of Earth, large for an Earth-type planet. Its atmosphere and gravity, and the length of its day, are all close to Earth normal. Its topography is unusual. The largest continent, Shaloom, covers most of one hemisphere; its main feature, taking up sixty percent of its land area, is the Great Lowland Bowl.
The Bowl was thought to be an ancient impact crater, but that theory is discounted now; anything making a crater that size would have destroyed the planet.
The Bowl’s cross-section is irregular, sometimes deep and sometimes shallow. Most of the Commonwealth settlers on Sakhra live there. Some Sakhrans also work and live there, but most remain in the traditional hillcastles in the mountains and highlands.
Sakhra’s other hemisphere consists of oceans and archipelagos, and has huge natural resources: mineral deposits offshore, and precious metals and precious stones in the mountains of the larger islands. (There may be similar finds in the mountains of Shaloom, but for obvious political reasons these are not prospected.) The Commonwealth’s main economic activity is the extraction and processing of these commodities, and their transport to, and distribution from, Blentport.
Landchariots hurtled past them every few minutes, in the direction of the highlands. And, also heading for the highlands and also every few minutes, they encountered more military traffic: low-slung groundcars with opaque windows, light armoured vehicles, and, so far, five more convoys of tracked lowloaders taking scanner and missile and beam installations up into the Irsirrha.
Then, when they started to pass the farms, they saw the other half of the evacuation: the civilian traffic from outlying farms and villages, mostly pickups and trucks and offroaders, laden with people and packing cases. The traffic had not yet reached crisis proportions because the human population in the foothill areas was quite sparse, but further down, when it met the normal lowland traffic, it would be unimaginable. And then there was the roadblock. Or rather, there wasn’t.
“Are you a local resident, sir?”
“No. Do you want to see my papers?”
“Are you going to the lowlands, sir?”
“Yes. My papers?”
“Not necessary, sir, if you’re going to the lowlands.”
The soldier paused as a couple of freighters roared overhead, on their way down to Blentport. The sky—a grey inverted bowl shot with high trailing clouds, like the roof of a giant mouth streaked with mucus—had again started to be full of them, like it was last night.
“Are you sure you don’t need to see my papers?”
“Yes, sir, as long as you’re going to the lowlands.” He was already losing what little interest he had in Foord. “Safe journey.”
Across the road, on the side leading up into the highlands, where they had seen a stream of landchariots and military vehicles, but no civilian traffic, there was not merely one soldier but nine or ten, all heavily armed, and a large armoured sixwheel. Both its gun turrets were pointing down the road in the direction of traffic from the lowlands, but that may have been coincidence.
Foord’s wristcom buzzed. He snapped it open.
“This is me,” Smithson said. “Is that you?”
“Smithson, where is Cyr? Why hasn’t she called?”
“She’s still with Swann. And it’s forty minutes since you said you’d call in thirty minutes.”
“I know, we were delayed… The traffic is getting heavier, but we’re still aiming to be back in about two hours.”
On Foord’s wristcom, either a toilet flushed or Smithson laughed. “I don’t think so, Commander. It’ll get worse as you get closer. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like now, down here.”
“Is the refit still on target?”
“Yes, be done in three hours. I’ve got total priority. At least nine ships, including three Class 097s, are stuck down here and can’t join the cordon, because of me,” he said proudly. “It’s going well. But whether we leave in three
The Bowl was thought to be an ancient impact crater, but that theory is discounted now; anything making a crater that size would have destroyed the planet.
The Bowl’s cross-section is irregular, sometimes deep and sometimes shallow. Most of the Commonwealth settlers on Sakhra live there. Some Sakhrans also work and live there, but most remain in the traditional hillcastles in the mountains and highlands.
Sakhra’s other hemisphere consists of oceans and archipelagos, and has huge natural resources: mineral deposits offshore, and precious metals and precious stones in the mountains of the larger islands. (There may be similar finds in the mountains of Shaloom, but for obvious political reasons these are not prospected.) The Commonwealth’s main economic activity is the extraction and processing of these commodities, and their transport to, and distribution from, Blentport.
Landchariots hurtled past them every few minutes, in the direction of the highlands. And, also heading for the highlands and also every few minutes, they encountered more military traffic: low-slung groundcars with opaque windows, light armoured vehicles, and, so far, five more convoys of tracked lowloaders taking scanner and missile and beam installations up into the Irsirrha.
Then, when they started to pass the farms, they saw the other half of the evacuation: the civilian traffic from outlying farms and villages, mostly pickups and trucks and offroaders, laden with people and packing cases. The traffic had not yet reached crisis proportions because the human population in the foothill areas was quite sparse, but further down, when it met the normal lowland traffic, it would be unimaginable. And then there was the roadblock. Or rather, there wasn’t.
“Are you a local resident, sir?”
“No. Do you want to see my papers?”
“Are you going to the lowlands, sir?”
“Yes. My papers?”
“Not necessary, sir, if you’re going to the lowlands.”
The soldier paused as a couple of freighters roared overhead, on their way down to Blentport. The sky—a grey inverted bowl shot with high trailing clouds, like the roof of a giant mouth streaked with mucus—had again started to be full of them, like it was last night.
“Are you sure you don’t need to see my papers?”
“Yes, sir, as long as you’re going to the lowlands.” He was already losing what little interest he had in Foord. “Safe journey.”
Across the road, on the side leading up into the highlands, where they had seen a stream of landchariots and military vehicles, but no civilian traffic, there was not merely one soldier but nine or ten, all heavily armed, and a large armoured sixwheel. Both its gun turrets were pointing down the road in the direction of traffic from the lowlands, but that may have been coincidence.
Foord’s wristcom buzzed. He snapped it open.
“This is me,” Smithson said. “Is that you?”
“Smithson, where is Cyr? Why hasn’t she called?”
“She’s still with Swann. And it’s forty minutes since you said you’d call in thirty minutes.”
“I know, we were delayed… The traffic is getting heavier, but we’re still aiming to be back in about two hours.”
On Foord’s wristcom, either a toilet flushed or Smithson laughed. “I don’t think so, Commander. It’ll get worse as you get closer. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like now, down here.”
“Is the refit still on target?”
“Yes, be done in three hours. I’ve got total priority. At least nine ships, including three Class 097s, are stuck down here and can’t join the cordon, because of me,” he said proudly. “It’s going well. But whether we leave in three
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