Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

left ten hours ago,” Toron was saying. “We didn’t know it because the Eye is only giving us muddy data now.”
    “Why?” asked Concepción.
    Toron shrugged. “We may be hitting some dust. I don’t know. It’s not clean data around the site, that’s all we know. As for the pod, it’s now heading in this direction, away from us, which is good.”
    “Pod?” Victor asked.
    “That’s what Edimar and I are calling the scout ship now,” said Toron. “It’s not shaped like anything we’ve seen before. It’s very smooth, very aerodynamic.”
    “Any word from the Italians?” asked Father.
    “Still nothing,” said Selmo. “Radio is silent.”
    There were a lot of reasons why the data from the Eye might be “muddy” or unclear—any obstruction in space, however small, could throw off the data. But all of the reasons that Victor could think of, all of the reasons that Toron no doubt had already considered, seemed unlikely save one. There wasn’t dust between El Cavador and the Italians’ position. There was dust at the Italians’ position. Where there had been four solid ships, there was now something else, something harder for the Eye to interpret. Smaller, more random pieces that didn’t coincide with any ship design within the Eye’s database. Moving dust, spinning scraps, unrecognizable clumps of steel. Victor refused to believe it. It was too dark a possibility. The Italians were fine. Janda was fine. El Cavador was a piece of junk. Why should they put any faith in the Eye? It was just another part on a ship of broken parts and barely-held-together machines. Muddy data meant nothing.
    They flew for eight more hours, but by the time they reached the site Victor knew what they would find. The wreckage from the four ships was a scattered trail of scorched debris at least five kilometers wide.

 
    CHAPTER 10
    Wreckage
    Victor flew down to the lockers in the cargo bay, moving fast. He landed, threw open his locker, grabbed his pressure suit, and quickly began putting it on. There were miners all around him doing the same, stepping into suits, grabbing rescue equipment: winch hooks, coiled cable, medical pouches, hydraulic spreaders, and shears. Victor’s mind was racing. The Italians were dead. The pod had attacked, and the Italians were dead. Janda. No, he wouldn’t think it. He wouldn’t even consider the idea. She wasn’t dead. They were putting together a search party. They would look for survivors. There were big pieces of wreckage out there. Some would have people inside them. Janda would be one of them. Shaken perhaps, frightened even, an emotional wreck, but alive.
    How long ago had the pod left? Eighteen hours? That was too long to go without fresh oxygen. If there were survivors, they would have to have masks, with plenty of spare canisters of oxygen. Most canisters held up to forty-five minutes of air, but maybe the Italians had canisters that held more. It was possible. Plus there would be air in whatever room the survivors had sealed themselves up in. And that’s what survivors would do. They’d seal themselves off in a room somewhere that hadn’t been breached and wait for rescue. The Italians were smart. Surely they had rehearsed for emergencies like this. Surely they had emergency gear throughout the ship. They would be prepared. They would have a stockpile of canisters and masks. Both for adults and for children.
    But air wasn’t the only problem, Victor told himself. They would need heat as well. Without battery heaters or warmer blocks or some other emergency heat source to keep out the cold, survivors would freeze to death. It wouldn’t take long. The cold this far out was relentless. It made Victor nervous. That was too many variables. If the survivors had sealed themselves off, and if there were no breaches, and if they had masks and canisters to spare, and if they had a heat source, then maybe they had a shot.
    The locker beside Victor opened abruptly, startling him. It was Father, who grabbed his own pressure suit and hurriedly climbed into it.
    “What are someone’s chances after eighteen hours?” asked Victor. “Seriously.”
    “This could have happened more than eighteen hours ago,” said Father. “The pod was here for twelve hours. It might have attacked when it got here instead of immediately before it left. In which case we’re thirty hours in, not eighteen.”
    Victor had considered this, but he said nothing. Thirty hours was too long. That