“I liked him,” Thorn said at last. “I liked Tangan, Duun.”
“I didn’t betray him. I gave him the power he needed. I set him free. Do you understand?”
“To stop the ghota?”
“To back what I do. Don’t you understand it yet, minnow? You will.” Static sputtered, Duun’s hand at the side of his mask clicking the other channel in. “How are we doing?”
“Dsonan’s screen’s going to drop in a minute to let us through,” the pilot’s voice came to them. “It’s hot up ahead. Two missile strikes got to the base. The 3rd Wing’s going to throw everything they’ve got at them while we get in, sey Duun.”
“Gods save them,” Duun muttered. “Gods save us all. Do it right, Manan.”
“Damn sure trying.”
Thorn eased over to look out the canopy as best he could. There was no sight of anything beyond their wings, beyond the pitiless sun and the endless sky.
Static snapped again. “Not to make you nervous, minnow,” Duun said, “but what that means is Dsonan’s keying its missile defenses down to give us a window to get in, and don’t ask me what happens if something glitches. Kosanin are moving to be sure nothing gets through that gap for the five critical minutes it’s going to take us to get through that screen. Then it goes up behind us. When we get on the ground we get over that side and off that wing: and it’s going to be hotter than hell. You go down that wing edge and jump once I’m down. I’ll steady you in landing. Don’t think about anything, just run for that shuttle pad and go.”
“Shuttle?”
“Tallest thing you’ll see in front of you.”
“I know what it looks like! Where are we going?”
“Station.”
Static snapped. The nose of the plane dipped in a dive. Altitude traded for speed.
(“Mach two plus if it has to.”)
Thorn trembled. There was pain, pain from his burns, from warmth; he gasped at the sluggish thin feed of the mask and his nose and throat and eyes were raw. Sweat ran on him. There was a high strange sound, a sense that quivered through his bones and bowels like elemental fear. (I’m scared, Duun; Duun, I don’t want to die like this-)
There was a blur ahead of them, the first substance there had been, a shadow in front of them, a blaze of light.
(That’s ground coming up, that’s the river-O gods, that’s ground, the city-)
Pressure began, a constriction of his limbs, the pain again-the world tilted violently and became half earth and sky split vertically, flipped straight again as Thorn felt the straining of the straps. (They’ll break, I’ll go up and into the canopy, I can’t hold on-)
Then another force slammed in, and they were losing speed. One ear failed to pop, reached a painful point and pressure went on and on in acute agony that made one fabric with other things.
Smoke on the horizon. Smoke palling the city in the one direction, a gray blur to either side.
A runway ribboned out of the forward perspective, a straight pale line ahead. The plane came in knife-straight, sank on its haunches in a long jarring rush before the thunder of the reversing engines made headway against their speed. More speed down. More. Tires squealed and the jets roared again as a gantry loomed up, a shuttle poised like a white tower against the smoke-stained sky. On the horizon a red sun burst and swelled and faded. Another, burning bright.
Closer and closer. The plane jolted and thumped and rocked over uneven pavement; there was a truck coming toward them. The plane’s canopy retracted and metal stank, pinging and popping with heat. Duun reached and yanked connections as the engines whined down; popped Thorn’s belt and his own, stood up and vaulted the side. Thorn scrambled up on the seat, flinched at heat and saw Duun spring from the wing’s back edge to the truckbed and go to one knee as he landed; Thorn rolled over the side and hit the wing as Duun got up, strode once on a yielding surface and leapt for the truckbed and Duun’s arms.