The Apocalypse Codex

The Apocalypse Codex

A clear spring night over Bavaria, cloudless and chilly. The setting moon is a waning crescent, the shadows lengthening to the south-east. A distant propeller drone splits the sky above the foothills of the Bavarian Alps as a late-flying Cessna 208 works its way slowly north-east towards Munich. The single engined utility plane is nearly six kilometers up as it cruises over the forested slopes of the west Allgäu.
It's cold and noisy in the unpressurized cabin, which is unfurnished and bare but for anchor points and tie-downs: this is nobody's idea of business class. Nevertheless, three passengers, all with oxygen masks, crouch on the floor. One of them wears overalls, a safety harness, and a headset plugged into the crew circuit. He waits by the cargo door, listening for a word from the cockpit. The other two passengers wear helmets and parachute packs in the same color scheme as their midnight camo overalls.
At a terse instruction from the cockpit, the jump-master leans forward and tugs the door open. As he does so, the taller and heavier of the midnight skydivers leans his helmet close to his companion's ear and speaks. "Are you sure this is entirely safe, Duchess?"
"Come on, Johnny! A midnight HALO drop over mountainous terrain then a rooftop landing on a madman's folly guarded by unholy nightmares?" Her laugh is a rich, musical chuckle. "What can possibly go wrong?"
"It's not that." Her companion raises a hand, adjusts the fit of the night vision goggles that half-obscure the front of his helmet, lending him the face of a giant cubist insect. "I mean, it's the payload. We're getting a bit too damn close to the deadline, if you'll pardon my French."
"Oh, really." She looks out the door, at the screaming midnight gale and the invisible forest below, as one hand moves to touch the bulge at her left hip. "Yes, we are very late. Blame the ash cloud from Helvítimunnur: we should have been able to do this last week. But if you think I am going to abort now, and risk landing at Franz Josef Strauss Airport with that thing still in my pocket --"
The jump master interrupts: "Sixty seconds."
"I thought you'd say that," Johnny says gloomily.
"Relax. Everything will be fine once it's back in its wards. Just try not to get hung up on the battlements."
"Thirty seconds."
Johnny gives the jump-master a thumbs-up and stands, holding the rail beside the open side-door. His companion rolls to her knees and tugs the strap connecting her harness to a kit bag the size of a large carry-on, then stands up behind him. Pausing, she turns to the jump-master and hands him an envelope. "For yourself and Darren," she says, meaning the pilot. "With my undying love, Oscar."
"It has been a rare pleasure, Ms Hazard." The jump-master raises his hand. "Five seconds! Three. Two. One. Go --"
And then he's alone with the night and magic. Persephone is falling into darkness. Kilometers below her, the tree-shrouded slopes of the alpine foothills are growing rapidly closer. The wind is a constant roaring drag at her arms and legs as she stops her spin, then scans the grainy green disk of her night vision goggles around until she can see a light green St Andrew's cross perhaps a hundred meters below her: Johnny, free-falling towards the target. He begins to crab sideways, and she checks her altimeter and the compact GPS receiver on her wrist. Off course by a couple of hundred meters: Johnny has noticed and is correcting. She makes sure to keep her distance to one side. Despite her nonchalant act, she's keyed-up and apprehensive: she'd think twice before trying to pull a caper like this with anyone else.
Nearly a minute later she's just two thousand meters above ground level. The target is in view over the ridge line as her altimeter begins to beep. She brings her right hand in and pulls the handle. There's the usual moment of screaming tension, then the whoosh and lung-emptying jolt as the chute opens -- cleanly, no messing, excellent. The falling stone has hatched into a drifting feather, gently circling towards the ground. She reaches up and grips the rigging handles, spots Johnny's chute fifty meters above her and off to the left. That's either too damn close, or not close enough -- depending on how the landing goes. She spots a hand wave. He's aware of her position. Good.

From THE APOCOLYPSE CODE by Charles Stross. Published by arrangement with Ace, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc. Copyright (c) Charles Stross, 2012.