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time in Equatoria. “Is that part of it?”
    Turk stood up. So did a few others among the crowd on the patio. A puzzled hush displaced the talk and laughter. Here and there, phones began to buzz or chatter.
    “No,” Turk said. “That’s not part of it.”
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    It was like nothing Turk had seen during his ten years in the New World.
    But, in a way, that was exactly typical. The New World had a habit of reminding you it wasn’t Earth. Things happened differently here.
It ain’t Kansas,
as people liked to say, and they probably said the same thing in a dozen different languages.
It ain’t the Steppes. It ain’t Kandahar. It ain’t Mombassa.
    “Do you think it’s dangerous?” Lise asked.
    Some of the restaurant’s clientele evidently thought so. They settled their bills with barely-disguised haste and made for their cars. Within a few minutes there were only a few stalwarts left on the broad wooden patio. “You want to leave?” Turk asked.
    “Not if you don’t.”
    “I guess we’re as safe here as anywhere,” Turk said. “And the view is better.”
    The phenomenon was still hanging out at sea, though it seemed to move steadily closer. What it looked like was luminous rain, a rolling gray cloud shot with light—the way a thunderstorm looked when you saw it from a long way off, except that the glow wasn’t fitful, like lightning, but seemed to hang below the billowing darkness and illuminate it from beneath. Turk had seen storms roll in from sea often enough, and he estimated that this one was approaching at roughly the local wind speed. The brightness falling from it appeared to be composed of discrete luminous or burning particles, maybe as dense as snow, but he could be wrong about that—it didn’t snow in this part of Equatoria and the last snow he had seen was off the coast of Maine many years back.
    His first concern was fire. Port Magellan was a tinderbox, crowded with sub-code housing and shacks; the docklands housed countless storage and transport facilities and the bay was thick with oil and LNG tankers, funneling fuel to the insatiable Earth. What looked like a dense squall of lit matches was blowing in from the east, and he didn’t want to think about the potential consequences of that.
    He said nothing to Lise. He imagined she had drawn many of the same conclusions, but she didn’t suggest running—was smart enough, he guessed, to know there was no logical place to run to, not at the speed this thing was coming. But she tensed up as the phenomenon visibly approached the point of land at the southern extremity of the bay.
    “It’s not bright all the way down,” she said.
    The staff at Harley’s started dragging in tables from the patio, as if that was going to protect anything from anything, and urged the remaining diners to stay indoors until someone had some idea what was going on. But the waiters knew Turk well enough to let him alone. So he stayed out a while longer with Lise and they watched the light of the flares, or whatever they were, dancing on the distant sea.
    Not bright all the way down. He saw what she meant. The shifting, glittering curtains tailed into darkness well before they reached the surface of the ocean. Burned out, maybe. That was a hopeful sign. Lise took out her phone and punched up a local news broadcast, relaying bits of it to Turk. They were talking about a “storm,” she said, or what looked on radar like a storm, the fringes of it extending north and south for hundreds of miles, the heart of it more or less centered on the Port.
    And now the bright rain fell over the headlands and the inner harbor, illuminating the decks and superstructures of cruise ships and cargo vessels at anchor. Then the silhouettes of the cargo cranes grew misty and obscure, the tall hotels in the city dimmed in the distance, the souks and markets vanished as the shining rain moved up the hillsides and seemed to grow taller as it came, a canyon wall of