He surges among the rumpled hills, expending power reserves without care, running, rasping, clanking, probing the ruddy murk ahead. The spatterings of radio singsong shift and click. Above, a bright lance of yellow breaks out on the scarp: lava. Its fuming brilliance cuts through a shroud of dust, and Nigel puffs, the exertion building in him now a thin sludge of fatigue, as he trots down a long gully and onto the floor of the ravaged sulfurous valley. A shadow melts and then reforms and Nigel stops dead still, half-hidden by a shank of rock. A strange prickly sensation seeps into him as he watches the shadow behind a veil of dust, a shadow of pale blue that works forward, four legs, yes, the quadrupedal imperative, one of the biomechs aboard had said, and the alien looms, suddenly near, as a gust clears the air. Huge. Silent. Still. Yet a crisp microwave pulse bursts from it as the long rectangular head turns, jerking like a wheel on ratchets, away from Nigel and toward the base of the scarp. Its skin is waxy and rough, cloaking an apparatus of bones so obvious that to Nigel it seems he looks deeply into the radio being, sees the lattice-work, the boxy ribs, the brittle cage of sticks that encases the abdomen, the stiff long legs that jerk as the thing picks its way among the heat-shattered rocks, stepping tentatively, walking by touch. Nigel lets it recede until it is a mere slight darkening in the rosy haze, and then follows. Above, yellow fingers lace the rock face. His acoustics pick up the frothing bubble of the volcano, a sluggish torrent of lava splashing down a few hundred meters away. Exosense registers rising heat. He follows the EM creature. To Nigel’s left a splotch grows suddenly, becomes definite, huge, towers over him in the shifting russet streaming. He squats, shuts down his mechanical murmur, holds his breath—

Nigel, what’s the idea bein’ off recon path? I jess come on an’ run a check on all stations. Ramakristen says everybody’s on hold till ’is storm’s over, an’ I check you—

“Quiet, Bob, I’ll rep you later.”

What you mean, later? Man, you’re three sigmas out from your point.

“In contact mode, Bob. Flag my output for T’ang.”

He steps quickly back in the swirling dust haze and the two shadows move off together, stick legs jerking, faster than he has ever seen them on 3-D. The rectangular heads turn and he hears a stuttering, a broadband splash of microwave beats and harmonics.

Christ, you got EMs all round you, Nigel, how’d you get in there and for goddamn sure why?

Nigel calls up the color-coded overview and sees the blips converging, integrated vectors all pointing toward him now—no, no, near him, east a few hundred meters. “Something’s happening.”

That’s jess what’s supposed to not; you’re there to hold the position, not make—

“What’s the radio map say?” Nigel murmurs to deflect the man, and moves cautiously behind the swaying shadows that lumber away, melting in the flowing, clotted air.

I’m gettin’ it, Alex is on line, but I got to beep Ted on this Nigel, you’ve blown the tactical guidelines all to hell.

Nigel stays silent, listening to the howling hollow winds as they sweep over the upthrust crags of split boulders, listening on acoustic channels for anything from the EMs. Nothing comes, and nothing ever has. They appeared to be nonvocal. Yet they are blind as well, and sense each other only with the massive boxy radio emitters in their heads. Their song now lifts, scatters along a diatonic scale. He edges closer. These are among the biggest, over four meters high, and they lurch as they grope for purchase on the rugged gray rocks.

A booming crash rolls through the fine, dust-shrouded eternal days.

Hey get away from there, I jess picked up—

“It’s the volcano, that’s all.”

But you’re smack on top a—

“I can run faster than a lava flow.”

What if there’s a slide? They’re happenin’ all time there—

“Quiet.”

Fuck, Nigel you’re—

“What’s Alex say?” Ahead, more shapes.

Oh, the EMs are all shut down. Went out ’bout a minute ago, all of a—

“Quiet.”

The hissing heat of the lava flow is farther away; he picks it up clearly on acoustics. Ahead, the shadows tilt and settle. Seeking heat? It would be useful; they have a low metabolic rate and, while they are not reptiles, they could save valuable reserves by warming up at a convenient though dangerous source. He shrinks back into a cleft of rock. Six of them converge on a rough outcropping, where blue-green mottling dots the broken rock. They move awkwardly, shifting and canting their hulking bodies, and slowly they settle downward, the knobby black protrusions that frame their abdomens thrust forward—a sexual image flits through Nigel’s mind—and down upon the bare rock. He comes closer. No radio crackle. They might as well be asleep. In the wan rosy light they could see him if they had eyes, but they do not stir. Nigel waits. No motion. Then, slowly, their skins begin to swirl, the pale blue blushing and rippling, quick rainbows of color washing over them. They are inert, but their shiny, waxen flesh dances with a gaudy chromatic flourish. The distant volcano rumbles, flashing yellow. Something is happening, something quiet and important, and if he can catch the weave of it—

Nigel, this is Ted. You’re ordered back, right now I don’t want you—

“Certainly.”

In Ted’s precise voice there is an edge of anger. Nigel sees he has pushed the limits of his watch assignment as far as they will go for this time. Best to retreat. And he is tired, too, more than he expected to be. There is something intense here that has drained him in the effort of sense it.

“Falling back, Ted.”

He edges away. In his servo’d harness he is sweating and he hopes the tap-ins will not reveal how tired he is. He will take it slowly on the long walk back. The mere act of shambling back to the suit storage and maintenance module will itself be a crisp pleasure. He has learned to savor such immersion. He scuffs lemony sand and treads backward, watching the EMs fade from view, and turns into the rushing howl of wind and the endless streaming of the ancient, transfixed rustworld.

Ted stuck his head out of his office doorway as Nigel went by. “Hey, got a sec?”

“Of course.” He paused at the open doorway which faced the crescent pit of Command. Consoles and running displays dotted the yawning floor, and tiers of separate subsections rose up from the plain like large trees. People moved everywhere, yet there was only a mild hum of unassignable noise, a blending of typeout machines, human voices, and a steady tremor that seemed everywhere and nowhere, that came from the rock itself. Nigel leaned against the doorframe, a bit tired. Here the slashed rock of Lancer was given a cosmetic plastsheen.

“C’mon in.”

Ted’s office was lined with pseudwood, deep walnut. Nigel wondered once again why the man hadn’t simply gotten the real thing; it massed only fractionally more.

“I see you out there in the pit a lot,” Ted said conversationally.

Nigel smiled. The preliminary ritual: a touch of how’s- the-weather, and then to business. “I like to get round every day. Sometimes takes them awhile to log in new data.”

Sage nod. “Yeah. They got this habit of refining the radio maps till they’re like Picassos, when all the time guys like you are panting for the raw goods. Difference in styles, I guess.”

Nigel nodded. He had long since accepted the mismatch of interests. “You had something new …?” he prompted.

“Give a look.” Ted flipped on a meter-sized wall screen, tapped in a command. Isis swam into being. The image swelled, shifted to a narrower focus, and centered on a tiny glint of light. Numbers clicked by in a blur at the lower left hand. The glint moved across the pink face of the Isis highlands.