Yes, she had proof that alien life existed; hard evidence of that sat within four meters of her. She was convinced that her home world was little more than a speck of sand on some cosmic beach. (And that for the past twenty years she had lived inside an even smaller speck.) She had seen the marvels of amazing alien technology, not just the ability to send an inhabited planetoid from one solar system to another, but to literally demonstrate the power of life and death.
She knew that there was an ancient conflict between at least two types of intelligences in the universe, organic versus machine—and that she and her family had somehow gotten in the middle of it.
To think they and their friends could win . . . could have more effect on the battle than a butterfly could affect a hurricane . . . was probably laughable. Her limited but valuable lessons suggested to her that in big games, the score was always going to be Universe: 1,000,000,000; Individual Human: 0.
Yet here she was . . . here they all were, stuck inside a metal tube, flying over an ocean toward a place they’d never seen, controlled and guarded by some of the most capable and hostile aliens imaginable.
Looked at one way, it was insane. Looked at another, it might have been hilarious.
Looked at as part of the human experience . . . maybe it was just fucking typical.
She could feel the plane diving now . . . quite steeply. If she tried she could almost hear the pilots talking on the other side of the cockpit door. No words, just evidence of communication—squawks, grunts, sounds that had the potential to be words.
Their voices were no longer calm.
That was understandable, right? They were executing a tricky maneuver, diving toward the Pacific, preparing to fly toward land at an altitude of less than five hundred meters. Rachel was not a pilot, but she had grown up with an astronaut for a father, and Zack Stewart had been required to fly in supersonic jets as an “operator.” She had heard the grim jokes and sardonic phrases about how “air is easier to fly through than mountain” and “don’t turn your plane into a boat.”
Looking out the window, she could see nothing but sea and sky—a beautiful sunny afternoon, with a few clouds way off to the north suggesting an approaching storm front. At this height, individual waves were visible . . . long broad rollers heading for the beaches of Mexico.
There were beeps from the cockpit.
Yahvi heard them, too. “Mom . . .”
Rachel had never been one to offer unthinking blanket reassurance. She hated the phrase It’s going to be all right with a passion, because she had ample evidence that very often things didn’t turn out all right.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said.
She glanced at Pav, who would have said the same thing—and who was incapable of hiding his alarm.
The plane began to maneuver. . . . “We’re making S turns,” Edgely said, as if he were a newly appointed aeronautical expert.
“Can you see land from your side?” Rachel said. Whatever the type of turns, she was still seeing only sea and sky.
The plane rolled to its right suddenly, making Rachel feel as though she were on a carnival ride. Every occupant of the cabin uttered a “whoa!” or the equivalent.
Then it felt as though they were diving, which could not be good, given that they were only a few hundred meters above the water to begin with.
Yahvi was paralyzed with fear. She clutched Rachel’s hand like a potential drowning victim.
The plane began to rise now, its motion pressing Rachel and the others into their seats. Like a rocket launch, she thought. As this went on and on, as the plane continued to climb steeply, the rocket-launch analogy seemed even more apt. The whine of the engines grew louder. Rachel thought she heard and felt the airframe shuddering.
“Are we heading back to Keanu?” Pav said, triggering nervous laughter from Chang and, behind them, Xavier.
That two seconds of grim humor quickly gave way to even grimmer fear. This wasn’t right—!
As she looked out the window to the north, Rachel saw a fireball.
Yahvi saw it, too. “Mommy, what was that?”
“Our decoy,” Xavier said.
Rachel had known that, though it took Xavier’s words to supply confirmation. She gasped and uttered, “Oh, no!” Benvides and Quentin!
As their plane leveled out, the light brown coast of Mexico visible on the horizon, Rachel saw two other aircraft in the sky, heading toward them from the left.
From the cockpit came the clear sounds of Steve and Jo in a grim struggle, overlaid with alarming beeps.
They were alone in the sky now, targets for the Aggregates.
THINGS WE DON’T HAVE ON KEANU
Sports teams or most sports, except for cricket and some basketball
Churches
Books on shit like diets, investing, pets, or etiquette. Books, period
Electronics stores
ATMs
Kentucky Fried Chicken or other restaurants
THINGS WE DO HAVE ON KEANU
Music
Markets
Free time
XAVIER TOUTANT, AS QUOTED BY EDGAR CHANG
FOR THE NEWSKY NEWS SERVICE
SANJAY
His memories were completely confused.
Sanjay Bhat remembered the tension of Adventure’s final approach to Bangalore and Yelahanka . . . the barely suppressed pride and even glee that a hostile missile had come close to destroying them, but failed.
Then he had watched the last few meters of the descent, his eyes unable to look away from the figures on the control panel, as if rapt, unblinking attention could somehow slow the rates, change them to the numbers he wanted—
Then? The shattering impact, cushioned by couch and belts, the sound of something smashing, the panel flying toward him, blinding, crippling pain—
Followed, seemingly a few moments later, by a cough, a feeling of suffocation, an opening of the eyes to see a brownish-yellow film in front of them.
Clawing, feeling relief that the covering was coming away, terror that he was confined. Had he been buried? Was he in the wreckage of Adventure?
Then he was shaken by a series of violent spasms. Fortunately, they passed quickly, leaving him shivering, twitching, but alive . . . and lying on his back inside a golden coffin-sized cell, like a honeycomb.
Along his left side was a wall made of a thin, translucent substance that felt like wax. There were shadows outside! Maybe someone who could get him out!
He turned on his side and reached with his right hand—
And poked a hole through the wall.
The whole thing broke into soft pieces, some falling, some peeled away by the entities outside.
Even though his ears were still covered by the clinging second skin, Sanjay could hear a human female voice calling, “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
Then arms reached for him, pulling him free.
As he slid out of the cell, he realized that he knew where he was. Like most HBs, he had sneaked into the Beehive at one time—or, in Sanjay’s case, several times. And that was where he was, in the Beehive, in the arms of a woman he knew very well . . . Sasha Blaine.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
There was the choking sob at the realization that he must have died, followed by the instant elation that he had somehow survived, or rather come back.
“It’s okay, Sanj,” Sasha Blaine said. “We’re here.”
Another woman held him, too, this one dark-haired, dark-eyed, not familiar. Sanjay let himself collapse into their arms.