"You put your hands in them. Your fingers slide right in. See?"

"Yours, maybe."

"Starship can test it just as well," said Danny.

"I got it," snapped Zen. "You don't need to use reverse psychology on me."

"Now would I do that?"

Zen gave the MESSKIT to Danny to hold and wheeled himself to the side of the table. He maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and onto a backless bench, then held up his arms.

"I am rea-dy for the operation, Doc-tor," he said in a mock Frankenstein monster voice.

Once on, the gear felt like a cross between football pads and a jacket with a thin backpack attached. His hands fit into metallic gloves. Bar grips extended from the side "bones" of the suit; they looked a bit like silver motorcycle throttles, with b.u.t.tons on the end.

"Comfortable?" Danny asked.

"Different," said Zen.

Annie was looking over the device, adjusting how it sat on his back. Zen moved back and forth, twisting his torso.

"Here, press the left-hand b.u.t.ton once and pick this up," said Danny, bringing over a twenty pound dumbbell.

Zen could curl considerably more than twenty pounds with either hand, but he was amazed at how light the weight felt.

Danny laughed. "Don't throw it. You should see it on boost. You can pick up a car."

He was exaggerating-but only slightly. The MESSKIT used small motors and an internal pulley system to help leverage the wearer's strength.

The more Zen fidgeted with the suit, the more he saw its possibilities. Annie and the rest of the development team might think of it as a way to help him get out of a stricken Megafortress. But Zen realized that a similar device with artificial legs instead of wings could help him walk.

Like a robot, maybe, but still...

"So when do we test it?" he asked.

"It looks like a good fit," said Annie, tugging down the back as if she were a seamstress. "We can set up the gym and go at it tomorrow."

"Why not today?" he asked. "Why not right now?"

The others exchanged a glance, then Danny started to laugh.

"Told you," he said.

"Come on," said Zen. "Let's get to work."

Dreamland

0935.

THE NEWS ABOUT LIEUTENANT COLONEL BASTIAN'S MEDAL of Honor hit General Samson like the proverbial ton of bricks. The more he thought about it, the more he felt as if a house had fallen on him.

Though his first reaction was to swell with pride.

Samson had seen combat himself in his younger days, and he knew how tenuous courage on the battlefield could be. He also knew that for a soldier to get the Medal of Honor while managing somehow to survive was extremely difficult-luck really, since by definition the sort of selfless act the honor required meant death in nearly every case.

Samson had been on the mission that the President was citing Dog for.

Well, in the theater at least-and even a vague a.s.sociation provided at least a modic.u.m of reflected glory. A commander takes responsibility for all that his people do, good and bad; personal feelings toward Dog aside, the colonel's success reflected well on his commanding officer, no matter how far removed from the actual event.

But as Samson thought about the implications, his mood quickly sank. For one thing, he wanted Bastian gone from Dreamland, and the medal would make it harder to push him out. It might even be impossible if Bastian decided to fight.

Worse, what if Bastian put his hand up to become wing commander? How could he refuse a Medal of Honor winner?

Bastian wasn't a full colonel, and wing commanders almost always were. But h.e.l.l, the guy had held a post a major general now commanded, and had won a Medal of Honor in combat-only a supercilious prig would deny him the post if he truly wanted it.

How did Bastian get the medal, anyway? Samson wondered. Wasn't the process normally begun with a recommendation from his commander? In what drunken stupor had he written that recommendation?

Samson's phone rang. He picked it up, and heard his chief civilian secretary, Chartelle Bedell, tell him in her singsong voice that Admiral Balboa was on the line.

"Samson," he said, pushing the b.u.t.ton to make the connection.

"General. Congratulations are in order," said Balboa. "Your command is to receive an armful of medals for the action off India and Pakistan."

"We heard rumors, Admiral. I was wondering, though. Usually-"

"The order comes directly from the commander in chief," continued Balboa. "And as a matter of fact, he wants to meet with the personnel in question personally. As soon as possible."

"Sir, I-"

"You have a problem with that, Samson?"

"Of course not, Admiral. We'd be honored to have the President here. The security arrangements-"

"Make them. There'll be no press. The President happens to be on his way to the coast for some conference or other and wants to personally shake Colonel Bastian's hand. It's his idea, Terrill. He loves to press the flesh. You know that. I'm surprised he's not more concerned about germs."

"Well yes, sir, of course."

"You can expect him first thing in the morning. Throw out the red carpet."

"Tomorrow?" asked Samson, but it was too late-Balboa had already hung up the phone.

Northeastern Romania

2031.

THE ATTACK ON THE GAS LINE WAS MADE SEVERAL HOURS earlier than General Locusta expected, and his first reaction was genuine surprise and anger. Locusta was in the small house used as his army corps headquarters, having a late tea with some of his officers, when word came. The news was delivered by a Romanian army private who'd driven from the attack site five miles away; the man had sprinted from the parking area and barely caught his breath before delivering the news.

"Where?" demanded Locusta. "Have they been repulsed?"

"They are gone, General," said the man. "We have had two casualties."

"Two?"

The private nodded.

"How many guerrillas were killed?"

The man shook his head. While that was probably a good thing-had the men been killed, it was very possible their true ident.i.ties would have been discovered-Locusta was furious. The Russian had promised him none of his men would be harmed. The general had practically gift wrapped the pipeline for him, and he responded by killing two of his men.

That was what came from working with the Russians.

"General?" the private prodded him.

"The pipeline is broken?" asked Locusta.

"There was an explosion. Our captain was ordering the line closed as I left."

"I will inspect it myself." Locusta turned to one of his captains. "Send a message to the capital immediately. Tell them to shut the entire line down. As a precaution. Add that the situation is under control for the moment and I am on my way personally to inspect the site."

Dreamland 1034 "COMFORTABLE, ZEN?" ASKED ANNIE, TALKING TO HIM through the radio in the test helmet.

"I'm just about to nod off," he replied.

"I'll bet. We're counting down from five. Here we go. Five, four...three..."

Zen flexed his arms. He was sitting on a high-tech aluminum step ladder-it looked more elaborate than the models you'd find in a hardware store, but that was essentially what it was. Besides the MESSKIT, he was wearing a harness attached by very thick rubber straps and nylon safety ties to anchors on the "gym" ceiling, walls, and floor. Thick cushion pads covered nearly every surface in the hangarlike room; the only s.p.a.ces left unprotected were small clear plastic panels for video cameras and various sensors, and the window of the control room, protected by a webbed net that hung across the open s.p.a.ce.

Zen took a last look across at the control room-it was at about eye level, ten feet off the ground-and thought to himself that it would be just his luck to be propelled into the netting like a school of mackerel if the experiment went haywire.

"Ladder away," said Annie, continuing the countdown.

The metal seat that had been supporting him slid back. Zen didn't move-his weight was now entirely supported by the safety harnesses, which were quickly checked by the computer monitoring the test.

"Green light on ladder retrieve," said one of the techies in the control room.

Behind him, the ladder's "closet" opened and the ladder began folding itself away. But Zen was too focused on the MESSKIT to pay any attention. The device seemed to barely weigh anything.

"We're ready any time you are, Zen," said Annie.

"Opening the umbrella," he said, extending his arms before pushing the b.u.t.ton on the control in his left hand.

The wings unfolded with a loud thump, the sort of sound a book makes falling off a desk. Zen was tugged upward gently. He pushed his arms back, spreading his wings-the skeleton and its small bat wings moved easily.

Zen worked left and right, just getting used to the feel, while Annie and the others in the control room monitored the device. After a few minutes, the tension on the suspension straps holding him off the floor was eased. Zen settled about six inches, then another six; he flapped his arms playfully, not trying to fly, but testing the safety equipment to make sure everything was still in order.

"All right, the safety harnesses are working," said Annie. "We're going to give you some breeze. If you're ready."

"Let 'er rip," Zen said, and leaned forward, antic.i.p.ating the next set of tests as some of the giant cushions on the wall slid upward to reveal small louvered slots.

"Two knots, then five," said Annie.

Even at two knots, the effect of the wind on the wings was immediately noticeable. Zen pushed his hands down as the wind hit his face; the microsensors in the MESSKIT's skeleton transferred his movements to the small motors that controlled the wing's surface, and suddenly he was pitched downward. The guide ropes and harness kept him from going too far forward, but the shift was still an abrupt enough to catch him by surprise.

"Wow," he said. "I'm flying."

"Not yet, Major," said Annie dryly. "Maybe by the end of the day."

Dreamland

1345.

THE ENGINEERS WHO TRANSFORMED THE B-1B INTO Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2 had left the throttle controls to the left of each pilot's position, but otherwise there was little similarity between the aircraft's c.o.c.kpit and that of its "stock" brethren. A sleek gla.s.s panel replaced the 1970s-era gauges, dials, and switches that had once faced the pilots. The panel layout was infinitely configurable and could be changed by voice command to different presets adapted to a specific mission or pilot. The electronics behind the panel were even more radically different. Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2 could simultaneously track 64,237 targets and potential threats anywhere in the world. The number was related to the processing capacity of the chips used in the radar and computers but was still somewhat arbitrary. Ray Rubeo's answer, when Dog asked him why that number was chosen, had been, "They had to stop somewhere."

Gathering the data through the Dreamland communication network-and eventually through standard military systems-the plane's advanced flight computer could not only keep tabs on any potential enemy in the world, but provide the pilot with a comprehensive plan to evade detection or destroy the enemy before it knew the plane was targeting it.

Or the computer could do it all itself, without human help-or interference. Which was what today's test was all about.

"Ready any time you are, Colonel," said the copilot, Marty "Sleek Top" Siechert. A civilian contractor, a former Marine Corps aviator who'd returned to flying fast jets after working as a mid-level manager at McDonnell Douglas, Siechert's nickname came from his bald head, which looked like a polished cue ball.

Not that Dog could see it. Both men were dressed in full flight gear, with g suits and brain buckets, even though the cabin was fully pressurized.

"Let's get this pony into the air," said Dog, putting his hand on the throttle.

Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2-more commonly and affectionately known as Boomer-rocked as her engines revved to life. The four General Electric F101-GE-102 engines she was born with had been replaced by new GE models that were about seventy percent more powerful and conserved much more fuel. Unlike the Megafortress, the B-1B was a supersonic aircraft to begin with, and thanks to its uprated engines, had pushed out over Mach 2.4 in level flight-probably a record for a B-1B, though no one actually kept track. More impressive-at least if you were paying the gas bill-Boomer could fly to New York and back at just over the speed of sound with a full payload without needing to be refueled.