Heaven's Fall (18 page)

PAV:
True. But on Keanu, we were mostly trying to survive . . . like humans born prior to the nineteenth century.

INTERVIEW AT YELAHANKA,
APRIL 14, 2040

“It’s worse than we thought,” Pav told her, when they stepped out into their second Bangalore morning. Both of them blinked like prisoners released from a cell, even though the sky was overcast, threatening rain.

Rachel’s first night of Earth sleep in twenty years had been restful—she believed she had truly slept at least five hours—but for a series of strange dreams, including the predictable one in which she was still inside the Temple on Keanu, late to the launch of
Adventure
.

In another, she was back in the home in Houston she shared with her father and mother—though her current age. And Yvonne Hall, the astronaut turned Revenant, simply called her on the phone to tell her, “I’m here for you.”

Rachel had awakened at that point, feeling foolishly, possibly insanely reassured—the predictable residue of a dream.

Before beating herself up, however, she had to consider this vital point: All three of those people, Father, Mother, and Yvonne, had died . . . and two had become Revenants. They were proof that the Architects of Keanu had a handle on the existence of consciousness or personality beyond physical death.

Would it be crazy to assume that their technology extended to communication from beyond the grave? To invading your dreams with actual messages?

Rachel said to Pav, “Did you ever smoke?”

“Cigarettes? Of course I smoked! I spent part of my childhood in Russia! Why?”

“I never did,” Rachel said. “But right now . . . it’s supposed to help you think, isn’t it?”

“That’s what they say.” He put his arm around her. “You don’t need nicotine to help you think.”

“I feel as though I need something. A boost.”

“We’re sticking to our plan. Land, make contact, learn as much as we can, then—”

“Then move, yes. But so far we’re doing exactly what we expected, and that bothers me.”

“Because you’re a pessimist.”

“A realist.”

“Well, then, realist, keep this in mind: Our plan didn’t include having Sanjay get critically injured.”

Rachel sighed. “And what do we do about Sanjay? Leave him? And Zeds . . . trying to move him is just going to be difficult—”

“Zeds can move himself, and we both know it.”

“But not quietly or discreetly, darling. Wherever he goes, people are going to know.”

Pav frowned as he looked at her. “We’re going clandestine, are we? Maybe you do need to catch me up—”

“I don’t
know
. That’s the problem. We need Xavier to do what he and Sanjay were going to do, and quickly. We need money, support, transportation.”

She sighed. “It’s been so strange to find . . . what we’ve found.”

“Come on,” Pav said, “we didn’t really expect them to be better. We knew the Reivers had reached Earth. I’m just surprised the entire planet isn’t buried neck deep in the things.”

“Are we sure it isn’t?”

Pav started to reply, but smiled instead. “You’re right; we only know what we’ve been told by our hosts. Of course, this is my father we’re talking about—”

“And that’s why we wanted him to be part of the reception, yes, but—”

“What do we really know? I mean, it’s possible he could be a Reiver Aggregate. All of them could be—Remilla, Kaushal.”

“Now who’s the pessimist?” she said.

“You have rubbed off on me.” A horn blared nearby, startling both of them. All around them, the business of Yelahanka Air Base continued as it always had. Buses and Jeeps passed—some distance away, prevented from approaching the hospital—but audible, visible, and smellable.

On the flight line not far away, a jet engine had been revved up . . . likely for maintenance, not preflight. In the relative quiet between revs, they had been able to put their heads close together and be heard. Now, however, the jet was running at military power, it seemed—without break.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Rachel said.

“Yes, it means no one can overhear us as we plot.” When she shot him a look, he said, “Come on, Rachel, if we are being so closely observed, it’s because they
are
suspicious and
assume
we are plotting.”

“It just . . . I wish I had more experience.” She knew she was displaying more caution than the situation warranted. They had trained themselves to operate “like you are visiting China,” Zhao had told them. As a former Guan Bao agent, he knew the means and methods.

Which were constant audio surveillance wherever they went inside a building, tails and shadows whenever they left, and likely directional microphones aimed at them when they spoke outside—as they were now.

“But lipreading is easy to beat,” Zhao had told them, “if you’re careful, especially if you lean close and block the cameras.” And while computer enhancement would easily separate human words from background jet engine noise, it would take time.

“Don’t you think they assume we have ways of communicating with . . . Manchester United?” Pav was sensitive on this subject, since he had come up with the code name.

“Why don’t you just say ‘Keanu’ and be done with it?”

It was his turn to shoot her a look. “Fine. They will assume we are in touch, they will assume we are about our own business, and, in fact, they would be far more suspicious if their surveillance showed that we were hiding nothing.”

“Which is why,” Rachel said, “I wish I had a cigarette.”

“I’ll ask one of the guards, how about that?”

She took his hand, trying to tell him, in the most secret way possible, that she really wasn’t angry with him. She pulled him close, to speak directly into his left ear. “I never expected to be scouting, then attacking an entire continent.”

He rocked back and laughed out loud. “Me, neither! And it’s time to start, especially . . .”

Rain had started to fall, big fat drops that felt like fingers tapping on Rachel’s back and shoulders.

As she and Pav turned, they saw Yahvi in the doorway, looking up, fear on her face.

“Honey,” Rachel said, “what’s wrong?”

“What is this?”

Rachel realized that her Keanu-born daughter had never experienced rain. The regular habitat mist, yes, but nothing like this tropical pelting.

“It’s rain, darling. It won’t hurt you.”

Then Yahvi sneezed. Rachel and Pav looked at each other. “Come on,” Pav said, “inside now!”

Rachel took the lead in putting Yahvi to bed. Thank God for the gift of the Beta!

She and Pav agreed that Rachel would go in search of soup while Pav would locate Xavier and make arrangements for the cargo. “This is suspiciously traditional,” Pav said, before departing. “This division of labor.”

“These are special circumstances,” Rachel said. She hoped, however, that Pav heeded the warning tone: She would rather have been seeing to their cargo than filling this domestic role.

But sometimes a girl needed a mother. As one who had lost hers at exactly this age, Rachel understood.

Leaving Yahvi with her soup, Rachel was met by Taj, who announced, “I just saw Pav. And I am happy to tell you that we have found three potential agents for you!”

That simple phrase infuriated her.
“We”? “For you”?
Rachel knew she was, as Harley Drake would say, spring-loaded. Poor sleep, general tension, Yahvi’s condition, Pav’s eager escape from domesticity, her father-in-law—in itself an unfamiliar concept—going paternal on her, and talking to Pav first! It all combined to cause Rachel to snap.

“Why don’t we roll that back a few pages, and let me see all of the applicants and interested parties so I can pick three. Maybe they’ll be the same. But maybe they won’t.”

She could see Taj’s head drop a perceptible quarter of an inch, a gesture clearly indicating a sense of persecution, and one he shared with his son, which was why Rachel recognized it—and grew even more furious.

“There are no applicants,” he said, with what Rachel was sure he considered extreme patience, “only three agents that we approached. The landing is still officially classified.”

“Perhaps we should move up the announcement.”

“It is scheduled for two hours from now. How much earlier can we make it? And still give your agent a head start?”

His answers were logical and correct, which did nothing to make Rachel happier. “You’re not empowered to make decisions for us.”

Taj stiffened. “I didn’t realize I was making decisions. I will resume searching—”

Rachel realized that she had become unpleasant. One of the benefits of reaching her middle thirties was that she eventually recognized that she was losing her temper . . . in time to salvage the moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The three candidates will be fine. Where was Pav?”

“Enduring a conversation with Mrs. Remilla and her senior staff.” The deadpan use of a word like
enduring
was just the thing Pav would have done to soothe Rachel, and it almost worked. “They have him trapped.”

“Why?” Aside from general sympathy for her husband and lover, Rachel was concerned for his primary mission, which was the cargo.

“There are questions about your immigration status. A Foreigners Regional Registration Counselor is still not willing to consider issuing temporary visas for your crew.” Now Taj smiled, and Rachel saw her husband’s face—older, but handsome and engaging. Her anger drained away. “The Sentry’s status is a particular challenge, given that he is an extraterrestrial alien.”

“Earth is full of such aliens already, you said.”

“India is not. The Reivers aren’t welcome here. To my knowledge, none have ever tried to enter the country.”

“You’d better hope so.”

She followed Taj to the conference room, where Pav was indeed sequestered with Remilla and several male bureaucrats. Pav jumped to his feet eagerly, confirming his father’s description of a torturous meeting.

He told Rachel what was going on with the visas. “We’re cleared to remain in India for thirty days. We’re being treated as though we were on a work visa and our cargo as personal possessions not subject to duties.”

“Thank you, darling.” She put arms around him and kissed him, something she still enjoyed after so many years. (And didn’t mind doing in front of others.)

Her gratitude was genuine. She and Pav had spent a great deal of time planning the return to Earth, but concentrated on the technical challenges: trajectories, fuel, targets, communications. They had no real way of knowing what it would be like to be here—and then move forward. Would India be under some kind of martial law?

The meeting was breaking up, thank goodness. Remilla and Taj herded the immigration men out of the room, leaving Rachel and Pav alone. “Tough, huh?”

He smiled. “Among the many things we don’t have at home . . . bureaucracies and paperwork.”

“Give us time.”

“Well, here on Earth, it’s only going to get more difficult,” Pav said. “We’ll be in the news, we’ll have this media agent, then . . .”

He yawned.

“Are you as tired as I am?” Rachel said. Pav didn’t need to answer; it was on his face. “Let’s be old folks at home for the moment,” she said, using a phrase her father loved, describing family nights. “Soup for Yahvi, then bed.”

“Tomorrow, the world,” Pav murmured.

QUESTION:
Rachel, you have spoken about the challenges of simply surviving for twenty years in a habitat created by aliens using their technology—

RACHEL:
First of all, the habitat was designed and built to accommodate humans.

QUESTION:
How?

RACHEL:
Ask the Architects.

QUESTION:
Then back to my—

RACHEL:
The same Architects equipped us with two things . . . one was the proteus, which is a 3-D printer evolved by a few thousand years. It’s a device that can replicate or fabricate just about anything, from food to tools to electronic equipment and even chemicals.