The Burning Skies Read Online Free PDF Page B

us.”
    “This map of yours,” says Sarmax.
    “Yeah?”
    “Give it here.”
    “It’s local,” says the Operative. “It only shows a fraction of wherever the fuck we are.”
    “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’reclearly 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.
    K laxons 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.
    H askell’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