III.
An assistant flight director, bored and contemplating a night with a couple of cold beers, a hot shower and a hotter woman suddenly saw something on his screen that ought not-no way in hell-be there. He fiddled. He even faddled. But there it remained.
When in doubt, delegate. When delegation is impossible, buck it up to higher.
'What the…? Skipper? Skipper, you've got to come see this!'
Impatiently, the 'Skipper'-a retired naval officer entitled mission director for the Saturn mission-made his way to the terminal. His face was old, weather-lined, and leathery, but he walked erect. A careful observer might have noticed a certain swaggering gait that told of a life at sea now confined to the land.
'Yes, what is it?' the skipper asked.
'The Cristobal Colon just sent us a distress signal, sir.'
'That's not possible. The thing disappeared three and a half years ago and never a peep.'
'Look for yourself,' the assistant flight director insisted, indicating his monitor screen with a pointed finger.
The skipper fumbled in his shirtfront pocket for glasses-bifocals, dammit!-and, placing them low on his nose, craned his head to look at the screen.
'I'll be dipped in shit,' the skipper muttered, then continued, a growing excitement in his voice, 'Don't just sit there with your teeth in your mouth. Answer it!'
A little shamefaced, the assistant flight director began typing on his keyboard. A series of protocols appeared on the screen. He scrolled through them at practiced speed. But which is… ah, there. Selecting one, and hitting return, the assistant flight director sent a signal down the line. The signal reached a largish antenna somewhere in the Rockies and was promptly beamed into space. Then came the roughly one hundred and four thousand second wait- about thirty-one hours-while the signal went out to the Cristobal Colon, was received and returned.
From that point until the ship was recovered the Colon sent an almost continuous stream of the most absolutely, most amazingly impossible data Mission Control, Earth for that matter, had ever received.
There were those who came to wish that the ship, the data, and the program had or would disappear. They had their reasons, and some of those reasons were very good ones.
Chapter Four
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Cochea, 11/7/459 AC
She glided through his dream like a goddess on a cloud; glowing with her own inner light. The halo of her hair shone with semi-divine vitality. Her perfume was the lightest fresh mist in his nostrils. Perfect rounded breasts danced-thinly veiled-before his eyes, enflamed aureoles outlined in the fabric that covered them. As ever, his eyes were dazzled.
She came to her husband, pressing herself against him and inclining her head to be kissed. Her lips opened slightly, dreamily, in invitation.
As they kissed, Pat ran his hands over her back, skin so smooth that but for the seam of the pajamas he couldn't tell where silk left off and equally silky skin began. No matter that she had borne him three children, no mark showed anywhere on her body. Hennessey buried his face in the junction of her neck and shoulder, reveling in the richness of long flowing hair the color of midnight; savoring her warmth, her wondrous scent.
She backed up, pulling and leading him towards the bed. At the bedside, goddess-fingers deftly removed his shirt, undid his belt. As she began to kneel, most un-goddess-like, she whispered, 'I love you, Patricio. Only you. Ever… forever.' Her husband groaned, fingers flexing involuntarily in her hair, as sweet soft lips and roving tongue found and teased.
Sensing the right moment, one of Linda's feet replaced a knee. She arose gracefully, kissing her way upward.
How they moved onto the bed he did not know. Where their clothes went he did not know. One moment they were standing, she in pajamas and he half in working clothes. The next, he lay atop her, the two naked together, her back arched, face flushed with desire. A greedy, grasping hand guided him into her. A small gasp escaped her lips as he began to fill her body as he filled her heart.
For his part it was as if he had entered heated honey. He reveled in the wet heat. His hands roved and stroked, caressed, squeezed, fondled with more than fondness.
Together, they began the age old dance; long slow strokes together. Her moans were more than music to his ears. They inflamed him, drove him on and on, faster and faster. With her moans turning to cries of ecstasy, he groaned, shuddered, spent himself inside her.
Patrick Hennessey smiled in his sleep.
Columbian Airlines LTA Flight 39,
Federated States of Columbia
One of the distinguishing features of Terra Nova, with only its three small moons rather than Old Earth's single large one, and its lesser axial tilt, was that the weather tended less to extremes than had the world of Man's birth. This had made certain technologies that had proven suboptimal and unreliable-even dangerous-on Old Earth rather more competitive on the new. One of these differences was that lighter than air aircraft, blimps and dirigibles, were somewhat more practical and safe.
LTA aircraft still had a number of limitations. They were slow, and so-since the development of large, fast and efficient propeller and jet powered passenger aircraft-not generally used anymore for intercontinental passenger service. Materials for building them both light and strong were either expensive or lacking and so they were not generally used for heavy freight. (Though several companies, notably in the Kingdom of Haarlem, the Republic of Northern Uhuru, and Anglia, were working on this.) For war purposes, though the LTAs had been used extensively early on in the Great Global war, they had been found to be simply too big, too slow, too easily spotted and, because of this, altogether too vulnerable. As helium was relatively expensive, and since the weather was so much less of a threat, Terra Novan airships had stuck with using hydrogen for lift. This, too, made them less suitable for military use.
Instead, LTAs kept a niche in local light freight drayage, regional and infracontinental passenger service, and-naturally-sightseeing. There was nothing quite so good as a mid-size LTA for touring the ice fields of southern Secordia, the Great Ravine that roughly bisected the Federated States of Columbia, the Balboa Transitway, or the First Landing skyline.
The five men sat up in First Class, Yusef playing on his guitar and singing in Arabic… much to the annoyance of the other passengers and the flight crew. He played his new song, happily unconcerned that the song referenced airplanes and they were actually on an air ship. That was the sort of trivial detail only the infidels worried about.
'I've been dreamin' fait'f'ly
Dreamin' about the jihad to come
I know deep inside me
The holy war has begun'
The other four men of the team unbuckled themselves and stood in the aisle, clapping their hands, dancing, and singing along:
'War plane getting nearer;
RIDE on the war plane!'
One of the other, business class, passengers rang for a stewardess. 'Miss, can't you get those bearded heathens to please shut up and sit down?'
