’s now heading into the ship’s restricted areas. The crew’s starting to thin out. He’s being subjected to extra scans. Retina, voiceprint, zone- signature, the works—but whatever responses he’s giving must be working, because doors keep opening and green keeps flaring and nothing’s stopped him yet. He leaves the moving walls behind and climbs through a series of access-tubes. He comes out into some kind of antechamber. A marine floats on either side of a formidable- looking door. Spencer fires compressed air to come to a halt in front of them.

“Your codes,” says one.

Spencer doesn’t reply—just beams them to the marine, hopes they work. Turns out they do. The marine stands aside as the door opens. Spencer goes through onto the bridge.

And takes in the view.

Haskell’s left that container behind. She’s pulling herself through a chute. Zone flickers in her head. Her breath sounds within her helmet, echoes in her consciousness in endless fractal patterns. She’s left the basement of the city behind. Her weightlessness is starting to subside. Occasionally the chrome tube she’s in splits: two-way forks, three-way forks, right-angle intersections. But she never hesitates. She’s just climbing onward as gravity kicks in, pulling herself up via those rungs that have now become a ladder, which ends in a trapdoor. She presses against it, pushes it open.

And emerges into light. She’s in a forest. Trees tower up around her head, late afternoon sunlight dancing through the branches. She turns, closes the trapdoor—noticing how perfectly it blends in amidst the undergrowth. She starts making her way through the woods. She’s not surprised to find that it’s really more of a grove, that the trees ahead are thinning out. She catches a glimpse of distant mountains—and sights buildings much nearer. She pushes her way through the last of the undergrowth and emerges into the space beyond.

Lynx has disconnected. And whatever’s out there is still closing. Sarmax and the Operative proceed through the doorway heading out into a corridor buttressed by bulwark-rings every ten meters. It looks like they’re inside the rib cage of some enormous animal. Sarmax is on point. The pulse-rifle he’s carrying is capable of knocking a hole through metal a meter thick. The Operative has his wrist-guns ready and his shoulder-racks up. The two of them move down corridors and up stairways. Gravity fluctuates as they turn this way and that, varying from normal to about half Earth strength. The target keeps drawing nearer. The two men continue to communicate on tightbeam wireless. That’s as far onto the zone as they’re going to venture. Except for the single screen within the Operative’s head, projected by software within his armor. Software he doesn’t understand and clearly isn’t supposed to. All he’s supposed to do is obey orders.

But he can’t stop himself from thinking about all the things that might lie behind those instructions. The margin of victory in the secret war is clearly coming down to zone. Autumn Rain’s ability to penetrate that zone is the reason the world was forced to the brink four days ago. It’s the reason the world remains on the very edge. How do you stop an infiltrator with the ability to turn defenses against those they would protect? How do you shield yourself against those who may already be inside your shield?

The Operative doesn’t know. But he’s guessing he’s caught up in somebody’s attempt to answer. And now suddenly more pieces of the puzzle are bubbling up, rising into his mind like a submarine surfacing— recollections of what they told him when he was in the trance. The larger map of the place they’re in clicks on within his head. He gazes at the blueprints and feels his heart accelerate as he realizes what they’re caught up in. He signals to Sarmax that they’re turning as he opens a door.

The far wall of the room within is barely visible through a mass of conveyor belts. Freight containers are stacked along those belts—containers like the ones in which the two men woke. The Operative moves past Sarmax and leaps onto one of those pallets. Sarmax does the same. They start moving at speed along that belt, keeping their weapons at the ready.

“I give up,” says Sarmax. “Where the fuck are we?”

“In neutral territory.”

“In space.”

“Obviously. We’re in the Platform.”

“We’re inside the Platform? But that’s—”

“Insane? I think that’s the point.”

The bridge of the Larissa V isn’t small. Its crew attends to two levels of instrument-banks. A large window cuts above those banks, sharpens to a beak where the room protrudes farthest forward. And in that window …

“Spencer? You there?”

“Shut up.”

“You wouldn’t believe what’s going on down here.”

“Shut up,” replies Spencer, and disconnects. Looks like his integration with the bridge’s wireless node reactivated his link with Linehan. Which is a really bad idea right now, particularly since another voice is whispering in Spencer’s head, telling him to sync with