"I see. Any pirate or wildcatter would be entirely pleased to have one under his control. Was the shuttle's descent within line-of-sight of the Palenque?"
"No, Hadeishi-san. At the time of descent, the civilian ship was on the opposite side of the planet."
"Then our friends knew of the expedition ship and its detection envelope."
Kosho nodded, though the stylus raised to indicate a point. "The miners may not have been aware of the weather satellites. Peapods are small and innocuous, with a relatively tiny aspect. If the refinery ship was somewhere else in the system — in the asteroid belt, for example — the shuttle might have made a scouting trip in, unaware of being observed."
Hadeishi frowned. "How did they hide the shuttle, then? Their first trip should have included a great deal of loitering in atmosphere, looking for someplace suitable to set down. They would have shown up on subsequent satellite images."
"This is true, sir. But what if they already knew where to land?" Kosho's eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. "What if someone had already found a place for them to set down, had left a beacon, one leading them to something of interest?"
Hadeishi's boredom — ephemeral as it was — dropped away like silk crumpling to a courtesan's tatami. "Doctor Russovsky."
"She is the most likely candidate," the lieutenant commander said, slowly. The Fleet had avoided a great deal of trouble by promulgating a policy assuming all citizens, regardless of national affiliation or descent, were innocent as lambs. Treachery and rebellion, of course, were instantly and brutally repressed. Making racial distinctions about reliability…Hadeishi was only too aware of his own failing in this regard. Even Anderssen's name set his teeth on edge. A Russian…who could really trust a Russian?
"On the other hand," Kosho continued in a careful tone, "the other scientists have also made expeditions into the hinterlands. Russovsky's use of an ultralight, however, has allowed her to range far and wide across the northern hemisphere."
"Did the Valkyrie make this flight before or after Russovsky returned to base camp with the cylinders?"
"Before," Kosho said, cueing up a timeline. "But only by a few days."
"So — she could have found the cylinders, informed her compatriots and then headed back to base with some samples, while leaving the rest for these 'miners' to secure."
The lieutenant commander nodded, dark eyes glittering in the light of the overheads. "Yes, Chu-sa, but the real question is: Did Russovsky realize what the cylinder would do, if it were disturbed?"
Hadeishi grunted and a sardonic smile creased his face. "You mean, Sho-sa, did she murder the crew of the Palenque to ensure no one noticed a shuttle lifting off with a hold full of First Sun artifacts? That is an excellent question."
The Western Badlands, Ephesus III
A burning spot appeared on the eastern horizon; Toniatuh lifting a gleaming limb over the rim of the world, his light gilding the crowns of a great army of stone pinnacles. Wind-carved tufa — fantastically sculpted into corkscrew towers, hollow mushroom-shaped domes, translucent veils and jagged peaks — began to glow yellow-orange as the dawn reached out. Beneath the shining towers, deep ravines and canyons filled with dust and sand twisted through the wilderness. Down below the gimlet eye of the sun, remaining night shone with a quiet, subtle glow. Myriad sparks and gleams hid among the sand, sheltering beneath meters of fine-grained dust.
The sun continued to rise, the pressure of his gaze sending gusts racing through the canyons and moaning between scalloped reeflike towers. With the keening hiss of slowly heating air came a second sound — something foreign to the sere landscape — a humming drone echoing back and forth between cliff and precipice and spire. Light glinted from metal and the broad-winged shape of an ultralight appeared in the eastern sky. A contrail of vapor twisted away behind shining metal and plastic, the Midge sweeping gracefully past three turretlike pinnacles. The drone of the engine reverberated in the canyons below, but the slow life hiding in the sand heard nothing.
Day continued to broaden, his shining white coat rising to cover the east, driving the last shadows of night deeper and deeper into the ravines and crevices. The ultralight drifted among the towers, trending north and west, wings dipping as the pilot searched for a landing place. The thinning air was robbing the aircraft of lift, making the engine work harder and harder.
The ultralight banked sharply, the engine's droning pitch sliding up in scale, and the Midge circled. One of the great mushroom-shaped domes had cracked and splintered in some lost age, leaving a great bowl ringed with ragged shell-like walls. Sand and splintered tufa made an irregular plain within. The approach was short, the space confined, but the Midge drifted in to within a meter of the ground, then nosed up — into a stall — and bounced to the ground. A curtain of dust rose, then drifted away. The pitted, scored canopy opened and a weathered-looking woman rolled out to stand upright. She stretched, rolled her head from side to side, and set about securing the aircraft.
When the sand anchors were set, she climbed a slope of pebbly, red sand to a shallow overhang. A flat stone blackened by carbon scoring made a rest for her cooking kit and a smudged line around the edge of the opening guided her hand in tacking up a mirror-bright sunshade. Then she lay down and closed her eyes, head resting on a tattered woolen blanket.
Below her in the basin, the Gagarin chattered and chuckled to itself, then the mirrored surface of the upper wing flashed and onboard systems oriented themselves towards the sky, searching for an answering signal.
"We're not going to be able to set down," Fitzsimmons shouted, trying to make himself heard over the roar of four airbreathing turbines. He hung half out of the starboard side of the shuttle, one hand gripping a stanchion inside the cargo door. Wind howled around him, rushing up from the basin below, in a tornado of flying sand and dust. The Gunso's combat visor was down, protecting his face from the rain of sharp-edged rock. His free hand was on a descender, back heavy with gun-rig and equipment bags.
"There's no place else to land," Parker's voice chattered from his earbug. "Can you drop in?"
"Yes," Fitz leaned out, arm stiff. The ground below was obscured by the dust storm, but he'd jumped into worse. "Deckard — let's fly."
The shuttle adjusted, tilting, and Deckard crowded into the cargo door beside Fitz. Both men were kitted out in drop gear — full combat suits, a light loadout of weapons, ammunition and tools. Their descender lines spooled out and their combat visors painted the nearly-invisible wire a virulent green. Fitzsimmons waited for the shuttle's natural roll to top out, then stepped off, monofil zipping through the magnetic clamp-ons in his hand and attached to his belt.
He landed gently, jerking up a half-meter short of the ground and dropping catlike onto the sand. Fitz detached from the line and tucked his hand clamp away in one quick, automatic motion. Deckard was down a second later and both men broke away from the landing point at a run. Fitzsimmons led with his Iztanuma PRK80 riotgun — no sense in packing the combat rifle or even the lighter shipgun, not for a pickup — and sprinted up the slope toward the overhang they'd spotted from the air. Deckard swung to the right, laboring in heavier, softer sand, but he kept up.