Wasteland of flint

array.'

Smith found the controls for the external point-defense system and toggled on a set of pattern cameras mounted on hard-points along the Cornuelle's hull. Kosho's eyes narrowed in interest as he woke them up and fed in parameters for a close-hull scan. A moment later the comp chimed to announce the area immediately outside the ship was clear of people in z-suits.

'Hull clear,' Smith announced. 'Stand by for live power to g-array.'

'Standing by,' echoed back from both Engineering and the watch duty officer on the bridge.

'Power.' Smith tapped a glyph of a running man bearing a twisting flame atop a brick on his stylized head. The third section of the communications station lit and data began to feed into the system. A preliminary plot began to appear seconds later. At the same moment, a string of amber lights flared on the panel. Smith jerked as if struck in the face and immediately punched a shutdown. 'We have a partial systems failure,' he barked into the comm. 'Engineering, systems check!'

'Got it,' Helsdon grumbled and Kosho could hear him scratching a stubbly beard. 'Power conduits show green… hull skin feedback shows nominal…no pressure drops, no hull rupture.'

Kosho watched Smith with interest. The boy was sweating, the back of his uniform shirt sticking to narrow shoulders, but he did not freeze or balk in the face of an unexpected situation.

'Are we radiating?' he snapped at both Engineering and the ensign riding the weapons panel. 'Is there hull leakage?'

'No,' came the answer a bare second later from Weapons.

Helsdon in Engineering was humming a little tune, but he chimed in a heartbeat later. 'I'm seeing some queer readings from the reconfigured sensors in grid two-even. There must be some kind of data-formatting problem in the sensor feed.' The engineer sighed audibly. 'I'll take a crew and sort this. Engineering, out.'

Smith let himself breathe out in relief, then stiffened, glancing sideways at the sho- sa. He seemed both exhilarated and near dead with fright.

'You will get your turn,' Kosho said, taking back the v-pad. She was not smiling, being a proper officer, but her eyes glittered a little in amusement at his excitement. 'There are always problems like this when we bring a new system online.'

'Yes, Kosho-tzin.' Smith made a sharp little bow, just as he had been taught in the Fleet officers'calmecac. Her eyes narrowed a little, considering him. The boy stiffened again, expecting a rebuke of some kind.

'A question – you did not believe Helsdon-tzin's assertion that the outer hull was clear?'

'No – well, I believed him, ma'am – but…on my cadet cruise, ma'am, they had a punishment detail outside, repainting the hull numbers on the Tizoc. I was standing a duty watch on the bridge and Weapons decided to run a system test on the main sensor array. They checklisted with everyone they were supposed to – Engineering, the Marine detatchment, Flight Operations – but they didn't ask the quartermaster. Number sixteen array went to full active scan and killed three cadets. Boiled them alive right inside their suits.' Smith was looking a little white around the gills.

'Never pays to be hasty,' he said in conclusion, avoiding her gaze. 'Ma'am.'

'Very wise,' Kosho said, pushing herself up out of the chair. 'Return to quarters. You must be alert and well- rested for the morning duty watch.'

'Hai!' Smith bowed formally and then left the bridge, trying not to burst from unfettered pride.

Kosho watched him go, thinking about the past. Dead men teach memorable lessons, she thought with a certain grim humor. Their sacrifice repaid a thousand times.

The heavy carrier Tizoc was notorious in Fleet for the number of training accidents suffered by her ever-changing crews. Kosho had served on the ancient, outdated and frankly dangerous capital ship herself. Every officer did – Tizoc had born the brunt of cadet cruises for three generations – but most did not realize until they'd knocked around the Fleet for a tour or two that the 'curse' struck each and every cadet class with brutal, endlessly repeated efficiency.

Every officer in Fleet had been on watch, or on duty station, or even on the same work detail or in the same compartment, or at least in the same graduating class, as some poor unfortunate who died gruesomely as the result of careless procedure or sloppy handling or one of the millions of tiny errors which could doom a man, a ship, or a fleet. Cadets boarding the Tizoc for the first time were told the ship was named after an Emperor called 'He-who-bleeds-the-people.' Later, when they heard enough of stories from their shipmates and were sober enough to put two and two together to make four, the veteran officers called the venerable old carrier 'He-who-winnows-the-chaff' in tones of wary respect.

Kosho looked once around the bridge, saw everything was in order, and then kicked into the accessway. She felt tired and it was late. There would be a fullness of work in the morning, she was sure. Hadeishi did not allow an idle crew.

Near Slot Canyon Twelve, the Escarpment

Pale rose and gold streaked the eastern rim of the world, heralding an ear-searing dawn.

A faint white illumination filled the sky, lighting scattered rocks, the tie-downs of the ultralights and then Hummingbird, still kneeling in the sand, palms on his knees. The stout figure of the Mйxica moved minutely and the man's eyes opened. His breather mask was caked with frost, the z-suit diagnostics on his wrist gleaming red. Stiffly, the man rose to his feet, ice flaking from the joints of his matte-black suit. Moving very slowly, Hummingbird made his way to the cargo door of his Midge.

Hummingbird rummaged through the cargo compartment and found a bag containing power cells. Fumbling with chilled, nearly nerveless fingers he managed to swap out the cells in his belt and let out a long, tired hiss as the suit heaters woke to life again.

'And in an hour,' he husked, drawing on his djellaba and slinging the scarf-like kaffiyeh over his shoulder. 'I'll be broiling.'

The Mйxica looked around the campsite and was cautiously pleased to see everything still in place – the pressure tent inside the cave, the filament screen, the other Midge. He dug in the confusion of the cargo compartment again and dragged out some tubes of water and a package of threesquares. Holding them up to his suit light did not reveal any discolorations or other signs of infestation, so the nauallis stuffed them into the pockets of his cloak.

Prepared for a long walk, Hummingbird retraced his steps and then pressed on, following the scuffed, irregular tracks left by Anderssen's blind flight.

Gretchen was sitting on a low outcropping, her face washed in cool golden light, arms clasped around her knees, when Hummingbird finally caught up with her. The Mйxica came to a halt at the edge of a tilted slab of sandstone, looking up at her. Hot pink reflections of high-altitude ice clouds blazed from his goggles.

'Are you all right?' He sounded very tired on the comm, though the channel was perfectly clear at such close range.

'I am alive,' Gretchen said. She did not look down at him, but raised her head to indicate the eastern sky. 'Look.'

The edge of a ruddy, golden sun would soon rise above the horizon. For a moment, Hummingbird saw nothing and then – a bright point stabbed down from the heavens, cutting across the spreading roseate glow before vanishing in a bright streak.

'A meteor,' he said.

Gretchen turned her head, resting one cheek on her arm. 'There have been three while I've watched. Doctor Smalls will be watching them too, from the Palenque, and he will be sad. They served him faithfully while they lived.'

'His meteorology satellites,' Hummingbird replied, climbing up onto the outcropping. 'Hadeishi will have diverted them into decaying orbits – letting them burn up in the atmosphere.'

'You shouldn't sit down,' Gretchen said, unfolding herself as the nauallis approached. 'Don't you see the color of the sky?'

The Mйxica frowned, forehead creasing, but then a faint dim line along the horizon caught his attention.