Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

The landing field was less than two kilometers from the brooding walls of the garrison, on the outskirts of the scantily settled north bank of the river. South of the river, there should have been a close-packed warren of steep-roofed houses, church spires visible in the distance before a knot of municipal buildings.

But now the houses were mostly gone. A cluster of eldritch silvery ferns coiled skyward from the former location of the town hall, firefly glimmerings flickering between their fractally coiled leaves. The Ducal palace showed signs of being the worse for wear; one wall looked as if it had been smashed by a giant fist, the arrogant bombast of heavy artillery.

The Admiral slapped feebly at the arm of his chair. “’Ot right!”

“Absolutely, my lord.” Robard looked around again, this time hunting the advance landing party. They were halfway to the control tower when something that glowed painfully green slashed overhead, making the ground shake with the roar of its passage.

“Enemy planes!” shouted Kossov. “See, they’ve followed us here! We must get the Admiral to cover, fast!” He pushed Robard aside and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, nearly tipping it over in his haste.

“I say!” Robard snapped, angry and disturbed at his position being usurped. He cast a worried glance at the sky and decided not to confuse the issue further; the Lieutenant’s behavior was unseemly, but the need to get the admiral to safety was pressing. “I say, there’s a path there. I’ll lead. If we can reach the tower—”

“You! Follow us!” Kossov called to the perimeter guards, confused and worried ratings who, thankful at being given some direction, shouldered their carbines and tagged along. It was a warm morning, and the Lieutenant wheezed as he pushed the wheelchair along the cracked asphalt path. Robard paced along beside him, a tall, sepulchrally black figure, hatchet-faced with worry. Weeds grew waist high to either side of the path, and other signs of neglect were omnipresent; the field looked as if it had been abandoned for years, not just the month since the invasion. Bees and other insects buzzed and hummed around, while birds squawked and trilled in the distance, shamefully exposing the locals’ neglect of their DDT spraying program.

A distant rumble prompted Robard to glance over his shoulder. Birds leapt into the sky as a distant green brightness twisted and seemed to freeze, hovering beneath the blind turquoise dome of the sky. “Run!” He dashed forward and threw himself into the shade of a stand of young trees.

“What?” Kossov stopped and stared, jaw comically dropping. The green glare grew with frightening, soundless rapidity, then burst overhead in an emerald explosion. A noise like a giant door slamming shut pushed Robard into the grass: then the aircraft thundered past, dragging a freight train roar behind it as it made a low pass over the parked lifeboat and disappeared toward the far side of the city. Bees buzzed angrily in his ears as he picked himself up and looked wildly around for the Admiral.

The Lieutenant had been knocked off his feet by the shock wave; now he was sitting up, cradling his head gingerly. The wheelchair had remained upright, and a loud but slurred stream of invective was flowing from it. “’Orson swiving ’role’erian cocksu’ing ba-a-stards!" Kurtz raised his good arm and shook a palsied fist at the sky. “You ’evolushunary shit’ll get yours! Ouch!” The arm flopped.

“Are you alright sir?” Robard gasped nervously.

“’Astard stung me,” Kurtz complained, drooling on the back of his wrist. “Damn bees.” An angry buzzing veered haywire around Robard, and he whacked at it with his dirt-stained gloves.

“I’m sure you’ll be alright, sir, once we get you to the control tower and then the castle.” He inspected the mashed insect briefly, and froze. Red, impact-distorted letters ridged its abdomen with unnatural clarity. He shuddered and smeared the back of his glove on the ground. “We’d better move fast, before that plane decides we’re the enemy.”

“You take over,” said Kossov, clutching a reddened handkerchief to his forehead. “Let’s go.” Together they turned and pushed on toward the control tower, and beyond it the uncertainties of the Ducal palace and whatever had become of the capital city under the new order.

Eighty kilometers away, another lifeboat was landing.

Rachel shook herself groggily and opened her eyes. It took her a moment to realize where she was.

Reentry had been alarmingly bumpy; the capsule was swinging back and forth with a regular motion that would have made her nauseous if her vestibular dampers hadn’t kicked in. There was a moan from behind her seat and she glanced sideways. Martin was waking up visibly, shaking his head, his face going through a horrible series of contortions and twitches. Behind her, Vassily moaned again. “Oh, that was terrible.”

“Still alive, huh?” She blinked at the viewscreen. Black smears obscured much of it, remnants of the ablative heat shield that had melted and streaked across the cameras on the outside of the hull. The horizon was a flat blue line, the ground half-hidden beneath a veil of clouds as they descended beneath the main parasail. An altimeter ticked down the last two thousand meters. “Say yes if you can wriggle your toes.”

“Yes,” said Martin. Vassily just moaned. Rachel didn’t bother to inquire further after their health; she had too many things to do before they landed. It could all get very messy very fast, now they didn’t have an engine.

Pilot: Plot range and heading to rendezvous waypoint omega . A map overlay blinked on the viewscreen. They were coming down surprisingly close, only a few kilometers out from the target. Pilot: Hard surface retromotor status, please . More displays; diagnostics and self-test maps of the landing motor, a small package hanging in the rigging halfway between the rectangular parachute and the capsule roof. Triggered by radar, the landing turbine would fire a minute before touchdown, decelerating the capsule from a bone-crushing fifty-kilometer-per-hour fall and steering them to a soft touchdown.

“I could do with a drink,” said Martin.

“You’ll have to wait a minute or two.” Rachel watched the screen intently. One thousand meters.

“I can’t feel my toes,” Vassily complained.

Oh shit . “Can you wriggle them?” asked Rachel, heart suddenly in her mouth. She’d never expected a third passenger, and if the hammock had landed him with a spinal injury—

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck did you say you couldn’t feel them?”

“They’re cold!”

Rachel yawned; her ears popped. “I think we just depressurized. You must have your toes on top of the vent or something.” The outside grew hazy, whited out. Ten more seconds, and the wispy cloud thinned, peeling back to reveal trees and rivers below. A dizzying view, the ground growing closer. She gritted her teeth. Next to her, Martin shuffled for a better view.

“ Attention. Landing raft inflation .” A yellow python wrapped itself around the bottom of the capsule and bloated outward, cutting off her view of the ground directly below. Rachel cursed silently, looked for a clearing in the trees. The forest cover was unusually dense, and she tensed.

“Over there.” Martin pointed.

“Thanks.” Using the side stick, she pointed out the opening to the autopilot. Pilot: make for designated landing ground. Engage autoland on arrival .

“ Attention. Stand by for retromotor ignition in five seconds. Touchdown imminent. Three seconds.

Main canopy separation .” The capsule dropped sickeningly. “ Motor ignition .” A loud rumbling from above, and the fall stopped. The clearing below lurched closer, and the rumbling grew to a shuddering roar. “ Attention. Touchdown in ten seconds. Brace for landing .” Trees slid past the screen, implacable green stems exfoliating purple-veined leaves the size of books.