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further.
     
CHAPTER 10
     
    Surrounding us was the panorama
of the night sky, though I didn't have an opportunity to enjoy it: I could see
at least five Geronimos— Apache Mark V military helicopters that had been adapted
for use by local law enforcement as well as the FBI—in pursuit of our ship,
their cannons spinning as they blasted glowing tracer rounds at us. In addition,
there was a fleet of late-model Hummers coursing through the streets below,
lights flashing and large-caliber mounted guns ablaze. From the look of things,
I quickly calculated that we had only a few moments to live—especially as we
weren't yet returning fire.
    But then I noticed that as the
multitude of bullets being fired at us reached the tapering, rounded fuselage
of the ship—its pair of foldaway wings and its glowing "head"
resembling nothing so much as a giant flying fish—most of them swerved badly
off target. Tressalian read the puzzled look on my face (he was evidently as
perceptive as his sister), then touched the collar of his own shirt and began to
speak to Larissa through what I realized was a surgically implanted
communications system that provided the two with a secure link to each other.
    "Sister? ... Yes, Dr.
Wolfe's right here, and watching anxiously. But remember, we're making directly
for the coast, so there's no need for excessive—Larissa?" Tressalian took
his fingers from his throat with an indulgent shake of his head, then held a
hand toward the scene being played out around us. "I suggest you observe,
Doctor—this seems to be for your benefit."
    With that, the large rail gun in
the ship's turret opened fire, expelling flights of projectiles that were
proportionately larger than the ones fired by Larissa's handgun. The varied
pattern of destruction wrought by the gun as it spun from pursuer to pursuer
was awesome to behold: a finely focused burst could removed a Hummer's wheel or
a Geronimo's mounted gun, while a wider pattern could reduce both land and air
units to so much shrapnel—and human body parts. All of this, or so Tressalian
had said, was for my benefit: an effort by Larissa not only to impress me with
her flying and combat skills but also, it seemed, to let me know that what I
had stumbled onto was some kind of mortal struggle. But over what?
    Excitement, horror, and, yes,
some satisfaction (given that our pursuers were doubtless ultimately controlled
by the same people who had killed Max) were registering inside me; yet I was
still clearheaded enough to be curious. "Their bullets," I said.
"They're not reaching us."
    "It has been said,"
Tressalian explained, "that the man who controls electromagnetism
controls the known forces of our universe. I don't pretend to have mastered the
area yet, but we have enough insight to be able to project fields that will
cause far more complex forms of matter than bullets to change their behavior.
Even without the fields we'd be in little danger—the ship's superstructure and
sheathing, even its transparent sections, are constructed of advanced composite
resins. Stronger than high-quality steel of a much greater thickness and far
lighter." Tressalian paused a moment, still watching me. "You're
appalled, no doubt," he finally said. "But believe me when I say that
if the governments of the world left us any choice—"
    "Of the world!" I
echoed in a whisper. "But I thought—"
    "Oh, our efforts are quite
global. Here, come and look at this, Doctor." Tressalian turned and
hobbled over to a bank of monitors that was installed on a low table at the
center of the observation dome. "It may help you understand."
    I soon found myself staring at
half a dozen images of a considerable military force on the move. There were
ships at sea, remote-piloted fighter-bombers in flight, their ghostly cockpits
empty of anything save computer equipment, and carrier crews loading still more
warplanes with bombs and missiles.
    "What is it?" I asked.
    "The reason your friend Mr.
Jenkins was killed,"