John Scalzi - Earth Below, Sky Above

“Does he mean it?” Wilson asked.

Lowen frowned again.

“Ah,” Wilson said once more.

“Oh, good, our drinks are here,” Lowen said, motioning to Hirsch and Schmidt, who were navigating back, beers in hand. “Just in time to drown my sorrows.”

“Did we miss anything?” Hirsch asked, handing his cousin a beer.

“I was just talking about how hard it is to be right all the time,” Lowen said.

“You were talking to the right guy about that,” Schmidt said, sitting down. “Harry has the same problem. Just ask him.”

“Well, then,” Lowen said, and raised her glass. “I propose a toast. Here’s to being right all the time. May God and history forgive us.”

They all clinked glasses to that.

“Captain Coloma,” Ensign Lemuel said, “another ship skipped in.”

Coloma muttered her thanks to Lemuel and checked her PDA. She had made it a standing order to her bridge crew to alert her when ships arrived or departed Earth Station, without giving them further explanation. The crew didn’t question the order; it was trivially easy to track the other ships. The order had been in effect for most of a day now. It was late morning on the second day of the summit.

Coloma’s display registered the new ship, a small freighter. It was one of eleven ships floating outside of Earth Station, the other ten arrayed in parking zones. There were four Colonial Union diplomatic ships; including the Clarke, there was the Aberforth, the Zhou and the Schulz , each carrying its complement of diplomats negotiating with the delegations from Earth, who came to the station by way of the beanstalk. Three ships, the Robin Meisner, the Leaping Dolphin and the Rus Argo, were cargo freighters from the Colonial Union, which had some limited trade with the Earth. The two remaining ships were Budek cargo haulers; the Budek were negotiating to join the Conclave but in the meantime were fans of citrus fruits.

In her earpiece, Coloma could hear Earth Station’s flight controller ask the new ship to identify itself: the first red flag. Colonial Union cargo ships had encrypted transponders that the station would ping as soon as the ship skipped into its space. The fact that control was asking for identification meant it either had no transponder or had disabled it. It also meant the ship was an unscheduled arrival. If it had been scheduled but was without a transponder, control would have hailed it under the expected name.

Coloma had the Clarke scan the new ship and ran the data against a specific database of ships given to her by the CDF. It took less than a second for a match to pop up. The ship was the Erie Morningstar, a civilian transport and cargo ship that had gone missing months earlier. The Erie Morningstar had started its life as a CDF cruiser more than seventy years prior; for civilian use, it was gutted and reconfigured for cargo-carrying purposes.

It didn’t mean it could not be reconfigured back into combat.

Earth Station was now hailing the Erie Morningstar for the third time, to no response, which satisfied Coloma that the ship was now officially in the “suspicious” territory.

“Captain, new ship skipped in,” Lemuel said.

“Another one?” Coloma asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lemuel said. “Uh, and another…two…ma’am, I have a bunch skipping in pretty much simultaneously.”

Coloma looked down at her display. There were eight new contacts there. As she watched, two new contacts lit up, and then another two.

In her earpiece, Coloma could hear Earth Station control cursing. There was an edge of panic to the voice.

Now there were fifteen new contacts to go with the Erie Morningstar .

Coloma’s database from the CDF had sixteen ships on it.

She didn’t bother running the other fifteen.

“Where’s our shuttle?” Coloma asked.

“It just docked at Earth Station and is prepping to return,” Lemuel said.

“Tell it to hold and prepare to bring back our people,” Coloma said.

“How many of them?” Lemuel asked.

“All of them,” Coloma said, ordered the Clarke on emergency alert and sent an urgent message to Ambassador Abumwe.

Ambassador Abumwe was listening to the Tunisian representative discuss her country’s plans for Earth Station when her PDA vibrated in three short bursts followed by one long one. Abumwe picked up the PDA and swiped it open to read the message there from Captain Coloma.

Big trouble, it said. Sixteen ships. Get your people out now. Shuttle at gate seven. It leaves in ten minutes. Anyone still there after that stays there .

“Go back to the beanstalk,” Abumwe said, looking at the Tunisian representative.

“Excuse me?” the Tunisian representative said.

“I said, go back to the beanstalk,” Abumwe repeated, and then stood up. “Get on the first elevator down. Don’t stop. Don’t wait.”

“What’s happening?” the Tunisian representative asked, but Abumwe was already out the door, sending a global message to her team.

“You look like you’re in a unitard,” Danielle Lowen said to Harry Wilson, pointing to his combat suit as he and Hart Schmidt came up to her and David Hirsch. The four of them were meeting in an otherwise unoccupied cargo hold of Earth Station.

“The curious reason for that is because I am in a unitard,” Wilson said. He stopped in front of her and dropped the large canvas bag he was carrying. “That’s what our combat suit is. This one is actually a heavy-duty combat suit, designed for vacuum work.”

“Do you engage in dance battles?” Lowen asked. “Because if you did, I think that would be stupendous.”

“Sadly, no,” Wilson said. “And we’re all the lesser for it.”

“So I’m going to have to put one of those on,” Hirsch said, pointing to the combat suit.

“Only if you want to live,” Wilson said. “It’s optional otherwise.”

“I think I’ll choose life,” Hirsch said.

“Probably the right choice,” Wilson said. He reached into the bag he was carrying and handed Hirsch the unitard within it. “This is yours.”

“It’s a little small,” Hirsch said, taking the article and looking at it doubtfully.

“It will expand to fit,” Wilson said. “That will fit you, or Hart, or Dani. One size really does fit all. It also features a cowl, which when I activate it will cover your face entirely. Try not to freak out when that happens.”

“Got it,” Hirsch said.

“Good,” Wilson said. “You want to put it on now?”

“I think I’ll wait,” Hirsch said, and handed it back.

“Chicken,” Wilson said, taking and storing it back in the bag and pulling out another object.

“That looks like a parachute,” Hirsch said.

“Functionally, you are correct,” Wilson said. “Literally, not. This is your store of nanobots. When you hit the atmosphere, they release and form a heat shield around you to keep you from burning up. Once you make it into the troposphere, then they form into a parachute and you’ll glide down. We’ll be landing at a football field outside of Nairobi. I understand some of your friends will have a helicopter standing by to take me back to the beanstalk.”

“Yes,” Hirsch said. “Sorry it won’t be a longer stay.”

“It’ll still be good to hit the home soil,” Wilson said. He set down the ’bot pack and reached in for one more object. “Supplementary oxygen,” he said. “Because it’s a long way down.”

“Thank you for thinking of that,” Hirsch said.

“You’re welcome,” Wilson said.