Five minutes of heavy fire, then everything faded to silence. Smoke and ash lay thick on the ground, cloying at Lightholler's lungs, clouding his vision. He suppressed a cough and adjusted the goggles.

The smoke thinned, seceding to grey vapour. A low, intermittent rumble manifested at the threshold of perception, intensifying his unease. He placed the palm of his hand on the wall of their concealment and felt the earth tremble.

The clank of tracked wheels became distinct.

Other sounds carried: the voices of men. Tones of command, bawled in unfamiliar speech.

Lightholler peered carefully out of their burrow. A few samurai moved in and out of the unsettled dust close by. They crouched down, taking bearings, searching the sides of the trail and the way ahead. Clued in now, perhaps, to the mysterious apparition of enemy soldiers who seemed to manifest and melt away as readily as their namesakes. They scoured the terrain and then moved on, towards burning Echo.

The crack of rifle fire rolled suddenly through the ravine, muted, and one of the figures dropped. The rest scattered along the trail and began answering with suppressing bursts of machine-gun fire. The rifle fire, episodic and short-lived, was choreographed to suggest a limited number of men and munitions. The Japanese vanguard might suspect that they were dealing with assassins and saboteurs; brothers to the men that had been sniping their officers and burning their fuel depots these last long hours. Then again, they might smell a trap.

The invading vanguard lay longer bursts, spraying the prefab walls, advancing again into the face of diminishing replies from Echo. The rifle fire was confined to intermittent shots. Lightholler watched the figures disappear into the smoke-shrouded construction. He glanced at Tecumseh.

The medicine man had his eyes fixed on the trail's western extremity. He raised an arm, penetrating the roof of their shelter. Any casual onlooker might suppose that a grave was unwillingly releasing its tenant. Vigilant eyes, however, would recognise the first signal.

Heavy machine-gun fire chattered within Echo, answering the summons. Lightholler tried to imagine the thoughts flitting through the minds of the Japanese officers. There was clearly more here than met the eye. Pull back and bombard, or press on?

Do it, Lightholler urged. Bring what you have.

Scampering feet answered his plea. More figures rushed along the trail before the unseen armour resumed its fearful clatter.

The burrow shuddered. Grains of sand began sliding down the walls in widening streams. Spears of light penetrated the burrow's cover, spotlighting dancing motes of dust.

Steadying himself, Lightholler looked out along the trail. Tanks rumbled by slowly in two columns. Men advanced in file beside them. There were no Union uniforms included in the mix. Long crimson-snouted Dragon tanks rode beside stub-nosed light battle armour. Track-churned sand raised thick clouds of dust. Lightholler counted twenty-five vehicles in all.

"They're packed in pretty tight," he said through gritted teeth.

Tecumseh nodded. His eyes narrowed decisively. He punched a closed fist through the roof. Phase two. Echo's occupants had thirty seconds to evacuate.

Lightholler was forced to his knees as the blast rocked the narrow chasm, its energy funnelled along the trail. The den began collapsing around them in earnest. Cries filled the air, a confusion of commands and curses, all in Japanese.

Tecumseh called across to him, "Be ready." He had his submachine-gun tucked under his right arm.

The fifteen-second delay between the charges at Echo and the flanking mines seemed to stretch into an indefinite period that found Lightholler flailing for balance on unsteady ground. He secured his weapon and scrambled up the burrow's buckled edge.

The mines detonated in sequence, catching both edges of the convoy in a ripple of destruction.

Heavy machine-gun fire slashed out from the dancer emplacements, raking the sides of the convoy in a devastating broad fire that sought the vehicles with automatic weapons and poured on the hapless soldiers.

Tecumseh was up and out of the burrow, perched on its crest and ululating a fearsome war cry. His gun coughed bright death, selecting choice targets among the chaotic mass. Lightholler painfully clawed his way up and dropped to one knee by Tecumseh's side. He trained the muzzle of his weapon across the mass, but held his fire. He was superfluous.

He watched the withering fire move across corpses that only responded reflexively to the scorching metal. Incendiaries and anti-tank weapons ranged along the arrested armour. The tanks popped and sizzled. Peeled like overripe fruit, revealing the pulpy contents of bodies mixed in metal.

Return fire was clumsy, striking where the dancers weren't. A Dragon tank sent a shaft of red flame along the rocks, catching a machine-gun nest before bursting into flames itself. Three light tanks were working their way towards Lightholler's position when the second line of mines ignited.

They settled into their craters on ruptured bellies. Caught between the inferno that had been Echo and the assault team, the Japanese soldiers were carved to a man.

Tecumseh gave a new signal and the assault team descended into the kill zone. They moved rapidly among the dead and dying, searching for officers and couriers. Rifling through the blood-crusted uniforms for documents and maps that might yield further knowledge of the enemy.

Lightholler let his gun slide down to his side. He hadn't loosed a single round.

Probing fire from the western boundary of the trail, light at first, heralded enemy reinforcements. Encountering one end of the ambush, the fresh soldiers began to dig in. Lightholler turned to alert Tecumseh but the medicine man was already calling for extraction.

The assault team dispersed, working their way back from the trail and siphoning towards the various escape routes that led out of this place. Heavy machine-gunners dismantled their weapons and withdrew in good order, pulling back in teams of two and three. Security teams provided covering fire.

Within moments, only Lightholler and Tecumseh crouched by the kill zone. Tecumseh gave the ground a last contemptuous look before leading Lightholler up to the first checkpoint.

The Japanese reinforcements, perhaps emboldened by the sudden stillness, began infiltrating the lines of broken armour. Hitting the checkpoint, Tecumseh gave the final command and all along the perimeter of the kill zone and further back up along the trail the last of the mines detonated. From Lightholler's vantage the ravine was a river of flames. The pungent odour of unspeakable death flayed at his senses.

Tecumseh said, "This will give them food for thought."

"Let's get back to the Rock," Lightholler said.

XIX.

April 29, 2012.

Red Rock, Nevada.

Malcolm barely got as far as the communications centre before she was intercepted. The sentry began herding her towards the carapace's enclosure.

"But I have to see Captain Lightholler," she pleaded before the shack's entrance.

He didn't reply, but his eyes flicked to the south. She followed the movement and saw another trail of smoky haze rising there, seeking to join the murky helix that now almost encircled the base.

"There's no seeing him now," the sentry replied.

The sky flamed-a brief, bright flare. She sought the sentry's eyes for an explanation and found herself reaching out to him as the ground pitched beneath her. He caught her clumsy movement and swung her around, propelling her back towards the shack. Hayes, the large engineer, filled the doorway.

She shot the sentry a last glowering look. "If the captain doesn't get my message, we're all dead."

"Doesn't matter. The dance has begun, ma'am." He nodded in the direction of the latest inferno.

Somehow, between the horror of Joseph's letter and the aftershock of distant explosions, there was time for new dismay. "Where in all your teachings did you learn to welcome death?"

"It's not death I welcome-it's rebirth. If I come across the captain, what should I tell him?"

She didn't have an answer.

Joseph seemed content enough to forfeit his own life. Content enough to bargain with the devil himself, if it might bring his dream a little closer. She understood now that she loved him more-and less-than she'd ever realised in the past. His letter had been meant for her alone. It was rationale, apology and, most definitively, goodbye.

"Are there any underground shelters here, apart from this one?" she asked.

The sentry shook his head.

"Then tell Captain Lightholler that everything the major and Commander Hardas saw here will come to pass. He can deal with it accordingly."

The sentry made ready to go.

She heard Tecumseh's healing song again, a whisper in her ear, and called out softly, "May your dance bring good cloud, soldier."

"Thank you ma'am. Pilamaya. Wankantanka nici un."

Hayes was smiling as she turned to enter the building.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He thanked you for your words, and asked the Great Spirit to watch over your journey."

"Journey?"

Hayes drew her into the antechamber.

XX.

Doc was testing the virtual model of the machine against the latest algorithms. Shine divided his time between entering the occasional data sequence and monitoring the carapace's restoration.

It hummed. It glittered. In the sporadic flicker of generator light, he could swear it was moving. The cables twisted around its struts seemed to stir. Stare long enough and there was the sense of falling inwards, as the carriage shifted silver to black and back again: mercurial. He could almost convince himself that he was observing a physical manifestation of the machine's peculiar influence, as if time itself might be fraying at the carapace's edges.

He wondered how Doc dealt with protracted exposure to the machine; how he managed to skate along the perception-shifts while trying to remain rational and restore its function.

"You'll give yourself a headache."

Shine broke free of the enchantment and looked over to see Morgan's dour expression.

"Seems like you're almost done here," the historian added.

Shine nodded slowly. "It's almost charged. Doc's finalising the equations. Where's Captain Lightholler?"

"Working his way back from the ambush." Morgan gazed at the pile of grey canisters stationed by the carapace. "Please tell me that those are extra supplies."

"I think they're Joseph's insurance policy." Malcolm stood between the parted folds of the star-adorned blanket. She entered the room unsteadily, her eyes carefully directed away from the machine.

"Any luck with your investigation?" Morgan asked.

She shook her head. "I have no idea where the prisoners went." Her face wore a vexed expression. She turned her attention to Doc. "May I interrupt your work for a moment?"

He swivelled in his chair and offered her an ambiguous smile.

"How long would it take you to restart the machine if you disabled the generator?"

The smile faded. "At full charge, ten to fifteen minutes. What's on your mind?"

"I was wondering what precautions have been taken to avoid a repeat of last night's performance," she said. "If there's another pulse, then that's it. We're finished."

"That EMP was the result of an accidental detonation."

"Who's to say there won't be more accidents?"

"We all know what's coming." Doc spun away from her, and returned to his computations.

After a few moments he stirred in his seat, the chair making little movements as he fumbled for a pen. He swung back to her and said, "Guarantee me a fifteen-minute window and I can have the carapace operational. But you best be damned sure that those minutes don't coincide with another 'accident'. Can you guarantee that?"

"No."

"And if I disable the generator, right this moment, can you give me a safe time to reactivate it?"

"Of course I can't."

"No..." Doc drew a deep breath. "You can't. No one can, but at least someone has the presence of mind to recognise our predicament."

"We're in a room full of explosives, surrounded by the Japanese army, and the clock is ticking," Morgan said. "I think we all see our predicament."

"When the carapace has a decent charge, I plan on shutting the generator down," Doc said, more gently now. "Once we have our crew assembled, I'll re-engage the power. But if anything happens during those fifteen minutes, if there's another pulse..." He made a hopeless gesture with his hands. He returned to his work.

For long moments there was just the low whine of the generator.

"So," Morgan said, turning to Malcolm, "does that mean you're coming with us?"

She stole a glance at the carapace. "I'm not sure. I don't know what purpose it will serve, but I think I owe it to Joseph to accept his invitation. If you all agree." Her voice had lowered to a raw whisper.

"Well, we can't leave you here," Doc said. "Besides, Tecumseh told me you were coming. I've already arranged for your essentials to be sent across."

"Tecumseh said so?" She walked in a daze to the bunk bed and sat heavily on the mattress.

The printer recommenced its loud stutter. Doc turned swiftly back to snatch the results. Morgan joined him at his station.

She was staring at the carapace now. The intensity of her gaze suggested that this was no easy task. Shine, unsure of what drove him, approached her.

"I remember you now," Malcolm said. "You must have been fifteen at the time."

"Sixteen."

"You were working for the major back then?"

"A little. I was helping my father."

"We didn't think to look for you when we were hunting Joseph."

"You wouldn't have found me."

"You became a ghost dancer," she said.

"Ghost dancer trained, but I'm something else." For no reason he could comprehend, he added, "I'm supposed to kill Wells."