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  Binocular Guy yells back, “They are flying REALLY low!”

  “Aaahhh, shiiiit,” says Coffee Guy.

  Refugees

  “I can’t just get dumped at the refugee center,” Trask insists. “We can’t.” He sits at the table in the Officers’ Mess with Helton and Lag. He’s growing urgent and desperate.

  “We have thousands of people who need to be ferried out of a war zone, and we think we’re likely to get shot at, too,” Helton says. “This isn’t the safest place either!”

  “You don’t understand. If we get put there, we’ll likely get robbed, or worse!”

  “That’s a risk for every refugee,” Lag says gently.

  “But most people don’t have what we have.”

  Helton is quickly growing impatient. “That’s right, most of them have already lost almost everything. What have you got?”

  “I was here wrapping up a deal, and the normal courier got killed, and … those cases…”

  “Contain?” Lag prompts.

  Trask weighs his options, and after a brief internal argument, he explains. “The proceeds from the deal. Four hundred million in cash, bearer bonds, metals deposit contracts, and electronic transfer cards. Nothing small enough to be useful in a refugee camp, but big enough to make us targets. If anyone else finds out…”

  Lag nods. “Considering the typical corruption in the security at refugee centers, that’s likely. That’s enough to get a lot of people killed in riots.”

  “Whhooooeeee … that’s a load to think about,” Helton says.

  “Obviously I can pay you to stay aboard.”

  Lag stares intently at the older man for a few moments. “So … why tell us this? Why not make up an easy lie?”

  Trask looks back, eye-to-eye, unflinching. “How did you know? About the Throwdart accounting problem?”

  “You told me you had one.”

  “I said we had a problem, but that I was going to figure it out; I didn’t know the details. You said it was two and a quarter percent, and that is exactly what it turned out to be.”

  Lag smiles wryly. “I wondered if you’d catch that.”

  “What did you have to do with it?”

  “What’d you find out?”

  “No one wanted to talk,” Trask admits. “Vague references to a series of accidents, and eleven union and eleven company managers died, but it was like pulling teeth to get even that.”

  “How likely is it that the same number of union leaders and top local managers, all of whom were known for increasingly thuggish, murderous tactics and pigheadedness, would all manage to die in a dozen remarkably unlikely accidents within minutes of one another, accidents that did not kill any bystanders or family?”

  Trask narrows his eyes in realization. “You…?”

  “Settle disputes. I hear the newly appointed company managers and elected union reps suddenly saw their situation with great clarity. They promptly signed a contract that addressed some legitimate pay and working condition concerns, and didn’t bankrupt the company. The freak accidents were tragic, of course, but they did happen to move the negotiations along nicely. Some suspect a murdered miner’s grieving widow might have sought outside help, or perhaps hired a … troubleshooter. Two and a quarter percent of refined product for five years would be a reasonable fee for such a negotiation.”

  “Holy crap,” Helton says.

  “… So, can we stay aboard?” Trask asks. Lag shrugs, nods toward Helton.

  “We can’t really stop anywhere safe to drop you off while we're on this contract, but we can stick you someplace safe as long as we are flying. How about you pay us what you think it was worth when it’s over? Fair?”

  “More than fair!” Trask says. “Thank you, thank you!”

  “Don’t thank us yet; we still have a half-dozen trips with people shooting at us.”

  “People are shooting at you?”

  “You got hit by ground fire, didn’t you?” Lag says.

  “Well, yes, but I thought it was something about the money, or the deal, or–”

  Cooper calls over the intercom. “Helton to bridge. We are approaching the refugee center.”

  Helton grimaces ruefully. “Gotta go. Your wife can move into John and Julia’s cabin for a bit. You okay to help out? It’s an all-hands drill.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Okay, then,” Lag says. He takes a deep breath and stretches. “Back to herding the homeless.”

  Sunlight streams in through the windows in Kat’s office, gleaming off the still-minimalist furnishings. She sits at her desk, a concerned expression on her face and Lag’s image on the screen.

  “Nothing yet,” she says. “They said they lost a bunch of surveillance assets about,” she glances up at the wall clock, “fifty minutes ago. No good real-time in the area right now, but they’re moving what they can. Soonest is a couple of hours. Wait or risk it?”

  “Fifty minutes,” Lag echoes. “About five minutes after we took off. That fast all at once, it must have been planned. Hmmm. Keep digging. We’ll come into the RC low from the southeast. Rough country that way, so they’d only want to move by flying and we would have seen them if they were to try an attack outside the declared mil zone.”

  “When I get anything more I’ll feed it directly out. Gotta go.”

  Lag nods and Kat’s screen goes blank. She leans back in her chair, fingers steepled, brow furrowed in thought.

  Tajemnica squats low on her landing struts on a makeshift landing field at the refugee center. Refugees stream down her ramp towards rows of prefab shelters, lined up like eight rows of modest translucent plastic greenhouses, four hundred in all, along with larger water and sanitation shacks at the ends and middle. Watching the refugees from the corners at the top of the ramp are Trask and Kaminski, Lag and Kaushik. Aid workers in bright jackets attempt to direct the huge flow of people surging down the ramp, but there are not enough of them. The shouting and chaos increases.

  A brief siren blast cuts through the noise and confusion, then Tajemnica speaks from every bullhorn and loudspeaker in a calm female voice.

  “In a moment all refugees will receive messages on their personal com units with their assigned shelter numbers and locations. Rows are numbered from your left as you disembark. Shelters are numbered starting from this end. Please go to your assigned shelter and sign in, then use the screens in them to locate and contact relatives and obtain more information. Those without personal com units please see the aid workers for assistance.”

  There is mass murmuring, then a blaring and chiming of a thousand different ringtones. Then the chaotic crowd starts flowing smoothly down between the rows, and the aid workers are left standing with little to do but look around in amazement. One of them goes up beside the ramp and addresses Trask, assuming he must be in charge.

  “We need to assign them locations!”

  Trask shrugs and points to Lag. “Talk to him!”

  The aid worker walks around and through the crowd to the other side. “You can’t do this!” he says to Lag. “We need to know who is here and assign spots!”

  Lag extends a hand. “May I see what you have for a moment?”

  “NO!” The aid worker clutches his tablet computer defensively.

  Lag speaks into his wrist com. “Tajemnica, can you talk to his ‘puter?”

  “Done.”

  “Check it yourself, then,” Lag says to the aid worker. He drops his hand casually back to his rifle — not threatening, just a habit — and smiles a modest, professional smile. “They have all been checked in; we scanned them when they boarded, and our system downloaded it to yours. We screened out some of the problems.”

  “You, uh…” The aid worker consults his tablet. “Love it when technology works like it’s supposed to! That makes things easier!”

  “Yeah, it does sometimes. Where are you going to put the next five or six loads?”

  “Five or … WHAT?”

  “At least five
thousand more,” Lag says. “It’s a hot war zone. We had one flier crash almost right on us after it got shot. You’ll need more huts, medical, water, and way more sanitation. Most of them haven’t eaten in a few days. We could only give them a small snack on the way; a 200 calorie emergency bar took the edge off and settled ’em down, but they’ll need more food soon. We’ll be heading back for more refugees as soon as these are off. And we could really use a few medics aboard, with all the supplies they can grab, so they can start treating people as they come aboard.”

  “You’re going back into a hot zone?” The aid worker’s eyes widen. “And bringing more back here?”

  “We have a contract that pays to move people here. We think they are directly in harm’s way,” Lag says. “Put the best people in charge regardless of seniority, and use qualified refugees if you have to. Riots get ugly fast.”

  The aid worker looks at him in open-mouthed dismay for a moment. Then he closes his mouth, squares his shoulders, looks at his tablet, then at the remaining refugees on the ship. He nods decisively. “How long do we have before the next load?”

  “Four hours, give or take. We’ll let you know if otherwise.”

  He grimaces a moment, then turns and shouts, “DODSON! SINGH! PIERSON! TANTRA! Got a SITUATION!”

  AIR DEFENSE

  ManPADS

  “Where, where, where…” Helton mutters. On the screen in front of him is a schematic of the local area. “Best hiding, or best visibility? In the zone, or visible from here? Battery or lone shoulder-mount? What, what, what…”

  “I’d hide troops outside the declared zone, keep the big stuff inside,” Quiritis offers.

  “Good point. So … stick a ManPADS with a shorter range close-in here, with good visibility and no witnesses, like a hill in the woods.” An icon starts flashing in red slightly off the center of the map. “Found something! Four klicks west! Bare hilltop! Zoom in.”

  The map zooms in, showing a synthetic image of a hilltop with a half-dozen dim icons for people. One icon suddenly snaps brighter, then another with an extra symbol over it. The Ship AI speaks in a brisk, male, positive voice: “Multiple incoming data sources. Confidence good. Three-man ManPADS teams. Launcher.” Two more icons pop into sharp, bright focus. Then another with the extra symbol. “More confirming sources. Two teams. Confidence high.”

  “Ah, good!” Helton smiles, not minding the game of cat-and-mouse when they have a fair chance. “Now we just go around them!”

  “Something to the north, too!” Allonia calls.

  Helton’s smile fades a bit. “Let’s keep looking, then. That other hilltop to the southeast. Anything?”

  “Thermals show four heat signatures,” the Ship AI reports. “No electronics detected.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Negative.”

  “Looks like the north side has six people, too,” Allonia adds.

  “Confirmed,” says the Ship AI. “North hill, six people. Two launchers. Confidence high.”

  “Ah, shit,” Cooper harrumphs. “Surrounded.”

  “We came in right over the southeast hill,” Helton says. “Why didn’t they shoot at us?”

  Quiritis replies without looking up from her screens, “Maybe they didn’t get word we’d slipped out? We should minimize our profile, fly low to give them few clear shots.”

  “Four,” Allonia speculates. “One team and a leader?”

  Helton scratches his chin, then shakes his head. “As soon as we can lift, start knocking treetops off. Head straight at the four to the southeast. When we get closer, we’ll have a better look. If they have missiles, we leave a furrow with the bow where they’re standing; if not, we just part their hair and scare the crap out of them.”

  “You want to hit the ground ON PURPOSE?” Cooper yelps. “At SPEED?”

  “Only if we have no choice.”

  “You’re crazy. Interceptors are one thing, planets are different. Bigger.”

  There is a heavy silence. Bipasha and Allonia look back and forth between the two men. Quiritis glances up at Cooper. “Just grazing shouldn’t be a problem,” she says calmly. Then she returns her attention to the scrolling checklists and geo-tactical data on her screens.

  Helton nods decisively. “Note to self: screw weapons regs, we need armaments ASAP.”

  North hill

  The grassy hilltop is partially covered by scrub. Hunkered down between and behind the patches of brush are six men in camouflage, with small packs and equipment on the ground around them. One of the men squats, holding binoculars steadily, watching the refugee center. Suddenly he calls out urgently, “LIFTING! They are LIFTING! Shit! Southeast again! Shoz! Check range!”

  Another man quickly shoulders a missile launcher and aims it toward Tajemnica in the distance. “No dice! At limit, going away!” He follows its motion through his tracking scope but makes no preparations to fire.

  “Shit,” says a third man. He glares at the retreating ship, then speaks in quiet anger. “Call it in, we have to redeploy. One team from each hill. Box ‘em for when they come back.”

  Southeast hill

  The hilltop is covered with small trees and scattered brush. Two couples, one older, one younger, sit partially concealed, watching birds with binoculars. “Oh, look at that one! A female!” the older man says, pointing to a nearby bush.

  “Very pretty!”

  They all peer intently through their binoculars at a brightly colored bird on a branch. Without warning, a blurred dark mass blots out the sky. They drop their binoculars and see Tajemnica flying in directly at them, huge and closing fast. The young lady screams as all four stretch themselves flat on the ground, trying to become one with the grass. Tajemnica roars past just over them, the wind of her passing flattening bushes and trees like a hurricane, her hull seriously clipping the taller ones. The older man lifts his head and stares at the retreating ship as it angles up and climbs fast. He looks at the destruction around him, eyes wide. The birds are gone.

  Bridge

  Cooper eases up on the control yoke. “Now they’ll move to cover all points,” he complains. “Coming back’ll be a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” Helton says curtly, “unless we circle around and hunt them now, while they’re not expecting us.”

  “Hunt them with what?” Bipasha asks.

  “Just what we planned on doing here. Cooper, hit the deck, circle around to the north hill.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Never a better time. Do it.”

  Cooper turns sour and stubborn, does nothing. “I can’t believe you want to try running into the ground! Risk is too high!”

  “Just a little hill.” Quiritis says quietly. “No problem.”

  Lag walks in and steps up beside the command station. “Colliding with things again?”

  “If they’re still on the hilltop.” Helton stares hard at Cooper for a moment, his face a tight mask of annoyance. “Quiri, you just got promoted to first pilot. Do it!”

  Cooper’s brows rise in surprise while Quiri’s face sets in a bland, focused look. She pushes the yoke forward and speaks calmly, “Aye-aye, sir. You might want to tell people to brace for impact; it may be more than the inertial compensators can handle.”

  “What if they have moved down to redeploy?” Lag asks. “Then you’ll be back inside the circle, in range.”

  After a moment of tense silence, Helton says, “Cornhole ’em.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Helton grabs the mic. “All personnel! Clear the cargo bay, secure all middeck windows, close all hatches onto the cargo bay!” He releases the talk button on the mic. “Tajemnica, open forward and aft cargo bay airlock doors. Prepare to fast-drop the bow ramp and lower the stern partially now. If they are on the hilltop, we level it with the bow ramp up. If they are down where we can’t turn ‘em into road kill, we drop the ramps, bump the ship, and the wind blowing through will knock the bags off the aft ramp. A few hundred fifty-kilo beanbags at four hundred kph shou
ld flatten a pretty good area, and one of those things will take out anyone it lands on.”

  “Are you serious?” Lag asks.

  “Quiritis, can you do it if Taj can time the ballistics of a bombing run right?”

  “Beanbags are not in the ground-assault combat manual, but gravity-bombing is easy enough,” she replies.

  Helton grins at Lag. “I never read manuals anyhow.”

  Quiritis runs her hands over the controls, calculating speeds and angles. The view outside changes from aiming skyward to ground-hugging. Cooper sits back in his fold-out seat. “Sure, why not? Run into hills on purpose, fight missiles with beanbags. Makes perfect sense. In someone’s universe.”

  Helton runs his hand along the console edge. “Taj, can you do it?”

  “The physics of falling objects is well understood. The details of moving that much mass by wind tunnel effect will be … a bit more complex.”

  “Use the loading arms to make it a more controlled ejection?” Lag suggests.

  “Hill’s coming up fast!” Cooper says, with a rising note of urgency.

  “Three men. One launcher confirmed,” the Ship AI reports. “Three men downhill. Two hundred fifty meters.”

  North hill

  Three men in camo stand on the north hilltop, heads just above the brush, looking into the distance toward the refugee center. They hear an unexpected swooshing hiss of air movement, and behind them Tajemnica surges rapidly into view, hull partially below the horizon. They whirl around and stand motionless in shock at seeing a wall of metal rushing towards them. Tajemnica’s hull grazes the ground, and she screams over the hilltop, leveling the spot where the men were standing, dirt splashing away like water in a barge’s bow wave. The front ramp drops when she clears the crest of the hill. The back ramp is down, piles of beanbags ready for “deployment.” The fast-moving ship suddenly jumps up and back down, like a ground vehicle racing over a speed bump at high speed. Her bow turns up sharply.

  Cargo bay

  The cargo bay has been swept clean and all interior hatches and windows shut tight. Pallets of bags cover most of the stern ramp. The two loading arms with forklift attachments are extended, one holding a stack of pallets down, the other in front of another stack, ready to push it back and over the edge. The bow ramp drops open with a WHUMP, and the wild roar of rushing air makes the atmosphere aboard resonate wickedly. The corners of the bags lift and ruffle in the sudden gale, threatening to move under the wind pressure put on them. At the bump, everything jumps and shifts. The loading arm shoves the beanbags on one side and they fly off the ramp, scattering already.