David Williams - The Burning Skies

“ 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 the primary razor.

Which must make him the secondary razor. The one no one here has seen yet. The one who’s been shipped in special—part of the larger crew that’s been assigned to this ship, woken up in preparation for the start of active operations. Spencer takes his seat near the room’s rear, next to that primary razor. He reaches for the duplicate ship-jacks, leans back, and stares straight ahead as he slots those jacks in. He feels the razor watching him. He feels like the whole bridge-crew’s watching him—the captain and his executive officer on the second level, the gunnery officers on the room’s left side, the telemetry and navigational officers on the right. He wonders how much of what he’s feeling is paranoia and how much is real. He resolves not to let such questions show on his face. He gets busy running zone-routines, trying to act natural.

Which isn’t easy, given what’s in the window.

The largest space station ever built shimmers in the sun. The Europa Platform consists of two O’Neill cylinders and their attendant infrastructure. Both those cylinders are clearly visible, connected to each other at both poles, slowly rotating in opposite directions to maintain a stationary position vis-à-vis one another. Each is just over thirty klicks long.

The nearer cylinder’s about five klicks distant, taking up most of the view, one of its outlying mirrors glimmering alongside it. Part of one of the cylinder-windows can be seen just beyond that mirror, a slice of green shimmering within translucence, but most of the visible structure is grey shading into black—though on the zone it’s lit up in every color, shot through with data overlays. The cylinder-ends that are nearest to Spencer are designated NORTH POLE , and the walls that curve out from each point house the cities of New London and New Zurich, respectively, along with their accompanying spaceport-freight yards.

But it’s the opposite ends that really get Spencer’s attention. Beyond the point labeled south pole on each cylinder is a massive sphere—each as wide as the cylinder against which they abut—mostly rock, but studded with a great deal of metal as well. From where Spencer’s situated they look like moons rising above some strange metal landscape. They’re habbed asteroids—and the zone within what have been labeled as aeries is dark, concealed behind the ramparts of the firewalls of the Euro Magnates. Five years ago the Treaty of Zurich confirmed L3—the most isolated of the libration points, the Earth directly between it and the Moon—as a neutral possession. The Euro Magnates have made good money from it. Ten million people make the Platform one of the largest off-planet settlements. But the Rain co-opted the neutrals on Earth. So why not here?