Shadow on the Sun (15 page)

“I said I couldn't
see
. Knowing and seeing are different stories.” She pushes herself across the floor to another workstation. “Say, Jake. This is going to take a while. There's a galley and a bunk room down the hall past my lab. Get some grub and forty winks of shut-eye, and when you wake up, I'll have a big surprise.”

CHAPTER 28

The Hive

Olympus Mons

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 16. 04:13

 

 

Lyme stands in the Nursery, facing the observation window, looking out at the landing platform where two Hellbenders are loading the members of Alpha Team and are preparing for takeoff.

“General,” Dolly says, “Pilots One and Two are requesting permission to depart.”

“Mission orders are dispatched to the onboard CPUs?”

“Affirmative,” she replies.

“You have established the Leash with all of Alpha Team?” Lyme says.

“Affirmative.”

Lyme nods. “Permission granted.”

Rotors scattering snow across the platform, the Hellbenders rise into the air. Lyme snaps a salute and holds it until the two copters are out of sight. “May the gods of war smile upon you all,” he says, then stands at ease. “Dolly, have you received any communication from Oryol?”

“Negative, sir.”

Lyme walks across the Nursery to Riacin, who is standing over Driver One, monitoring Alpha Team's flight. “Explain, Riacin. I hired Oryol on your recommendation. Why haven't I heard anything?”

Riacin blanches as he stand erect, then regains his composure. “Oryol's methods are unorthodox. Perhaps communication would give away the cover that—”

Dolly's face appears on Driver One's screen. “General Lyme,” she says. “I have received an urgent message on an encrypted military channel.”

“All right,” Lyme says, arching his eyebrows in surprise. “Driver, continue with the simulation. The battle plan must be flawless. There's not room for error on a space platform. Dolly, Riacin will take the call on the main monitor. Patch it through.”

“Me, sir?” Riacin ask. “May I ask why?”

“I never answer unexpected communications,” he says. “I always have a flunky do it.”

Riacin screws up his face but nods and remains silent.

“Message routed to you, Lieutenant,” Dolly says, and fades out, her face replaced by a young woman with curly red hair.

“Where's Lyme?” Rosa Lynn asks.

“General Lyme has other matters to which to attend,” Riacin says. “How may I help you?”

“Lyme's got a bounty out for Jacob Stringfellow,” she says. “I'm going to claim it, but I want to renegotiate terms.”

“No one,” he scoffs, “renegotiates terms with General Lyme.”

She holds up a purplish blue ball. A green lights blinks inside it. “They do when they're holding this.”

“A ball?” Riacin says, his voice rising. “Why would General Lyme be interested in that?”

Rosa Lynn tosses the ball in the air. “Your mouth says no, but your facial contortions say you know exactly what this is. So, like I said, I want double.”

“You're insane.”

She drops a titanium leg on her desk and raps her knuckles on it. “Personally, I think Lyme owes me, don't you?”

“He owes you nothing,” Riacin says calmly, “and he will have you killed for your temerity.”

“Death isn't the offer I was expecting,” she says.

“Just what were you expecting from me, Cadet Malinche?” Lyme says, stepping into view. He nudges Riacin aside. “Yes, despite the dumbstruck look on your face, I do remember you. We have had business arrangements, after all.”

“Arrangements that you backed out of,” Rosa Lynn says. “After the accident, you said I'd be taken care of for life.”

Lyme shrugs. “I gave you a position in my corporation and a generous budget for research and development, an arrangement that bore fruit, as I recall.”

“Only if you call my stolen exoskeleton designs ‘fruit,' ” she says. “Your symbiarmor prototype crippled me, Lyme.”

“Is there a pertinent reason for this communication,” Lyme says, “or are you just voicing the complaints of a disgruntled former employee?”

Rosa Lynn holds up the ball so close to the screen that it blocks out her face. “Like I said, I've got what you want, and I want the money you owe me. So here's my offer. Up the bounty tenfold, and I'll deliver the triggering device.”

“What about Jacob?” Lyme says. “The bounty is on his head as well.”

Rosa Lynn blushes. “Jake's not part of the deal. He's long gone.”

Lyme laughs and shakes his head slowly. “You are an unskilled liar, Cadet Malinche, which makes you a terrible negotiator. Nevertheless, I've never been a man who lets pride get in the way of business, so I agree to your terms. Send your GPS coordinates so that my team may complete the transaction.”

“I may be a lousy liar,” she says, “but I'm not stupid enough to let Sturmnacht come knocking on my door. I'll pick out a nice public place where I can meet your team.”

“I would prefer to keep this private.”

“That's just tough, isn't it?” she says. “I've got the ball, and you don't know my location, so I'm calling the shots. I'll be in contact when I'm ready.”

She reaches to close her screen, but Lyme interrupts her. “Just a moment, Cadet. There is something I'd like share with you. Dolly, please upload vidfile XfRj719e8 for viewing. Queue to two minutes forty-one seconds.”

“Affirmative,” Dolly says.

“I don't have time for—” Rosa Lynn says.

“Humor me, please,” Lyme says. “I think you will find this . . . enlightening.”

A still image appears on the multinets: Two soldiers in battle armor stand next to a beanstalk, a space elevator platform drifting over Mars, tied to the planet's surface by a high-tension cable. Attached to the cable is a drop tube that extends almost to the planet's surface.

“I've seen that before,” Rosa Lynn says. “Too many times.”

“Have you?” Lyme says. “Have you seen the entire recording? Dolly, if you please.”

“Playback under way,” Dolly says.

The soldiers begin to move. The shorter one, a female who stands head and shoulders below the second one, positions a multinet display and a high res camera so that it is facing the drop tube hatch. The light blinks red.

“Base, this is Cadet Malinche. Feed is secured. Test Alpha Niner Gamma is about to begin.” She steps back, grabbing the arm of the other soldier. “Joining me for this symbiarmor road test is Cadet Jacob Stringfellow. Permission to proceed.”

“Cadet Malinche, this is CEO Stringfellow,” says a voice off camera. “I give you permission to proceed.”

“Mr. Stringfellow?” Rosa Lynn's eyes widen. “We weren't expecting such a grand audience, sir. Hear that, Jake, your dad's here to watch.”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “I noticed.”

“We drew straws,” Rosa Lynn says, “and Jake's the first to go.”

Jacob turns toward the hatch, ready to jump.

“Belay that,” Stringfellow says. “Malinche, you are the ranking cadet. You will take the first jump.”

Jake whirls. “Father! I drew the short straw.”

“You were born drawing the short straw, Jacob,” Stringfellow says. “Allow someone else the privilege.”

Rosa Lynn gives Jake's shoulders a shake. “Yeah, share the glory,” she says, then whispers, “Don't sweat your old man. I want to make a good impression.”

“Fine. Take the jump,” Jake says, but glares at the camera.

Rosa Lynn taps her temple. A wave of static sweeps over her armor. “Telemetry functions online.”

Jake opens the hatch door, and Rosa Lynn steps inside. She positions herself over the tube and crosses her arms. “See you on the ground, handsome!” Then she jumps.

Jake watches her drop on the screen. All is well until she tries to slow her descent. A warning light beeps, and a line of text pops up on-screen: Symbiarmor failure imminent.

“Father!” Jake yells. “The suit's overheating!”

“So it is,” Stringfellow says.

“I have to save her!”

“No.”

Jake turns for the hatch, but a bolt of static electricity freezes him. He stands on the ice-coated platform, looking down at Rosa Lynn's falling body. “Father! Let me go!”

“This is no time for heroics, Jacob,” Stringfellow says. “You are too valuable to sacrifice to some foolhardy gesture. The cadet will be taken care of. If there is anything worth caring for left.”

Jake breaks loose. He dives straight into the hatch. The feed changes point of view to follow him as he streaks down the tube, accelerating. Seconds later, he reaches Rosa Lynn. Grabs her waist with one hand. Slams his back against the tube. The friction slows him. Rosa Lynn screams as they exit and slam through the landing pad below.

The video feed ends.

Rosa Lynn's furious face appears on the screen. “You made my suit fail?” she screams. “It wasn't an accident? All this time . . .”

“How would a successful jump benefit our research?” Lyme says calmly.

“That's why you let me go first?” she yells, getting a hold of herself. “As a sacrificial lamb?”

“You fashion yourself a scientist,” Lyme says. “Surely you know that no progress is made without sacrifice.”

“I'm going to get even for this,” she says coldly.

The feed goes to static.

Lyme turns to Riacin. “Was Dolly able to isolate the source of the signal?”

“Yes, General,” Riacin says, “within a ten-kilometer radius. The signal originated from the Barrens.”

“Scramble the nearest tactical unit,” Lyme says, turning the monitor off. “Swarm the Barrens with Sturmnacht. Thanatos imperative is in effect: Secure the HVT and terminate all hostiles.”

“Even Alpha Dog, sir?”

“Yes, Riacin, even my son.”

CHAPTER 29

The Barrens

Noctis Labyrinthus

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 16. 04:13???

 

 

Even though Rosa Lynn's galley was stocked with food and her bunk room had two soft and comfortable beds, I couldn't seem to build up a hankering for either. You'd think that after camping in the open and eating next to nothing the last couple of days, I could settle in. But no.

So I took a long shower, spending an hour scrubbing the butterscotch-colored road dirt off my skin and rinsing the dust out of my symbiarmor. I hung it to drip-dry and then used a medikit to patch up a couple of scratches and bruises I'd collected along the way.

“What is perplexing you?” Mimi asks as I slap a strip bandage on my temple. “Do not bother to deny it.”

I sigh and toss the medikit back into the drawer. I grab a tin of biscuits from the galley and park myself, wrapped in a white towel, on the foot of a bed. “Rosa Lynn. She seems . . .”

“Go on. Go on.”

“Kind of lost,” I say. I gnaw on a biscuit, catching the crumbs in my hand. “Like she needs my help.”

“
Your
help?” Mimi says. “You came here so that she could help
you
.”

“Her life was ruined when she made that jump. My father put her in the suit that failed. I feel like I owe her something.”

“The sins of the father are not the sins of the son, cowboy. Setting that aside, has it occurred to you that her welcoming is a ruse meant to win your trust?”

“Sure,” I say, and suck the crumbs from my palm, then wash my hands in the sink. “But that doesn't change anything.”

“Of course it does.”

I return to the showers. I drop the towel and grab my armor. The cloth is already dry, and it doesn't stink like old boots anymore.

“What are you doing?” Mimi asks.

“Going to check on Rosa Lynn.”

“To see if she has opened the case?”

“Right,” I say, buckling my belt and grabbing my armalite. “That, too.”

 

I leave the galley and stick my head in the lab. “Rosa?” I say softly.

There's no answer. At the same time, I hear her voice and turn toward the playroom. I walk quietly, not wanting to disturb her.

“Not wanting her to know you're here,” Mimi says. “Because you are spying on her. Admit it.”

I ignore Mimi again and move to the edge of the door. I hold my breath, listen but hear nothing but the hum of the multinet servers. “This is stupid,” I say. “She's not hiding anything. You're just paranoid, Mimi.”

So I turn the corner, walking casually. My boots squeak on the floor, and Rosa Lynn jolts. She turns quickly to face me.

“No sneaking up on me, ya big wank!” she says, and taps the screen closed. “You scared the life out of me.”

“I couldn't sleep,” I say, which is the truth. “Any development on the thing inside the case?”

Her eyes are puffy, probably from a lack of sleep, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Sprigs of loose hair fall across her face. “The case contains five things, actually.” She takes the HVT from the table. Her face lights up as she seizes a device the size and shape of a billiard ball. “Three small bombs, a big bomb, and a puzzle!” she says. “Best puzzle in forever.
This
was in the case.”

“A ball?” I ask.

“It's not your ordinary ball,” she says. “It took about a bajillion tests, but I deduced that this is the prototype of a reverse homing pigeon.”

“I'm not following you.”

“You never could keep up,” she says. “Think: What has been landing at six-hour intervals all over the prefecture the last few weeks?”

“Crucible strikes.”

“Good answer,” she says. “Next question: Why do the strikes hit low-yield targets? What do Regulators call blind fire?”

“Spray and pray,” I say. “But that's just the fossikers who couldn't aim.”

“Smart boy! Now consider this: What if there were a gargantuan gun, say, in orbit around Mars, that was capable of firing equally gargantuan projectiles at insane speeds.”

“Like a rail gun?” I ask.

“Yes!” She jumps up. “A length of steel fired from an orbiting rail gun would generate enough force to destroy a city sans nuclear fallout. But any guidance system on the projectile would melt at firing due to plasma energy generation.”

She tosses the ball in the air. “That's where this pigeon comes in. Since you can't put the guidance on the projectile, you put it on a tracking device, which locks onto to a signal generated by the projectile.”

“If everything burns up,” I say, “how can a tracking device survive?”

“Because all processors are silicon based. All you need is a very basic signal, such as the predictable electric pulse from quartz.”

“So they need a hunk of quartz to guide the projectile?”

“Even that would melt. There's only one mineral that can withstand the heat we're talking about, and you can't get them on Mars—a diamond. The nanomechanical oscillator would be hosted in a diamond protocrystal embedded in the center of the Crucible spike, probably using kinetic energy as the shield for current.”

“Funny, I just felt something fly over my head.”

“I understood every word,” Mimi says.

“But that's not our problem.” She continues without pausing. “This pigeon is. Inside it is the homing device, a sonar resonator, around which are hundreds of thousands of layers of nano particles, each with different properties—metal, synthetic and others. You could call it metal rubber.”

“Sounds like symbiarmor,” I say.

“More like a million suits of symbiarmor wrapped in a tight ball. Meaning it's impervious to heat, cold, water, or normal compressive force.”

“So I can't destroy it?”

“Nope.”

“Then what do I do with it?”

“You could turn it on.”

“How?” I ask.

“Zap it with a strong current such as an electromagnetic pulse, and the homing mechanism will engage.”

“You're sure?”

“Pretty much sure. I'm not infallible.”

I hold up the pigeon. “How do I turn it off?”

“You don't. It keeps broadcasting its signal until the Crucible destroys it.”

“You said this pigeon is indestructible.”

“Virtually indestructible,” she says. “Short of a Crucible strike, you're not going to put a dent in it.”

“Turning it on is definitely
not
an option,” I say. “Any thoughts on getting rid of it?”

“My best low-tech advice?” she says. “Throw it into a deep, dark hole somewhere it'll never be found—and thus, used.”

A deep, dark hole. A hole so deep that no one will ever be able to find the HVT and use it. On the whole of Mars, there are probably dozens of places that fit the bill, but there's only one that I've seen with my own eyes. It's a hole so deep it's supposed to go straight to the planet's core.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Mimi?”

“I am incapable of such primitive cognitive functions,” she says. “However, I do not have to guess which place you're referring to—the mines of Fisher Four.”

I take the case from Rosa Lynn. “Looks like I've got my work cut out for me. Time to go.”

“What?” Rosa Lynn says, her voiced laced with desperation. “You're leaving? You just got here, and I haven't even—I don't know—made you a meal yet.”

“You said to throw the pigeon in a deep, dark hole,” I say, giving her a sidelong look. “I know the perfect place, Hell's Cross.”

“Great choice. But you can't go . . . yet,” she says. “The pigeon— Wait. No, never mind. Go on. No, wait.” She looks at the multinet screens, then back at me. Then back at the screens. Then up to the right.

“Mimi, what is she doing?”

“I have no theories, cowboy.”

Finally, she exhales deeply and crosses her arms. “What if I told you,” she says, “that there's a way to attack Lyme using one of the multinet's backdoors?”

“You want to attack Lyme?” I say. “Music to my ears.”

“How would you feel,” Rosa Lynn asks, the corner of her mouth twitching, “about letting me extract some of the code from your AI?”

“What've you got in mind?” I say, not crazy about the idea of copying Mimi again.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Just slapping together a little nanocradle rig and using it to hack into Dolly's operating system and introducing a snippet of code that will float around harmlessly until it finds a receptive program or two. Then
blamo
! The viral code takes over.”

“You want Mimi to be a virus?”

“
Virus
is such an inaccurate word,” she says. “It implies that the code would just wreak havoc with the system, but what I have in mind would be much more devastating.”

“What do you think, Mimi?” I ask.

“If you think that you are going to let this woman clone my code, you are out of your mind.”