Heaven’s Fall

by David S. Goyer

  It did bother him that somehow Zhao or Jaidev had managed the trick. It made him feel a bit less special.

  But his momentary pique was tiny compared to the wonder of seeing a vesicle being not just fabricated but, in a way, grown. Simply learning how took hours, time in which Dale found himself tolerated if not actually welcomed.

  “I can sort of see how you’d replicate the shell of this thing,” Dale said to Zhao, joining the former spy at his workstation. “But how do you equip it for war against the Reivers?”

  “The basic systems were already in the library,” Zhao said, confirming that he had indeed accessed the system—which was news to Dale. “We’ve spent the last two years weaponizing it.”

  “What do you use against a whole planet?” A chilling thought occurred to him. “It’s not a bomb, is it?” Dale didn’t think Zhao would launch a planet-killing weapon, even making the giant assumption that he possessed such a device, since it would kill millions or billions of humans along with the target Reivers, but power did strange things to men, so . . .

  “Nothing like that,” Zhao said. “Even before we left Earth, bombs were no longer the weapon of choice, unless you were a terrorist. It’s all chemical-biological or cyber.”

  “Like what we did to the Reivers before.” The alien Aggregates had been exterminated in Keanu by a designer virus fabricated by Jaidev in the Temple laboratory.

  “Exactly,” Zhao said. “We assume the Reivers have evolved their defenses.” He smiled. “But we’ve evolved, too. We have the option of going after not just their populations, but against their networks and ability to communicate.” He pointed to the vesicle. “We’ve got half a dozen ways of attacking them.

  “And, of course, we have stealth and surprise.”

  “While the Reivers are panting after Rachel’s crew, you’re going to hit them from behind.”

  “Assuming we ever get this fucking thing launched.”

  “What can I do?” The words were out of his mouth before he truly thought about them. So much for your enlightened communion with Keanu, he thought. Well, before becoming an astronaut, Dale Scott spent years as a military fighter pilot.

  Maybe he just wanted to kill something again. Especially Reivers.

  Or maybe this was all about working with people once more, even people who despised him.

  More hours and another day passed, an intoxicating time for Dale in which he almost forgot to eat. His job was to monitor the extrusion of the shell material from three different hoses. Looking like foaming white goo, the smart-shape material quickly hardened and soon enclosed the entire vesicle.

  The others on the team—none of them familiar to Dale from years past—largely dealt with the interior equipment, which they were assembling and collecting on the platform that encircled the vesicle. Which caused Dale to approach Makali and ask, “How do you get this stuff inside? Does the shell eventually develop hatches?”

  She stared at him for a long moment, as if she didn’t recognize him. She was certainly recognizable—clearly in her late forties now, with lines around her eyes and hair cropped like most of the HB women. But she had retained her athletic figure; in fact, she looked leaner and in better shape than Dale remembered. “You know, when I came in here, I said to myself, ‘That looks like Dale Scott, but it can’t be. Dale went walkabout a long time ago. . . .’”

  “I’m back.”

  “To stay?”

  Dale shrugged. “To help.”

  Makali had her arms crossed, a clear nonverbal sign that she was uneasy with him. Which was an unexpected posture for her—she had been so confident, in your face. Well, Dale had not only changed physically, he was a different person, too.

  “In that case,” she said, glancing toward Zhao, who merely nodded his approval of the exchange, “if you’re going to help, you ought to have the answers.

  “No hatches, no windows. The whole vesicle expands or contracts. The skin becomes so thin and permeable, you can push through it. Then it closes up again.”

  Dale remembered seeing the Bangalore vesicle rotating slowly after it thumped down . . . then expanding to gather in a hundred human beings along with a considerable amount of soil and even a couple of automobiles.

  “I always wondered what propelled it.”

  “Well, it gets expelled from Keanu—”

  “Like a bullet, I know,” Dale said. “But both of those things took off from Earth—”

  “We think it’s the skin itself,” Makali said. “As the whole thing spins, some of the material on the bottom begins to boil, using boil in a very crude sense. It turns into some kind of propellant.” She smiled. “Why? Planning to take a hop to Earth and come back?”

  Dale shrugged. It was just the engineering side of his mind.

  But Makali’s statement made him think: He could go with the invading force. He could return to Earth!

  Before he could ponder those possibilities, there was some disturbance in the group surrounding Zhao.

  It was Jaidev himself. He barely registered Dale’s anomalous presence. “You need to see something,” he told Zhao. “We all do, back in the habitat.”

  “But I’m busy here! I have a lot to do before we can launch.”

  “This may change everything,” Jaidev said. “The Beehive is active again.”

  Day Seven

  THURSDAY, APRIL 19, 2040

  NIGHT SKY REPORT

  The Moon is waxing, Venus getting closer to the Sun each passing night as is Mars, though in different parts of the sky.

  Do I include Keanu in this? Tonight it’s as close to the Moon as it’s likely to be, and ought to be spectacular. (The shadows will be weird, I tell you that.)

  But it all feels so temporary. Anybody have any idea whether Keanu is GOING TO STAY?

  POSTER GILLAM, KETTERING GROUP,

  APRIL 19, 2040

  TAJ

  “We’ve got a serious problem.”

  Taj was awakened by his phone, which was lying on his bed next to his pillow. This was not its usual overnight resting place, but given the threats facing Tea, Pav, Rachel, Yahvi, and the others, it was an obvious choice. Taj had lain down in an agitated state, fearing that he faced a restless night. But the clock proved that he had slept; being sixty-six and operating on perhaps four hours of rest in the past five days might have been a factor.

  But he was asleep no longer. Short of breath, confused, he had forced himself to answer the phone and found Remilla on the line. It was just past five in the morning. Though Taj could sense that there was some light through the windows, it felt like three A.M. “Radhakrishnan,” he said, military fashion.

  “It’s Melani,” Remilla said, sounding just as exhausted as Taj felt, though she had enough energy to say, quickly, “This is not about Pav and his crew.”

  “Thank you.” The ring tone alone had almost given him a heart attack. Taj had had no word from his son since their conversation about Sanjay a day and a half earlier. He had remained at the Yelahanka Air Base hospital long enough to oversee the transfer of Sanjay’s body to Hebbai Electric Crematorium, which had been located by Melani Remilla—it happened to be the closest civilian facility.

  Upon leaving Yelahanka, he was subject to a strange set of emotions—an odd and unearned nostalgia combined with a firm desire to never trod its grounds again.

  Sanjay and the crematorium were the subjects of Remilla’s call, which continued: “He is about to be taken out of our hands,” she said.

  “I didn’t realize that ISRO managed dead bodies from outer space.”

  “The military has taken over.”

  “I’m military and no one has told me.”

  “That’s my job. The army wants this whole matter resolved. With the crew out of the country, Bhat’s remains are the only . . .”

  “Loose end?” Of course. “What are they p
lanning?”

  “I think they plan to take the body.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Word is that someone, somewhere, wants it.”

  “The family is having a cremation later this morning.”

  “Even that isn’t three days!”

  Taj was not as religious as many of his colleagues—even though the events of twenty years ago had opened his eyes to the unknown mysteries of human existence—and certainly not devout Hindu.

  But he knew the rites, and it was too soon for a cremation! “Why are you telling me?” he said. “Do you expect me to stop it?”

  “I have no power,” Remilla said. “I only discovered it by accident and thought you ought to know.”

  He thanked her, then painfully rolled out of bed and splashed some water on his face. He was famished, so he made a quick breakfast as he considered his options.

  Attending to lifestyle matters in these strained circumstances reminded him of a typical morning aboard the International Space Station, where daily rituals were so important to an astronaut’s mental as well as physical health. Today it gave him a moment to plan, even though, compared to a day in space, he was forced to improvise.

  He and Tea had been renting an apartment not far from ISRO headquarters for the past six months, and had never truly moved in. Neither of them was a cook, either, so there was little food on hand. Taj would have preferred some idli cake, for example, or tea. Failing that, eggs and beans for an English breakfast.

  What he found was coffee and some kind of granola cereal—Tea’s usual fare. Given the circumstances, this would suffice.

  His operational choices were equally limited. He had no military command, not even any subordinates. No power or might.

  He had few allies. So much of his recent life had centered around Tea that he had neglected his contacts in the defense ministry . . . not that he had any role to play in their covert and often overt war against the Aggregates. He considered telephoning Kaushal but rejected that: The Yelahanka commander was either working for the plotters—or likely to be ineffectual anywhere outside the base.

  And even if he had possessed a team that could be called upon, what was the takeaway, to use a phrase from his time with NASA? In success, did he end up with Sanjay’s body in a hearse . . . with himself behind the wheel?

  What he wanted, he concluded, was respect, for Sanjay Bhat, for the Adventure crew and his son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

  He did have one weapon, however: his phone. Melani Remilla did have some information he did not. He glanced at the clock—5:20.

  Taj reached the two-story Hebbai Electric Crematorium at 6:40, parking on a street a block behind the facility. He felt a bit foolish slinking past the loading dock at the rear of the building (with its curious smell of smoke and what he could only think of as cooked meat) while wearing his full dress uniform. But the need for precautions overrode his sense of dignity.

  He had fallen asleep in his uniform, so his clothing had required a change, too. And there was nothing like a general’s rank and medals to encourage cooperation with certain individuals.

  He had unpacked his service pistol and was wearing it, though he did not expect to use it. (He hadn’t fired it in years.)

  The doors were still locked. The parking lot was empty.

  He took up a position near the entrance where he could see without being automatically seen.

  He had strategies for waiting. Breathing exercises. Review steps taken, to be taken. Check equipment again.

  It reminded him of guard duty as a cadet, and the bonus this morning was the sight of a crescent Keanu low in the southern sky. The Moon was close to new this time of month and was no competition at the moment. Keanu’s orbit was more inclined, and the NEO was not only farther away from Earth than the Moon, it trailed it by a hundred thousand kilometers, a figure that would change, of course, with every passing day. All of this caused Taj to wonder just how long Keanu would remain in orbit? Another week? A year? A century? He wished he had asked his son.

  The door of the crematorium opened.

  It was a young Hindu man—twenty at most—in T-shirt and jeans, clothing that was far too casual for a memorial worker. “I’m Ishat,” he said, and offered little more. It was obvious he was unhappy about being roused out of bed.

  “Call me General Radhakrishnan,” Taj said, sweeping past him. “Are you prepared to conduct a cremation?”

  “But we aren’t open yet!” Ishat said.

  “This is an emergency. It’s why I telephoned the owner.”

  “He only told me to meet you, not to—”

  Taj held up his hand, silencing Ishat. “I’m telling you what needs to be done, and you’re going to do exactly as I say: Prepare the body of Sanjay Bhat for immediate cremation.”

  Ishat frowned but seemed willing to do as told. “It will take a few minutes.”

  “Don’t start until I tell you,” Taj said. “We’re waiting for someone.”

  He returned to the front door, checking his watch. Almost seven. The army and its associates would be arriving within the hour—

  A car appeared at the driveway entrance, moving slowly. Taj reflexively placed his hand on his holstered pistol as he watched the vehicle, an ancient electric Sierra, roll closer, then stop.

  Kalyan Bhat emerged, looking both sad and bewildered. He was in his thirties, medium build, balding, dressed in a gray suit and tie, both donned in a hurry, to judge from the missed button and indifferent knot. “You would be General Radhakrishnan,” he said.

  “Mr. Bhat. I’m sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances.”

  “I remember your flights, sir. India’s first astronaut. They made us feel proud.”

  Taj had heard this a number of times in his life and almost always corrected it: While he was the first citizen of India to command an indigenous spacecraft, the Brahma, and had made one earlier flight as well, an Indian astronaut had gone into space back in the 1980s with the Soviets.

  Mr. Bhat was too young to remember that, of course. Taj merely nodded his thanks and guided the man into the facility, taking care to watch for additional vehicles. “Thank you for agreeing to come this morning on such short notice.”

  “This is a very strange situation.”

  “I understand.”

  “I was already in the city, hoping to see my brother . . . alive,” he finished. “It was so hard to lose him like that.” Then Kalyan shook his head, as if appalled at his own rudeness. “I’m sorry, you suffered the same way.”

  And I am in almost the same situation, he thought. “We can only endure,” he said. Then he called. “Mr. Ishat? Would you lock this door for us, please?”

  The ceremony was mercifully brief. Sanjay Bhat’s body was already in its sheet; his brother declined to view it. “I prefer to remember him alive,” he said. “As a young man, the smartest I’ve ever met.”

  “His death is a great loss,” Taj said. “To my son’s community and likely the world at large.” He and Pav had spoken only briefly about Sanjay, but Taj had gotten the clear impression that the engineer was a rare talent, one that the humans on Keanu would require.

  As would the Keanu humans hoping to accomplish their mission.

  “Please tell me, General, why this haste? Why the unusual hour? My brother deserves better. I deserve an explanation.”

  Taj’s innate reluctance to share secrets was enhanced by his need to protect Kalyan. He would have preferred to tell him nothing, especially since he could not be sure that Sanjay’s body was about to be stolen. Nevertheless: “You know your brother returned to Earth in an alien spacecraft, correct? That his death was the result of hostile action?” Kalyan nodded. “There are parties who wouldn’t offer your brother’s remains the proper respect. This is the best alternative.”

  That seemed to
satisfy him. The last prayers were said, by Kalyan and Taj, with Ishat the silent, sullen witness.

  Then Sanjay’s body was consigned to the flames.

  Ishat went off to collect the ashes, leaving Taj and Kalyan alone and now uncomfortable. Before either of them could utter an awkward word, however, the door buzzed.

  “Wait here,” Taj instructed Kalyan.

  Then he ran out to the reception area and glanced through the curtains.

  There were now four new vehicles parked in front of the crematorium: two automobiles, an ambulance, and a bus. At the front door were Wing Commander Kaushal and a pair of civilians Taj did not recognize.

  Waiting behind them were three members of THE in their distinctive uniforms. Taj wondered how they had managed to enter India, but that concern was quickly reduced to meaninglessness by the next sight:

  A dozen Reiver Aggregates were emerging from the bus, forming up as one might expect.

  Taj took one long moment to snap several images with his phone, then e-mailed them to an address he had created that morning, texting Pav the same information, in the hopes that it would be retrievable when his son resumed contact.

  The buzzer sounded again. Ishat appeared from the rear of the building, looking worried. “Stop right there,” Taj ordered him.

  “I have to answer the door,” the young man said. He held up his phone. “I am getting orders!”

  “Fine,” Taj said, “but be prepared to be pushed aside. And before you do, count to ten.”

  “But—” The buzzer sounded again. Now there was pounding on the door, too.

  “Ten!” Taj said. And not waiting for further debate, he ran back to Kalyan, taking the man by the arm. “Come with me.”

  Without knowing where he was going, Taj guided the man deeper into the facility, turning away from the actual crematorium itself and passing several offices.

  “My car is out front!”

  “So are some very bad people,” Taj said. “My car is out back.”