Schmidt looked up and squinted into the sun. Angel's halo, or ring, was almost directly overhead, but too thin to see. Each year it dumped around 250 million tons worth of debris into the atmosphere.
That meant that something on the order of 850 tons of metal hit each square mile of the equatorial zone each day. Enough to turn the surface into a hell of jagged points and razor-sharp edges. Chunks of iron lay everywhere, some blackened by heat, others rusted with age, and the most recent so shiny that they glittered with reflected light.
Schmidt had done the math during previous trips into the zone. Once a century or so, each square mile would be hit by something the size of a ground car, traveling at twice the speed of sound, and exploding on impact. When that happened, pieces of red-hot rock shrapnel would be hurled in every direction.
And on the average day, each square mile would be hit by two or three basketball-sized chunks of metal, about twenty-five hundred golf-ball-sized pieces of debris, and something like two hundred and fifty thousand metal peas.
That meant the chances of being hit by something the size of a pea were pretty good. Say, once every ten days or so.
Schmidt's hand went to the right side of his head. A meteor had hit his protective helmet during his most recent trip into the E-zone and laid him out cold.
He caught a glint of light out of the corner of his eye. Too high to be metal on the ground. It was there and then gone. The weasel was still with him. Not satisfied with its satellite surveillance, Mega-Metals had sent a robotic spy to keep an eye on him. An eye that would have to be blinded in the very near future.
The geologist smiled grimly, climbed into the cab, and started the engines. He'd drive for two hours, three at the most, then stage his little act. It would be a pleasure to find the little bastard and kill it.
The power-assisted steering wheel jumped and jerked in Schmidt's hands as he guided Honey out of the badlands and into the E-zone.
Progress was slow, but faster than the first few times that he'd entered the area and started the long slow process of creating a computerized map. Now it was a matter of following that map via the transparent heads-up display that hovered in front of the windshield.
Schmidt grinned. It seemed silly somehow, this business of using science to destroy science, of canceling out more than three thousand years of achievement. Yet, for all the good that scientific knowledge had made possible, it had produced unspeakable evil as well.
Schmidt remembered what it looked like to see hell bombs march across the land, to see entire cities turned to radioactive glass, to kill and kill without end.
Schmidt saw Janice next to him, the section leader's chevrons gleaming on the side of her helmet, her head just starting to turn towards him when the bullet hit.
The image had haunted him for years. The head turning, the eyes alight with intelligence, the lips parted to speak. What would she have said? That she was tired? That war sucks? He'd never know.
The bullet had not been aimed. It was a random thing, one of thousands pumped like water from a metal hose, spraying the land with death.
The bullet hit Janice between the eyes, shattered her skull, and churned its way through her brain. In just a few seconds, the lethal chunk of metal had nullified a lifetime of accumulated knowledge, erased a quirky sense of humor, and killed the only person that he loved.
It was then that Schmidt had done what they'd trained him to do, had bathed himself in blood, and been rewarded with the empire's highest honor.
"Damn them, damn them, damn them!"
All of a sudden Schmidt realized that he'd been screaming. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, Honey was still on course, and the E-zone was all around him.
Schmidt bit his lower lip and drove. Janice, and the three hundred and fifty-two ghosts of D Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines drove with him.
It was nearly dark by the time Schmidt pulled into the center of an ancient crater and killed Honey's engines. He was struck by the almost total silence. No birds, no insects, no barking dogs. Just silence.
There were meteors though, and most fell silently, streaks of light that quickly disappeared. But there were larger chunks too, about one every minute or so, which left trails of green and orange across the sky. They reminded Schmidt of the Empire Day fireworks he'd watched as a boy.
He caught a glint of reflected light over to the right. Good. His friend the weasel was getting careless. Settling in like a bird on its nest. Conserving precious energy.
Schmidt took his time, setting up the folding table out where it could be seen, fixing dinner and eating it while the sun set over the horizon. Then, following the same pattern he'd used each night so far, the scientist entered the truck.
His bunk beckoned, but he ignored it and went straight for the tool box.
For one brief moment Schmidt wished that he'd given in and brought the assault weapon or blast rifle along with him. He saw the hand sledge and picked it up.
The hammer felt heavy in his hand. It was something his nomadic ancestors would have understood. A simple shaft with a hunk of metal mounted on the end. The hammer could build as well as destroy. And what blast rifle could lay claim to that? To having driven a nail? To having built a house?
Yes, Schmidt decided, the hammer would be better than the weapons he'd left behind. Much better.
The geologist stuck the handle through a loop in his belt and felt the weight of it pull down on his pants. He sucked in his breath and tightened his belt.
The hatch was something new, a modification made just prior to departure, and a key part of the geologist's plan.
He pulled the door up and dropped through, confident that the weasel couldn't see him under the truck and wouldn't be able to distinguish the geologist's heat from that still radiating off the vehicle.
It had been years since Schmidt had low-crawled anywhere, but the training was still there, memprinted on his mind. The plan was simple. He'd use the rim of the crater for cover, crawl along it until he found a break, and wriggle through.
The weasel could fly pretty well but would be awkward on the ground. And, given the fact that it believed its quarry had quit for the night, the machine had most likely powered down. That meant it would be grounded, less alert than usual, and vulnerable.
Schmidt found a gap in the rim and wriggled through. The sledge was a weight pressing against the small of his back.
He paused and pulled a small black box from his shirt pocket. He turned the device on, swept it back and forth, and smiled when a tiny red eye appeared. Good. The little bastard was over to the right somewhere.
Schmidt returned the box to his pocket and started to crawl. The countless rocks and pieces of rusty metal made it slow going. Time and time again he felt sharp edges slice through his skin.
He ignored the pain. It was worth it to get the weasel. Of course the geologist had never seen a real weasel, or even a picture of one as far as he could recall. Where did weasels live anyway? New Britain? Terra? It didn't matter. Weasels were mean and sneaky, just like robo-spies, and that's all he needed to know.
Schmidt paused, checked the little black box, and crawled on. There was very little light. He was closer now, much closer, and his breath came in short, shallow gasps.
There, just ahead—what was that? A piece of shiny meteorite? Or what he was looking for?
Schmidt paused and was glad he did. The shiny thing sprouted a small antenna. It whirred about a foot upwards, stopped, and blossomed into a tiny dish. The dish turned towards the north and stopped.
The geologist held his breath waiting to see what would happen next. About thirty seconds passed. The dish whirred, was reabsorbed by the antenna, and the whole thing was withdrawn into the robo-spy's flat, disklike body.
Schmidt let his breath out in a long, slow exhalation. So, the weasel had reported to its masters. What could be better? Odds were that they wouldn't expect another report until the following day. The intervening hours would give Schmidt on
e helluva head start.
He crawled forward, moving ever so slowly. The robo-spy was slightly uphill from Honey and over to one side. That made the going tougher, but provided Schmidt with better cover.
The geologist felt sudden pain as a jagged piece of metal bit into his thigh. He paused, shifted his weight away from the source of pain, and continued. There was a sharp, cracking sound from off to the right. A meteor hit. A small one, but a meteor hit just the same. It occurred to him that he'd forgotten to wear the protective helmet.
The distance closed. Ten feet, eight, six, four. Schmidt watched the shiny disk, waiting for it to sense his presence and come suddenly to life. It was nearly three feet in diameter and occupied the center of a small-impact crater. The truck, and the light that Schmidt had left on, glowed off to the right.
He did a careful push-up. Nothing. He let his knees touch and leaned back. Nothing. He reached for the hammer. Nothing. He put his left hand down and shifted his weight. Nothing. He started to stand.
"Hold it right there!" The voice was loud and came from the disk. Schmidt heard an angry whine as the machine's drive mechanism came up to speed. He dashed forward and brought the hammer down against the very center of the robo-spy's housing. It rang like a gong.
The machine tried to lift. Schmidt used a boot to hold it down. "Stop that! I belong to Mega-Metals Incorporated. You have no right to destroy company property!"
Schmidt laughed. He put all of his anger, all of his hate, into the next blow. When the hammer hit he could feel the shock all the way up to his shoulder. The metal housing broke and he felt something crunch.
There was a whirring noise. Schmidt saw the antenna appear like a snake from its lair. The robo-spy was trying to send a message!
The hammer descended again, sheared the antenna off at the base, and dented the machine's already shattered fuselage.
"Stop that! I belong to Mega-Metals Incorporated. You have no…"
Schmidt struck again, and the computer-simulated voice came to a sudden stop. The geologist didn't. He hit the machine again and again until his forehead was beaded with sweat and the robo-spy was nothing more than crumpled metal.
Then, dizzy from exertion and fatigue, he pulled the black box out of his pocket and turned it on. There was no sign of the little red eye. The weasel was well and truly dead. Pop goes the weasel.
Schmidt stumbled down the slope and climbed into Honey's cab. He dropped the hammer on the passenger's seat and started the engines. They filled the night with a deep throaty rumble.
A meteor hit somewhere to the east. One of the big ones. There was a flash of light, followed by a roar of sound.
The geologist popped two stim tabs, put the truck in gear, and bounced up and out of the crater. Just two more hours, three at the most, and Honey would reach the cave. He'd done his part. The rest was up Lando.
16
Lando brought The Tinker's Damn out of hyperspace, checked the scanners for trouble, and headed straight for Angel. No tricks, no scams, a straight high-speed run.
The smuggler knew it was stupid, knew he should forget the whole thing, and knew he couldn't. What had started as a matter of pride had become something more. Lando believed in what The Chosen were trying to do.
Not in their religion, not in their self-imposed isolation, but in standing up for their rights. And if that meant eco-war, then so be it. He'd deliver the microscopic warriors and clear out.
It took ten minutes for the first com call to reach them. Having "seen" The Tink before, the company's computers had little difficulty identifying her again.
Lando smiled as Lorenzo Pal appeared. The corpo still had a small bandage on the side of his head. "Well, look who's here. The slime ball himself."
Pal didn't reply. He couldn't. The words he spoke had been uttered ten minutes before. "You're in a world of trouble, Lando. Assault with the intent to commit murder, violation of flight protocols, and illegal flight from prosecution. Give it up. I'll see that you get a fair trial."
Lando didn't bother with an answer.
The smuggler touched a key and the screen snapped to black.
Wendy looked from the comset to Lando. "What will they do?"
Lando shrugged. "They'll attempt to intercept us in space, and failing that, to stop us on the ground. The Tink's more than a match for Pal's shuttles and tugs."
Wendy frowned. "I don't want any more killing, Pik."
Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Well, it just so happens that Mega-Metals doesn't play by the same set of philosophical rules that you do. And guess what? Neither do I. If they fire at me, then I'll fire at them."
Wendy was silent for a moment. She searched Lando's face for something that wasn't there. There was regret in her voice. "I'm sorry, Pik."
Lando knew what Wendy meant. She was sorry that it hadn't worked out, sorry that they were such different people, sorry that the universe worked the way it did.
He smiled and put his hand on hers. "I'm sorry, too."
Nothing more was said. Nothing had to be.
It took the better part of a standard day to reach Angel. Plenty of time for Mega-Metals to prepare, and plenty of time for Lando to sweat. Lorenzo Pal would have some sort of reception ready, but what? It didn't take long to find out.
The shuttles and tugs came out in a V formation, tugs first, shuttles second. Angel was huge behind them, a luminescent presence, her halo shining silver.
The Mega-Metal ships burped coherent light and fired their missiles. None of them could take The Tink one-on-one, so Pal hoped that their massed firepower would compensate for a lack of individual size and strength.
Lando held his fire, not out of deference to Wendy's wishes, but because there was no point in doing otherwise. Why kill if you don't have to? The smuggler headed straight into the enemy fire. Computers searched for openings, man-made lightning slashed through vacuum, and missiles accelerated outwards. The Tink's force field shrugged them off.
Wendy gripped her armrests, watching the other ships grow larger, waiting for Lando to fire. Then, just when she thought a head-on conflict was inevitable, Lando turned the ship to starboard, and dived towards Angel's ring.
Unused to fleet maneuvers, and unwilling to follow The Tink into the ring while bunched up, the corpos scattered. Shuttles and tugs zoomed in every direction as Lorenzo Pal screamed abuse at them over the radio.
There was little time for Wendy and Lando to celebrate their victory. The Tink was inside the ring now. Proximity alarms screamed, lights flashed, and Lando had his hands full as he conned the ship between mountains of floating rock.
It was an almost magic place. In spite of the fact that more than 100,000 years had passed, the chunks of rock and metal were still shiny. Light flashed this way and that, bounced off countless surfaces, and forced the ship's sensors to dampen down.
The larger objects tumbled along in majestic slow-motion. Some were huddled together like friends on a walk, while others drifted miles apart locked in their solitary orbits. They were glitteringly beautiful and very frightening all at the same time.
There was smaller stuff too, all the way down to tiny little things that sparkled like pixie dust and flashed when they hit the force field.
Lando checked the scanners. The ship's tac comp worked overtime as it tried to track and evaluate hundreds of potential targets all at the same time. It indicated that two, or maybe three of the bogies were shuttles.
Lando swore softly. Some enterprising souls had followed him into the ring. A huge chunk of debris floated up ahead. It had a rough asymmetrical look. He banked left and went around it.
A shuttle slipped in behind them. Twin beams of blue light raced past The Tink to hit a twenty-ton chunk of rock. Most of the energy was reflected back into space. Shafts of coherent energy bounced in every direction. One hit a smaller piece of junk and turned it to vapor.
An apartment-house-sized chunk of rock-metal aggregate floated up ahead. Lando put the ship into a hard
right-hand turn. Wendy felt the bottom of her stomach fall out.
A shuttle appeared as The Tink rounded the rock. Lando grinned in satisfaction. The other vessel filled his heads-up target display. It had just started to turn when Lando heard a solid tone and saw the flashing green light.
The smuggler touched a key and a pair of missiles raced away. The Tink jerked in response. Wendy turned her head. Flame blossomed and the shuttle disappeared.
Lando checked the scanners again, found that the second shuttle had been lost in the shuffle, and headed down towards the surface. It was time to find Lars Schmidt.
Lando made an adjustment to the comset, found the frequency he wanted, and waited. Fifteen seconds passed before he heard the signal. A long, steady tone followed by two shorts. It was a recording. How many days had the geologist been waiting? There was no way to know.
The smuggler touched some keys. The NAVCOMP tracked the tone to its source, compared the coordinates with those Schmidt had provided earlier, and signaled a match.
Thus reassured, Lando continued to make his way down through Angel's halo, careful to avoid the larger hunks of debris, leaving the ship's force field to handle the rest.
It took some time to make the journey down through the debris field and into the upper atmosphere. Lando became increasingly worried as the space junk thinned out. The juncture between space and sky would be the perfect place for an ambush. What if Pal had a whole flight of atmospheric fighters waiting for him? Wendy said there weren't any, but what if she was wrong?
The Tink was a good deal less maneuverable in planetary atmospheres than she was in space. A squadron of well-flown fighters could blow her out of the sky. And what if they followed him to the rendezvous? That would spell almost certain disaster.
But his worries were needless. The sky below Angel's halo was overcast but free of fighters. Lando took the ship down hard and fast. He knew he was all over the company's radar and wanted to drop off.
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