Wasteland of flint

of rust. Obsidian mountains rising to unimaginable heights, rectangular black slabs shimmering against an ochre sky. Fields of silver flowers which constantly turned to face the sun. A sense of impossible age.

Did she see these things herself? Were they dreams? Russovsky examined memories of her life before this life and found them rife with the sensation of dreams and phantoms and half-seen images whelped from confusion or exhaustion. Yet there were no cyclopean towers, no vast cities dreaming under the cruel, brilliant sky of her human memories. These new memories felt strange, foreign.

They felt as things she'd seen with waking eyes.

Disturbed, she turned her attention away from such disorderly matters. The slow, comfortable song of the hathol permeating the dune slope drew her attention. Here was respite from the storm, from the bleak thoughts, from tormenting phantoms, from the nagging pressure of the distant machine. Russovsky knelt, hands flat on the unsteady slope. Her fingers sank into the muted glow of the sand-dwellers. A darker hue spread from her contact, spilling through the delicate threads and spongiform clusters forming the hive. Her own skin became tainted with the reddish radiance of the slow ones.

Russovsky became still, her body locked in position, and the red glow mounted through her arms, into her chest, flooding down into her torso. Even as her body began to crumble, flaking into translucent fragments, skinsuit hardening to stone and dissolving, the darker stain spread across the dune face, rushing through the fragile circulatory system of the hive.

The Russovsky-shape shuddered into a rain of dust, sand and stone fragments. Wind rippled across the debris, anointing the darkened hive with glowing red dust. A second wave of radiance flooded through the hathol, picking out the threads and tendrils in bright new colors.

At the base of the dune, where the dust gathered, where the heart-clusters of the hive dwelt under meters of hard-packed sand, the dark stain pooled, thickened, began to build toward the storm-tossed sky. An outline formed with visible speed, sand and dust and grit knitting into bone, sinew, flesh, blood, the triply-insulated rubbery layer of a skinsuit. In the fullness of time, long, ragged blond hair.

Russovsky flexed her arms, brushing husks of dead hathol away from her fingers. Bare feet broke free of an encasing shell and she turned toward the encampment. The suit was glossy and dark again, made new, refreshed.

The strobe-flare of distant lightning washed over her face. A muttered growl of thunder stirred the air, fanning her hair.

Among the Broken Mountains

Hadeishi clung to a retaining bar, leaning in over the shoulder of the Fleet pilot at the controls of the work platform. Heicho Felix and her assault team were crowded in behind him, bulky dark shapes – combat armor and helmets matte-black to fade into the background, their tools, weapons and ammunition packs slung tightly against their bodies. Crates of hardware filled the rest of the very limited space. The platform slowly drifted forward, barely nudged by a set of four compressed gas jets. Hadeishi watched a passive plot updating on the tiny flight panel.

'Five hundred meters,' the pilot's voice was steady. An EVA work platform was not the usual vehicle of choice for the shuttle jockeys, but this job required a steady hand and nerves. Though Master's Mate Helsdon had volunteered, the chu-sa had politely ignored his offer. The machinist was far too valuable to risk on a wild throw like this.

'Four hundred meters.'

Hadeishi clicked his throat mike. Though the comm connection to the cruiser was on a hardline, he had no intention of making any more noise than absolutely necessary. A moment later, Kosho's voice was perfectly clear on his earbug.

No sign of activity. The exec sounded entirely at ease. No sign of remotes or drones on picket. You are clear to continue.

Hadeishi clicked twice, indicating he understood.

We have a match on the ship registration number from engine nacelle four. Kosho continued, sounding a little smug. Initial analysis had not found any identifying markings on the visible sections of the refinery. Everyone agreed the miners would probably have replaceable panels for use if they docked in port. The exec had not given up so easily, running all of the visual data through a variety of enhancement procedures. In time, a painted-over number had been found. Ship registry out of Novaya Zemlya Station, Rho Triangulis system. The Turan. A Tyr-class mobile open-space refinery. Master of last record is unknown. Crew registry is unknown.

'Understood.' Hadeishi grimaced. He'd hoped to learn something of the man or woman he faced from the public shipping records in the Cornuelle's database. 'We are at two hundred meters. Hold one.'

The Fleet pilot looked up questioningly. Hadeishi keyed through a secondary comp panel bolted to the side of the carrel. Builder's blueprints and diagrams flashed past. After a moment, he pointed out a particular assembly.

'Left,' he said carefully, 'six hundred meters, then in about a hundred and full stop.'

The pilot glanced out at the massive shape looming in front of them. Against the mountain-sized bulk of the Turan, the EVA platform was a fly buzzing against a temple column. The woman grinned, showing perfect white teeth in a cocoa-brown face, and gently swung the control stick over. The carrel tipped and scooted along the boundary of an enormous, round ore tank. Hadeishi gripped tighter on the bar, watching girders, panels, lading-ports, a ten-meter high '16' and intermittent singleton work lamps glowing against the darkness, drift past.

Hadeishi turned and caught Felix's eye. 'Someone needs to watch the comm wire as we turn into the approach. We'll stop and untangle if we snag.'

The heicho bared her teeth in a tense grin. One hand was clinging like a limpet to the overhead retaining bar, the other was steadying the blunt, wicked shape of a six-barreled Bofors Whipsaw squad support weapon. 'Tonuac's on it.'

'Good.' Hadeishi swung round to watch the curving wall of ore tank sixteen drift past – then it ended abruptly, leaving a dark canyon framed by the looming bulk of tank fourteen. Despite an outwardly calm demeanor, Mitsu's hand clamped tight on the bar as the pilot swung the platform into the pitch-black space. 'Steady as she goes, Sho-i Asale.'

The Mixtec ignored him, her entire body concentrated on the delicate control required by the four maneuvering jets. Without even the faint gleam of the stars or the irregularly-spaced worklights, she was flying blind, guided solely by a carefully crippled radar unit whose power output could almost be measured in candles. Hadeishi gained an impression of vast shapes rising on either side among a forest of girders and pipes. Once the platform made a hard course correction to port, then back again. The sound of his breathing was very loud in his helmet.

Asale was sweating too. He could see silvery beads slithering down her forehead, but the pilot's concentration never wavered. The platform glided to a stop, then rose up, swimming past ill-defined structures. A single light suddenly appeared – a recessed door with an illuminated faceplate and lock window – but the pilot did not stop. The platform continued to rise, minutes ticking past. Then she brought them to a stop, stabilizing the platform with two short bursts.

'We've got a problem.' Asale looked up at Hadeishi, biting her lip in thought. 'We've got thirty meters to go, to reach the airlock you want. But the space ahead is constricted – some kind of framework running crossways in front of the lock.' She fingered the blueprint, showing where they were.

Felix pressed in close, eyeballing the schematic, while Hadeishi was thinking. 'We could dismount here and go in on suit thrusters.'

'No.' Hadeishi wanted to rub his jaw, which was entirely impossible in the suit. 'We'd have to move the gear by hand – and we'll need it inside. What clearance do we need?'

Asale consulted the weak, scattered radar image. 'Side to side we're fine, but this platform is just a bit too high.'

'Felix, cut off the roof.' Hadeishi moved himself carefully into the space directly behind the pilot. 'We'll crouch down.'

'Hai, Chu-sa!' Felix replied immediately, moving into the corner he'd vacated. 'Hand