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  After nearly seventy years of maneuvering, World Life controlled almost all of Earth's resources, including this high mountain forest preserve, and it was Angie's opinion that the morals of the Company founders had been passed on directly to their successors.

  Angie focused and refocused, searching for the touch of fluorescent yellow that would pinpoint Tower Five. She had paid for the paint herself, after becoming disgusted with the administrative hassle of getting the Company to do it. They'd be just as happy to see the whole forest burn, she thought. Then they could turn their terraformers loose and turn it into a fireloving farm.

  “Idiots,” she muttered. She had told Company Admin that many times, to their faces, but it never made a difference. They just paid her ever more exorbitant fees and continued to lease her services from the United Nations. She keyed an update of her position and the fire's movement.

  “Okay, I see the tower,” she said finally. “Twelve degrees left of the main smoke column. Looks like the front edge is very close to it. There's too much smoke to see clearly. There's a lot of deadfall in this sector. The fire's going to be burning hot. Warn the crews, and enter an order for clearing crews to move through the rest of the sector as soon as the fire's out.”

  “Bookkeepers'll squawk about the cost,” Nori replied.

  “Bugger the bookkeepers,” she said. “I'll send them a bucket of ash.”

  The flitter bucked slightly. “I'm hitting heat drafts now.” She kept her voice steady despite her rising adrenaline.

  “Fire-rescue flitter is ten minutes off the Tower Five bearing.” Nori's voice, thick as it was with underlying tension, was an irritant in the flitter's small cabin. “They request you hold your position until their arrival.”

  “Bugger them, too,” Angie muttered. The flitter bumped hard again. She fought the controls and adjusted the pressurized grav plates until the flitter steadied.

  “The flit's fireloving jumpy,” she said. “Grav plates seem to be holding, though. That makeshift intake valve is letting smoke into the cabin, so I'm shifting to suit transmission.” She flipped her faceplate closed and tongued on the oxygen intake and radio switch. She activated the auto-exhaust, and the pall of smoke cleared quickly from inside the flitter.

  “I have the tower in sight again,” she said. She pressed the implant on her shoulder. A strong itch responded. “My locator spots Chandler right at the site. Why the hell doesn't he get out?”

  Nori said. “From here, it looks like the front edge is about to run right over the tower.”

  Angie blinked twice. “It's about a hundred meters off. I'll circle—”

  Suddenly a klaxon blared. Angie jumped and swore. She slapped the keyboard to turn off the siren.

  “Tower One Flitter, this is Fire Rescue.” The rescue pilot's voice was almost as loud as the klaxon. Angie winced.

  “Pull back from the fire zone, Flitter One. Repeat. Pull back from the fire zone.”

  “Turn down your fireloving volume, Rescue,” Angie snapped. “We're on a radio line. You don't have to scream to be heard.”

  “Oh...” A pause. Then, some decibels lower, “Sorry.” The pilot's voice was young, excited, inexperienced. Angie groaned quietly. Trouble always came in bunches. She could still taste the smoke on the back of her tongue.

  “That's better,” she said. “Now, why the hell did you trigger my alarm?”

  “You've passed inside the fire safety zone, Flitter One.”

  “I'm aware of that, Rescue.”

  “You're too close to the leading edge. Pull back from the zone immediately.”

  “I have crew in the tower, Rescue,” Angie said, trying to maintain patience. “He's not responding to the alerts.”

  “Move back, Flitter One. We'll get your man out. That's what we're trained for.”

  “What's your ETA?”

  “Seven minutes thirty seconds.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Damn it, Flitter One! Move back. That's an order.”

  “Suck ash,” Angie replied. She fought the bucking flitter closer to the tower.

  “Angela, love.” A new voice, calm, controlled—blessedly familiar—interrupted the pilot's unintelligible response. “Get your pretty ass away from that fire.”

  Angie grinned. The knot in her stomach began to loosen. “Sally Goberlan,” she called. “What are you doing back on the line? I thought you got kicked upstairs.” She had partnered with Goberlan many times on troubleshooting assignments. There was no question of inexperience here.

  “Just passing through on a routine inspection when your fire call came in,” Goberlan said. “Rescue was short on supervisors, so I accepted their request to come along. Seemed like a good way to see you in action on your own turf. I see what you mean about Company support up here. The equipment on this bus is archaic. I've had access to better in the New Guinea Highlands.”

  Angie laughed. They had been caught in a collapsed highland cave once with only a flint knife between them. It had taken them seven days to dig and scrape their way out. They had become good friends along the way.

  “You're dealing with a training crew, by the way,” Sally added.

  “Spit,” Angie muttered. “Well, tell ’em from me that this is not, repeat, not a training run.”

  “Heard and understood,” Goberlan said, “but let's play it by the book if we can. Give the kids a proper lesson and all that. You know the procedure. If your man's still in the tower when leading edge hits sixty meters, we'll let him ride it out. It'll be hot, but if he's suited up, he can survive.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Angie said. She swung the flitter in a careful curve around the tower, then caught her breath as the external ladder came into view. “Forget the book, Sal.”

  She began a fast descent. “Chandler's not in the tower. He's on the outside ladder, not moving.”

  “Our ETA is five minutes.” Rescue's pilot was back on the line. “Please pull back.”

  “Leading edge is closing fast,” Angie replied. “You'll never make it in time.”

  “We get no life readings but your own from the tower area, Flitter One.”

  Angie brought the flitter as close as she dared to the tower. She blinked rapidly, trying to establish extreme close focus on Chandler's still form. Black smoke billowed across her field of vision before she could tell if he was breathing.

  “There's no point risking your life for a dead man.” The rescue pilot was pleading now.

  “I'm foaming the ladder.” Angie leaned forward as far as her helmet and the flitter's viewscreen allowed and counted softly as a cloud of white, anti-incendiary foam sprayed from the flitter's port nozzles. It pushed through the smoke-and settled. For an instant, Angie had a clear view of Chandler's body, frosted white against the brilliant yellow of the tower ladder. She blinked, and blinked again, before the smoke poured back.

  “He's alive, Rescue. But just barely. I'm going down.”

  “There's no way you can tell—”

  “I can see his chest moving, damn it! I'm setting down at the base of the ladder and will climb directly—”

  “Negative! Negative! Do not attempt ground landing!” The pilot was shouting again, her voice shrill and frightened.

  Angie forced her own voice to stay calm. “Five's flitter is aflame on the tower roof, Rescue. There's no other way to reach him.”

  “The flames are gonna hit that tower any—”

  “Goberlan?” Angie said as she fought the flitter to the ground.

  “I'm with you,” Goberlan replied instantly. Her voice was as calm and measured as before. The pilot protested in the background.

  “I'm going to need a foam dump as fast as you can get it here,” Angie said. “I'll only have one shot at him.”

  “Roger. We have the tower in sight.”

  “Angie, be careful—”

  “Nori, get off the fireloving line!” Angie shouted.

  “How far up the ladder is he?” Goberlan's smooth voice pulled her b
ack to calm.

  “Just below halfway. His right arm and leg have slipped through the rungs. That must be what's holding him up there.”

  “Are you on the ground yet?”

  “I'm opening the hatch now. Damn these fireloving springs! Nori, I want a complete overhaul on this crate the instant this is over. I don't care how many admin heads you have to bash to get it done. That's an order!”

  The hatch slammed open, clanging against the flitter's side. Instantly, the cabin was filled with smoke—and the roar of the fire. Angie tongued her suit's auditory dampers to muffle the din.

  “Leave the hatch open if it's giving you trouble,” Goberlan said. “Keep the auto-exhaust on full. It'll clear as soon as you're back inside. How's the foam on Chandler? Holding?”

  “Too much smoke to tell. I'm on the ladder and climbing. It's bloody hot out here, Sal.”

  “Suit coolants on full?”

  “On overdrive. The ladder rungs are warm even through my gloves. Why the hell is this fire so hot?”

  “See your man yet?”

  “I can't see a damn—” Angie's hand met an obstruction. “Wait ... Okay, I've got him. Spit, his suit is as hot as the ladder.”

  “Can you get him down?”

  Angie attached two lifelines to the ladder. She hooked one to her own chest harness, then moved carefully up the ladder until she could feel the utility belt around Chandler's waist. Fumbling in the smoky darkness, she attached the second line to the rapid-descent loop at the back of Chandler's belt.

  “Talk to me, Angie,” Goberlan said. “What's happening?”

  Angie climbed another rung to where she could see the faint outline of Chandler's helmet. “Lifeline's attached. I'm trying to free his arm ... Oh, damn ... How close are you, Sally?”

  “ETA, two minutes.”

  “I need foam right now. His faceplate is open. Jammed. I can't move it. He must have been climbing up when he passed out, because he's been in the flames.”

  “I hear you. We'll alert the burn center in Denver and foam on arrival. Can you get him off the ladder?”

  Angie yanked an emergency oxygen canister from her belt and pressed it over Chandler's mouth and nose. “Stay alive,” she whispered.

  Aloud, she said, “I'm freeing his leg now.” She leaned her shoulder into Chandler's waist and climbed another rung. The man's full weight sank into her shoulder. His leg caught, then released suddenly from where it had slipped through the rung. Angie clung to the ladder with one arm while she grasped Chandler tightly with the other.

  “Okay! I've got him!” She was startled at the intensity of her own relief. “I'm sending him down on the lifeline.” She checked to be sure Chandler's line was clear, then slid him off her shoulder. Suspended by the lifeline harness, he hung facedown, bent at the shoulders and waist.

  “I need foam, Rescue. He's burning up, and I have no way to cool him.” She glanced down. “The grass is aflame at the edge of the tower platform. It looks like the platform is burning, too. Note that, Rescue. Something smells real bad down here, and it's not just the smoke.” Bracing Chandler's line away from the ladder, she activated a rapid release. His limp form slid swiftly toward the ground.

  “ETA, forty-five seconds, One. Front line is at twenty meters. Flitter on tower roof is fully engaged. We'll only have time to foam you once and get out. There's no way we can make a lift.”

  “We can't go in—” The pilot's voice was silenced abruptly.

  Angie stopped Chandler's descent when the line count showed him to be within two meters of the ground. “We'll ride it out in the flitter,” she said. “I'm descending now.” She activated her own line, pushed away from the ladder, and slid in a blur to Chandler's side. When the line bounced her to a stop, her feet were centimeters from the ground. She had the line disconnected and was reaching for Chandler before her boots hit the deck.

  “Foaming, Flitter One.”

  Angie ducked instinctively as a white cloud suddenly engulfed her. The temperature dropped instantly. She yanked away Chandler's lifeline, slung his limp form over her shoulder, and sprinted through the snowy foam toward the flitter.

  “Front edge is on you, Flitter One.” Goberlan's voice continued, as cool as the foam. “We're moving back. We'll cool you down and lift you out as soon as the line passes. Good luck, Angie.”

  Angie stuffed Chandler headfirst through the flitter's open hatch, then swung herself inside. She reached back to swing the hatch door closed. “If you've made it this far, Chandler, you're going to make it all the way,” she called out.

  The hatch door didn't move.

  “Damn!”

  She yanked again on the hatch handle. Flames licked across the opening; the brilliant orange startled her after so long in the smoky darkness. She could feel the heat intensifying, even through the insulating layer of foam. Chandler could never survive the heat of the fire in his open suit. She wasn't even sure she could. She had to get the hatch closed.

  She leaned out into the flames, grabbed the door's edge with both hands—and pulled. “Move, damn you!” she yelled. The door shifted.

  “Move!” The hatch swung half the distance before sticking again. Flame, jagged streaks of yellow and orange, sliced across her vision. Her hands and arms felt as if they were scorching. She braced both feet against the cabin wall and yanked with all her strength.

  “Move!”

  There was another instant's hesitation, then the hatch slammed shut. The flames disappeared abruptly, and the roar of the fire changed to the sudden scream of the auto-exhaust. The smoke was so thick that Angie could barely see past her faceplate.

  “Angie! Our life monitor shows you back in the flitter. Are you all right? How's Chandler?”

  Angie tried to blink away the smoke. There must be something wrong with the auto-exhaust. It was supposed to be silent. The darkness had grown opaque.

  “Talk to me, Angie.”

  Why was it so hard to breathe?

  “Flitter one...”

  “Smoke,” Angie forced out, “The smoke won't clear.” Her legs felt like rubber.

  “Did you get Chandler into the flitter, Angie?”

  Sally Goberlan's voice.

  What was she doing here? Suddenly, Angie felt very cold. “Goberlan?”

  “Did you get Chandler inside the flitter?” Goberlan insisted. “Answer me, Angie.”

  The smoke was condensing inside her helmet. Angie shook her head to clear it, then blinked to snap her nictitating membranes into place. “I can't...”

  Her vision cleared. “Oh, mother of mountains,” she breathed.

  “Angie, what's going on down there?”

  Her hands, both of them, had been caught across the palms by the slamming hatch door.

  “Talk to me, Angie.” Goberlan's voice had taken on the dead-calm tone of one who knows her listener is in serious trouble. Angie had used the tone herself often enough to know. She tried, but was unable to disengage her close-up focus.

  “We estimate seven minutes to lift out, Angie. We'll try to get close enough to foam you in five.”

  How long does it take for a person my size to bleed to death? Angie wondered. Her mind kept sliding away from the problem.

  “Hold on, Angie.”

  “Holding,” she whispered.

  It was a long time before she was able to close her eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Le Fe'e's song was faint inside the burial cave. Fatu suspected that was more a result of the human presence in the cavernous chamber than of the cave's distance from the sea. He heard melancholy in the faint rumble of surf pounding the outer reef. He tasted loneliness on the still, damp air.

  I miss her, too, he replied silently. Le Fe'e only existed in his niece's imagination, but in her absence, Fatu drew comfort from the sounds and smells she had claimed were the god's own. He wished for a return to freer, more joyous days.

  Despite her late parents’ recorded wishes, Fatu's attempts to bring Pua back to Lesaat had co
nsistently failed. The Company inspectors had claimed they were not closely enough related. They insisted Pua was safe with her mother's family on Earth. It was an unsatisfactory compromise, even if it was true, which Fatu doubted.

  He pulled his attention back to the cave. It's a place to fit my mood today, he thought. Moisture shimmered deep in moss-lined crevices and dripped, dripped, dripped like perpetual tears onto wet stone. Slime molds shimmered in bioluminescent rainbows where they were not faded to slick gray by the Earther's harsh, artificial lights. The damp air, cooler by far than that outside the cave, smelled of spilled candleberry oil, mildew, and human sweat.

  A nightcrawler, confused by the unnatural glare of fluorescent lamps, crawled into the light, flipped onto its side, and punctured its dye sack. Fatu glanced toward the small sound and sighed, saddened yet further by the creature's mistake. Only during the phosphorescence of true night did the nightcrawlers’ procreative spores become viable. This one had given its life for nothing.

  “I will mourn for your lost children,” Fatu chanted quietly in Samoan. “As I must mourn for my own.” It was a song he had sung all too often of late.

  Toma glanced back to meet his look for a moment. The planetary super looked tired, but Fatu did not doubt that he was fully alert. The bastard Klooney and the visiting Company inspector either did not hear or chose not to react. Fatu sighed, and retreated to silence again as Klooney ripped open the final basket of human burial remains.

  A fine cloud of gray dust lifted. Klooney snuffed and sneezed. “Damn mildew,” he muttered. He scratched at his forearms, not a wise thing to do with nails as sharp as his. His arms were covered with thick, dark hair, matted with sweat and the dust from previously disturbed burial packets. The gray talc clung to the hair in damp wads. The Earther stepped back to avoid the settling dust. Klooney glowered at him.

  “I oughta get hazard pay for workin’ in here, Yoshida,” he said. “Look at this. I'm gettin’ a rash already. Reef-rotted air in here tastes like the inside of a coffin.”

  It is the inside of a coffin, Fatu reminded him silently. Klooney was a fool of a man, bright enough to do the Company's dirty work, but too stupid to realize that his present status as the Company's chief waterworld thug would end the instant his services were no longer needed. Instead of the land leases he expected, his ultimate reward would most likely be a late evening swim with the suckersharks. An event to which Fatu, quite frankly, looked forward.