David Williams - The Burning Skies

“ Carson,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx. It sounds tinny. The Operative wonders how the twentieth century dealt. “That you?”

“ Of course it’s me.”

“ Don’t suppose Leo’s with you?”

“ He is,” says Sarmax.

“ Hey Carson,” says Lynx, “did something strange just happen in your head? Like, right when you picked up the phone.”

“ You too, huh?”

“ Fuck,” says Lynx. “They’ve hung us out to fucking dry.”

“ Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“ All I need to do is fucking step.”

Cold storage has an expiration date: right now Usually it’s used for long-range trips, like Mars or the rocks. But Spencer’s instruments show he’s only been out for about two days. Meaning that the normal rationale for cryo doesn’t apply.

Spencer can think of other reasons, though. He’s mulling them over as he listens to Linehan rant on about getting fucked over yet again. More of the personnel in this room are up and moving about, floating through the zero-G, climbing rungs along the walls, dispersing to their various duties. Some of them are still recovering. Among them’s Spencer, reclining in his cryo-cell, stretching his muscles. He’s handed back the jack that the technician was using to calibrate his zone-reflexes. As far as that technician knows, he’s off the zone.

The reality’s a little more complex.

“ You’re in the rear troop areas,” Spencer says—though his lips aren’t moving. His neural link broadcasts silently, bracketed along limited range, aimed at where Linehan has indicated he is.

“ And you are?”

“ In the forward cryos.”

“ Who’s up there?” asks Linehan.

“ Mainly crew.”

“ What kind of crew?”

“ Gunnery personnel. Bridge personnel. Various other hangers-on. What’s back there?”

“ What’s back here is a shitload of Praetorian marines. I’ve never seen anything like—”

“ Is that what you are?”

“ Sorry?”

“ A Praetorian marine—is that what you are?”

“ Meaning is that what I appear to be?”

“ Just answer the fucking question.”

“ Sure, Spencer. I’m decked out as a Praetorian marine. I’m surrounded by the motherfuckers. We’re all just hanging out. Awaiting orders, apparently. Christ man, if you weren’t even briefed on me then we are fucking dead —”

“ Just tell me what you remember.”

“ They fucking reconditioned me!”

“ Who?”

“ Your own team. InfoCom. Orders from that whore Montrose, I’m sure. Trance, drugs, the works. They said I’d be loyal to them from now on. Loyal to you . They said I’d be the perfect bitch for you, you fucking bitch—”

“ Will you calm down? All they told me is that it was going to be some off-Earth operation. Next thing I know I’m waking up from cryo-sleep with the identity of a Praetorian razor.”

“ That makes me feel so much fucking better.”

“ How long were you trying to find me?”

“ I wasn’t. You know I’m no razor, Spencer. First thing I knew of a zone connection is when you suddenly activated it.”

“ How long had you been awake before I called you?”

“ About twenty minutes.”

“ Looks like they’re waking up this ship in batches,” says Spencer. “What do you know about this craft?”

“ From the inside, it looks like a Praetorian warship.”

“ And from the outside?”

“ Who the fuck knows?”

“ Based on what you’ve seen so far, what class of warship?”

“ Been trying to find out. It doesn’t conform to any specifications I know. What are you seeing on the zone?”

“ Not much,” says Spencer. “All I can see are parts of this ship’s microzone. Nothing outside a very local firewall.”

“ And what you can see doesn’t help?”

“ Not really. The ship’s obviously in lockdown. And specs on the interiors of these things aren’t exactly a matter of public record—”

“ And your side doesn’t have them?”

“ 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.”