Fallen Angel

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FALLEN ANGELS

Larry Niven

Jerry Pournelle

Michael Flynn

DEDICATION

FOR SCIENCE FICTION FANDOM

any form.

A Baen Books Original Baen Publishing Enterprises P.O. Box 1403 Riverdale, NY

10471 http://www.baen.com

Production by Windhaven Press Auburn, NH

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webwrights.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

First printing, December 1992

Distributed by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER ONE

"Aspiring to Be Gods . . ."

High over the northern hemisphere the scoopship's hull began

to sing. The cabin was a sounding box for vibrations far below the

threshold of hearing. Alex MacLeod could feel his bones singing in

sympathy.

Piranha was kissing high atmosphere.

Planet Earth was shrouded in pearl white. There was no break

anywhere. There were mountain ranges of fluff, looming cliffs, vast

plains that stretched to a far distant convex horizon, a cloud cover

that looked firm enough to walk on. An illusion; a geography of

vapors as insubstantial as the dreams of youth. If he were to set

foot upon them . . . The clouds did not float in free fall, as was

proper, but in an acceleration frame that could hurl the scoopship

headlong into an enormous ball of rock and iron and smash it like

any dream.

Falling, they called it.

Alex felt the melancholy stealing over him again. Nostalgia? For

that germ-infested ball of mud? Not possible. He could barely

remember Earth. Snapshots from hildhood; a chaotic montage of

memories. He had fallen down the cellar steps once in a childhood

home he scarcely recalled. Tumbling, arms flailing, head thumping

hard against the concrete floor. He hadn't been hurt; not really.

He'd been too small to mass up enough kinetic energy. But he

recalled the terror vividly. Now he was a lot bigger, and he would fall

a lot farther.

His parents had once taken him atop the Sears Tower and

another time to the edge of the Mesa Verde cliffs; and each time he

had thought what an awful long way down it was. Then, they had

taken him so far up that down ceased to mean anything at all.

Alex stared out of Piranha's windscreen at the cloud deck,

trying to conjure that feeling of height; trying to feel that the

clouds were down and he was up. But it had all been too many

years ago, in another world. All he could see was distance. Living in

the habitats did that to you. It stole height from your senses and

left you only with distance.

He glanced covertly at Gordon Tanner in the copilot's seat. If

you were born in the habitats, you never knew height at all. There

were no memories to steal. Was Gordon luckier than he, or not?

The ship sang. He was beginning to hear it now.

And Alex MacLeod was back behind a stick, where God had

meant him to be, flying a spaceship again. Melancholy was plain

ingratitude! He had plotted and schemed his way into this

assignment. He had pestered Mary and pestered Mary until she had

relented and bumped his name to the top of the list just to be rid

of him. He had won.

Of course, there was a cost. Victories are always bittersweet.

Sweet because . . . He touched the stick and felt nothing. They

were still in vacuum . . . thicker vacuum, that was heating up. If

there wasn't enough air to give bite to the control surfaces, a pilot

must call it vacuum.

How could you explain the sweetness to someone who had

never conned a ship? You couldn't. He relaxed in the acceleration

chair, feeling the tingling in his hands and feet. The itching

anticipation. Oh, to be useful again, even if for a moment.

But bitter because . . . That part he did not want to think

about. Just enjoy the moment; become one with it. If this was to

be his last trip, he would enjoy it while he could. If everything went

A-OK, he'd be back upstairs in a few hours, playing the hero for the

minute or so that people would care. A real hero, not a retired

hero. Then back in the day-care center wiping snotty noses. It

would be years before another dip trip was needed. He'd never be

on the list again.

Which meant that Alex MacLeod, pilot and engineer, wasn't

needed any longer. So what do you do with a pilot when pilots

aren't needed? What do the habitats do with a man who can't work

outside, because one more episode of explosive decompression will

bring on a fatal stroke?

Day care. Snotty noses. Work at learning to be a teacher, a

job he didn't much like.

Look on the bright side, Alex, my boy. Maybe you won't make

it back at all.

Sure, he could always go out the way Mish Lykonov had in

Moon Rat, auguring in to Mare Tranquilitatis. They'd have a

ceremony-—and they'd miss the ship more than him. Even Mary.

Maybe especially Mary, since she'd got him the mission.

He straightened in his seat and touched the controls again.

Maybe just a touch of resistance . . .

"Chto delayet? Alex!"

Something had prodded Gordon awake. Alex glanced to the

right. "What is it?"

"I'm getting a reading on the air temperature gauge!"

"Right. There's enough air outside now to have a

temperature."

Gordon nodded, still unbelieving.

Gordon had read the book. Come to that, Gordon read a lot of

books, but books don't mean much. No one ever learned anything

out of a book, anyway. This was why they always teamed a newbie

with an old pro. Hands-on learning. The problem with on-the-job

training for this job was that there was not a hell of a lot of room

for trial and error. Alex moved the stick gently, and felt the ship

respond. Not vacuum anymore! He banked and brought them up

level, feeling the air rushing past just outside the skin. His eyes

danced across the gauges. Here. There. Not reading them. Just a

glance to see if something was wrong, or if something had changed

since the last glance. Dynamic air temperature. Stagnation air

temperature. The Mach number needle sprang to life, leaped from

zero to absurdity, then hunted across the dial. A grin stretched

itself across his face. No blues now. He hadn't forgotten at all; not

a damned thing.

"What is funny?" Gordon demanded.

"Old war-horse heard the trumpet again. Now it's your turn.

Take the stick." Fun was fun, but it was time for the kid to wrap his

hands around the real thing. There was only so much you could do

in a simulator. "There. Feel it?"

"Uh . . ." Gordon pulled back slightly on the copilot's stick. He

looked uncertain.

He hadn't felt anything. "Take over," Alex growled. "You're

flying the ship now. Can't you tell?"

"Well . . ." Another tentative move at the controls.

Piranha wobbled. "Hey! Yeah!"

"Good. Look, it's hard to describe, but the ship will tell you

how she's doing if you really listen. I don't mean you should forget

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摘要：

FALLENANGELSbyLarryNivenJerryPournelleMichaelFlynnDEDICATIONFORSCIENCEFICTIONFANDOMAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishingEnterprisesP.O.Box1403Riverdale,NY10471http://www.baen.comProductionbyWindhavenPressAuburn,NHElectronicv...

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