The Venging by Greg Bear Read Free Book Online Page A

Kollert asked, "Is anyone going to get Turco, if it misses?"
    The terrorist team leader shrugged when no one else answered. "She may not even be alive." Then, like a crowd of children looking at a horror movie, the men and women in the communications center grouped around the large screen and watched the dark shadow of Psyche blotting out stars.
    From the bubble window, Turco saw the sudden aurorae, the spray of ionized gases from the Earth's atmosphere, the awesomely rapid passage of the ocean below, and the blur of white as Greenland flashed past. The structure rocked and jerked as the Earth exerted enormous tidal strains on Psyche. Sitting in the plastic chaff, numb, tightly gripping the arms, Giani looked updownat the bright stars, feeling Psyche die beneath her. Inside, the still-molten hollows formed by the charges began to collapse. Cracks shot outward to the surface, where they became gaping chasms. Sparks and rays of smoke jumped from the chasms. In minutes the passage was over. Looking closely, she saw roiling storms forming over Earth's seas and the spreading shock waves of the asteroid's sudden atmospheric compression. Big winds were blowing, but they'd survive. It shouldn't have gone this far. They should have listened reasonably, admitted their guilt Absolved, girl,she wanted her father to say. She felt very near.You've destroyed everything we worked fora fine architect of Pyrrhic victories. And now he was at a great distance, receding. The room was cold, and her skin tingled. One huge chunk rose to block out the sun. The cabin screamed, and the bubble was filled with sudden
    (27 of 197) The Venging flakes of air. |Go to Contents |
    The White Horse Child
    When I was seven years old, I met an old man by the side of the dusty road between school and farm. The late afternoon sun had cooled, and he was sitting on a rock, hat off, hands held out to the gentle warmth, whistling a pretty song. He nodded at me as I walked past. I nodded back. I was curious, but I knew better than to get involved with strangers, as if they might turn into lions when no one but a little kid was around. "Hello, boy," he said. I stopped and shuffled my feet. He looked more like a hawk than a lion. His clothes were brown and grey and russet, and his hands were pink like the flesh of some rabbit a hawk had just plucked up. His face was brown except around the eyes, where he might have worn glasses; around the eyes he was white, and this intensified his gaze. "Hello," I said. "Was a hot day. Must have been hot in school," he said. "They got air conditioning." "So they do, now. How old are you?" "Seven," I said. "Well, almost eight." "Mother told you never to talk to strangers?" "And Dad, too." "Good advice. But haven't you seen me around here before?" I looked him over. "No." "Closely. Look at my clothes. What color are they?" His shirt was grey, like the rock he was sitting on. The cuffs, where they peeped from under a russet
    jacket, were white. He didn't smell bad, but he didn't look particularly clean. He was smooth-shaven, though. His hair was white, and his pants were the color of the dirt below the rock. "All kinds of colors," I (28 of 197) said. "But mostly I partake of the landscape, no?" "I guess so," I said. "That's because I'm not here. You're imagining me, at least part of me. Don't I look like somebody you might have heard of?" "Who are you supposed to look like?" I asked. "Well, I'm full of stories," he said. "Have lots of stories to tell little boys, little girls, even big folk, if they'll listen." I started to walk away. "But only if they'll listen," he said. I ran. When I got home, I told my older sister about the man on the road, but she only got a worried look and told me to stay away from strangers. I took her advice. For some time afterward, into my eighth year, I avoided that road and did not speak with strangers more than I had to. The house that I lived in, with the five other members of my family and two dogs and one