Broken Angels (30 page)

At eighteen seconds, something seemed to happen along the recessed foldings, something like wings being shaken.

At nine seconds a dense black dot appeared without any fuss at the point of the spire. It was shiny, like a single drop of high-grade lubricant, and it appeared to be rolling around on its own axis.

Eight seconds later, it expanded with unhurried smoothness to the base of the spire, and then beyond. The plinth disappeared, and then the sand to a depth of about a meter.

In the globe of darkness, stars glimmered.

PART FOUR

UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA

Anyone who builds satellites we can't shoot down needs to be taken seriously and, if they ever come back for their hardware, be approached with caution. That's not religion, it's common sense.

QUELLCRIST FALCONER
Metaphysics for Revolutionaries

         

CHAPTER THIRTY

I don't like hard space. It fucks with your head.

It's not anything physical. You can make more mistakes in space than at the bottom of the ocean, or in a toxic atmosphere like Glimmer Five's. You can get away with far more in a vacuum, and on occasion I have. Stupidity, forgetfulness, and panic will not get you killed with the same implacable certainty as they will in less forgiving environments. But it isn't that.

The Harlan's World orbitals sit five hundred kilometers out and will shoot down anything that masses more than a six-seater helicopter as soon as look at it. There have been some notable exceptions to this behavior, but so far no one has been able to work out what caused them. As a result, Harlanites don't go up in the air much, and vertigo is as common as pregnancy. The first time I wore a vacuum suit, courtesy of the Protectorate marines and age eighteen, my entire mind turned to ice and, looking down through the infinite emptiness, I could hear myself whimpering deep in the back of my throat. It looked like a
very
long way to fall.

Envoy conditioning gives you a handle on most kinds of fear, but you're still aware of what scares you because you feel the weight of the conditioning coming online. I've felt that weight every single time. In high orbit over Loyko during the Pilots' Revolt, deploying with Randall's vacuum commandos around Adoracion's outer moon, and once, in the depths of interstellar space, playing a murderous game of tag with members of the Real Estate Crew around the hull of the hijacked colony barge
Mivtsemdi
, falling endlessly along her trajectory, light-years from the nearest sun. The
Mivtsemdi
firefight was the worst. It still gives me the occasional nightmare.

The
Nagini
slithered through the gap in three-dimensional space the gate had peeled back, and hung amid nothing. I let out the same breath we'd all been holding since the assault ship began inching toward the gate, got out of my seat, and walked forward to the cockpit, bouncing slightly in the adjusted grav field. I could already see the starfield on the screen, but I wanted a genuine view through the toughened transparencies of the assault ship's nose. It helps to see your enemy face-to-face, to sense the void out there a few centimeters from the end of your nose. It helps you to know where you are to the animal roots of your being.

It's strictly against the rules of spaceflight to open connecting hatches during entry into hard space, but no one said anything, even when it must have been clear where I was going. I got a strange look from Ameli Vongsavath as I stepped through the hatch, but she didn't say anything, either. Then again, she was the first pilot in the history of the human race to effect an instantaneous transfer from a planetary altitude of six meters to the middle of deep space, so I suspect she had other things on her mind.

I stared forward, past her left shoulder. Stared
down
, and felt my fingers curl tight on the back of Vongsavath's seat.

Fear confirmed.

The old shift in the head, like pressure doors locking sections of my brain up under diamond-bright illumination. The conditioning.

I breathed.

“You're going to stay, you might want to sit down,” said Vongsavath, busy with a buoyancy monitor that had just started gibbering at the sudden lack of a planet beneath us.

I clambered to the copilot's seat and lowered myself into it, looking for the webbing straps.

“See anything?” I asked with elaborate calm.

“Stars,” she said shortly.

I waited for a while, getting used to the view, feeling the itch at the outer corners of my eyes as instinct-deep reflexes pulled my peripheral vision backward, looking for some end to the intense lack of light.

“So how far out are we?”

Vongsavath punched up figures on the astrogation set.

“According to this?” She whistled low. “Seven-hundred-and-eighty-odd million klicks. Believe that?”

It put us just inside the orbit of Banharn, the solitary and rather unimpressive gas giant that stood sentinel on the outer edges of the Sanction system. Three hundred million kilometers farther in on the ecliptic was a circling sea of rubble, too extensive to be called a belt, that had for some reason never gotten around to coalescing into planetary masses. A couple of hundred million kilometers to the other side of that was Sanction IV. Where we'd been about forty seconds ago.

Impressive.

All right, a stellar-range needlecast can put you on the other side of so many kilometers, you run out of places to put the zeroes in less time than that. But you have to be digitized first, and then you have to be downloaded into a new sleeve at the other end, and all that takes time and technology. It's a
process
.

We hadn't been through a process, or at least nothing humanly recognizable as such. We'd just bumped across a line. Given inclination and a vacuum suit, I could literally have stepped across that line.

Sutjiadi's sense of
not belonging
came and touched me again at the nape of the neck. The conditioning awoke and damped it out. The wonder along with the fear.

“We've stopped,” murmured Vongsavath, to herself more than me. “Something soaked up our acceleration. You'd expect some. Holy. God.”

Her voice, already low, sank to a whisper on the last two words and seemed to decelerate the way the
Nagini
apparently had. I looked up from the figures she'd just maximized on the display, and my first thought, still scrabbling around in a planet-bound context, was that we had cruised into a shadow. By the time I remembered that there were no mountains out here, and not much in the way of sunlight to be obscured anyway, the same chilly shock that Vongsavath must have been feeling hit me.

Over our heads, the stars were sliding away.

They disappeared silently, swallowed with terrifying speed by the vast, occluding bulk of something hanging, it seemed, only meters above the overhead viewports.

“That's it,” I said, and a small cold shiver ran through me as I said it, as if I'd just completed an obscure summoning.

“Range . . .” Vongsavath shook her head. “It's nearly five kilometers off. That makes it—”

“Twenty-seven kilometers across.” I read out the data myself. “Fifty-three long. External structures extending . . .”

I gave up.

“Big. Very big.”

“Isn't it.” Wardani's voice came from right behind me. “See the crenellation at the edge? Each of those bites is nearly a kilometer deep.”

“Why don't I just sell seats in here,” snapped Vongsavath. “Mistress Wardani, will you please return to the cabin and sit down.”

“Sorry,” murmured the archaeologue. “I was just—”

Sirens. A spaced scream, slashing at the air in the cockpit.

“Incoming,” yelled Vongsavath, and kicked the
Nagini
on end.

It was a maneuver that would have hurt in a gravity well, but with only the ship's own grav field exerting force, it felt more like an experia special effect, an Angel wharf-conjuror's trick with holoshift.

Vacuum combat fragments.

I saw the missile coming, falling end over end toward the right-side vision ports.

I heard the battle systems reporting for duty in their cozily enthusiastic machine voices.

Shouts from the cabin behind me.

I started to tense. The conditioning broke in heavily, forced me into impact-ready limpness—

Just a minute.

“That can't be right,” Vongsavath said suddenly.

You don't see missiles in space. Even the ones
we
can build move too fast for a human eye to track effectively.

“No impact threat,” observed the battle computer, sounding slightly disappointed. “No impact threat.”

“It's barely moving.” Vongsavath punched up a new screen, shaking her head. “Axial velocity at . . . Ah, that's just
drift
, man.”

“Those are still machined components,” I said, pointing at a small spike in the red section of the spectrum scan. “Circuitry, maybe. It ain't a rock. Not just a rock, anyway.”

“It's not active, though. Totally inert. Let me run the—”

“Why don't you just bring us around and back up”—I made a quick calculation in my head—“about a hundred meters. It'll be practically sitting out there on the windshield. Kick on the external lights.”

Vongsavath locked onto me with a look that somehow managed to combine disdain with horror. It wasn't exactly a flight manual recommendation. More importantly, she probably still had the adrenaline chop sloshing about in her system the same as me. It's apt to make you grumpy.

“Coming about,” she said finally.

Outside the viewports, the environment lighting ignited.

In a way, it wasn't such a great idea. The toughened transparent alloy of the vision ports would have been built to vacuum combat spec, which means stopping all but the most energetic micrometeorites without much more than surface pitting. Certainly it wasn't about to be ruined by bumping into something adrift. But the thing that came bumping up over the nose of the
Nagini
made an impact anyway.

Behind me, Tanya Wardani shrieked, a short, quickly locked-up sound.

Scorched and ruptured though it was by the extremes of cold and the absence of pressure outside, the object was still recognizable as a human body, dressed for summer on the Dangrek coast.

“Holy God,” whispered Vongsavath, again.

A blackened face peered sightlessly in at us, empty eye sockets masked in trailing strands of exploded, frozen tissue. The mouth below was all scream, as silent now as it would have been when its owner tried to find a voice for the agony of dissolution. Beneath a ludicrously loud summer shirt, the body was swollen by a bulk that I guessed were the ruptured intestines and stomach. One clawed hand bumped knuckles on the viewport. The other arm was jerked back, over the head. The legs were similarly flexed, forward and back. Whoever it was had died flailing at the vacuum.

Died falling.

Behind me, Wardani was sobbing quietly.

Saying a name.

•         •         •

We found the rest of them by suit beacons, floating at the bottom of a three-hundred-meter dimple in the hull structure and clustered around what appeared to be a docking portal. There were four, all wearing cheap pull-on vacuum suits. From the look of it, three had died when their air supply ran out, which according to suit specs would have taken about six to eight hours. The fourth one hadn't wanted to wait that long. There was a neat five-centimeter hole melted through the suit's helmet from right to left. The industrial laser cutter that had done the damage was still tethered to the right hand at the wrist.

Vongsavath sent out the mandigrab-equipped EVA robot once again. We watched the screens in silence as the little machine collected each corpse in its arms and bore it back to the
Nagini
with the same gentle deftness of touch it had applied to the blackened and ruptured remains of Tomas Dhasanapongsakul at the gate. This time, with the bodies enfolded in the white wrap of their vacuum suits, it could almost have been footage of a funeral run in reverse. The dead carried back out of the deep and consigned to the
Nagini
's ventral air lock.

Wardani could not cope. She came down to the hold deck with the rest of us while Vongsavath blew the inner hatch on the air lock from the flight deck. She watched Sutjiadi and Luc Deprez bring the vacuum-suited bodies up. But when Deprez broke the seals of the first helmet and lifted it off the features beneath, she uttered a choked sob and spun away to the far corner of the hold. I heard her retching. The acid reek of vomit stung the air.

Schneider went after her.

“You know this one, too?” I asked redundantly, staring down at the dead face. It was a woman in a midforties sleeve, eyes wide and accusatory. She was frozen solid, neck protruding stiffly from the ring of the suit aperture, head lifting rigidly clear of the deck. The heating elements of the suit must have taken a while longer to give out than the air supply, but if this woman was part of the same team that we'd found in the trawl net, she'd been out here for at least a year. They don't make suits with that kind of survivability.

Schneider answered for the archaeologue. “It's Aribowo. Pharintorn Aribowo. Glyph specialist on the Dangrek dig.”

I nodded at Deprez. He unsealed the other helmets and detached them. The dead stared up at us in a line, heads lifted as if in the midst of some group abdominal workout. Aribowo and three male companions. Only the suicide's eyes were closed, features composed in an expression of such peace that you wanted to check again for the slick, cauterized hole this man had bored through his own skull.

Looking at him, I wondered what I would have done. Seeing the gate slam shut behind me, knowing at that moment that I was going to die out here in the dark. Knowing, even if a fast rescue ship was dispatched immediately to these exact coordinates, that rescue would come months too late. I wondered if I would have had the courage to wait, hanging in the infinite night, hoping against hope for some miracle to occur.

Or the courage not to.

“That's Weng,” Schneider had come back and was hovering at my shoulder. “Can't remember his other name. He was some kind of glyph theorist, too. I don't know the others.”

I glanced across the deck to where Tanya Wardani was huddled against the hull wall, arms wrapped around herself.