Metal Swarm - Kevin J. Anderson [26]
When he put the Gypsy into orbit around Constantine III, keeping his sensors and eyes alert, he found no satellites, no ships, no sign of any industrial activity. Scanning frequencies, however, he detected a faint, repetitive blip, a weak signal broadcast into the poisonous clouds. Patrick plunged down into rapidly thickening air.
The beacon grew louder as he approached. It seemed calibrated to attenuate almost completely before it reached the outer atmosphere. A pilot would have to be searching for the signal on purpose - and very carefully--to find it. The oscillating pulse contained no information, except to let Patrick know that someone was indeed down there. Roamers, undoubtedly.
He discovered a small buoy pressurized to float at a specific level like a bubble, thus needing no antigravity generator or position-maintenance rockets. Hovering next to the buoy, he swept the Gypsy's sensors farther down and detected a second faint signal, which he followed deeper to another buoy - then another, and another. The buoys formed a trail of breadcrumbs through the atmosphere, leading him toward where a settlement was located on the inhospitable surface.
The winds were powerful; the air was a swamp of greenish mist as he continued to descend. When his proximity alarm sounded, he swerved sharply to the left and grazed past an enormous dirigible platform anchored by long cables to the surface half a kilometre below. Shaken, he approached the domed settlement, amazed at how many artificial objects cluttered the air: giant stretched sheets, colourful monitor balloons, mesh screens hundreds of metres on a side that stood on poles and swayed in the wind.
By now someone must have detected his approach. He opened a channel. 'You've got quite an obstacle course! Hello? I could use some guidance getting to your landing pad.'
A gruff female voice answered. 'We're an industrial facility, not a tourist stop. People who come here know where they're going.'
'Well, I'm here, and I don't know where I'm going. I'm an unaffiliated pilot looking for information.'
'We might have information, if you've got news of your own to exchange.'
'Deal. I'll tell you what I know--' Patrick jerked the ship sideways to avoid a drifting dirigible. 'Whoa!'
'Be careful! If you wreck one of our zeppelins or collecting meshes, you're gonna pay for it. Every damned credit.'
'Then give me a map out of this maze!' His hands clutched the controls so hard his knuckles turned white.
'Switch your sensors to low infrared.' She provided him with a wavelength range, and suddenly he could see dazzling spotlights. Specialized beacons on each dirigible, flying mesh, and gathering screen stood out like flares. Patrick heaved a sigh of relief and easily dodged them.
The cluster of boxy-looking protective structures had obviously been space-dropped to the ground. A circle of flashing lights marked the landing zone, signalling him. 'Land in the decon bay. Don't emerge until we give you clearance.'
He piloted the Gypsy down into the hangar pit, and the roof segments slid closed. He heard rushing jets, then torrents of air as the sealed chamber was purged of toxic atmospheric vapours. High-pressure steam nozzles scoured the hull, after which diagnostic lasers ran across his ship. The Roamers had this rigorous decontamination process down to a swift routine, and Patrick suspected that the facility managers were also doing a deep scan to see if his ship was carrying anything dangerous.
Finally, when the steam cleared and vacuum ducts sucked the fumes out of the bay, Patrick received permission to disembark. The gruff woman came to meet him, introducing herself as Andrina Sachs, a surprisingly petite woman for such a deep voice. She had elfin features and platinum-blonde hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and a no-nonsense demeanour. 'And how long do you need to park your ship here?'
He was taken aback by her brusqueness.