Roger MacBride Allen - Chronicles of Solace 01 - The Shores of Tomorrow

The Shores of Tomorrow

Chapter One

THE RUINED WORLD

MARINERCITY

MARS

June 15, 5343 (Earth Reckoning, Common Era)

The lift door opened, and Kalani Temblar stepped out into the wreckage of the ruined city. She had been

working hard, but that wasn’t what had her perspiring. It was fear of what came next, not the effort of

what she had just done, that had drenched her brow and neck with sweat.

She did not attempt to wipe the sweat away. That would have been impossible, even had she been

wearing an ordinary pressure suit, and the suit she wore was far from ordinary.

She stepped away from what was officially called the Emergency Evaluation Vertical Covert Entrance,

Technology Storage Facility. According to the files, the last Chrono Patrol agents to use it, hundreds of

years before, had simply called it the Dark Museum Drop Shaft. Whatever it was called, Kalani

sincerely hoped she never had to go down it again. There was too much down there in the underground

museum, too much in too many ways.

Still beats being out on the surface,she told herself.Best to be off-planet as soon as possible. She patted

the bulge of the data recorder in her suit pocket. What she had recorded already in there would turn

everything—everything—upside down. The evidence she had uncovered in the Dark Museum was going

to give the Chronologic Patrol’s Central Command fits. If she stayed alive long enough to get it to them.

She stumbled through the thrice-cursed cityscape. Mariner City had been abandoned to plague a

thousand years before, then entombed by the murderous symbiote-mold—then wrecked by an explosion

in the Dark Museum hidden underneath it. She made her way around the smashed buildings, giving as

wide a berth as possible to the thicker clumps of symbiote-mold that covered everything. The old files

said that, way back when, the stuff had been even thicker and more virulent outside the city.

Unfortunately, she was about to have the chance to find out if that was still true.

Lurching and stumbling through the crumbling, mold-covered wreckage, she arrived back at her lander—

and was disheartened to see that it had already acquired a thin dusting of mold. She could almost

imagine that she could see it growing. She glanced at the arm of her suit and didn’t need to imagine

anything. The thin tufts she had first noticed a few hours ago were now plainly visible.

The lander was purpose-built for landing on, and traveling across, Mars: a short fat cone with three legs

and thrusters in the base. Nothing fancy. The cabin wasn’t even pressurized. No sense sending

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something sophisticated down to this place. The Interdict Law made it clear that any ship that landed on

Mars had to be incinerated, for fear of contaminating whatever else it might touch.

Her pressure suit was actually two suits, one inside the other. Once she was off-planet and safely back in

space, alongside the one-person Chrono Patrol transport that had gotten her to Mars orbit, the first thing

she would do would be to beam all the data she had captured over to a datastore that wasn’t hopelessly

saturated with Martian contaminates. Then she would abandon the lander, sending it into a burn-up

trajectory with the Martian atmosphere. Then she’d seal herself in a fabric bubble, pump in a pure

oxygen environment, and ignite the outer suit. It would disintegrate completely, leaving her in the

supposedly fireproof inner suit. She sure as hell hoped it was fireproof.

Watching from the inside as her pressure suit burned was going to be a new experience for Kalani, but

the people she was tracking had done it, or something very like it. She was going to have to do a lot of

the things they had done. She could see that now.

She climbed up into the lander and sealed the hatch. The hatch, and the hull itself, for that matter,

weren’t designed to hold pressure in but merely to provide a reasonably smooth aerodynamic surface

during transit through the atmosphere. Even so, it felt good to havesomething between herself and that

horrific landscape.

But she wouldn’t just get to lift off and leave the damned planet. Oh, no. She would have to land one

more time, in order to finish her investigations here and seal off a massive breach in security that had

been there for at least a century before she was born. What was the near-ancient phrase—“closing the

barn doors after the horses have already gone”—something like that. Still, orders were orders. The

tunnel would have to be shut.

She strapped herself in and fired the lander’s main thruster, not even bothering to calculate a flight plan.

Her destination was so close that it wasn’t worth the effort. She had the coordinates she needed from her

suit’s inertial-tracking system. All she had to do was fly up, fly due east five kilometers, and land again.

The lander jumped into the sullen sky and nosed over as it reached the apex of its flight. Kalani squirted

the coordinates from her suit’s tracker into the lander’s flight systems, and told the lander to paint a

bright red x on her heads-up display.

There,that six-sided building out in the middle of the mold fields. That must be it. She did a lock-in on

the lander’s flight systems, and told it to do a slow-speed approach and autoland fifty meters shy of the

structure.

The lander took over the flying, and Kalani was able to concentrate on the landscape below. Time had

passed, and the symbiote-mold grew quickly. Still, she could read traces of her quarry’s visit. At a guess,

she was about to land almost precisely where they had. It was also quite clear they had run into trouble.

The surface was still broken and disturbed, and showed some signs of fire. The wreckage of several one-

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shot cargo landers, and the remains of the burned-off camouflage covers that had hidden them, were

nearby. She made sure her recorders were running, getting a visual record of it all, just in case there was

ever an occasion that the evidence might prove useful.

But it was the rough-hewn six-sided structure that drew her attention. It looked for all the world like a

long-abandoned temple to some long-forgotten god.

Never mind the poetic imagery,she told herself severely.What matters is that it has to be the place I’m

looking for. Just a few hours before, she had been in the tunnel that ran under that structure, and even

walked up a flight of stone stairs that led to what had to be the inner chamber of that building, but the

steel door between the inner and outer chamber had been locked against her. She had been forced to

backtrack all the way through the tunnel, back through the wreckage of the Dark Museum, back out onto

the surface, then fly her lander here, in order to get to the other side of that door.

She studied the area closely as the lander brought itself in but learned little more than she had seen at

first glance. The desolation, the gloom, the symbiote-mold growing over everything; there was little she

had not seen in the city. All of Mars was that way, in each place as in all places. The temple and the

tunnel beneath it were the only novelties in the landscape—and it was her job to destroy them both.

The lander eased itself down onto the ground with one gentle bump as the craft set down. A perfect

landing—but with a disconcerting sequel. The whole craft shuddered once, twice, then dropped another

meter or so before coming to a final stop.

It took Kalani a moment to understand. The lander had set down on the “surface”—but the surface was

merely the outer crust of the symbiote-mold. The weak and crumbly stuff was like crusted-over snow.

Break through the outer layer, and the decayed mold underneath could provide no solid support. The

ship only came to a complete rest when it reached the underlying solidity of rock and soil.

Kalani refused to indulge in the obvious by framing a metaphor for the Chronologic Patrol, or the state

of things in general. She had work to do. She pulled the charges and detonators out of their locker,

stuffed them into a pocket on her suit, and got moving.

She climbed out of the stubby little lander and stepped gingerly down onto the mold-crusted surface.

The stuff looked even nastier from ground level, and, sure enough, it was even more unpleasant than in

the city. The mold was a crumpled, wrinkled, dirty grey-green blanket that covered the world. Here and

there the crust had broken open, and a cleansing wind had blown long enough to expose the actual

surface of stone and soil. But it was plain to see such flaws soon healed themselves, the mold quickly

swallowing up the land again wherever it showed itself

Strange things grew up out of the mold—great obscene brown mushrooms, reddish fanlike stalks,

orange spikes, clusters of long knobbly fingerlike stalks, the hands of blue-grey corpses reaching up

from under the mold to grab her and pull her down.

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Kalani tried to get her imagination under control, even as she promised herself not to get too close to

those finger-things. She started walking, moving carefully toward the temple. With every step, she could

feel the mold crust giving under her feet just a little, creaking and groaning as she passed.

Almost against her will, she paused and looked around now and again as she made the short walk toward

the temple. She dutifully recorded the views from each position, getting detailed shots of the wrecked

landers and the temple from various angles, and of patches of surface that plainly had been torn up and

had mold grow back over it.

They must have kept damned busy while they were down here,Kalani thought. It looked as if they had

been dragging gear from the abandoned one-shot landers to their own ship. She could see bits of

discarded equipment here and there, and a major collection of junk strewn right about where she figured

their lander had set down. It looked very much as if they had been dumping hardware overboard in order

to shed weight, and doing it in a hurry. There was obvious fire damage to the dumped equipment, and to

the mold surface, and to the old one-shots. But there wasn’t enough oxygen in the current Martian

atmosphere to support much in the way of combustion.You’d have to dump oxygen into the atmosphere

in order for anything to burn. What the hell had gone on here? How had they even stayed alive on this

planet long enough to do so much? From all the evidence, it seemed clear that they had been in burn-off

suits like hers, albeit less sophisticated ones, with more limited duration.

Which reminded her to check her own suit’s status. She had to scrape a film of mold spores off the wrist

display before she could read it clearly. She’d been in the suit for nearly three days, and slept in it twice.

Even for a military-specification pressure suit, that was getting close to the duration limit. The displays

said she had about eight hours left. She had no desire to spend anywhere near that much more time in

such a hideous place.

She moved forward, hurrying a bit, toward the steps of the six-sided temple. She stepped on a thinner

patch of mold crust, and her boot broke through. She fell, facefirst, into the miserable stuff. She pushed

herself back up with both hands and came floundering out of the broken, crumbling, grey-green

nightmare. She knelt there for a moment, calming herself, making sure that she wasn’t going to panic.

The spores that were now all over her helmet and suit would kill her quickly, but most unpleasantly, if

they reached her skin or lungs. They’d start digesting her before she was actually dead. But theyhadn’t

reached her skin or her lungs. They were safely on the other side of her suit.A whole four or five

centimeters away, she told herself.Isn’t that comforting?

She gave herself a few more seconds to settle down, then stood back up, brushed herself off as best she

could, and moved on toward the temple. The best thing she could do for herself was get out of here as

soon as possible—which meant getting the job done as soon as possible.

The steps leading up to the temple itself were all but completely buried in mold, to the point that it was

difficult to see where they were. She moved carefully onto the upper platform on which the temple itself

stood, and walked around it, searching for a way in. She spotted it on the western side of the structure.

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One wall panel had a handhold on one side and hinges on the other. She pulled hard on the handle and

got exactly nowhere. She tried again, and started wondering what sort of tools she had on the lander. But

on the third try the door finally shifted, grinding against the sand and the mold and opening about a

quarter of the way before jamming up hard, completely immobile.

Never mind. It was open far enough for her to get in, even if she had to edge in sideways to manage it.

She powered up her suit lights and went inside.

She stopped dead just inside the entrance, and started up full-image recording. They’d need to see this

back at HQ, or else they’d figure she had imagined it. There had been faint marks on the floors down in

the tunnel, but nothing this clear or distinct.

Footprints. Living footprints.Three sets of them, if she was reading it right, leading directly from where

she stood straight to the solid wall on the far side of the room. Their boots must have picked up spores

outside and planted them inside. The mold must have grown since where the boots had left the spores.

She was undoubtedly about to plant her own set of spores with her own boots.

So, three of them got this far, at least,she thought.And then back out again. Now that she knew what to

look for, she could just see fainter traces of three sets of prints pointed toward the exit.

If she had needed any evidence that there was something behind that wall, she had it now. One set of

prints ended exactlyat the wall, with a bootmark that was cut off just ahead of the heel, and the front of

the foot missing, as if the owner had simply walked straight on through.

She recorded it all, then walked to that wall, looking for the way in. She spotted it quickly enough—a

handle set into the middle panel, the hinges set so it would swing to the left. She pulled it open and

found a massive reinforced vault door behind it.

She checked the display on her inertial tracker and nodded. About eighteen hours before, she had stood

on the far side of this door—about a meter east of her current location. It had required a hell of a

backtrack to move that one meter, but she had done it. Now she had to make sure no one else ever did.

She examined the vault door. It had three sets of spin dials on it. The single word OR was stamped into

the metal between the top and middle row of dials, and again, between the middle and bottom rows.

Kalani nodded again. That was plain enough: The door had three possible combinations, any of which

would open it.

Nor would she have to look far for clues to the combinations. They were right there, on the inside of the

outer door. She carefully recorded images of the vault door, and of the inside of the outer door.

There were four thick pieces of transparent material sealed to the door panel. The top one held a sign

reading THE RIGHT TIME AND PLACE. The second was an image of one side of a room more or less

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the size she was in, though of much finer material than the roughly hewn rock in this temple. There was

some sort of inscription on one wall in the image, but that portion of the image had been deliberately

blurred out. The third panel showed an image similar to the first, though apparently of the opposite side

of the same room. Once again, the writing on the wall was deliberately blurred out and made illegible.

None of it made any sense to her. She could add it to the stack of puzzles she had found already. Let the

big brains back at HQ take a crack at them.

The fourth panel was what she was interested in. It was another notice, printed in thick red block letters.

Warning. Locks and Security System Contain

Embedded Piezo-Thermal-Optical Detectors

Linked to Self-Destruct System. Any Attempt to

Break Through Locks will Initiate Self-Destruct.

She was not in the least surprised or alarmed—now. She had been, down in the tunnel, when she had

finally recognized the white tubing in the vault of the tunnel as a rope charge. But no one set charges

like that unless they had a way to detonate them, and booby-trapping the entrance was a fairly obvious

guess as to how it might be done.

Should you locate an unauthorized entrance into the Technology Storage Facility, you are to destroy it.

So her orders read, and she was not going to argue with them. Not given what she had been through in

order to get approval for a Mars visit in the first place—and not after what she had seen down there.

That was in fact the trouble: It was too obviously the next move. The tunnel’s builder had obviously

known that the previous three visitors, or someone like them, would come here. Plainly, all had been

prepared for them. She could not help but wonder if the tunnel’s builder had foreseenher visit as well.

Had the builder anticipated that an officer of the Chronologic Patrol would, sooner or later, stand where

she was standing, intent on destroying the place? Suppose hewished to have it wrecked, now that it had

served its purpose? If so, was she then playing his game, doing his bidding?

But Kalani Temblar had already spent long enough in intelligence to shy away from such hall-of-mirrors

worries. It was too easy to become immobilized, to start believing thateverything could be a trap, that

any move you made could have been part of the Enemy’s master plan. She forced the worries from her

mind. After all, her orders were explicit and provided no room for judgment on her part in this matter.

She pulled out the charges and the detonators. She had brought four medium-sized bricks of flex-and-

stick explosive with her. She peeled each one out of its container, then pressed one up against each set of

spin dials. The fourth she set around the vault door handle. It was the work of a moment to set

detonators into each charge, then string the detonators together to work off the same timer.

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It was, however, with a vast reluctance that she reached for the timer itself. Long before she had headed

to Mars, the Chronologic Patrol had known that someone might well have gotten into the Dark Museum.

As the official entrance was well hidden, there were obviously good odds that someone had built his or

herown entrance. The planning group for this job had given Kalani the explosives in order to wreck the

entrance if she found it. No one had expected the illegal entrance to be anything more elaborate than a

drilled vertical shaft like the Chrono Patrol’s own drop shaft, or perhaps some sort of chance pathway

through the rubble left by the collapse of the upper levels.

No one had expected to find a massive, kilometers-long engineering project, let alone one with its own

self-destruct mechanism. Now Kalani was planning to touch off that self-destruct system, destroying a

fair-sized building and the tunnel under it. The folks back at HQ wanted a full visual record of her

mission—and that would most certainly have to include images of the tunnel’s and temple’s destruction.

That in turn meant she would have to stay close enough to record them.

A nice, simple, radio-controlled remote detonator would have suited the situation admirably. Head back

to the lander, do a detailed preboost checkout, do a high-hover to, say, fifteen hundred meters, push the

button, watch the bang, and boost for orbit. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a remote detonator.

A timer-controlled detonator made things far too exciting, forced her into too many guesses about how

long it would take to get her ship to that high-hover, and too much faith that nothing would go wrong.

Suppose she set the timer for too long and stood at high-hover for so much time she didn’t have enough

propellant left to reach orbit? Suppose she set it short, and the whole damn place went up while her ship

was still on the ground? Suppose she tripped and broke her wrist and couldn’t climb into the lander with

just one hand before the damned thing went off? Or suppose it didn’t matter when she set the thing for,

because the symbiote-mold had already eaten through the lander’s propellant plumbing? Or suppose she

was so tired she’d just wired things up with a short across the leads, so the detonators would go off the

moment she attached the timer? There was no way to be sure which, if any, answer would be right.

Just make the best guess you can,she told herself. Sensible advice, but what would the best guess be?

She thought it through as carefully as she could, balancing the dangers of too fast against those of too

slow.Call it twenty minutes, she told herself at last. She made the setting at once, before she was tempted

to work it all through again, and then again, just to be sure. She could invent enough doubt to paralyze

herself that way, too.

But she should at least check her wiring before she started the timer. She traced back her leads and

confirmed they were all where they should be. Then she looked, not at the leads, but at the explosive

charges. She couldsee the mold growing on it, a thin fuzz already coating the entire exposed surface of

each charge, with thicker patches blooming here and there, growing moment by moment as she stood

there and watched.Twenty minutes . Would there even be any explosive left to detonate by then? She

looked to the timer again and thought hard. Suddenly, she was sweating again, sweating as if her suit

cooling had cut out altogether.Heat. That mold was digesting the explosive fast enough that it had to be

generating some significant heat and some extremely weird chemical by-products. And for all she knew,

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the mold had already infiltrated the detonators and was digesting the safeties on their mechanisms. The

mold could set off all or part of the charges at any moment—or else keep them from going off at all.

The sooner, the better,she told herself. She was tempted to crank the timer down to ten minutes, but it

would be all but impossible for her to take off that fast. She compromised on fifteen minutes, reset the

timer, noted the exact time, started the countdown, and watched the numbers change from 15:00 to

14:59. She put the timer down carefully on the stone floor, making sure not to jostle any wires—then got

the hell out of the temple as fast as she could go.

Not that she could go all that fast. Not in the big, clumsy burn-off suit. Not through the broken-up, dirty,

treacherous surface crust that seemed to find new ways to kick up dust and spores with every step. Not

with her eyes half-blinded by droplets of sweat, and more sweat spattering on the inside of her visor and

drying there. Not moving as close as she was to the absolute ragged edge of exhaustion. And not

stopping every five steps to see how much time she had left.

She forced herself to stop halfway, to kneel forward, hands on her knees, and catch her breath.Steady

down, Lieutenant, she told herself.Panic is what will kill you fastest. Slow. Steady. Don’t wear yourself

out floundering through the mold crust. It isn’t far to go.

Kalani soon discovered that last was a good thing, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to cover much

distance. With the mold crust weakened and broken by her walking on it already, the going was at least

twice as bad as it had been moving in the other direction. She fell twice, then gave up and deliberately

walked ten meters south, ninety degrees away from where she was trying to go, in hopes of finding a

steadier walking surface. Her boots still broke through with every step, but only by a couple of

centimeters, rather than up to her ankles or knees. That helped, if only a little.

After what seemed a most unreasonably long time, she made it back to the base of the lander—and more

hopelessly chewed-up surface. Whatever scraps of calm she had managed to gather to herself evaporated

when she checked the countdown status again. Somehow, five minutes and thirty seconds had already

gone poof.And you’ll go poof too, if you don’t start up that ladder fast, she warned herself.

She had another series of bad moments when she tried to reach up for the lowest rung of the ladder,

which was set into the side of the lander, exactly between two of the lander legs. Just as she had her left

arm fully extended to grab the rung, she broke completely through the mold crust and fell. The broken

mold collapsed in around her, and she was buried nearly to her thighs. She looked up, and for one

terrible moment thought the whole lander was toppling over on top of her. But no, it was just the weird

low angle that made it look that way—plus her own agitated state of mind. Nor did it help that, with the

surface fallen away, the lowest rung of the ladder was not only above her head, it was nearly out of

sight, given the limited visibility her helmet’s visor permitted. She literally had to bend over backward

even to see it.

Somehow, she dragged herself up and managed to find a solid enough bit of mold crust so that she could

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jump just high enough to grab that lowest rung. She pulled herself up, thankful for the low gravity, and

grabbed the next rung, and the next, and the next. She opened the hatch, climbed in, and closed and

sealed it behind her. She checked the countdown: seven minutes left.Not even exciting, she thought as

she turned around.Plenty of time to do a quick prelaunch check and get out of here.

But just as she was about to indulge in a sigh of relief, she made the mistake of looking at the lander’s

tiny control panel—and at the pilot chair. Vigorous new growths of mold spores had sprouted in both

places. Kalani automatically reached out to brush the greyish fuzz off her seat—and realized there was

twice as thick a growth on the arm of her suit. She looked down at herself, as best she could in the bulky

suit, and discovered that virtually every part of her suit was covered in the stuff, as if her outer suit were

growing a thin, patchy coat of grey-green fur. Something had stimulated the spores to very active

growth. The idea of having the outer suit burned off was starting to seem downright appealing.

The suit and the chair didn’t matter so much. They’d still function if covered with grey fuzz.But if that

crud is growing into the controls the way it’s growing into the explosive . . .

She sat down, strapped herself in, and, working carefully so as to not activate any of the controls by

accident, brushed and peeled away as much of the stuff from the panel as she could. With all that crud

hiding the display and gumming up the controls, she wasn’t going to be able to perform a preflight

safety check—

And what the hell is the point of a preflight safety check?she asked herself.What safety issue am I going

to find that’s going to make taking off more dangerous than staying here seven—make it six—more

minutes? Besides, if there were anything wrong, how the hell was she going to be able to fix it?

She finished clearing the mold off the control panel as best she could and wished she could do

something to clear her mind as well. Mars was getting to her, no doubt about it. Go straight to preflight

prep and just hope the mold hadn’t gotten into anything important just yet. Pressurize main propellant

tank. Power to stabilizers. Nozzle temperature low but inside tolerance. Check trim-tank levels. Engine

gimbal check, solid-state gyro check. Pressure to the main tank wasn’t coming up very fast. Was there a

leak somewhere, or a valve stuck? She cycled the switches on and off a couple of times, and was

rewarded with a much-improved rate of pressurization.Some crud in the line, she told herself.Don’t ask

yourself where it’s from or what it is. Just be glad it’s gone and don’t wonder if more is on the way.

Time check—three minutes thirty seconds to go. Basic preflight sequence complete.Okay. Let the main

tank get to pressure, and let’s just go.

She watched the tank-pressure gauge, cheering it on, urging the numbers to rise. And they did so, quite

briskly, for a little while, nearly edging over into low-acceptable range before slowing even more

abruptly than before.

Something was plainly not right in the tank-pressure system. But there was no time to troubleshoot, no

time to figure it out—and besides, there was also a very good chance that whatever was wrong would

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only get worse as the mold infiltrated farther into whatever it was jamming.

Two minutes left, then the landscape would open up with a bang. She cycled the tank-pressure switches

again, and once again, the jolt was enough to knock the obstruction loose—for the moment. The tank

pressure teetered on the low end of the acceptable range—and then jumped over, suddenly sailing right

up into the middle of the preferred range.

Kalani wasted no time questioning the gift she had been given. Whatever had nudged the system back to

normal performance could nudge it back out at any time.

She powered up the main thruster and cranked it up to full throttle. She was slammed down into her

couch as the lander shot up into the sky. The moment the lander was in motion, Kalani knew it was

going too far, too fast. She throttled down to 1 percent, not daring to shut the thruster off completely for

fear of not being able to restart it in midair. The lander streaked upward, riding its momentum, reaching

the apex of its initial boost about three thousand meters up. Kalani, vastly relieved that the ship had

boosted at all, was tempted to stay right there, but she knew that really was a little too high for a good

view of the show that was about to begin. Best to settle in a little lower. She pushed forward on the main

throttle, again powering the thruster up—or at least intending to do so.

For a long, sickening moment, the thruster did not respond to her commands. Instead of throttling up, it

held at 1 percent, barely ticking over. The lander started to fall, faster and farther than Kalani had

intended. She jammed the throttle hard against the stop, full power, and felt it kick in hard. She eased

down again, slowly, to about one-third power. For whatever reason, the thruster chose that moment to

respond properly to the controls. Kalani put on the brakes, slowly but surely, and came to a high-hover.

The flight instructors called it a “landing on air”—a complete halt in midair. Pilots called it the most

inefficient of all possible maneuvers. The lander was burning irreplaceable propellant in order to remain

motionless.

And motionless in the wrong place. Somehow she had skewed about a half kilometer west, and was a

good thousand meters lower than she wanted to be. She checked the countdown. Thirty seconds to go.

She barely had time to lock the lander’s cameras in on the temple and the surrounding area. Twenty

seconds.Some more altitude would be a good idea right now. She throttled up, and felt that same

sickening delay from the thruster before it finally responded to commands. What the hell was wrong?

The lander oozed slowly upward. Kalani resisted the urge to slam the throttle forward again. The

controls were in bad enough shape without her roughing them up needlessly.

Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. She throttled back down again, as gently as she could, compensating

reasonably well for the delay in response. The lander was at seven hundred meters, still much lower than

Kalani had intended—but two hundred meters better than five hundred.

Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Bureaubla...20of%20Solace%2001-02/Alle_0553897764_oeb_c01_r1.html (10 of 12)10-1-2007 16:49:15

Roger MacBride Allen - Chronicles of Solace 01 - The Shores of Tomorrow

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