Somewhere amid the constant low-level growl of engine noise a nasty metallic grinding sound was breaking out. Adam looked around in alarm. It was so loud he thought it must be coming from their truck. Rosamund was already braking smoothly.
“I’ve got a problem,” Kieran called on the general band.
By the time Rosamund had reversed up close to the second truck, Kieran was filling the band with some filthy language but no real information. Adam climbed down out of the cab and walked back. The road they were using was the main route linking this region’s market towns to the city; originally it had an enzyme-bonded concrete surface, but that was steadily shrinking from an onslaught of earth and weeds, while cracks and potholes went unrepaired for decades. Nowadays it resembled a simple much-used dirt track with congested drainage ditches on both sides. Adam was already entertaining serious doubts about how long it would take them to reach the mountains, and this was a good infrastructure for Far Away. According to the so-called maps stored in his inserts, the roads vanished altogether another hundred sixty kilometers south where the Aldrin Plains became a sea of uninhabited grasslands.
“What’s happened?” he shouted.
Some kind of thick vapor was swirling across the Volvo’s headlight beams. Kieran strode through it, a furious expression on his angular gaunt face. He hit the release handle on one of the engine covers, and it folded back. Flame belched out into the night.
Kieran ducked back, shielding his face with his hands. “Dreaming heavens!” His voice was ripe with pain.
Oscar jumped down from the cab, and rushed forward with a slim fire extinguisher. He directed the powerful stream of ice-blue gel particles over the burning machinery, smothering the fire in seconds.
Kieran was wincing as he gripped his hand.
“Let me see,” Adam demanded.
His flesh was red; blisters were already starting to rise. Wilson had brought a first aid kit from their truck’s cab; he started applying some salve.
Oscar gave the engine another couple of blasts from the fire extinguisher. “It’s out, but we’re screwed,” he said as he peered into the smoldering mangle of metal. “You’re not going to get this repaired outside a garage, and probably not even there. Trust me, I know engines, this is just scrap now.”
Adam shot Jamas a look that was mostly accusation, even though he knew it was neither professional nor fair. But Jamas had been in charge of organizing their ground transport.
“They were in perfect working order when we loaded them up on Wessex,” Jamas said defensively. “I took them for servicing at the dealer myself.”
“I know,” Adam said. “Breakdowns happen. It’s a royal pain in the ass that it happened now, but don’t worry. We’ve got enough room in the other two Volvos to carry on.”
They worked swiftly in the headlight beams of the trucks. Adam was more than a little conscious of how visible they were in the middle of the open lightless farmland. Out beyond the light of the campfire, the wolves begin to gather unseen. The force fields were off, which added to the sensation of vulnerability. He was grateful that all three of the Volvos carried trolleybots, which began unloading the pearl-white crates from Kieran’s wrecked truck.
“I’m going to take a look at that engine,” Oscar told Adam. “See if I can figure out what happened.”
“Right,” Adam said distantly. He was watching the trolleybots move around. The damp rumpled road surface made it hard going for the little machines; they were designed to work on the flat floors of warehouses and loading bays. The crates rocked about at alarming angles, but the trolleybot holding clamps prevented them from sliding off.
Half of the plastic crates had been transferred when Adam suddenly shouted: “Stop.” His e-butler backed up the order, halting the trolleybot right in front of him. Adam walked over, followed by Wilson, Anna, and Jamas. The crate’s lid had a couple of recessed hand-size flip-over locks on each side. One was hanging open. Adam stared at the loose flap of dull metal, then started to pull the crate’s remaining flip locks open.
“What?” Wilson asked. “One of these can’t come loose?”
“No, it can’t,” Adam said. “They’re designed to stay shut, that’s the whole point. They don’t spring open just because they get jiggled around.” Rosamund and Kieran arrived as Adam pulled the final lock open. “Jamas, give me a hand.”
The two of them eased the lid off. Adam and Wilson shone their flashlights inside, and Adam found himself staring into a little private version of hell. “Oh, fuck it! I don’t believe this.”
The five components inside the crate had been wrapped in thick blue-green sponge plastic for travel. Somebody had used a maser on them. The sponge plastic had melted into a blackened tar, smearing the components and pooling in the bottom of the crate. All the casings that held the support electronics on the side of the components were badly tarnished where the maser beam had been applied.
There was complete silence as the group all stared down into the crate. After that, they began to glance around at each other. Adam couldn’t blame them; he was already trying to work out who was the most likely suspect himself, but he couldn’t allow the atmosphere to become too poisonous. They still had to work together. Already they were dividing back into Guardians and navy.
“Let’s stay calm until we figure this out,” he said. “I want the rest of the crates opened and inspected. Two people to each crate. We don’t need to create any extra mistrust right now.”
With the trolleybots now unloading every Volvo it took them a quarter of an hour to open every crate. Paula didn’t help. She was left sitting on the cab steps of the third truck with a blanket around her shoulders as the others took the lids off. In total, four crates had been sabotaged, all with a maser.
“They were good when we left Wessex,” Jamas insisted. “I know they were, I helped pack them.” He was glaring at Wilson and Oscar.
“Do we still have enough systems to make the planet’s revenge project work?” Wilson asked.
“I’m not sure,” Adam said. “Kieran, what do you think?”
“Dreaming heavens, I don’t know. I think it will work anyway, that’s what Bradley was saying; what we’re delivering makes it more efficient.”
“It increases the probability of success,” Wilson said.
“So this has just taken it down a notch, again,” Rosamund said.
“It’s one of us,” Kieran said fiercely. “One of you navy people.”
“Whoa there,” Adam said quickly. “It could have been anybody in our group.”
“You heard Jamas, the components were all fine when we packed them up.”
“If Jamas isn’t the one,” Anna said.
Jamas took a pace toward her. “Are you accusing me?”
“Stop it!” Adam gave them an exasperated look. “This only helps the Starflyer. We don’t know it’s one of the people here.” He gave Jamas a hard stare. “Back off. It could have been any one of us who traveled together, including you, me, and even Johansson.”
“Hey!” Jamas protested. “No fucking way is it Johansson.”
“Enough of this. We don’t know, and we’ll probably never find out until it’s all over anyway,” Adam said. “We got lucky seeing the crate was opened. From now on we just have to watch each other. That does not automatically mean that anyone here is guilty. Clear?” He stared down the Guardians, waiting until each one acknowledged his authority. It was done grudgingly, and with several sharp glances toward the navy people, but eventually they all nodded except for Jamas, who flung his hands in the air to admit defeat. “Thank you,” Adam said primly. “Wilson, from now on none of your team goes or does anything solo; that goes for us Guardians, too. Everything from this point is a joint venture, and that includes going to the can.”
“Good thinking,” Wilson said.