David Williams - The Burning Skies

Look,” says the Operative, “it’s really quite simple.”

“ This I’m just dying to hear,” says Lynx.

“ You already heard it. My orders say targets with this signature get taken alive.”

“ That’s not true, Carson.”

“ What the hell are you talking about?”

“ I mean my orders say all targets get wasted.”

“ Your orders come from me!”

“ And the handlers, Carson, who told me this thing dies.”

“ They told me to spare it.”

“ When?” asks Lynx.

“ It’s on memory trigger. How the fuck should I know?”

“ Well, my orders say otherwise.”

“ Or so you remember.”

“ So? That’s the way this whole thing’s been working.”

“ Yeah,” says the Operative, “but now it’s not working, is it?”

“ While we talk, this thing’s getting away from us!”

“ At least it doesn’t seem to be hunting us now.”

“ Because it’s probably after something else. Shit man, they really told you to spare the target?”

“ They really did,” says the Operative.

“ Jesus, this isn’t good.”

“ You’ve been fucked with.”

“ I think it’s the other way around, Carson.”

“ Are you really Lynx?”

“ Are you really Carson?”

“ Of course I’m Carson!”

“ Of course you are. The same Carson who pulled my strings so adroitly back on the goddamn Moon. The same Carson who’s had the opportunity for endless off-the-record bullshit. The same Carson who’s got all the higher-ups eating out of his goddamn hand.”

“ If they really were, you think I’d have to put up with this shit?”

“ You think I can’t see what’s going on here, Carson? You think I haven’t figured out your little secret?”

“ My little secret?

“ About which I have a theory.”

“ What’s your theory?”

“ That I’m going to reach this target first.”

The voice cuts out. The Operative disconnects.

“ Sounds like that didn’t go so well,” says Sarmax.

“ Why are you pointing that pulse-rifle at me?”

“ Like you can’t guess,” says Sarmax. He keeps the weapon trained on the Operative—primes it. There’s a low humming noise.

“ This just gets better and better,” says the Operative.

“ Shut up,” says Sarmax. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

• • •

What do you mean, witch?”

“ Knew you were gonna ask me that. I’ve got no fucking idea. And neither does anyone else down here.”

“ Well, what else are they fucking saying?”

“ Nothing coherent. Just that it’s not just the Rain we’re after. That we’re also gunning for some kind of Rain witch or something. They’ve also used the word queen . And some of them are saying it’s not Rain at all, that there’s something else on the loose.”

“ Maybe one of those Rain-type creatures we keep hearing about.”

“ The cool kids don’t talk to me, Spencer. What have you heard?”

“ Apparently the Praetorians tried to copy some of the Rain’s tech. Which the Rain then tried to steal right back. There was a rumor some kind of robot was on that spaceplane that—”

“ The one that deep-sixed in Hong Kong four days back?”

“ Yeah. And I heard that some kind of supercomputer ended up on the Moon, but it was autonomous, so that—”

“ God only knows what the fucking truth in all of this is,” mutters Linehan. “That’s probably what they want: to keep us guessing. We gotta go back to basics, man. Because we’re not the only gang of assholes that’s camped out on the Platform tonight.”

“ You mean the Rain?”

“ Never mind the fucking Rain. Of course they’re in this somehow. I’m talking about the other lot that’s somehow managed to get themselves dealt into this lousy game.”

“ Oh yeah,” says Spencer, “those.”

• • •

Haskell’s leaving the equator behind. She’s changed it up again, too, partially out of respect for those strange cameras, but mostly she’s just running on intuition. She feels the scratches on her skin flaring as though fire’s dripping over them. She feels those symbols turning within her brain. She’s dropped through additional layers of infrastructure and is almost at the outer layer of cylinder-skin while she leaves the equator behind. Gravity’s now in excess of normal. Walls are surging past her. She’s left the domain of maglev behind. She’s in what’s essentially a giant conveyor belt. One that’s designed to haul exactly one thing.

Ice. Haskell has melted partially through the chunk upon which she’s riding, and let that ice refreeze over her armor, making her that much harder to spot, especially given how much of the cylinder’s infrastructure is dedicated to the processing of water. Haskell feels the pressure build around her. Everything’s coming down to this, a woman become bullet about to crash through to the world beyond the South Pole. The howling of her sixth sense has reached fever-pitch. Her skin’s burning like a sun’s coming to life within it.

Strands of light whip past the roofless two-person railcar as it shoots through the tunnel. The man who’s driving is standing up front. The other man’s sitting at the back. He keeps his pulse-rifle pointed at the driver.

“ So,” says Sarmax, “now that we’ve got some speed, let’s talk.”

“ About fucking time.”

“ We’ve got a real problem.”

“ Lynx has overdosed again.”

“ It didn’t sound that simple. One of you is being fucked with, and neither you nor I is in a position to determine who’s the lucky guy.”

“ Which is why you’re pointing that gun at me.”

“ It seems like the prudent option,” replies Sarmax.

“ Does that mean you have a plan?”

“ It means I’m still thinking of one.”

“ If you shoot me you won’t have a hope of finding the target.”

“ Your armor’s what’s tracking the target, Carson. Not you.”