with a smattering of glowing streaks in green and red.
Moments later, the pilots stepped out. They were clearly humanoid, and they were dressed in what appeared to be sleek, form-fitting armor that featured illuminated strips running across the torso and up and down the limbs.
One pilot’s armor was blue, while his companion’s was a rich purple that shimmered in the light like shot silk. Their flight helmets looked like upside-down buckets with stylized wings retreating back from just above the ears, running six inches behind them in a polished metal that might have been silver. The metal helmets covered the top half of each pilot’s face and included a molded pair of goggles with tinted black lenses, leaving the mouth, chin and the bottom of the nose exposed.
The analysis software in Kane’s heads-up display was feeding him conflicting reports on the composition of the armor, as if it was unable to scan it properly. Kane pushed back the visor, shaking his head. “Giving me a headache,” he muttered, wishing once again that he could break radio silence.
The pilots turned to the grounded Mantas and acknowledged them with a curt nod. It looked a lot like a warning. Then they turned in unison and marched toward a low building that crouched at the side of the airfield. Similarly armored figures waited there, poised behind large shieldlike plates with transparent windows.
The Cerberus warriors watched as the pilots disappeared into the building. The building had gold walls with vertical strips of light running up its surface, reaching from ground to roof in a line no wider than a man’s hand. Above, the sky swirled with a rainbow mix of color, reds and yellows colliding to form new shades of orange, blues meeting the reds in rich shades of violet.
Kane, Brigid and Grant were left idling on the airstrip, waiting in readiness.
“They’re going to kill us,” Kane muttered.
“Optimist!” Brigid chided, but she wondered if he might be right.
Chapter 8
Bitterroot Mountains, Montana
It had been ninety seconds since Kane’s Manta had disappeared from sight, following Grant’s own disappearance scant seconds before.
In the operations center of the Cerberus redoubt, Brewster Philboyd breathed deeply as he studied the satellite image over the Serra do Norte region of Brazil, trying to settle his racing heart. The feed was live, albeit with a momentary delay as the signal was bounced back down to the redoubt’s pickups and translated into an overhead image from high in the air. The satellite could be trained on specific sites as required, and Brewster had directed it to the area in Brazil by Lakesh’s command.
Another freezie exile from the Manitius Moon Base, Philboyd was a highly adept astrophysicist whose problem-solving abilities and general computer know-how put him at the core of a very small group of Cerberus personnel who might genuinely be described as irreplaceable. A tall man with a gaunt face and lanky frame that seemed just a little too long for the desks and chairs of the ops room, Philboyd had blond hair that was swept back from a high forehead and his cheeks bore evidence of acne scars from his teenage years. Besides the uniform white jumpsuit of all personnel, Philboyd wore a pair of black-framed eyeglasses that could make his blue-eyed gaze seem rather challenging.
“We’ve lost them,” he announced, not quite believing the words himself. “Am initiating a full sweep of the area to see if we’ve missed anything.”
Lakesh was pensively watching the same feed from the comm desk. He had felt the same sense of unreality when he saw Kane’s Manta wink out of the picture and desperately hoped he hadn’t lost his field team on a fool’s errand the same way he had lost Domi. “Check the satellite feed, Mr. Philboyd,” he commanded automatically before switching to the Commtact receiver without taking breath. “Kane? Do you read me, Kane? We have lost visual and I have received no response
Moments later, the pilots stepped out. They were clearly humanoid, and they were dressed in what appeared to be sleek, form-fitting armor that featured illuminated strips running across the torso and up and down the limbs.
One pilot’s armor was blue, while his companion’s was a rich purple that shimmered in the light like shot silk. Their flight helmets looked like upside-down buckets with stylized wings retreating back from just above the ears, running six inches behind them in a polished metal that might have been silver. The metal helmets covered the top half of each pilot’s face and included a molded pair of goggles with tinted black lenses, leaving the mouth, chin and the bottom of the nose exposed.
The analysis software in Kane’s heads-up display was feeding him conflicting reports on the composition of the armor, as if it was unable to scan it properly. Kane pushed back the visor, shaking his head. “Giving me a headache,” he muttered, wishing once again that he could break radio silence.
The pilots turned to the grounded Mantas and acknowledged them with a curt nod. It looked a lot like a warning. Then they turned in unison and marched toward a low building that crouched at the side of the airfield. Similarly armored figures waited there, poised behind large shieldlike plates with transparent windows.
The Cerberus warriors watched as the pilots disappeared into the building. The building had gold walls with vertical strips of light running up its surface, reaching from ground to roof in a line no wider than a man’s hand. Above, the sky swirled with a rainbow mix of color, reds and yellows colliding to form new shades of orange, blues meeting the reds in rich shades of violet.
Kane, Brigid and Grant were left idling on the airstrip, waiting in readiness.
“They’re going to kill us,” Kane muttered.
“Optimist!” Brigid chided, but she wondered if he might be right.
Chapter 8
Bitterroot Mountains, Montana
It had been ninety seconds since Kane’s Manta had disappeared from sight, following Grant’s own disappearance scant seconds before.
In the operations center of the Cerberus redoubt, Brewster Philboyd breathed deeply as he studied the satellite image over the Serra do Norte region of Brazil, trying to settle his racing heart. The feed was live, albeit with a momentary delay as the signal was bounced back down to the redoubt’s pickups and translated into an overhead image from high in the air. The satellite could be trained on specific sites as required, and Brewster had directed it to the area in Brazil by Lakesh’s command.
Another freezie exile from the Manitius Moon Base, Philboyd was a highly adept astrophysicist whose problem-solving abilities and general computer know-how put him at the core of a very small group of Cerberus personnel who might genuinely be described as irreplaceable. A tall man with a gaunt face and lanky frame that seemed just a little too long for the desks and chairs of the ops room, Philboyd had blond hair that was swept back from a high forehead and his cheeks bore evidence of acne scars from his teenage years. Besides the uniform white jumpsuit of all personnel, Philboyd wore a pair of black-framed eyeglasses that could make his blue-eyed gaze seem rather challenging.
“We’ve lost them,” he announced, not quite believing the words himself. “Am initiating a full sweep of the area to see if we’ve missed anything.”
Lakesh was pensively watching the same feed from the comm desk. He had felt the same sense of unreality when he saw Kane’s Manta wink out of the picture and desperately hoped he hadn’t lost his field team on a fool’s errand the same way he had lost Domi. “Check the satellite feed, Mr. Philboyd,” he commanded automatically before switching to the Commtact receiver without taking breath. “Kane? Do you read me, Kane? We have lost visual and I have received no response
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