unway beneath the Skyhawk. The light

of the sun; blazing down upon him so brightly that even his visored

eyes could not bear to look at it directly; its raying heat piercing

his body, making the marrow in his bones tingle with its warmth.

Willing himself to remain calm, Brickman took a deep breath of the

fresh oven-baked air, pushed the throttle wide open and aimed the

Skyhawk up the centreline of the ramp and at the sky beyond. A wave of

reflected heat floated the lightweight craft into the air

unexpectedly.

Brickman quickly adjusted the Skyhawk's trim. The enclosing walls fell

away and, as the ramp beneath him shrank into a shimmering slice of

concrete pie, Brickman caught his first glimpse of the overground.

And was engulfed by the vastness of the earth and sky.

For the past sixteen years and fifty-one weeks of Brickman's life, the

most distant object he had gazed upon had never been more than half a

mile away; the highest vaulted space, seven hundred and fifty feet

above his head.

He had seen video pictures of the recently completed John Wayne Plaza

at Grand Central; a marvel of engineering a mile wide and nearly half a

mile high. But even that was rendered totally insignificant by the

vista that unfolded as the Skyhawk climbed higher. For now, Brickman

could see for more than a hundred miles. A mind-blowing, eye-popping,

heart-stopping panorama bounded by an impossibly distant, cloud-flecked

horizon under the fathomless blue bowl of the sky.

Brickman's response to the overground welled up from the innermost

depths of his being. CFI Carrol had been right. Nothing in his past

life could have possibly prepared him for this moment. For years, he

had prided himself on his clinical detachment; his ability to control

his reaction to any situation; investing his words and actions with

exactly the required degree of emotion. No more, no less.

But not today.

For one brief instant, Brickman let the mask slip; abandoning himself

to the raw sensations that made his scalp tingle and his heart pound;

that left him gasping for breath. He lay back and let the essence, the

latent power, of the overground flood through his whole being; let its

seductive beauty embrace him (had he known the phrase and understood

its implications) like a long-lost lover.

Was reunited.

Heard voices.

Sensed danger.

Recovered. Regained control. Returned his being to the service of the

Federation; purging himself of all feeling; crushing his new found

sense of wonder beneath the iron heel of his Tracker psyche.

Outwardly restored, Brickman throttled back for the climb to altitude,

checked that he was on the correct course heading for the first leg of

his flight, and turned his attention to the land below.

The overground. The despoiled birthright of the Trackers. Overrun by

the shadowy, hostile Mutes. The blue sky world which the First Family,

in the name of the Federation, had vowed to cleanse and repossess.

Brickman consulted his map. The ramp above the Flight Academy from

which he had taken off was situated some five thousand feet above sea

level, and halfway between two pre-historic sites called Alamogordo and

Holloman AFB.

All that remained of Alamogordo was a few jagged walls sticking up out

of the ground in vague rectilinear patterns among the bright red

trees.

Holloman AFB, below his port wing, consisted of three enormous

overlapping craters partially filled with wind-blown sand.

Brickman turned his attention back to the giant cottonwoods.

Trees ...

Like the distant clouds, they were something else Brickman had only

seen pictures of.

At this point, Brickman's altitude was two and a half thousand feet and

climbing, above terrain that had been described by the Academy's Chart