Farley fell back and pulled Broben with him. The concussion slammed across them. Pieces of carrier smashed into rock or hissed past. Charred chunks pelted rocky ground. Farley waited a few seconds, then sat up and took a look. Where the carrier had been was now a burning and twisted metal chassis. Thick black smoke billowed up from the puddling remains of balloon tires.
Farley looked up at the sky. The star flare still descended and the flying thing was already gone. It had banked in, released, and arced away—the fastest strafing run Farley had ever seen. And the most accurate. There had been no rocket streak. That thing had gravity-launched some kind of bomb and hit a bullseye.
Everybody picked themselves up in the stark light, looking around as if they’d inexplicably come awake in this forsaken place. Even Jerry had no wisecrack. What they’d just seen had been too sudden, too fast. Too big. As if the sky had opened up and the hand of God had lowered from on high to smite their enemy.
Wennda glanced at Farley and Broben as she went by him to retake point. She had got her balaclava back and it was clenched in her hand like the skin of some small animal. Farley hoped his shaking didn’t show as he held up a hand for her attention.
“What the hell is that thing?” he asked.
She glanced up at the empty sky. “Biomechanical aerial drone,” she said. “We call it the Typhon.”
“Will it be back?”
“I don’t think so. Not if we stay by the rim. It’s protecting something in the well, in the middle of the crater. It destroys anything it sees as a threat.”
“Who’s flying it?” Broben demanded.
She frowned. “No one. Its mission program is still running even though there’s no more mission.”
Broben shook his head as if trying to clear water from his ears. “Do you savvy any of that doubletalk?” he asked Farley.
Farley held two fingers a quarter inch apart.
Wennda went to talk with Arshall and Sten as Yone, Garrett, and Everett headed toward them.
“I’m telling you it was there,” Garrett was insisting. “What do you think, it dropped a rock?”
“I’m not buying it,” said Everett.
“It had a bomb under its wing,” said Garrett. “It wasn’t there before.” He turned a pleading gaze to Farley and Broben. “You saw that thing,” he said. “Did it—”
Farley held a hand up. “You take your orders from me,” he said. “Got it?”
Garrett looked puzzled. “We were only—”
Everett elbowed him in the ribs. “We got it, captain. It won’t happen again.”
“No it won’t.” Farley moved aside. “Go on.”
Broben watched them walk off and lit a Lucky. “You okay, Joseph?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You tell me.”
Farley glanced at the popping wreck. The star flare finally landed and lay burning on the barren ground. “You’re gonna have to put out the cigarette, Jer,” he said.
Broben held out the Lucky and raised an eyebrow. “How come?” he asked.
“They can detect heat.” Farley indicated the bonfire that had been a twelve-man transport. “That’s why she kept telling us to get down.”
They ran the dark perimeter of the crater and took five minutes every hour to rest. Farley followed the girl’s lead and did not question her. Her team had fought alongside him and were going doubletime to get Francis to a doc, and that was good enough for Farley for right now.
Whenever they stopped, Farley checked on Francis and the crew members who were starting to flag. Whenever they ran, Farley tried to identify constellations or plan his next move or count paces, or anything but dwell too much on things outside of his control. Which right now was pretty much everything.
Several times he thought he saw the skeletons of enormous creatures in the distance. Each time they resolved to the burned and twisted frames of vehicles.
Soon Farley simply trudged like a mindless hamster on a treadmill, not thinking about much at all beyond making it to the next break. A tour’s worth of action in the last half day had left him running on fumes. His A-2 jacket was driving him nuts. At first he tied the arms around his waist, but the leather kept working loose with his stride. Finally he put his belt through the arms and gathered the jacket like a curtain and buckled the belt and ran with the hem of the jacket tapping the backs of his legs. His boots were hot and heavy but there was nothing he could do about them so he ignored them.
False dawn found them near the entrance to another fissure. They’d passed several during the night, canyon cracks radiating from an explosion or a meteor strike or something that had blown a crater the size of Manhattan. The ground showed evidence of lava flow, huge ripples frozen in stone, clustered spheres where molten rock had hardened over air bubbles. The scale of devastation was too large for the mind’s containing. In the soft gray eastern light the world around them was a pencil sketch of ruin.
The eastern crater rim reconstituted ragged against a paling sky and then a merciless sun swelled to stretch a vast crescent shadow across the crater bowl. The silence was exquisite. Farley realized he had not seen or heard a bird in all the growing morning. No insect sounds had scored the night. Apart from people the only living things he’d seen were green carpets of lichens and dull olive patches of mold on rocks, paltry weeds struggling from cracks.
They rounded a ridge protruding down the length of the crater wall and Wennda raised an arm to call a halt.
Half a mile away a group was headed toward them. Farley counted four figures, all in black, all armed. No balaclavas, though. Farley kept an eye on Wennda. She pulled out something that looked like a large cigarette case and expanded it to a box with a fold-down eyepiece like binoculars. She used it to study the group and then collapsed it again and broke into a huge grin. It changed her face completely, fine-boned features suddenly coltish and unguarded. Arshall and Sten had set Francis down, and for the first time they visibly relaxed.
Farley’s crew stood waiting. Depleted, disoriented, and battle fatigued, they greeted any new development with dull suspicion. Most took advantage of the break to light up and watch this new bunch come on. For his own part Farley felt like an emptied vessel as he waited.
One of the approaching group raised a hand. Wennda waved back. Farley thought they looked cagey as they approached, scrutinizing him and his crew. Of course they would be wondering what the hell was going on. A group of four had left, and a group of thirteen was coming back.
Wennda’s grin grew wider as the new group stopped before them. Three men and a woman. They looked nervous. All of them had the chunky Buck Rogers egg-cooker guns slung on their shoulders and they kept their hands on them. None of them smiled back at Wennda.
Broben raised his eyebrows at Farley and Farley gave a little nod. Broben ground out his cigarette and folded his arms to put his hand near his shoulder holster. Garrett casually leaned the Browning against his leg. The length of trailing ammo belt rested against Everett’s foot. Shorty stood with his hands against his lower back. Farley noted that his holster was empty.
“So,” said Wennda, still smiling, “you found us.”
The one who had waved nodded. “And then some,” he said, indicating the crew.
“This isn’t even the best part. I’ll tell you about it while we head back.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Wennda. I need you to turn over your weapons.”
“Our—excuse me?”
“Your mission was unauthorized and conducted without the knowledge, order, or consent of the commander or the Quorum,” he said formally. “My orders are to conduct the four of you back to the Dome for a hearing.”