Broken Angels, Page 4

  I closed the hatch.

  But as Schneider spun the shuttle upward, I peered out of the viewport and saw him still standing there, buffeted by the storm of our departure.

  He didn’t even bother to shield his face from the dust.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We flew west from the camp on grav effect, over a mixture of desert scrub and blots of darker vegetation where the planet’s flora had managed to get a lock on shallow-running aquifers. About twenty minutes later we picked up the coast and headed out to sea over waters that Wedge military intelligence said were infested with Kempist smart mines. Schneider kept our speed down, subsonic the whole time. Easy to track.

  I spent the early part of the flight in the main cabin, ostensibly going through a current affairs datastack that the shuttle was pulling down from one of Carrera’s command satellites, but in reality watching Tanya Wardani with an Envoy-tuned eye. She sat slumped in the seat farthest from the hatch and hence closest to the right-side viewports, forehead resting against the glass. Her eyes were open, but whether she was focusing on the ground below was hard to tell. I didn’t try to speak to her: I’d seen the same mask on a thousand other faces this year, and I knew she wasn’t coming out from behind it until she was ready, which might be never. Wardani had donned the emotional equivalent of a vacuum suit, the only response left in the human armory when the moral parameters of the outside environment have grown so outrageously variable that an exposed mind can no longer survive unshielded. Lately, they’ve been calling it War Shock Syndrome, an all-encompassing term that bleakly but rather neatly puts the writing on the wall for those who would like to treat it. There may be a plethora of more or less effective psychological techniques for repair, but the ultimate aim of any medical philosophy, that of prevention rather than cure, is in this case clearly beyond the wit of humanity to implement.

  To me it comes as no surprise that we’re still flailing around with Neanderthal spanners in the elegant wreckage of Martian civilization without really having a clue how all that ancient culture used to operate. After all, you wouldn’t expect a butcher of farm livestock to understand or be able to take over from a team of neurosurgeons. There’s no telling how much irreparable damage we may have already caused to the body of knowledge and technology the Martians have unwisely left lying around for us to discover. In the end, we’re not much more than a pack of jackals, nosing through the broken bodies and wreckage of a plane crash.

  “Coming up on the coast,” Schneider’s voice said over the intercom. “You want to get up here?”

  I lifted my face away from the holographic datadisplay, flattened the datamotes to the base, and looked across at Wardani. She had shifted her head slightly at the sound of Schneider’s voice, but the eyes that found the speaker set in the roof were still dulled with emotional shielding. It hadn’t taken me very long to extract from Schneider the previous circumstances of his relationship with this woman, but I still wasn’t sure how that would affect things now. On his own admission it had been a limited thing, abruptly terminated by the outbreak of war almost two years ago, and there was no reason to suppose it could cause problems. My own worst-case scenario was that the whole starship story was an elaborate con on Schneider’s part for no other purpose than to secure the archaeologue’s release and get the two of them offworld. There had been a previous attempt to liberate Wardani, if the camp commandant was to be believed, and part of me wondered if those mysteriously well-equipped commandos hadn’t been Schneider’s last set of dupes in the bid to reunite him with his partner. If that turned out to be the case, I was going to be angry.

  Inside me, at the level where it really mattered, I didn’t give the idea much credence; too many details had checked out in the time since we’d left the hospital. Dates and names were correct—there had been an archaeological dig on the coast northwest of Sauberville, and Tanya Wardani was registered as site regulator. The haulage liaison was listed as Guild Pilot Ian Mendel, but it was Schneider’s face, and the hardware manifest began with the serial number and flight records of a cumbersome Mowai Ten Series suborbital. Even if Schneider had tried to get Wardani out before, it was for far more material reasons than simple affection.

  And if he hadn’t, then somewhere along the line someone else had been dealt into this game.

  Whatever happened, Schneider would bear watching.

  I closed down the datadisplay and got up, just as the shuttle banked seaward. Steadying myself with a hand on the overhead lockers, I looked down at the archaeologue.

  “I’d fasten my seat belt if I were you. The next few minutes are likely to be a little rough.”

  She made no response, but her hands moved in her lap. I made my way forward to the cockpit.

  Schneider looked up as I entered, hands easy on the arms of the manual flight chair. He nodded at a digital display that he’d maximized near the top of the instrument projection space.

  “Depth counter’s still at less than five meters. Bottom shelves out for kilometers before we hit deep water. You sure those fuckers don’t come in this close?”

  “If they were in this close, you’d see them sticking out of the water,” I said, taking the copilot’s seat. “Smart mine’s not much smaller than a marauder bomb. Basically an automated mini sub. You got the set online?”

  “Sure. Just mask up. Weapons systems on the right arm.”

  I slid the elasticized gunner’s eyemask down over my face and and touched the activate pads at the temples. A seascape in bright primaries wrapped around my field of vision, pale blue shaded deeper gray with the landscape of the seabed beneath. Hardware came through in shades of red, depending on how much it corresponded to the parameters I’d programmed in earlier. Most of it was light pink in color, inanimate alloy wreckage devoid of electronic activity. I let myself slide forward into the virtual representation of what the shuttle’s sensors were seeing, forced myself to stop actively looking for anything, and relaxed the last mental millimeters into the Zen state.

  Minesweeping was not something the Envoy Corps taught as such, but the total poise that only comes, paradoxically, with an utter lack of expectation was vital to the core training. A Protectorate Envoy, deployed as digitized human freight via hyperspatial needlecast, could expect to wake up to literally anything. At the very least, you habitually find yourself in unfamiliar bodies on unfamiliar worlds where people are shooting at you. Even on a good day, no amount of briefing can prepare you for a total change of environment like that, and in the invariably unstable-to-lethally-dangerous sets of circumstances the Envoys have been created to deal with, there just isn’t any point.

  Virginia Vidaura, Corps trainer, hands in the pockets of her coveralls, looking us over with calm speculation. Day one induction.

  Since it is logistically impossible to expect everything, she told us evenly, we will teach you not to expect anything. That way, you will be ready for it.

  I didn’t even consciously see the first smart mine. There was a red flare in the corner of one eye, and my hands had already matched coordinates and loosed the shuttle’s hunter-killer micros. The little missiles ran green traces across the virtual seascape, plunged beneath the surface like sharp knives in flesh, and pricked the squatting mine before it could either move or respond. Flash blast of detonation and the surface of the sea heaved upward like a body on an interrogation table.

  Once upon a time men had to run their weapons systems all by themselves. They went up in the air in fliers not much bigger or better equipped than bathtubs with wings and fired off whatever clumsy hardware they could squeeze into the cockpit with them. Later, they designed machines that could do the job faster and more accurately than humanly possible, and for a while it was a machine’s world up there. Then the emerging biosciences began to catch up and suddenly the same speed and precision capacity was available as a human option again. Since then it’s been a race of sorts between technologies to see which can be upgraded faster, the external machines or the human
factor. In that particular race, Envoy psychodynamics were a sharp surprise sprint up the inside lane.

  There are war machines that are faster than me, but we weren’t lucky enough to have one aboard. The shuttle was a hospital auxiliary, and its strictly defensive weaponry ran to the micro turret in the nose and a decoy-and-evade package that I wouldn’t have trusted to fly a kite. We were going to have to do this ourselves.

  “One down. The rest of the pack won’t be far away. Kill your speed. Get us down on the deck and arm the tinsel.”

  They came from the west, scuttling across the seabed like fat-bodied cylindrical spiders, drawn to the violent death of their brother. I felt the shuttle tip forward as Schneider brought us down to barely ten meters in altitude and the solid thump as the tinsel bomb racks deployed. My eyes flickered across the mines. Seven of them, converging. They usually ran five to a pack, so this had to be the remnants of two groups, though who’d thinned their numbers out so much was a mystery to me. From what I’d read in the reports, there’d been nothing in these waters but fishing boats since the war began. The seabed was littered with them.

  I acquired the lead mine and killed it almost casually. As I watched, the first torpedoes erupted from the other six and rose through the water toward us.

  “They’re on us.”

  “Seen them,” Schneider said laconically, and the shuttle flinched into an evasive curve. I peppered the sea with micros on autoseek.

  Smart mine is a misnomer. They’re actually pretty stupid. It stands to reason: They’re built for such a narrow range of activity it isn’t advisable to program in much intellect. They attach themselves to the seabed with a claw for launch stability, and they wait for something to pass overhead. Some can dig themselves deep enough to hide from spectroscanners; some camouflage themselves as seabed wreckage. Essentially, they’re a static weapon. On the move, they can still fight but their accuracy suffers.

  Better yet, their minds have a dogmatic either-or target acquisition system that tags everything surface or airborne before it fires on it. Against air traffic it uses surface-to-air micros, against shipping the torpedoes. The torpedoes can convert to missile mode at a pinch, shedding their propulsion systems at surface level and using crude thrusters to get aloft, but they’re slow.

  At nearly surface level and throttled back almost to hovering, we’d been made out as a ship. The torpedoes came up for air in our shadow, found nothing, and the autoseek micros destroyed them while they were still trying to shrug off their underwater drives. Meanwhile, the spread of micros I’d launched sought and destroyed two—no, wait, three—of the mines. At this rate—

  MALFUNCTION.

  MALFUNCTION.

  MALFUNCTION.

  The fail light pulsed in the upper left field of my vision, detail scrolling down. I had no time to read it. The fire controls were dead in my hands, jammed solid, the next two micros unarmed in their launch cradles. Fucking mothballed U.N. surplus flashing through my mind like a falling meteor. I slammed the emergency autorepair option. The shuttle’s rudimentary troubleshooter brain leapt down into the jammed circuits. No time. It could take whole minutes to fix. The remaining three mines launched surface to air at us.

  “Sch—”

  Schneider, whatever his other failings, was a good flier. He flung the shuttle on its tail before the syllable was out of my mouth. My head snapped back against the seat as we leapt into the sky, trailing a swarm of surface-to-air missiles.

  “I’m jammed.”

  “I know,” he said tautly.

  “Tinsel them,” I yelled, competing with the proximity alerts that screamed in my ears. The altitude numerals flashed over the kilometer mark.

  “On it.”

  The shuttle boomed with the tinsel bombs’ launch. They detonated two seconds in our wake, sowing the sky with tiny electronic appetizers. The surface-to-air fire spent itself among the decoys. On the weapons board at the side of my vision, a cleared light flashed green, and as if to prove the point the launcher executed its last jammed command and launched the two waiting micros into the targetless space ahead of us. Beside me, Schneider whooped and spun the shuttle about. With the high-maneuver fields belatedly compensating, I felt the turn slop through my guts like choppy water and had time to hope that Tanya Wardani hadn’t eaten recently.

  We hung for an instant on the wings of the shuttle’s AG fields, then Schneider killed the lift and we plunged a steep line back toward the surface of the sea. From the water, a second wave of missiles rose to meet us.

  “Tinsel!!”

  The bomb racks banged open again. Sighting on the three undamaged mines below, I emptied the shuttle’s magazines and hoped, breath held back. The micros launched clean. At the same moment, Schneider threw on the grav fields again and the little vessel shuddered from end to end. The tinsel bombs, now falling faster than the crash-reversed shuttle that had launched them, exploded fractionally ahead of and below us. My virtual vision flooded with crimson sleet from the storm of decoy broadcast, and then the explosions of the surface-to-air missiles as they destroyed themselves amid it. My own micros were away, fired through the tiny window of opportunity before the tinsel blew and locked onto the mines somewhere below.

  The shuttle spiraled down behind the debris of tinsel and misled missiles. Scant moments before we hit the surface of the sea, Schneider fired one more, carefully doctored pair of tinsel bombs. They detonated just as we slipped below the waves.

  “We’re under,” said Schneider.

  On my screen, the pale blue of the sea deepened as we sank, nose-down. I twisted around, searching for the mines, and found only a satisfying array of wreckage. I let out the last breath I’d drawn somewhere up in the missile-strewn sky and rolled my head back in the seat.

  “That,” I said to no one in particular, “was a mess.”

  We touched bottom, stuck for a moment, and then drifted fractionally upward again. Around us, the shrapnel from the doctored tinsel bombs settled slowly to the seabed. I studied the pink fragments with care and smiled. I’d packed the last two bombs myself—less than an hour’s work the night before we came to get Wardani—but it had taken three days reconnoitering deserted battle zones and bombed-out landing fields to gather the necessary pieces of hull casing and circuitry to fill them.

  I peeled off the gunner’s mask and rubbed at my eyes.

  “How far off are we?”

  Schneider did something to the instrument display. “About six hours, maintaining this buoyancy. If I help the current along with the gravs, we could do it in half that.”

  “Yeah, and we could get blown out of the water, too. I didn’t go through the last two minutes for target practice. You keep the fields banked all the way, and use the time to figure out some way to wipe the face off this bucket.”

  Schneider gave me a mutinous look.

  “And what are you going to be doing all this time?”

  “Repairs,” I said shortly, heading back for Tanya Wardani.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The fire threw leaping shadows, making her face into a camouflage mask of light and dark. It was a face that might have been handsome before the camp swallowed her, but the rigors of political internment had left it a gaunt catalog of bones and hollows. The eyes were hooded, the cheeks sunken. Deep inside the wells of her gaze, firelight glittered on fixed pupils. Stray hair fell across her forehead like straw. One of my cigarettes slanted between her lips, unlit.

  “You don’t want to smoke that?” I asked after a while.

  It was like talking on a bad satellite link—a two-second delay before the glitter in her eyes shifted upward to focus on my face. Her voice ghosted out, rusty with disuse.

  “What?”

  “The cigarette. Site Sevens, best I could get outside Landfall.” I handed the pack across to her and she fumbled it, turning it over a couple of times before she found the ignition patch and touched it to the end of the cigarette in her mouth. Most of the smoke escaped and was ca
rried away on the soft breeze, but she took some down and grimaced as it bit.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly, and held the packet in cupped hands, looking down at it as if it were a small animal she had rescued from drowning. I smoked the rest of my own cigarette in silence, gaze flickering along the tree line above the beach. It was a programmed wariness, not based on any real perception of danger, the Envoy analog of a relaxed man beating time to music with his fingers. In the Envoys you’re aware of potential hazards in the surroundings the way most people are aware that things will fall out of their hands if they let them go. The programming goes in at the same instinctual level. You don’t let down your guard, ever, any more than a normal human being would absentmindedly let go of a filled glass in midair.

  “You’ve done something to me.”

  It was the same low voice she had used to thank me for the cigarette, but when I dropped my gaze from the trees to look at her, something had kindled in her eyes. She was not asking me a question. “I can feel it,” she said, touching the side of her head with splayed fingers. “Here. It’s like. Opening.”

  I nodded, feeling cautiously for the right words. On most worlds I’ve visited, going into someone’s head uninvited is a serious moral offense, and only government agencies get away with it on a regular basis. There was no reason to assume the Latimer sector, Sanction IV, or Tanya Wardani would be any different. Envoy co-option techniques make rather brutal use of the deep wells of psychosexual energy that drive humans at a genetic level. Properly mined, the matrix of animal strength on tap in those places will speed up psychic healing by whole orders of magnitude. You start with light hypnosis, move into quick-fix personality engagement, and thence to close bodily contact that only misses definition as sexual foreplay on a technicality. A gentle, hypnotically induced orgasm usually secures the bonding process, but at the final stage with Wardani, something had made me pull back. The whole process was uncomfortably close to a sexual assault as it was.