Icarus Effect

CHAPTER TEN

Aerial Transit Corridor-Gulf of St. Lawrence-North Atlantic

It was as if the blood had been drained from him; Saxon was suddenly an empty vessel, echoing and cold. In all the years of battle in conflict zones across the globe, in those moments when death had been a heartbeat away from claiming him, he had never felt the same slow, sickening shock that swept about him now. Carefully, he gathered up the vu-phone and pocketed it, moving slowly to keep one of the ops room consoles between him and Namir.

"I'll give you the truth, if you want it," said the Tyrant commander. "There's little point in being coy about it now."

"Operation Rainbird." Saxon ground out the words like pieces of broken glass. "What did you do?"

Namir sighed. "I wish I could make it clear to you how lucky you are, Ben. Recruitment into the Tyrants is not a reward that just anyone is given. You need to be superlative. You need to be more than just a fool with a gun." He walked a little farther into the room, and Saxon stiffened as he felt the floor shift slightly beneath their feet; the jet was banking, turning eastward. Namir went on. "You were on the radar a long time before I came to you in Queensland. We have ongoing dossiers on many potentials. Our missions have a high level of attrition. Fatalities like Joe

Wexler are a regular occurrence."

"Get to the point!" snapped Saxon.

"Oh, I will. But you have to see the big picture first." Namir nodded to himself and pointed. "You were in the prime percentile, Ben. All that was stopping you were your… shortcomings. We freed you from that."

"What?" He could feel the dark answer coming; on some level, he already knew and he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want it to be true.

"Wexler… It took his wife's death to bring him into the fold. Now, Gunther Hermann, he was a very different subject. Much more direct. The group made certain problems he had in Germany go away, and in return he was in our debt. Not that what he owed mattered. He came to the

Tyrants willingly, eyes open. But you?" Namir cocked his head, weighing Saxon up. "The man I wanted for my team, the man I know you can be, he was being held back." He nodded again. "Throughout your entire military service, first to King and Country, then to Belltower, you've been shackled to some kind of outdated moral compass. You have a dream of being the 'good soldier.' And while other men have had that beaten from them by harsh reality, you hold on to it, Ben. Against all odds, you hold on. That's why you never rose in rank. We've both been leaders of men. And that means sometimes you have to send men to die, and do it without flinching."

"I'd never make my men take a risk I wouldn't take myself!" he shot back.

"Indeed," Namir allowed. "That's your failure. You've been abandoned by every family you had. Your parents, your nation, your army, your employer… And yet still you refuse to see the callous truth. You're blinded by your own hope." He smiled. "I took that from you. I broke those bonds because I thought it would make you stronger."

"The falsified data for the mission… You had it substituted for the real thing!" Saxon's muscles tensed. He wanted to strike out, but he had to know the full dimensions of the betrayal. "How?"

"We have assets inside the Belltower corporation. It wasn't difficult." He sighed. "Those men, they were a hindrance to you. They had to be sacrificed. It was a test. If you perished there in the desert alongside them, then you had no place with us. But if you came out alone…"

"I tried to save them!" Saxon shouted. "Duarte… I could have saved his life!"

"He was expendable," Namir countered. "They all were. I gave Hardesty the order to break Rainbird because I needed to know. I wanted to see if you were willing to live, Ben. If you had the courage to survive."

Saxon's voice was low and hard. "You heartless fucking bastard

…" His hand slipped toward the pocket where the Buzzkill was concealed; but the weapon would be barely an insect bite to the Tyrant commander, with dermal armor sheathing what there was of his flesh.

"Survivor's guilt. That, and your instinct to be loyal to a man who saved your life." Namir studied him. "The psych profile said that was all I needed to control you. But these things are so hard to determine. The human mind is a chaotic system. And as much as men are exactly the animals you expect them to be, sometimes they are not." He frowned. "I don't need to ask you to choose. I can see the answer in your eyes. You can't let go. Hardesty was right. You don't have the strength to kill cold."

"I'm pleased I can prove you wrong." With a blink, Saxon shifted vision modes, getting ready.

Namir drew a wicked-looking combat blade from a sheath on his belt. "You are going to fight for it, aren't you?" he asked. "At least show me that courage. Let me know my faith in you wasn't entirely misplaced." Saxon drew the stun gun and thumbed off the safety catch. The other man laughed. "Oh, that's a choice you'll regret," he sneered.

Saxon met his gaze. "I'm not going to use it on you." The reflex booster kicked in and he brought up the nonlethal weapon, firing two rounds into the flat, glassy surface of the main display console. The stun darts, thick shells the size of a shotgun cartridge, discharged a powerful surge of voltage on impact; the console erupted in a violent shower of sparks and acrid smoke. Surge buffers in the ops room tripped, plunging it into darkness, but Saxon was already seeing the space in low-light mode.

Namir reacted, sweeping in with a lunging, lethal attack that Saxon dodged by a hair, the blade cutting the air near his face.

The stink of burnt plastic reached the fire sensors in the ceiling and immediately triggered a carillon of buzzing alarms. Saxon snatched at a monitor screen and tore it from a desk, with a snake nest of cables trailing behind it. As puffs of fire-retardant powder began to rain from safety nozzles overhead, he slammed the display into Namir's head with such force that the screen shattered and the Tyrant commander staggered back under the blow.

Saxon took the moment and vaulted over a workstation and into the corridor beyond. As he ran, the familiar itch in his jawbone arose, Namir's voice issuing out of his mastoid comm. "All call signs, ignore the alarms" he snarled, "Gray is rogue. Intercept and terminate!"

Dundalk-Maryland-United States of America

"Hello," said the voice, bereft of anything that could make it possibly seem human. "I'm pleased to see you are unharmed."

Anna glanced at the videoscreen set up inside the army tent, and then back at Lebedev, who stood near the door flap, watching her reaction.

"What's this? More games?"

"Some of the people we work with prefer to keep their identities a secret," he noted. "Isn't that right, Janus?"

"I'm afraid so, Juan," said the voice. "It would compromise not only me, and Juggernaut, but also your lives if I were to tell you who I am."

Anna folded her arms and gave the hazy shape on the display a level stare. "After all that stuff about conspiracies and distrust, you're playing the need-to-know card?" She shook her head. "If I know anything, it's that the less truth you have, the less trust follows. You could be anyone.

You could be working with the Tyrants or the… their masters."

"You find it hard to say the name, don't you?" On the screen, the digital shadow shifted slightly. "Illuminati. A layered word, heavy with meaning and counter-meaning. You don't want to believe. It's an understandable reaction."

"Our colleague here has been opposing them for a long time," said Lebedev.

"How did you get mixed up in all this?" Anna demanded. "What's your angle? Are you in it for the kicks, like D-Bar, or for the greater good like him?" She inclined her head toward Lebedev.

"Neither," came the reply, and for a moment Anna thought she sensed something like melancholy under the words. "I found Juggernaut and became one of their circle. I'm doing this for the same reason as you, Anna. Because they killed someone who was important to me."

It didn't sound like a lie; but then with all the layers of digital masking in place, she wondered if she could ever read anything about the ghost hacker.

"Trust is a rare commodity these days. But you can only accumulate it by spending it. An ironic fact, in present circumstances." There was a pause. "You have questions. I'll answer them if lean."

Anna frowned. "This… vote. The United Nations. You're telling me that all the assassinations have been to set that up to fall one way?"

"Yes. " The screen blinked and became a map of the world. As Janus spoke, dots of red appeared across the span of nations, each briefly displaying a data window with death certificates, accident reports, security camera footage, and other information sources. "What you're seeing are the targets of the Tyrants. Hundreds of people, all of whom have lines of influence that can be drawn back to the proposed regulation vote, and how it will play out. "

Over the map, a matrix of connections formed, a web bringing each person together, showing the human effect of the targeted individuals. Anna was suddenly reminded of a stone dropped in a lake, the ripples radiating outward; only here, the ripples were being guided, controlled-and in many cases, erased.

One thread through the complex knot of effect was highlighted. "Consider this " said Janus, displaying an image of a smiling middle-aged man and his family. "A midlevel minister in the Italian government, with many friends in the Euro-Parliament. His son was cured of debilitating brain damage because of a neural implant. He is well disposed toward the spread of human augmentation technology. The recommendations he makes carry weight. A committee of United Nations representatives are currently entertaining a suggestion from certain groups to call for a vote on the regulation of H.E. development…"

Lebedev nodded slowly. "But before the minister can be consulted on behalf of his country, his wife is suddenly diagnosed with a variant neo

SARS strain. His family comes first. He's unable to fulfill his duties. Instead, the man who replaces him on Italy's technology advisory board is a known associate of William Taggart, the pro-humanist… and now that country is supporting the push for the ballot." He spread his hands.

"That's just one story. You saw another, more violent approach firsthand, with Skyler and Dansky."

Anna's eyes narrowed. "What happened to the minister's wife?"

"She died from complications. The minister has been suspended on medical grounds and is currently undergoing treatment for depression."

The map returned. "This is how they work, Anna. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny actions, individually small, collectively gigantic, all working in concert. Every person they have exerted control over has been a part of a plan to dominate a vote that has yet to happen. And even this is only one element of an even greater schema."

"The Illuminati are working in tandem with one of their satellite groups, a faction called Majestic 12 born out of the Cold War era, a technology division of sorts… Together, they're in the process of securing a power base for something beyond the scope of the UN vote. Something much bigger."

Anna was reeling from the import of what she was hearing, caught between incredulity and acceptance. "Bigger than regulating the most radical science ever created?"

"We can see only the edges of the conspiracy " Janus told her. "But what we can be sure of is that the Illuminati s goal is and always has been command over the future of humanity. A New World Order, without freedoms, without questions. Without end."

She turned away, shaking her head. "No… No! It's too much! I've come here looking for a murderer and you're telling me that the world is turning on all this?" Anna looked toward Lebedev. "Listen to me. I don't care about your damned conspiracy theories! I don't care about who else they've killed! I've thrown away everything I have because I want just one, single thing-Justice, for Matt Ryan." Her voice caught. "He saved my life. I couldn't save him. So I am going to find the person who killed him and make them pay. If you won't help me do that, then I'll be better off alone." Furious, she stormed out of the tent and strode away over the uneven concrete floor.

Aerial Transit Corridor-Gulf of St. Lawrence-North Atlantic

Saxon tried to think of a worse tactical situation he had been in, and came up empty. Trapped on board an airborne jet with four heavily augmented mercenaries and no means of escape, armed only with a couple of rounds of stun-dart ammo that was nearly useless against these adversaries…Yeah, it's pretty grim, he told himself. About the only positive point he could find was that without Federova among them, at least he would see the other Tyrants coming. He wondered how much good that would do him.

Despite Namir's commands, the fire alarms were still in full effect, but retardants had only been triggered inside the ops room. Saxon moved quickly through the galley area, panning the Buzzkill this way and that, going forward.

His mind raced through the tactical options open to him. He had to make a choice; he needed a better weapon, something lethal, and he needed it fast. He could set up a quick-and-dirty ambush, try to kill one of the others when they came for him, and take their gun-but that would cost him time. The second option would be to get into the cockpit, lock himself in there, and force the crew to land the jet on the nearest piece of ground, maybe Newfoundland or Nova Scotia. Without at least one pilot, he'd have to handle the aircraft alone, and Saxon wasn't willing to trust himself on that score. With his rudimentary understanding of piloting, the best he could do in that case was ditch in the coastal shallows and hope he survived.

Every second he spent deliberating, they were getting farther and farther away from land. He nodded to himself. Take the plane, then, he thought. Figure the rest out later.

He could hear noises behind him. Namir hadn't come back on the mastoid comm after his first announcement, and Saxon imagined he'd be passing a new channel assignment to each of the others by hand. Another reason to move fast; once they were ready, they'd box him in and that would be that.

He thought about weapons again; at least it cut both ways. None of the standard-issue firearms used by the Tyrants could be discharged inside the jet, not without taking the risk of overpenetration. A 10 mm round could pass right through flesh and punch a hole in the fuselage, causing a catastrophic depressurization.

Saxon grimaced. Back down the length of the aircraft there was a weapons locker stocked with all he needed-a crossbow, maybe? A pulse gun? But he was thinking like Namir, and Namir would have posted someone there already. He'd have to make do.

Saxon checked his pockets for anything he could use, and his fingers touched the vu-phone. He drew it out and considered it for a second before hitting the redial key. There was a good chance he wasn't going to get out of this alive; if he could make his last few minutes count, maybe contact the hacker-movement from the corner of his eye spun him around, and he forgot the phone, coming up with the Buzzkill. He saw a flash of spiked blond hair and a figure in black combat gear burst from the shadow of a storage cabinet. Gunther Hermann collided with Saxon with such force that they were both propelled across the galley and through a folding partition into the next anteroom.

"This time it will be different," Hermann snarled. "I think I will enjoy this." He struck out with a storm of blows that made Saxon's skull ring, lighting flares of pain behind his eyes. Blood hazed his vision and he threw a punch that cut empty air but little else. Hermann came in and hit him again; each shot to the head was like taking a hit from a sledgehammer. Saxon's body possessed a base level of subdermal armor, the

Rhino-class augmentation commonplace on Belltower spec-ops soldiers, but it wouldn't be enough to prevent the German's rain of punches pushing him into a concussion. He had to stop the mercenary, and he had to do it quickly.

Hermann had learned his lesson from their brief battle in the fight room, moving constantly, using his nerve-jacked speed to stay outside the swings from Saxon's cyberarm. He punched at air, drawing a sneer from the German.

He feinted into another haymaker that the younger man easily sidestepped; but while Saxon's other arm was only meat and bone, it was still deadly. His attention fixed on his opponent's augmentations, Hermann stepped into Saxon's range and he rushed him. He slammed the heel of his palm upward, breaking the other man's nose, and rode the momentum of the attack. Saxon's augmented legs powered him back across the cabin, with Hermann shoved out before him.

The mercenary slammed into a glass-fronted refrigerator and crumpled with a cry of pain. Saxon punched him hard in the chest, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone breaking beneath the blow. But Hermann would not submit, and he scrambled to extract himself from the debris, cursing in his native language.

Saxon drew the Buzzkill and fired a single, close-range shot. The electro-dart punctured Hermann's right eye, the discharge wreathing his head in a brief flash of lighting. Howling, he fell to the deck, wisps of smoke rising from burnt skin and hair.

"Stay down," Saxon warned, and left him there, heading forward.

Hardesty was waiting in the corridor leading to the cockpit. He announced himself with the crash from a Widowmaker. Saxon dove for cover, bracing himself for the inevitable tornado of depressurization; but instead he caught the edges of a spatter of gooey matter that chugged into the air. Specks of it touched his bare skin and burned; the sniper was firing crowd-buster rounds, saboted cartridges that burst in the air and coated targets with a sticky mess of contact irritants. Saxon resisted the urge to tear at his inflamed skin and swore; the fluid wasn't lethal, but it hurt like hell.

And right on cue, Hardesty called out to him. "They say this crap can kill a man, if he takes a shot to the face. Makes your throat swell up, chokes the air from you." He snorted. "Always wanted to see if that was true. Let me try it out."

Saxon checked the stun gun. One round remaining. At this range, he'd do as much damage with harsh language. Gingerly, he peered out from cover. Hardesty was blocking the entrance to the cockpit, and behind him a door of reinforced steel and plastic closed off the path to the flight deck. If Hardesty had made it up here ahead of him, then Saxon knew his entry code to get that door open was now null and void. Any hope of taking the plane was lost. Now he had to worry about staying alive; somewhere behind or below him, Namir and Barrett were still in the game.

Across the corridor there was a stairwell leading to the other deck, but to reach it he would pass right in front of Hardesty, and give him ample time to unload the rest of the auto-shotgun loads into him.

Think fast. He ducked back just as Hardesty poked the Widowmaker's muzzle out and let off a triple-shot salvo. Saxon tasted vaporized capsicum in the air and winced at the acid tang in his throat. Above him, a portable fire extinguisher the size of a wine bottle sat in a recessed alcove. He snatched it from the clip securing it in place and held it like a club, bringing it down on the arm of a chair at the point where the discharge nozzle joined the foam canister. It bent on the first hit, and he repeated the action.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hardesty called. "Trying to dig your way out?"

On the second strike the joint dented and a hiss of escaping gasses puffed white spray into the air. The third hit dislodged the nozzle and suddenly the canister was a fountain of cold, smothering vapor. Saxon hurled it down the corridor and heard Hardesty cry out in surprise as the makeshift gas bomb filled the enclosed space with choking mist.

Saxon vaulted toward the stairwell under cover of the distraction, even as Hardesty fired blindly, fluid-filled shells splattering all around him.

He mistimed the jump and stumbled on the metal staircase, almost tumbling headlong. Recovering, he broke into a run back down the length of the jet, kicking open the door to the main cargo bay; beyond it was the rearmost compartment and the stowed helo. There were weapons on board the flyer. If he could reach them Something caught his ankle; for a second he thought the aircraft was banking, but then he was spinning around and the deck came up to slam him in the face. Saxon scrambled to get up.

"Watch your step." Barrett emerged from behind a cargo pod, pausing to bring down a heavy boot on the stun gun, lying where it had fallen from Saxon's pocket. He crushed the plastic-ceramic weapon with a grunt and eyed him. "Namir?" he said to the air. "I got him. Cargo deck, toward the tail section." Saxon never heard the reply, but the grin that blossomed on Barrett's scarred face made it clear what was said. "Got it.

Be a pleasure."

The big man came forward, and like a complex mechanical toy, his right arm unfolded to allow a tri-barreled minigun to emerge.

"Go ahead, arsehole," Saxon taunted. "One shot from that cannon and you'll rip the hull open."

Barrett gave a thoughtful nod. "Good point, Benny-boy. In all the excitement, I kinda forgot myself there." He laid his Missouri accent on thick, drawing out the moment as the weapon retracted; it was something Saxon had learned early on about the mercenary. Barrett liked to play up his brutish image, but he was more than just a thug. He liked people to underestimate him. "Guess I'll just rip you limb from limb, then," he added, striding forward. "Shame. I kinda liked you…"

Saxon backed off, eyes darting around for a weapon. Barrett had come ready for anything, wearing the heavy anti-blast vest that was his signature operations kit. Nothing short of an armor-piercing round would cut through it.

Barrett made a mock-sad face. "Aw, what's wrong? You don't wanna dance?" He stalked forward, grabbing a metal spacer rod from atop one of the cargo racks. The big man made a couple of lazy practice swings. "We'll try somethin' else, then. Batter up!"

Saxon dodged as Barrett attacked, sweeping the rod though the air; he was running out of room, his opponent backing him into the curved wall of the fuselage. "Namir's lying to you!" he shouted. "He killed my last crew just to get me here! You can't trust him!"

"Gee, you're right. Maybe we should team up, kick his ass. How about that?" Barrett snorted, nostrils flaring around the bull-ring through his nose. His expression became cold and hard. "You don't get it. We're on the winning side here. Anyone else… You're just little people." He snarled and attacked again, this time bringing down the steel rod in a falling overhead blow.

Saxon threw up his augmented arm and blocked the strike, the impact singing through the metal right down to the meat interface at his shoulder joint, fragments of carbon-plastic cracking under the force of the blow. He followed through with a hard punch to the chest, but the strike might have been a love tap for all the effect it had. Barrett hit him with the near end of the rod and Saxon staggered; first the fight with

Hermann and now this. The pain was dragging on him. He couldn't keep this up for too long; even his iron stamina had its limits.

Barrett discarded his makeshift weapon and grabbed Saxon with both hands, snatching at fistfuls of his jacket. He picked up the other man and roared with effort as he slammed him to one side, into a cargo rack and then back again. Barrett had maybe Saxon's body mass and half as much again, and most of it was cybernetics. The man was a tank.

Dizzy, his vision blurring, it was all Saxon could do to keep conscious. Barrett's arms drew tight and dragged him into a bear hug. The breath left his lungs in a wheeze and he tasted blood in his mouth. He was going to black out; it was only a matter of seconds.

"My daddy was a mean son-of-a-bitch, but he was right about one thing," Barrett laughed. "He used to tell me, Mess with the bull, son, and you get the horns-"

Saxon channeled the last of his effort into resisting the crushing embrace. "Shut the fuck up!" He snapped, jerking his head forward and down, butting the other man on the bridge of the nose. Barrett cried out in pain and for a fraction of a moment, his grip loosened.

That was all Saxon needed. He got his hands free and snatched at the twin bandoliers over Barrett's shoulders. His fingers found the pull-rings on the yellow-and-black Shok-Tac concussion grenades hanging there, and he yanked hard.

"You stupid…" Barrett immediately released him and staggered backward, clawing at the live grenades. Saxon let himself fall and rolled toward one of the cargo racks.

A massive, earsplitting blast of light and noise tore through the confined space, deadening Saxon's hearing into a painful, humming whine.

Barrett was on his back, blown into a collapsed pile of storage panniers, coughing up blood. Trails of red oozed from his ears, nostrils, and the corners of his eyes.

Saxon forced himself to stagger away, breathing hard, lurching toward the tail section. It was hard to focus. He had to reach the helo. The weapons locker. And then… And then what? His plan was sand, crumbling, falling though his fingers. There was nowhere he could go.

A shadow shifted in front of him, caught by the light cast from the glow strips on the low ceiling. Saxon half turned; the endless shriek in his ears stopped him hearing the approach of a new attack.

Half-blind and enraged, Barrett came at him, grabbing Saxon from behind and locking his hands behind his head. He applied agonizing force, pressing into the bones of Saxon's neck. The American shouted, and Saxon heard the words more than he felt them. "You think that'll stop me?

You think you can stop me?"

Saxon hit back with elbow strikes, but the viselike pressure was unceasing. He cast around, knowing that death was close. Not here. Not like this. Not yet.

Fitted into the curve of the wall was a cargo hatch, used for loading when the jet was on the ground. It was just within his reach. Ignoring his better instincts, Saxon kicked out and broke open the control cover with the heel of his combat boot. Barrett saw what he was doing and pressed tighter, but Saxon was committed now. This was how it would end.

He kicked again and struck the hatch release panel. Immediately, red strobes and a warning Klaxon activated as the door's mechanism stirred into life; but in the next second all sound was lost as a screaming thunder of air tore across the cargo bay. The hatch began a slow march open, revealing a growing sliver of fathomless black sky beyond.

The jet shivered and the nose dropped abruptly; up in the cockpit, the aircraft's autoflight system would have detected the loss of cabin pressure and immediately attempted to compensate by descending to a lower altitude. Barrett lost his grip and flailed, colliding with a support pillar. Saxon fell against a stowed cargo net and grabbed on to it, the polar cold through the hatch ripping at the skin of his face. Across the threshold, a dash of moonlight glittered off the surface of the Atlantic Ocean.

How high are we? How far from land? It was impossible to know.

"Ben" Namir s voice hummed through his skull. "You can't escape. I'm not going to let that happen." As he said the words, the hatch juddered to a halt, half open, and then reversed, sliding toward closure.

If he stayed here, he would die. Saxon knew it with utter certainty, the same pure clarity of thinking that had come to him in the Australian wilderness. He would die, this would end, and there would be no justice for Sam and Kano and the others.

Saxon threw himself at the gap and leapt into the darkness.

Dundalk-Maryland-United States of America

When Lebedev returned to the communications tent, the videoscreen was still active, the same display of smoky digital mist hazing a vaguely human shape. Not for the first time, he wondered what Janus really looked like-if he or she was someone he knew out in the real world. Part of him was always disappointed that the shady hacker could not trust the New Sons enough to drop the mask; but then, these were difficult times, and not everyone had millions of dollars at hand to ensure their own security.

"How is our new recruit?" asked the nonvoice.

Lebedev sighed. "We shouldn't have pushed her so hard, so fast. She's having trouble assimilating it all."

"Anna will come around '," said Janus. "She's resilient. She just needs to see it for herself. Let her process."

"We need her." He ran a hand through his hair. "God knows, we need every ally we can get."

A moment passed before Janus replied. "Her skills will be of great use to the cause, Juan…"

He frowned. The hacker sounded distracted. "Is something wrong?"

There was another pause. "Forgive me. I'm monitoring another… situation at the moment. Go on."

"We're running out of time," Lebedev went on. "If we're going to disrupt this thing, it needs to be soon."

"Agreed. I'm working on another approach to access the Killing Floor as we speak. But it's risky."

Lebedev smiled ruefully. "We have to try, my friend. And we can't fail. If we do, the future will never forgive us."

"You re wrong," Janus replied. "If we fail, our enemies will make sure no one will ever know we existed."

Thirteen Kilometers East of Newfoundland-North Atlantic

He never felt the impact when he hit the rolling surface of the sea. It was the only mercy he had; perhaps it was the shock of the fall, perhaps his battered body shutting down for a brief moment in some attempt to protect him from greater trauma.

At first, Saxon saw only flashes. The silver of the moon on the wave tops below him. A flicker of light from the jet as he spiraled away from it, the navigation lights in the dark.

Then he was in the cradle of the shouting winds, snared by gravity. He couldn't see the ocean rushing up to meet him, and for long moments

Saxon felt himself disconnect from the real. He could have been floating in the roaring darkness, lost in the starless space.

The cold embrace leached the heat from his bones; Saxon squinted through the windburn and made out what he thought was the surface of the water, coming up fast, dappled by the moon's glow.

He extended his arms like they had taught him in parachute training, making his whole body an aerofoil, trying to slow himself as much as he could. And then, when he couldn't chance it any longer, he triggered the high-fall augmentation implanted in the base of his spine.

The device stuttered into life and cast a writhing sphere of electromagnetic energy about him, lightninglike sparks flashing where the field interacted with the air molecules. The implant ran past its tolerance limit, but Saxon retriggered it, cycling the device over and over. He felt it go hot, smoldering and heavy like a block of newly forged iron embedded in his back. The high-fall was never designed to do the job of a parachute; it was a short-span, low-duration technology, a mechanism spun off from safety implants for racing drivers, firefighters, steeplejacks.

He screamed as it burned into him, and the blackness engulfed everything. For a moment, at least.

Then he was in the frigid rise and fall of the waters, the salt brine smothering him with every new wave. He spun and turned, numb from the waist down. Warning telltales displayed in the corners of his optic field, function indicators for his cyberlegs showing red. He choked and shivered, feeling the weight of the augmented limbs pulling on him, robbing him of all buoyancy.

The ocean toyed with him, and then grew bored. Saxon began to sink, and he couldn't find the strength to fight the icy embrace of the waters.

All his defiance, his determination… it was bleeding away, second by second.

Then he saw the lights below, rising. The waters parting as something as large as a truck broke the surface. He saw a shiny, beetlelike carapace, an arch of what might be shell. Just beneath the water, ropes of steel moved past his damaged legs, ensnaring him.

Saxon's mind filled in the gaps; he imagined a massive nautilus coming up from the seabed to gather him into its tentacles, the giant monstrous thing festooned with glaring, sodium-bright lamps.

He blacked out for the second time as it pulled him toward it.