Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Bayclock would have taken over the entire facility long before then.

His hopes for the satellites, the solar-power farm, and the future itself had just gone up in smoke.

The hot-air balloon plummeted toward the rugged ground. Bobby Carron gripped the sides of the aluminum gondola and held on for his life.

Air gushed from rips in the colorful parachute sacks, holes torn open by rifle shots and split seams. One of the bullets had made a crater-like dent in the basket, and Bobby was lucky he hadn’t been shot. That relief was only temporary, though, because he was going to crash any second.

The severed anchor rope dangled on the ground as the balloon drifted across the landscape, heading straight toward Bayclock’s troops running to intercept him. A few more gunshots broke the air, and Bobby ducked. He saw another bullet punch into the deflating sack of the balloon, but he heard other shouts, people yelling at the riflemen to hold their fire.

The loose metal gondola lurched as the balloon tipped and continued falling. The hibachi full of glowing coals spilled over, dumping hot charcoal along the floor that skittered and smoked. One ember burned Bobby’s leg; he swatted at it, almost losing his grip. The smoking coals spilled over the side.

He ducked as the bottom of the gondola smashed into an outcropping of rock, knocking him hard into the side of the aluminum basket. He hit his head. Blood streamed down his cheek. He blinked to bring vision back into focus, ready to get up and sprint for safety.

The gondola struck the ground again, dragged along as the last remnants of hot air tugged the deflated balloon sack. The gondola tipped over, scooping up loose sand and dirt, until the balloon snagged on a thicket of scrub brush.

Bobby scrambled to keep his balance, but the gondola spilled him into a tangle of guide ropes, parachute fabric, and hot embers. The metal basket tumbled to a halt next to him.

Bobby coughed and tried to get to his knees. He sensed no spears of pain from broken bones, but his entire body throbbed. He clawed at the gondola ropes, trying to pull the parachute fabric away from his face.

As soon as he stood up and pulled himself free, blinking in the bright light, he saw two of Bayclock’s horsemen pull up on either side of him. Three riflemen on foot came running after. Bobby looked around for a place to hide, to make a stand—but he had no weapons. He had no choice but to hold up his hands.

Puffing with exertion, Sergeant Catilyn Morris ran up to him with a rifle in hand; she smiled smugly when she saw him. Two other soldiers pointed their rifles at Bobby. The horsemen stood on either side to make sure he couldn’t escape.

Sergeant Morris’s face was flushed and streaked with dust. Her short blond hair was tangled with sweat. “Welcome home, Lieutenant. General Bayclock will be very pleased to see you.”

Under the morning sun, Connor Brooks drove the three horses and the wagon full of solar-power satellites toward the military settlement. He had watched Bayclock’s troops from his small camp for the past two days, until at last he figured out why they were there. He decided that Bayclock must want the stolen smallsats very badly right around now, and he should be willing to pay.

Connor had not built a fire for fear that his camp would be spotted, but he slept comfortably, wrapped in Henrietta Soo’s thermal blankets. He had washed the blood from his hands and changed clothes. He ate well from the stolen supplies in the wagon bed.

But his injured face ached like a son of a bitch.

He could see only blurry red fuzz out of his left eye, and his torn cheek and forehead throbbed like a disco rhythm made with ice picks. He had managed to wash his injuries from the shotgun backfire in a stream, but he knew they might get infected, and he didn’t relish the thought of the pain increasing. God, what he wouldn’t do right now for a handful of aspirin! Extra strength.

As he drove the horses toward the camp, a handful of armed guards came out to meet him. “Freeze, toadface!” one said, leveling his rifle. “Who are you?”

Connor raised a hand in a wave or a salute, or perhaps just a gesture to show that he was unarmed. He pulled the horses to a stop near the tents, sleeping bags, and supply stations.

“I need to see whoever’s in charge,” he said hoarsely. His words clawed through a larynx bruised when Butthead Uma tried to strangle him. He gestured back toward the wagon. “Tell him I’ve got something those solar-power people want very badly.”

“Wait here,” said the guard.

Connor stood with his hands above his head. The three horses nickered, sniffing other horses with Bayclock’s troops. Connor wanted a cold drink, but the two guards watched his every move in sour silence. Even though he had come with a nice offer, they seemed to regard him as some kind of vermin caught in a rat trap. Typical, he thought.

Finally, flanked on either side by an armed escort, a burly tough-looking man stumped across the camp toward Connor. He had bristly dark hair and a gimme-no-shit expression.

“I’m General Bayclock,” he said, “commander of these troops. What have you brought for me?” Unspoken but visible on his expression was a threat. If you’re wasting my time, I’ll strip you naked and make you run through a cactus field.

Connor tried to turn on the charm that had always served him so well, though he didn’t know how much charm he had left with a mangled face and a bruised voicebox. “Good to meet you, General,” he said. “My name is Connor Brooks—”

“I don’t give a damn who you are and I’m sure the hell not happy to meet you. Now cut the bullshit—what do you want?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Connor wet his lips with a thick tongue and spoke fast. “I got my hands on a bunch of technical equipment on its way to the solar-power farm you have under siege. I thought it might be worth something to you.” He raised his eyebrows, knowing he must look hideous with his scabbed and gashed face.

“What kind of high-tech equipment?” Bayclock said, suddenly interested but still challenging him. “Where did it come from?”

“Well, I have ten satellites back here in the wagon. They were made at the Jet Propulsion Lab and they were being brought cross-country to White Sands.”

The general’s dark eyes lit up. “Are you part of this Pasadena expedition?” He seemed ready to pounce.

“I, uh… acquired it from them,” Connor said. “The expedition was trying to slip these satellites in past your troops. So I brought them here.”

“ Satellites ? The JPL expedition just carried a bunch of satellites out here?” Bayclock look at him, incredulous.

“That’s all.”

An officer standing next to Bayclock asked, “How many were there in the party?”

Connor shrugged. “Two, three maybe.”

A murmur ran through his staff. Bayclock looked unconvinced—and pissed off. “Show me.”

A minute later, Bayclock ran his hands over the nearest sealed canister. His officers poked around the devices, rapping on the metal cases. They all seemed astonished by the discovery.

Connor positioned himself next to the general. “I thought you might be willing to make a decent trade, sir. These are exceedingly valuable satellites, as I’m sure you know. Priceless, in fact. I’d like a few of your revamped weapons—say, six rifles—and some supplies.” He touched the stinging injuries on his face. “And some minor medical attention. As you can see, getting these satellites wasn’t all that easy.”

Bayclock’s expression was hard. He spoke in a low tone, but it looked like it took an effort to keep his voice under control. “I represent the United States of America, and we do not barter while under a declaration of hostilities. Under direct presidential order, I am authorized to simply take what I need. By delivering these satellites to me, you’ve done service to your country. You should feel proud about that.”