Finally, she could hold it no longer. The tips of her nacelles dipped into the water first, sending the rest of the vessel into a violent somersault. End over end, she slammed across the surface of the ocean, each impact stressing her hull more and more. Magdalene tried to shift to minimize the damage to herself, but her residual Shadow energy was gone; when she had ejected the phase drive, she had also forfeited any hope of controlling the Judas vessel. Her form eventually skidded across the surface until her entire right nacelle was pulled under. The drag slowed her down, and she began to sink.

Magdalene plummeted into the ocean. Waves swept outward from her impact.

On the horizon, a pyre marked Santa Fosca. Soon, the natives would investigate. The sky was fire and the ocean an expanse of boiling sapphire. The impact would kill many.

She floated down, down. So far down.

Magdalene came to rest near her pre-determined landing zone, a trench in the largest ocean, many tens of thousands of feet deep.

She would be safe there.

She hoped.

Wind River, D.C.

Annoyance. The alarm clock, already? No, the blaring sound was the communications link. He sleepily sat up in bed, hand motion activating the lights. A quick tap to the right temple opened the interior comm channel.

“Hmmph. Yeah. What? Are you—I’ll be right there.” Another tap cut the link.

He had a bad feeling about this.

David Jennings was far from being the greatest of American presidents, but he had dealt with his share of catastrophes. More than his share, in fact, and he had a terrible feeling about this.

Santa Fosca. Gone.

He felt a headache beginning.

A sensible bathrobe concealing his sensible pajamas, he opened the double-door to his quarters. Two heavily-armed Milicom officers stood silently at attention, saluted, transported him down hallway, down elevator, down hallway to the Red Room.