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Megafortress lifted her nose upward, shrugging off a wave of turbulence as she rose over Glass Mountain at the northern edge of Dreamland’s Test Range 4. As soon as she cleared the jagged peak, Stewart pressed the stick forward, aiming to stay as close to the mountain as possible. But it was no good—though a vast improvement over the B-52H she had been converted from, the Megafortress was still considerably more comfortable cruising in the stratosphere than hugging the earth. Her four P&W power plants strained as Stewart tried to force gravity, momentum, and lift into an equation that would get the plane across the ridge without being seen by the nearby radar sentry, a blimp hovering two miles to the west.
    The computer buzzed a warning:
    DETECTED . BEING TARGETED .
    Stewart sensed her copilot’s smirk. If only it had been Jazz, or anyone other than Breanna Stockard.
    â€œDefense—evade—ah, shit,” Stewart said, temporarily flustered.
    ENEMY LASER LOCKED .
    â€œECMs,” said Stewart, back in control. “Evasive maneuvers. Hold on.”
    â€œECMs,” acknowledged Breanna.
    Stewart banked hard and nailed the throttle to the last stop, trying to pirouette away from the laser targeting them. Her efforts were not in vain—the airborne antiaircraft laser fired and missed by about fifty yards. But the respite was brief. The EB-52 couldn’t rebuild momentum quickly enough, and the laser recycled and sent a full blast at the cockpit. Several thousand joules of energy—simulated—struck the ship just aft of the pilots’ station. The blast fused the satellite antenna and blew out the assorted electrical circuits, as well as punching a six-inch-wide hole across the top of the fuselage. The emergency panel in front of the pilots lit up like a Christmas tree, and alarms sounded throughout the aircraft. Ten seconds later a second salvo burned a hole through the metal covering the fuel bag immediately behind the wings. The temperature in the fuel delivery piping increased tenfold in an instant, and an explosion ripped across the plane’s backbone.
    â€œWe’re dead,” said Breanna.
    Stewart leveled off silently, easing back on the thrust as Breanna called the test range coordinator to acknowledge that they’d been wiped out.
    â€œRoger that,” said the coordinator. “Got you on that second blast. Good work.”
    â€œYou want another run?”
    â€œNegative. We’ve got plenty of data. Thank you very much.”
    â€œPleasure is ours,” said Breanna.
    Stewart ground her back molars together, stifling a scream. She took the Megafortress up through eight thousand feet, circling at the eastern end of the range before contacting the control tower for permission to land.
    â€œTower to EB-52 Test Run, you’re cleared to land. What’s wrong? Didn’t you have your Wheaties today?”
    â€œTest Run,” snapped Stewart, acknowledging the clearance but not the sarcasm. The controller chortled as he gave her information about the wind, rubbing in the fact that she’d just had her clock cleaned by a pair of robots in a blimp and an ancient C-130.
    Â 
    â€œY OU ’ RE GETTING BETTER ,” SAID B REANNA AS S TEWART rolled toward the hangar bunker.
    â€œDon’t give me that, Stockard. I really don’t need a pep talk from you. I got toasted.”
    â€œThe purpose of the exercise was to get toasted. We’re just guinea pigs.”
    â€œI could have made it past the ridge if you hadn’t made me pull up,” said Stewart angrily. “I had plenty of clearance.”
    â€œThe computer would have taken over for you if you hadn’t pulled back on the stick.”
    â€œThe safety protocols are too conservative.”
    â€œWhy are you so touchy? It’s only a test. Nobody’s keeping score. If we’d gotten through on that pass we would have had to take another run anyway.”
    â€œI