The ionosphere was alive with a moiré phosphorescence, strong enough to obscure the land beneath. Hundreds of nuclear explosions launched by the Wild Valkyries and their counterparts over Tampa and Longdade had saturated New Florida’s atmosphere with high-energy particles and hard radiation, hypercharging the ionosphere. Even if the Zanth stopped their swarm immediately, the planetary biosphere would take centuries to recover from the radioactive blitz.
Bad Niobe descended into the blazing maelstrom. Ravi felt the cockpit thrumming as aerodynamic surfaces began to cut through the thickening energized mist. A whole new set of red warning icons flashed urgently. He couldn’t see anything through the contaminated ionosphere, except for a constant barrage of flashes as Zanth debris disintegrated in spectacular fireball explosions.
‘We’ll get you home,’ Ravi promised Dunham’s corpse. ‘Don’t you worry.’
They fell fast through the atmosphere. Ravi angled the nose down, using their aerofoil surfaces to convert their descent into forward momentum. Eerily distorted sunlight filled the cabin as they fell through the turgid base of the swollen ionosphere, and straight into a massive electrical storm. Lightning ripped through the air, skittering along the Thunderthorn’s wings to spit incandescent plasma balls from the tips in a segmented contrail.
Down into the cloud layer, and rain added to the hostile barrage New Florida’s atmosphere was greeting its defenders with. Ravi extended the Thunderthorn’s wings, listening to the stress structure creaking as they stretched out to their full extent. The dive angle began to shallow out. He was flying with inertial navigation only, curving round in a long arc to land at Yantwich Airport, where the HDA retrieval gateway was waiting.
Ravi was seventy kilometres out, under the clouds, and travelling at Mach two point eight, when the radar gave him a proximity warning. He banked Bad Niobe to port, and just caught sight of the intact Zanth chunk bursting out of the dark clouds ten kilometres north. It streaked on downwards through the squalling rain, its facets flickering weakly in the diminished sunlight. Impact threw up a dense blastcloud ring of filthy air which obscured it from view. Ravi held his breath, hoping forlornly that the crashdown would smash the alien brute as thoroughly as any 7009. But as the grimy cloud was sluiced away by the rain he could see it sitting at a sharp angle at the bottom of an enormous crater.
But then it was never about saving the world, he reflected, just buying the people time to get out. One day maybe, HDA would find a way to repel the rents, divert the Zanth away from the trans-stellar worlds where humans lived. But by then he suspected his grandkids would have grandkids of their own.
Ravi was mildly surprised when all the undercarriage bogies slid down and locked, giving him three greens. Ten kilometres out from the runway, and three of the Thunderthorn’s four turbofans lit up. Ground radar found him. He had basic communication with air traffic control. The tacnet was downloading Bad Niobe’s status to Groom Lake.
Even with all the damage, Ravi managed a wheels down in the centre of the runway. Emergency vehicles chased him all the way to the gateway at the end of the taxiway. As he reached it, another of the Wild Valkyrie squadron’s Thunderthorns was touching down behind.
The other side of the retrieval gateway was a near-physical jolt, leaving him faintly dazed. One moment he’d been fighting for his life on a world dying beneath a brutal alien invasion, now here he was back under the big calm Nevada sky, with the familiar buildings of Groom Lake throwing out their usual heat-shimmer welcome. Engineering vehicles converged on Bad Niobe. Ravi shut down the turbofans as the rad-haz trucks started spraying the spaceplane with a gooey turquoise decontamination fluid. Technicians began plugging umbilicals in. The tow-tractor hitched itself to the nose wheel, and tugged him to the combat engineering hangar.
As they rolled into the vast building he could see a dozen Thunderthorns already inserted into the long line of robot repair bays. Two of them were in even worse shape than Bad Niobe. Tech crews in radiation suits teemed over every surface, assisted by the bay’s AI and remote tools. Cybernetic arms lifted broken sections of fuselage off the stress structure, while more arms moved fresh ones into place. Battered nacelles were simply removed and new ones slotted in. Every on-board system was modular, so any damaged component was quickly unplugged and a replacement lowered in.
Bad Niobe was back to flightworthiness standard after two hours twenty minutes.
‘Send me back,’ Ravi pleaded with the squadron commander. He’d been furious when he saw Toho and Janinne waiting beneath the ladder into the patched-up cockpit.
‘You lost Dunham,’ the commander said.
‘I didn’t! The fucking Zanth shrapnel got him. Half a metre over and you’d be talking to him not me. It was chance, is all. It’s got nothing to do with my ability. Come on! Dunham and me, we blew the shit out of fifty Zanth.’
‘It was bad, Ravi, I don’t know if you can cope again.’
‘It was great out there. I was great. Come on: fifty Zanth fucked, and I brought Bad Niobe back. It’s not like you’ve cloned a whole load of pilots, we’re not Norths. Come on, send me back. Give me some HiMod to keep me sharp, and I’ll nail you fifty more. You can’t seriously think Toho is a better pilot?’
‘Toho is just as good—’
‘Fuck he is!’
‘—but I don’t have enough pilots, you’re right. So you get some rest, and when Bad Niobe gets back, I’ll send you out again.’
Ravi wound up flying six missions against the New Florida Zanthswarm. He never thought he’d make it back after the fourth. They wound up ejecting the cockpit capsule when Bad Niobe’s starboard undercarriage collapsed on landing, and the spaceplane cartwheeled into a mangled fireball that even the combat engineering hangar couldn’t fix. He got his final two flights in a different Thunderthorn because of pilot attrition. Space above New Florida was becoming dangerously rad-toxic, but the Thunderthorns still flew, getting fewer D-bomb shots into rents that were now over three thousand kilometres above New Florida, smashing fewer Zanth chunks with each passing hour. They kept going because no one else was going to help the besieged population.
Eventually, four days after the Zanthswarm began, and to the anger and dismay of every surviving squadron member, HDA command shut down the exospheric defence flights. The rents were now opening over five thousand kilometres above New Florida. Space between them and the atmosphere was a foul blizzard of fractured Zanth shards capable of pulverizing any spaceplane. The ionosphere was aglow with radiation, making New Florida look like a cool sun.
There was nothing left to save any more.
*
Vance Elston kept wiping the perspiration from his forehead as the Berlin thundered over the jungle back to the accident after dropping off the injured at Wukang. It was unpleasantly hot in the helicopter’s cabin. No one bothered with air-con. Tork Ericson was leaning against the open side door, chewing gum as he stared out across the trees’ lush, glistening canopy. It was late afternoon, and St Libra’s heat-hazed air was insufferable. Bizarrely, the open side door, with the contra-rotating blades shimmering just a metre above, did nothing to circulate any cool air. But then, Vance seriously doubted there was any of the stuff on the whole planet.
‘Two minutes out,’ Ravi Hendrik announced.
Vance checked his safety harness and went over to stand behind Tork’s bucket seat, looking down at the rumpled ground. This was hilly country, steep but not impassable. It was only the jungle which created any difficulty, with the trees uncomfortably close together, and thick undergrowth making it difficult for any vehicle. Nonetheless, the research convoy had got this far from Wukang, just over fifty kilometres. Crashing down the undergrowth, using the robot buzz saws on the front of the MTJ to slice through any wooden obstacle or snag, like trunks or low branches and the unending curtain of vines. It was why they’d brought the tough vehicles on the expedition; they could push, cut, and smash their way through anything except for solid rock.
Tork
thrust an arm out, pointing. ‘There,’ he yelled above the roar of the rotors.
Vance looked out at the crash site. Strands of vapour were winding up from the vegetation, the morning rains evaporating fast beneath the raw Sirius sunlight. The thin agitated mist curled round the mobile biolab and two Land Rover Tropics parked on the top of the ravine; the vehicles were bedecked by various cases and packs, all the tents and equipment the convoy would need to make camp overnight. His gaze followed the steep muddy slope downwards. There were long skid marks through the red-brown soil, pulped vegetation, and finally the MTJ on its side against a rock outcrop. Its packs had split on impact, festooning a broad swathe of ground with debris, tents, and clothes flapping about in the regular breeze. A couple of Legionnaires were crouched beside the stranded vehicle, the slender, colourful threads of climbing rope attached to their belts stretching all the way back up to the top of the ravine.
‘Damnit,’ Vance grunted, crossing himself in reflex. DiRito should never have been driving so close to the edge. Which was a fine thing to say with hindsight, but it hadn’t been him trying to negotiate the daunting jungle.
The Berlin swept in over the parked vehicles, and hovered twenty metres above them. Trees and bushes bowed and swayed in the downdraught.
‘If you’re going down, sir . . .’ Tork said.
Vance nodded grimly, trying not to show his nerves. It had been a long time since he’d done this in training. ‘Right.’
Tork spooled out a metre of winch cable, and clipped it to Vance’s harness. The winch arm swung out. Vance wanted to cross himself, but resisted the urge. Tork slapped his helmet twice, and he leant out of the door, letting the winch take his weight. Then he was spinning slowly as the cable lowered him.
Paresh Evitts grabbed his legs and steadied him as he reached the ground. The winch cable was unclipped, and the Berlin veered away to hover directly over the MTJ.
‘Sir,’ Corporal Evitts saluted.
Vance returned the salute.
Paresh was covered in mud which was drying rapidly in the brilliant blue-white sunlight. His young face reflected worry, anger, and weariness. ‘How are they, sir?’ he asked.
Vance couldn’t help glancing at the three black bodybags lying next to the biolab. Corporal Hiron, who’d been in the MTJ’s front seat next to DiRito; Privates Peace-Davis and Ramon Beaken as well. ‘The doc thinks O’Riley will keep the leg. Tramelo and Fawkes did a good job extracting the branch. Sleath and DiRito will be okay, they just have broken limbs. But the doc’s not so happy with Guzman. They can treat his spine a lot better back at Abellia, so we’ll know more when he gets there. The four of them are being medevaced out on the next Daedalus flight. It should be landing in another hour.’
‘Okay.’ Paresh nodded.
Vance thought the young corporal was fighting back tears. ‘You ran a smooth recovery operation here, Corporal. Your squad has a reason to be grateful for your leadership.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Antrinell Viana came over and saluted. ‘What now?’
Vance glanced round the site. Darwin Sworowski, the camp’s ground vehicle chief, was already winching down from the Berlin to the MTJ. ‘You take the convoy vehicles back to Wukang. I want you to carry the bodies with you. The Berlin will recover the MTJ and airlift it back. The engineers think it can be patched up.’
‘That I’d like to see,’ Antrinell grunted.
‘Corporal, get the bodies into the biolab, please, and wind it up here. You’ll leave as soon as the Berlin lifts.’
‘Sir.’ Paresh performed a mediocre salute, and walked off to his squad who were sitting round the two Tropics. Vance caught a glimpse of Angela, who was slumped against one of the wheels, filthy and listless. There was blood streaked with the mud on her khaki vest.
‘So?’ he asked when Paresh was out of earshot.
Antrinell let out a long sigh. ‘Hellfire. I don’t know. Hiron was pathfinding. I was in the biolab following the MTJ. There’s no way it was deliberate. DiRito went too close to the edge in the mud. It was foolhardy, but we’ve all driven along the edge of the gorges out here. I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been taking point.’
‘Did you see the fall?’
‘No.’ Antrinell pointed at the broken undergrowth below the trees twenty metres away where the vehicles had cut a path. ‘We were back there. We keep a minimum forty-metre distance between each vehicle now. That was something we learned on day one. If the MTJ comes up against something it can’t get past, you have to back up and start over along another route. Can’t do that easily if we’re all clumped up nose to tail.’ His breath whistled out between clenched teeth. ‘We had a ringlink between all the vehicles. The screams . . .’
‘I want to look where they went over.’
‘Sure.’
Vance walked to the edge. The mud was drying rapidly now. The ground was a mess of footprints, skid marks, and trampled vegetation. Smara Jacka, from the xenobiology team, and Gillian Kowalski were sitting on the rocks, belaying the safety ropes attached to Josh Justic and Omar Mihambo, who were down at the MTJ helping Sworowski attach carrier hooks to the machine. They were tethered to a big bullwhip tree which leaned towards the edge. Vance glanced up at the tree, with its horizontal coil branches overhead, the smooth light-brown bark furred by short, silky white hair. The way the bullwhip’s branches held themselves parallel to the ground put him in mind of a terrestrial cedar.
Despite the amount of foot traffic, it was easy enough to see exactly where the MTJ had gone over. The wheels had skidded through the soft mud of the slope, tearing out smaller plants as they went. Vance walked down the track on top of the ridge, then closed his eyes and told his e-i to play the recording. DiRito’s visual record began to play and Vance was in the MTJ’s cabin as it jounced about over the rough ground. Hands up in front, struggling with the steering wheel. Even with power steering and traction control, the MTJ was a brute to hold steady on this kind of terrain. DiRito seemed to have some kind of stupid pride thing going, maintaining a speed that Vance considered foolhardy. Hub motors in each of the four wheels kept it crunching forwards over everything but the biggest obstructions. And if those were tree trunks, the lethal-looking mandible-like buzz saws on the front chopped them back.
DiRito had emerged from the jungle, into the relatively clear strip of land along the edge of the gorge. He turned and began to drive parallel to the edge. There were some rocks—
—Vance opened his eyes, matching the clump of thigh-high boulders in front of him with DiRito’s visual record—
—DiRito turned right. Vance could understand that. Left would take him back towards the jungle, right was clearer, even though the MTJ was closer to the top of the ridge now. The MTJ turned fine, went round the rocks. Carried on up the hill.
Everything was normal, then there was a lurch, and the windscreen was suddenly facing the open sky above the gorge. DiRito was fighting the steering wheel, the back wheels lost traction in the mud. Watching it, Vance could sense the momentum as the rear of the vehicle swung round. Amid a shaking image, DiRito’s arms were a frantic jumble of motion on the steering wheel. The MTJ was just starting to respond when the horizon began to tilt.
‘Stop,’ Vance told his e-i. He’d run the recording eight times since DiRito arrived at Wukang’s clinic. Trying to understand what had happened.
‘So?’ Antrinell asked.
Vance stood on the spot, and examined the ground. Mashed-up honeyberry bushes and vine fronds. Mud starting to dry. Same as the rest of the jungle. He turned a full circle. The team members lounging around the Tropics were all watching him. The Berlin was circling slowly overhead.
‘DiRito hasn’t stopped shouting that something hit the MTJ,’ Vance said.
‘Well he’s bound to claim it wasn’t his fault.’
‘Hmm,’ Vance said. He could still see the stricken Legionnaire in Wukang’s little clinic, fighting against the pain, desperate to tell anyone who
came close. ‘We were hit. Something pushed us. It wasn’t me! It wasn’t my fault! I swear.’ Pleading. Insistent. Distraught. Vance had seen enough interrogations, witnessed enough people in shock, in denial, furtive, hostile. He was pretty sure DiRito was telling the truth. But truth was a subjective thing. Then again, something had definitely happened to the MTJ to send it sliding like that.
But now, hours later, and in that same exact position, Vance couldn’t see a single thing that might have caused it to swerve so sharply. He poked his boot toe into the soft ground. Even the mud was consistent, no hidden deep puddles or small sink holes. Power surge in a hub motor? Traction control was all software balanced, after all. But incredibly safe. And the chances of a glitch at the exact moment that would cause this . . .
Vance moved a short distance away from the forlorn survivors. ‘Lucky it wasn’t the biolab that went over.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Antrinell said. ‘We’ve got some decent body-impact protection built into our seating, but that would have given it a sore testing.’
‘Yes. I was thinking more of what you’re carrying.’
‘Ah. Well there’s even less to worry about on that score. The warheads can impact bare rock at terminal velocity and they won’t even graze, let alone break. They have to be armed to begin their release sequence.’
‘And the solid rockets?’
‘They’re not going to detonate just because the biolab rolled over a few times. There’s a lot of protection designed into the system.’
‘Good. We might be needing it.’
‘Excuse me?’ Antrinell said.
‘I’m not convinced this was an accident.’
‘I don’t see how it could be sabotage.’
‘Me neither, but this one is definitely poised between the two. So we need to be sure our payload is safe.’