"It's impossible," he whispered, awed now that he'd had time to consider just what was happening out there. And even as he said it, he felt the slight judder of the ship as the first of the missiles were launched, then another as a second pair streaked out toward it.
The giant raised his shield. The Commander watched in astonishment as the missiles vanished into it, then gasped as a beam of pure white light bounced back at him from the mirror's surface.
"Take avoiding action! Now!" he yelled, but even as he gave the order he knew it was too late.
DEVORE STARED at the screen in disbelief.
"One eight eight. You're in that area. What happened?"
There was a moment's hesitation, then a sobered voice answered him. "It blew up, Master. It simply blew up."
"But the giant ..."
"Giant, Master? What giant?"
What was happening? What in the gods' names was going on out there?
"One eight eight. Go in there now. Hit that target. And pay no attention to anything you might see on your screen. Just kill it. Understand?"
"Going in now, Master."
He let out a breath, then shook his head. An illusion. It had to be an illusion. But how? And when had an illusion ever registered with such solid' ity?
He shivered. He didn't know. He simply didn't know.
"Two six zero," he said. "Follow one eight eight in. I want to make sure we've nailed that target. If anything happens to one eight eight, you take over the mission."
"Understood, Master!"
And if they all blow up?
He looked up at the screen again. "All ships in Shang Command go in there at once. I want that sector scoured and cleaned out, and I want it done now!"
COMING TO THE TOP of the slope Ebert stopped, then laughed, surprised by the sight that met his eyes.
Tuan Ti Fo was sitting on a low rock, DeVore's fleet to his back, studying the wei chi board that was set up before him.
Ebert went across and looked down at the board. It was the same game they had been playing earlier. As he watched, Tuan Ti Fo laid another stone, extending his line.
"Isn't it rather late?" he asked.
"Play a stone," Old Tuan answered him.
"Where?"
Tuan looked up at him and smiled. "Deep into his territory. Turn him. Play behind his lines."
"Behind?"
Tuan nodded. "You must distract him a moment longer. The storm . . . the storm will decide it all."
Ebert frowned, then looked up at the darkening sky. And as he did the first drops of rain fell onto his face, trickling down his brow and pooling in the hollows of his eyes.
THE STORM DRAINS WERE FULL, the sluices overflowing, but still the rain fell, heavier by the moment. Chen looked up at the sky, drawing his fingers through his soaked hair, then looked back at the village, urging the last few stragglers on toward the safety of the bunker. His son, Jyan, was the last of them, coming down the street between the big farmhouses, carrying Old Mother Ling, a waterproof sheet wrapped about her. Seeing how he was struggling, Chen began to wade toward him, his feet sticking in the mud that was everywhere now—that pulled and sucked and threatened to send one sprawling at any moment.
"Come on!" he yelled, taking the old woman from his son, then turning to half walk, half limp toward the steps.
Handing her inside, Chen turned back. "Is that everyone?" he yelled, making himself heard against the wind, and the thunder that now rumbled incessantly.
"I've checked the houses," Jyan answered him. "You want me to check the barns?"
Chen shook his head. "We'll do a head count down below. If there's anyone missing . . ."
Jyan nodded and then laughed. "What's happening, Father? It's like the Great Flood out here! I've never seen so much rain!"
"No . . ." Chen looked at the sky thoughtfully. "Still, let's get inside, neh? You know how your mother worries."
"I know," Jyan said, laughing, letting his father hand him down the steps.
He watched his son vanish inside, then turned back, shielding his eyes against the beating rain as he looked up at the sky once more. The clouds were dark and menacing, and even as he watched, lightning flickered between them with a crack of thunder.
Where are you now, Gregor Karr? he wondered, concerned for his old friend's safety, but glad that Marie and the girls at least were safe here in his charge. I'll look after them, he vowed, as the rain redoubled its efforts, stinging his exposed flesh and throwing up spray off the muddy steps.
He stepped back, into the shelter of the bunker, then reached up and pulled down the storm shutter.
It would be a long time until daylight.
DEVORE STARED AGHAST at the screen, watching one after another of his craft fall slowly to the ground. It was like they were being switched off, one after another. He watched another wobble in the air, then begin to topple to the dry seabed, and shook his head.
It made no sense. There were no beams, no rays, nothing whatsoever to explain it, yet ship after ship was losing power. Soon there would be nothing in the sky. And the storm . . . the storm was fast approaching.
Too long, he thought. I've spent too long here on this single play. Yes, and now he would pay the price for his hesitation.
It was time for more drastic measures.
"Destroy the Cities," he said, leaning over the communicator. "Let the missiles fall."
The image on the screen changed. It was now n view from space. A dozen huge launchers lazed like alligators in a pool, awaiting their moment. As he watched tiny twinkles of light appeared along the sides of each, like matches being struck. A closer view showed a single rocket haring from its launch hatch, silently falling toward the dark mass beneath it.
There was no satisfaction in this, yet if he could not take the board he would at least destroy it.
More missiles launched, and then a final salvo. Seventy-two in all. Enough to leave the continent a bed of smoldering cinders.
He watch them fall, streaking into the upper atmosphere. In two minutes it would be over. He turned, calling one of his men to him, and as he did the screen was lit with brilliant light.
Shielding his eyes, he looked back, trying to see what had happened, but the light was too fierce. Slowly it intensified. Then, with a strange little fizzle, the image on the screen dissolved into a fuzz of static. DeVore lowered his hand and looked about him. Every single screen in the cabin was the same.
"No . . ." he said, unable to take in what had happened. "No . . ."
THOSE WHO HAD SURVIVED the fall of their ships had clambered out into that nightmare landscape, dazed and uncertain of their bearings. The rain was falling steadily now, lightning flashes briefly illuminating the darkness, casting rocks and hollows into deep shadow. Then, with a startling suddenness, the whole sky lit up. For ten, maybe fifteen seconds the light was painfully intense and those that glanced up found themselves staggering about blindly, their flesh tingling, their retinas burned away.
Among them Ebert walked, truly blind now, his remotes destroyed in that same moment when he had reached out and—feeling his way behind the fine lines of the missile's wiring—had tweaked the signal and detonated the leading rocket.
As the darkness fell once more, the rain intensified. Rain like a solid wall falling endlessly from the night-black heavens. Rain so hard, it beat the blinded stragglers down, sucking at their feet, filling their mouths, its noise like the sound of a million drummers drumming.
For a moment the universe was rain. And then, with a rumble that shook the rocks beneath them, the tide came in again.