Heaven’s Fall

by David S. Goyer

  Pav sat up. “Hear that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m surprised you did.”

  “You know me—” He went to the door and paused before opening it, listening for activity in the hallway.

  “I want to check on Yahvi,” Rachel said.

  Pav opened the door and their daughter was there, red-eyed and miserable looking. “Mommy,” she said.

  As Pav slipped past, Rachel drew Yahvi into the room and sat her on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Look at me!”

  Rachel had to stifle a smile and a laugh. She felt like a terrible mother, but Yahvi’s countenance was comical—red runny nose, her normally pretty blue eyes all bloodshot, her hair a tangled mess. She looked like a cartoon version of herself. “You’ve looked better,” she said, “but it’s just a cold.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you stay warm, drink fluids, rest for three days, and it will be gone.”

  “For you, maybe. What if I don’t have immunity? What if this makes me really sick?”

  That troublesome thought had been simmering in Rachel’s mind, likely another cause of her sleeplessness. She placed the back of her hand on Yahvi’s forehead, the way her mother had when she was a child. “You don’t have a fever.”

  “Like that’s really scientific. God.”

  “We’ll have one of the Indian doctors check you in the morning.”

  “That fills me with confidence.”

  Rachel had to work to keep from laughing again. It was so . . . typical of Yahvi, or any girl her age—indeed, of Rachel herself at that age—to inflate every minor discomfort into a case of the plague. Obviously the girl was ill, and, never having experienced anything like a common terrestrial cold, clearly struggling with it. But she was strong, healthy, and likely to be over it in forty-eight hours or less.

  Falling into wise mother mode, as Pav called it, also had the benefit of distracting Rachel from her own situation . . . the lack of sleep, the uncertainty about their next step, and what the hell were those sounds that reminded her of explosions and machine guns?

  She had just tucked Yahvi back into her bed when Pav returned, meeting her in the empty hallway. “It’s over, whatever it was. The guards seemed relaxed.”

  “Pav, you know what it sounded like.”

  “Completely. It sounded like three grenades or mortars, followed by machine-gun fire.”

  “So—”

  “Hey, friends, what’s up?” Xavier poked his head out of his room, blinking sleepily. He was wearing nothing but baggy shorts, allowing his notable belly to precede him wherever he turned.

  “Investigating a disturbance,” Pav said.

  “A what?”

  Pav looked at Rachel. “What sounded like explosions. Apparently they were not.”

  Xavier shrugged and scratched his hind parts—never, to Rachel’s eyes, an attractive gesture. “I didn’t hear anything. You guys woke me up.”

  “Well, then,” Rachel said, “go back to sleep.”

  “As I said,” Pav told him. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Okay, late update:

  We have an opening, a good chance.

  Can’t tell you more. But watch this space—

  Until it goes dark. That will be a sign.

  COLIN EDGELY TO THE KETTERING GROUP,

  APRIL 14, 2040

  ZEDS

  But it was something.

  Zeds had been told—repeatedly, by Rachel and Pav and Taj, and at least two other Indian officials—that he was not a prisoner, that the chamber was closed for his protection . . . but not locked.

  Nevertheless, the first time he was left alone in the chamber, he had tried the latch . . . and found it locked. He had not attempted to force it that first night, preferring to rest and gather strength, and to more closely observe the workings of the mechanism when he was released the next day, and locked up again that evening.

  Zeds wasn’t convinced that he could be locked into the chamber; he possessed sheer muscular strength far beyond that of any human. His extra arms provided additional leverage, another force multiplier. He could probably have torn the metal and glass door off its hinges.

  But Zeds also possessed a weapon common to Sentries—a tool vest, as Zachary Stewart had named it twenty years past. It was more than that, of course . . . it was a garment that Sentries generally wore when anticipating lengthy excursions outside the sea (which was what they called any aquatic environment larger than a human bathtub). Most of the “pockets” held gas and chemicals that, when combined, created a liquid that could be breathed by a Sentry who would otherwise collapse.

  (Harley Drake said it reminded him of the spare oxygen tanks firefighters carried, an image it took Zeds months to understand: What were these “fires” and how where they “fought”?)

  The vest also contained any number of helpful items, such as several translating devices, weapons, and tools.

  It bulked up under the overall environment suit Zeds was wearing for landing and other excursions and was actually rather uncomfortable. But he had agreed to that because he and Rachel anticipated situations where he might be out of the sea for ten hours or more, far beyond the support limits of a vest.

  So, on night two, feeling constrained and also a bit annoyed that he had been eliminated from Rachel’s press conference—she and Pav had told him repeatedly that humans might react badly to his presence, and that they would have to be cautious—

  Zeds believed differently; half of planet Earth was under the domination of a dangerous alien race! One four-armed ally shouldn’t frighten anyone, and might even give some hope that the universe wasn’t completely hostile!

  He would not blatantly contradict Rachel and Pav; they were good friends, though not, perhaps, as close as Xavier, and certainly not as close as Yahvi, who had grown up with Sentries.

  But Zeds felt quite comfortable engaging in activities that had not been specifically forbidden.

  Besides, he required less rest than humans. He was no longer capable of entertaining himself in isolation, even with various items in his vest.

  He was not a prisoner, so if the door to his chamber happened to be somehow stuck, he was within his rights to open it, was he not?

  Which he did, using one of his tools to disassemble the closure mechanism, and another one to remove the hinges.

  He had a moment of concern about the depletion of his semiaquatic environment . . . the moist atmosphere quickly dissipated, but that could easily be replaced. The pool in which he rested remained full; it did not evaporate or boil off.

  And while he did not anticipate hours of freedom, he chose to wear the external suit. It turned what was likely to be a mundane excursion into a bit of an adventure.

  Zeds had heard many tales of human space exploration from Harley Drake and even Dale Scott. He especially enjoyed Drake’s account of a “space walk” outside the International Space Station, wrapped in an environment suit, floating at the end of a tether, seeing the Earth hundreds of kilometers below you . . . that was what this felt like.

  He had barely taken half a dozen steps when he detected the first anomalous sound—possibly an explosion.

  He had prepared himself for an unpleasant encounter with one or more Indian Air Force police, but none showed. He was able to leave the hospital building by a side exit and walk freely into the Bangalore night.

  He opened his mask and his vest to fully experience the environment. It was warm and humid, he knew, by human standards . . . notably different from the temperature and humidity the Houston-Bangalores preferred in the Keanu habitat. To an amphibian Sentry, however, evolved in an aquatic environment, the air felt cold and thin . . . likely what a human would feel walking on Mars (well, not that bad; Zeds and Harley Drake had spent considerable time educating him about
the difference).

  But he was not able to truly enjoy the experience; he was troubled by the nature of the anomalous sound.

  There was a fence along the rear perimeter of the hospital—a wire mesh of some kind, its sections strung between metal poles. The fence had been damaged—one entire section had been blown open.

  Zeds sensed a team beyond the fence—saw shadows, felt footfalls, heard breathing from multiple beings, half a dozen at least. Their guards? Or assailants.

  To his left and rear he detected other humans—four of them—in a position that suggested these were his guards.

  There was a flash of light followed by a concussion that flattened the guards and rocked Zeds.

  Then a third explosion—there was no longer any doubt about what these were—blew open the fence. The figures from beyond rushed toward it, all of them armed. All were humans with fit profiles wearing black clothing, helmets, and goggles of some kind, likely for night vision.

  Three quickly slipped around the building, leaving Zeds to confront one of them.

  Had Zeds not been traveling in an environment suit . . . had this encounter taken place on Keanu, for example . . . he might have triggered his vest, with the inflatable, expandable fluid sac frightening his opponent.

  And he would have simply opened all four arms, swiftly wrapped up the human, then collapsed into transport mode and rolled away with him.

  The suit prevented that. And he had no use for a captive. This man was an assailant, and so were his companions.

  He removed two tools from his suit. Just as the opponent saw him—and reacted with obvious surprise, firing a wild burst with his weapon—Zeds lashed out with upper and lower right arms, each with its own blade, neatly dividing the opponent into three sections.

  My first kill, he thought. So fast and so easy, little more than a second.

  Sentries, he had learned, from Houston-Bangalores, from brief encounters with the Skyphoi, and especially from his own kind, had a history of violence—at least on the long-lost home world, where limited resources created a culture where the struggle for dominance and status was the same as that for survival.

  A Sentry had killed Patrick Downey, an American astronaut exploring Keanu twenty years back; another had killed Megan Stewart. Zeds’s twice-removed connate, Dash, had killed at least one human as well.

  Yes, a history that he now shared . . . it was actually difficult to suppress the surge of sheer pride this swift kill triggered—followed almost immediately by shame. (He had grown up with humans, some of them eager to remind him of past Sentry crimes.)

  What if he had erred? What did he truly know about this human’s motives or actions?

  What if he had made matters worse?

  Two more explosions, one right after the other, convinced him his actions had been correct . . . that these men were attackers. Pieces of the hospital building filled the air, raining down on Zeds. His e-suit provided a great deal of protection, but he still found himself taking shelter. Reflexes again.

  Then, equally reflexive, he was in motion, running toward the site of the explosions and almost colliding with two of the attackers as they attempted to enter the hospital through a door they had blown open.

  Both men reacted with surprise, possibly confusion—for them, fatal delays.

  Zeds slashed first right to left, then left to right. Both men were down, in three pieces each.

  The view inside the hospital was disturbing—two Indian Air Force guards in bloodied pieces, killed by the explosion. Zeds wondered about Rachel and Pav, Yahvi and Xavier—and Sanjay. Were they safe?

  What other actions could he take? There had been three other attackers . . . where were they?

  He retraced his steps back to the side of the hospital, where he had originally exited and spotted the attackers. Yes, there were the other members of the team, in full retreat.

  Another Indian guard lay on the pavement—still alive, as far as Zeds could tell. He considered offering medical assistance but rejected the idea; he knew nothing of human physiology and could do nothing for the man.

  And his appearance might worsen the guard’s condition. Best to return to the hospital and summon aid.

  As quickly as possible, he made his way back through the side door and down the hallway. He could hear noise in the hospital now and saw four Indian guards hurrying past.

  “Please!” Zeds shouted.

  One of the hurrying men turned toward Zeds and stopped. It was Wing Commander Kaushal, the stout, energetic Indian Air Force leader who, at full height, reached barely to the middle of Zeds’s chest. “What are you doing out here? Are you injured?”

  “No,” Zeds said. “Why do you ask that?” Of all the humans he had met since landing, Kaushal seemed the least ill-at-ease. Perhaps it was due to his age or seniority.

  The wing commander gestured to Zeds’s midsection. Looking down, the Sentry realized that the front of his e-suit, and his two right arms, were covered in human blood. “I’m not injured. Sentry blood is a different color,” he said. “There is a human outside that door who requires assistance.”

  Kaushal spoke, and two of the guards sprinted off in the direction Zeds indicated, leaving one behind. “Come with me, please,” he said to Zeds.

  He didn’t wait for comment. Zeds saw no grounds for argument; in any case, he had been on his way back to the chamber.

  “Are we under attack?”

  “I can’t say at the moment,” Kaushal said. “How did you come to be so bloody?”

  “I encountered three attackers,” Zeds said. As they walked, Kaushal’s deputy used a communication device—a cell phone, Zeds realized, something he had always heard about but never actually seen—to listen to reports from around the facility.

  “They were human?”

  “What else would they be?”

  Kaushal ignored the question. “So it was self-defense.”

  Zeds didn’t understand what Kaushal meant. “I was simply taking a walk.”

  “How did you get out?” Kaushal asked.

  Zeds considered several possible responses. A complete answer would require many words, so he settled on, “I opened the door.”

  They had just reached the entrance to the isolation chamber. The heavy steel-and-glass door lay tilted against the wall; the hinges and locks were in pieces on the floor.

  Kaushal glanced at his deputy, who was wide-eyed. “You had no help from anyone?”

  “No.”

  Kaushal reached for the door; he couldn’t move it. “You may have to wait a while for us to get you safely put away—”

  “Commander,” the deputy said, waving the phone. Zeds chose that moment to march past Kaushal into the chamber. “I don’t need to be put away. I will reseal the door myself.”

  To demonstrate, he picked up the heavy door and started moving it back into place.

  Kaushal and his deputy backed away. The last Zeds saw of them was their backs.

  ISRO PRESS RELEASE

  Bangalore, April 14, 2040—The five humans and one Sentry in the crew of spaceship Adventure are continuing their adjustment to Earth at an air base in southern India in spite of a power system failure. “A transformer providing power to the hospital where the crew resides overloaded and exploded,” says Mrs. Melani Remilla, ISRO official supervising Adventure’s welcome. “It resulted in quite a fireworks display, but fortunately no one was injured.”

  The crew will make its first public appearance Saturday at ISRO Headquarters in Bangalore.

  Can you believe this bullshit? The Web is filled with reports and images of an attack on Yelahanka Air Base (yes, we know where the crew is being held) in which at least four people were killed. The identity of the attackers isn’t known, but ought to be obvious.

  Pray for this crew, that somehow they can get free of ISRO.

 
COLIN EDGELY TO THE KETTERING GROUP,

  APRIL 14, 2040

  RACHEL

  “They’re calling it green on green,” Taj Radhakrishnan said.

  “What does that mean?” Pav said. Rachel noted that her husband was no longer hiding his impatience, not even from his father.

  “The attackers were Indian Air Force,” Wing Commander Kaushal said. “At least six of them. Three were killed, three got away.”

  With the exception of Yahvi—Rachel desperately wanted to shelter her daughter from this discussion—they were all in the conference room. Rachel and Pav, Xavier. Zeds on the video link. (Rachel had visited Zeds earlier and been horrified to learn that the Sentry had been part of the firefight.) Taj doing the briefing, Tea sitting next to him.

  Next to Tea was Mrs. Remilla, and next to her, Edgar Chang. The gent was now a permanent part of their “team.” Also present were Wing Commander Kaushal and his deputy.

  “You’re certain they were Indian Air Force?” Xavier said.

  Kaushal answered: “They were carrying military ID. They were stationed on this base—”

  “And you’re fine with that?” Xavier snapped.

  Kaushal sat up as straight as he could. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Our attackers wore the same uniform you do! And don’t pretend you’ve been Mr. Helpful so far—”

  Now Kaushal stood up. “If you’re suggesting that I had any role in this—”

  “Commander!” Remilla said. She was literally out of her chair, her hand on the Indian counselor’s forearm. “No one is suggesting complicity.” She shot a look at Xavier that, to Rachel, clearly meant, You’d better not be suggesting complicity!

  In the calm that descended on the room, Pav said, “Do we have any idea what this was all about? What was the mission?

  “Isn’t that obvious?” Rachel said. She was pleased that Pav was acting as the voice of reason. That had never been her role. “They were coming to kill us all.”

  “Or take you prisoner,” Kaushal said.

  “These soldiers?” Taj said. “Not a chance. They were assassins.”