Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

was settled.
    “That wasn’t the best flying I’ve seen, Vico,” said Bahzím, “but it should be good enough for our purposes.” He put a hand on the spare air canisters. “You’ve got about eight hours of air, but I want you back here in three. The less time you spend out there the better. The wreckage is unstable and drifting. This ship is small. It can’t withstand a collision. Give yourself a wide berth wherever you go. As for communication, Concepción still has us on radio silence in case the pod can detect radio. Use the helmet-to-helmet audio cables to speak to each other, but keep your radios on just in case. Above all, be safe. Don’t take risks. If all of you don’t agree that something is safe, don’t do it. Even to save another survivor. Your first priority is your own safety. Get back here alive.”
    Bahzím did a quick final inspection of all cables, canisters, and equipment, then he wished them well and flew back to the airlock.
    Toron looked at Victor and Father. “Thank you,” he said. “For doing this, for coming with me.”
    “We may not find anyone,” said Father.
    “We will have tried,” said Toron. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least do that.”
    “Take us out, Vico,” said Father. “Nice and slow.”
    Victor entered the command, and the ship pulled away, heading in the direction El Cavador was pointed. After patrolling for a while, Toron spotted a large piece of wreckage a few kilometers below and ahead of them. Victor saw it and entered what he hoped would be the right commands to maneuver the quickship alongside the wreckage. He had to judge the distance and angle of approach by sight alone, however, and his first attempt was way off, far beyond the reach of their safety cables. He apologized, circled wide, and tried a second approach. This time he fired retros too late and overshot.
    “I thought you said you could fly this,” said Toron.
    “He’s doing the best he can,” said Father. “No one’s done this before.”
    Victor entered another series of commands and this time judged it right, coming alongside the wreck within ten meters of an accessible hatch.
    “Toron and I will check it out,” Father said to Victor. “You stay put and watch for collisions. Don’t let anything hit the quickship, or we’re all in trouble.” Father detached the audio cable that connected him to Victor then flew down to the wreck, carrying a load of gear. Toron followed, and once they landed, they spread the bubble over the hatch, detached their safety cables, climbed under the bubble with the gear, then pulled the ripcord. The bubble inflated and sealed, and the hatch opened easily. Father and Toron then flew inside and disappeared from view.
    Five minutes passed. Then ten. At fifteen minutes, Victor began to worry. At twenty-five, he was near panicked. Something had gone wrong. They shouldn’t be taking this long.
    Victor considered calling Father on the radio, even though he’d be disobeying orders and possibly putting the family at risk, but then he thought better of it. Father had asked him to wait, and so he would. Wait and pray.
    *   *   *
    Edimar was in the crow’s nest on El Cavador, trying not to burst into tears. The data streaming through her display goggles from the Eye was so constant and in such volume that Edimar was beyond overwhelmed. Column after column of nonstop digits, all demanding to be analyzed immediately and marked EXTREMELY URGENT .
    The problem was the debris. There were thousands of pieces of wreckage all around the ship, and since all of them were drifting through space and relatively close, the Eye had mistakenly labeled each piece of debris, however small, as a possible collision threat. And once an object was so tagged, the Eye’s programming insisted that the Eye track its movements. This meant the Eye was now tracking thousands of objects at once and sending all of that data in a deluge of information directly to Edimar’s goggles.
    It was too much. And worse still, it was inaccurate. Of the thousands of objects the Eye currently considered a threat, only a handful were truly dangerous. It meant the real threats, the objects that Edimar should be tracking, were being lost in a sea of unnecessary alerts.
    She blinked open a line to Concepción at the bridge. “I can’t do it,” said Edimar. “I need help.”
    “What’s wrong?” said Concepción.
    “It’s too much. I can’t process all the data the Eye