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"You're giving up?"
"Didn't say that. There's something I'm goin' to try, but it's damn dangerous, bit of a long shot."
Another long silence. "I'm leaving things in your hands. You're the expert."
"Thanks, Chief. We'll be in touch tomorrow, one way or another."
She turned to her command group, where they gathered around the folding table with the photographs of the city made with the carefully hoarded Polaroid.
Town, really, she thought. For all the massiveness of the monuments and works, the housing didn't look to have room for more than a few thousand permanent inhabitants. She turned the screw of the oil lantern, and the yellow flame grew brighter. A big tropical moth beat its wings against the glass. She shooed it away and traced a line with her finger.
"This looks like the best approach," she said, drawing a line up from the south, where the tumbled outlying hills of the plateau came right down to the water. From the picture they were covered with thick scrub.
"This building here is where they were, and this courtyard is where the… ceremony took place?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Toffler said. Beads of sweat glistened on his balding scalp. "By the big pond."
"That's it, then. Any questions?"
"Ma'am," Ortiz said, "I still think it's inappropriate that you lead this operation in person."
Alston nodded. "Acknowledged, Mr. Ortiz. However, I have certain skills that'll increase the probability of success. So does everyone else I've picked." From a very large pool of volunteers, surprisingly large. Amazing how many people will clamor for a chance at probable death. Though I should talk.
She looked at her watch. "Twenty hundred hours. Let's get going. If they move the hostages, things could get very sticky indeed."
There were five in the party. Herself and Swindapa, of course. Lieutenant Hendriksson, who came from rural Mi
A final check. Everyone was in loose dark clothing; she and the Fiernan were carrying their twin swords, with the.357, a blowgun, and the sling for distance weapons. Swindapa and Hendriksson had stocking caps to pull over their light hair. Burnt cork for rubbing on face and hands also went around; Alonski finished and began to hand it to her, then halted, wincing in embarrassment.
"I'm covered," she said dryly. She took up a final piece of equipment from the table, a slender section of hollow tubing, broke it down at the joint in the middle, and tucked it into her harness. "Let's go."
She turned to Ortiz. "Lieutenant, in the event of failure, don't throw good money after bad. Withdraw. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am." He didn't look happy about it, but on the other hand, she didn't intend to fail.
"Mr. Toffler, you have the signals?"
"Flashlight for Phase One, flare for Phase Two, yes."
"Then let's be about it."
Martha sat in a corner of the cell, head in her hands. It was very quiet. Lisketter lay staring; she hadn't made a sound or a voluntary movement since she stopped screaming, during the rite. When they'd pulled the jaguar off her and the priest-king in his costume of furs had come to take its place.
Catatonic shock, she thought. Probably better. The stucco friezes made it plain what Martha's part in tomorrow's ceremony would be, the cutting and then the feasting.
Now there was a sound-the intolerable taunting buzz of the ultralight going by overhead, freedom just beyond arm's reach. Her head sank wearily down on her knees again.
Then the sound altered; shouting came beneath it, a growing roar. After a moment, the faint light of watchfires that shone through the slit above her head grew brighter.
"Here," Alston whispered into the hot wet darkness of the river.
Slow and muffled, the paddles slid the rubber boat toward the shore. Trees grew almost to the edge, roots grew into the stream, amid thigh-deep water. Do they have leeches here? she wondered, as they gripped at branches and made the boat fast. The water felt tepid and stagnant, and smelled of swamp. She went over the side, holding her swords high in one hand, and waded up to dry-drier- land. The cotton of her trousers clung wetly; she slipped the long katana back into the carrier across her shoulders and the short wakizashi into her belt. Then she took out the pipe, fitted the sections back together, and pushed a round through the plastic mouthpiece and into the tube. It was a steel needle five inches long, with the base set into a plastic bead; a dozen more waited in a case at her waist.
Through a gap in the foliage she could see the riding light of Toffler's craft, circling over the city ahead. Binoculars brought it closer, although not close enough to see the figure beneath or the night-sight goggles on his face. Not particularly modern ones, Israeli-army surplus bought from a catalog by someone on Nantucket before the Event, but they worked. She brought up the flashlight, braced it against a convenient stem, and blinked it on. Three long, one short… and hope that nobody on the plateau was looking in precisely the wrong direction. The undergrowth buzzed with insects, and with slight crinkling and rustling noises. Nightbirds sang or croaked or screeched. Somewhere close a bull 'gator bellowed, a
She waited, controlling her breathing and feeling the sweat slide gelid down her flanks and spine. Might have to do it twice…
No. The riding light on the aircraft returned the signal. She turned her head; the others had the boat tethered and tucked away out of sight. There was just enough light to see their faces as they approached. She knelt in the damp earth and laid down the photograph, then shone a red-dimmed light on it for a second. Swindapa put a hand out to help her steady the curling square of paper, gri
In Heiho speed is not the true Way. Speed is the fastness or slowness which occurs when the rhythm is out of synchronization.
"This heading," she whispered, tucking the aerial shot away again. "Follow me."
Her head swung, sighting through the trees on pieces of easily recognized higher ground. It was appallingly easy to get lost in the dark, in unfamiliar brush. They moved forward, placing each step carefully. She pushed vines aside, unhooked from thorns, ignored unseen slapping branches that gouged for her eyes. Every thirty seconds she clicked her tongue softly and they all halted, listening. Good. Quiet. Swindapa quietest of all, and the others not much worse. Steeper ground, crawling on all fours. The lip of the plateau above them now, cutting off half the sky, and the rooftrees of thatched buildings beyond it. She looked at the compass and the landmarks, wiped the dirt and moisture off her palms on the sleeves, of her jacket. Excellent. And it was about time for Toffler to-
A crash came from above, muffled by distance. Shouts. They waited; she could hear Swindapa trying to match her long slow breaths. A glow began to silhouette the rooflines ahead of her. She gri