Cipher Hill
Page 16
Lil trotted over. “So you closed the deal, huh, darlin’?!” she said, giving Nita a playful punch in the arm. “I knew you’d pull it off. You got a silver tongue. Don’t let nobody tell you different.”
“If you’re going to be working with us, there will be some training involved,” Lusk said. “I hope you’re a quick study.”
Chapter 10
Dr. Prist pulled a rain slicker a bit tighter about her shoulders and adjusted her gloves. Rain was coming down in sheets and falling practically sideways thanks to the intense wind. She and Gunner were piloting one of the facility’s larger, slower steam carts. It was loaded with large boxes, stuffed mostly with torn burlap and straw, lest the volatile contents clack together. As none of it had been tested yet, there was no telling just what sort of spectacular reaction each would have if something was jostled a bit too much.
“It is unseasonably chilly,” Prist commented, tugging the hood of her slicker a bit lower.
“I rather like it,” Gunner said. “It seldom gets much warmer than this when we are at altitude.”
“I shall keep it in mind if I accompany you on another long journey. A few more layers would be nice.”
They rattled to a rest in a section of The Thicket that had seen better days. At some point in the semirecent history of the forest, it had succumbed to some terrible storm damage. This had left a large section of the forest largely treeless, which served as an adequate firebreak to make the place useful as something of a proving ground. The pounding rain added an additional layer of safety—the last thing anyone needed was a forest fire in The Thicket. The periodic rumble of thunder would serve to cover the sound of their weapon testing nicely, as well.
Gunner wiped off a mounting point that had been hastily bolted to the cart, then hefted the monstrous yet allegedly portable cannon into place. “Where to begin?” he asked.
“Formulation six will make for a good benchmark,” she said.
He produced a pry bar and levered the top off a crate. Inside was a roughly fabricated charge marked with a splash of black paint. He paired it with a charge wrapped in waxed paper and loaded it into the weapon.
“Target?” he asked.
Prist increased the intensity of the phlo-light and adjusted some shutters to attempt to limit its visibility beyond the clearing.
“I would suggest that large stone there. If it has any effect at all, that should give us a fine indication of its success on a fortified wall. One moment, I’ll try to get some air speed—”
“No need,” Gunner said. “Cover your ears.”
He angled the weapon and pulled the trigger. The weapon produced a surprisingly subdued thump. The payload arced gracefully through the air and smashed squarely on the center of the stone.
“That was impressive…” Prist said, holding up a spyglass to investigate the rock.
“When it rains like this, you can gauge wind speed by the angle of the precipitation. Beyond the issues it presents regarding visibility, I’ve always preferred battle during foul weather. Any reaction?”
“Give it time… The rain is bound to dilute it a bit.”
While they waited, Gunner opened the weapon to inspect it. “Fires like a dream. The charges are exceptional, Samantha.”
“It is all about consistent ratios and pure components. I really don’t know how you coped with the stuff you’ve had to rely upon before the Ichor Well reached full production.”
“You would be surprised what you can adjust for.”
“Some fumes are rising… Some minor scoring of the stone… We should increase the viscosity. That should help combat dilution from rain.”
“Shall I fire a second into some wood?”
“No. I think we know what we need to know. Next, formulation nineteen,” she said.
He selected a shell marked with blue and prepared it.
“I have been thinking, Guy,” she said.
“I should hope so. You’ve produced more interesting new weapons in the last week and a half than I have in the last five years.”
“Not about that. That is to say, in addition to that. I was thinking specifically about… er… the way of things.”
“Oh?”
“The nature of my chosen field of study is such that I cannot be effective if separated from my laboratory for long periods.”
“Quite so,” he said. “Target?”
“For formulation nineteen? That waterlogged stump should do. Now, the nature of your career is such that you cannot remain stationary for long periods.”
“Firing,” he said.
She covered her ears. He sent the shell hurdling toward the stump. It struck.
“It is thus logical that you and I should not pursue a meaningful relationship. … No discernible effect. I’ll have to mark this one as a failure.”
“Mmm… Next?”
“Formulation twenty-one. We’ll target that fallen log. And would you concur?”
“About the log?”
“About my assessment regarding the wisdom of a relationship? . . . And the log, I suppose.”
“The log will do. And your logic is perfectly sound.” He started preparing a red-marked charge. “And it doesn’t really settle matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t care what the correct choice is. I want to know what you want to do. This is, ideally, a matter of the heart. Cover your ears.”
She did so. He fired at the log. It burst vigorously to flame almost immediately and burned in spite of the rain.
“Very effective…” she remarked.
“Indeed.”
They watched the flames burn, fizzing and popping in the downpour.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Guy. I’m unaccustomed to matters of the heart.”
“Mmm… Just as well. There’s a lovely young lady by the name of Margaret Hess. She’s a ship’s purser back in Circa. I’ve had my eye on her for some time.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “So you do have a girl at every port. You cad! And to think…” She trailed off as she noticed the smirk on his face. “… There is no other woman, is there?”
“Margaret was two years ago. Seems as though you’ve got a rather strong opinion on the subject.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Formulation three…”
“Target?”
“Your smug face…”
“Will the dead tree at the far side of the clearing do?”
“Just fire…”
She covered her ears. He launched the shell at the target. It struck with a brief, intense spray of frost, then a feeble white streamer rose into the air.
He shrugged. “Rather lackluster.”
“Yes, I’ll have to… half a moment.”
The tree frost had settled over the entire surface of the tree. Prist picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it. It clacked against the tree’s icy surface, shattering the ice, and the entirety of the tree, as though it were glass.
“That is certainly worthy of further study…” she said.
#
Coop rushed through the twisted, scraggly underbrush surrounding the military compound ahead. They were far enough from Ichor Well that they’d not been caught in the same rainstorm, but it was certainly threatening. The wind was wailing and rustling the stubbly brush that covered much of the open land in the fug.
“Slow down! Slow down, would you?” hissed a voice behind him.
He dropped to his elbows, keeping himself propped up just enough to keep from crushing Nikita, who remained faithfully tucked in his coat. The anxious little beast’s heart was hammering in her chest, but so long as she was close to Coop, she seemed willing to endure whatever dangers lay ahead.
After a few moments, a terribly winded Digger caught up. “Why must you move so fast?” he asked breathlessly.
“Quicker in, quicker out, less chance folks’ll see me,” Coop said. He slid his knees under him so that he could spare a hand to use his spyglass
.
“Some of us aren’t used to this level of strenuous activity,” Digger said.
“Yeah, well some of us gotta wear this lousy mask to breathe the stuff you call air, so I got a better excuse than you, and I ain’t even usin’ it.”
Coop slowly scanned the facility ahead of them. It was the smallest military outpost that Digger was reasonably certain would have a high-ranking official in residence. Now that they’d arrived, it wasn’t much of anything. Tall fences surrounded a half-dozen mooring towers, some storage shacks, and a small residential building. The most notable feature was a tower at one corner with a viewing deck along the top.
“See anything useful?”
“Layout’s the same as a place we hit a few months back. If this place is like that one, fella in charge’ll be at the top of the tower.”
“Of course he would be…” Digger said. “More climbing.”
“There’s one of them big poles the inspectors like to poke at on the top of the tower. And I see a cage wrapped around it. Pretty good chance this place’ll have what were after.” He stowed the spyglass. “Let’s get to it, then,” he said, bursting into a crouching run again.
“Wait!” Digger hissed.
Coop slid to a stop. “What’s wrong now?”
“We don’t have a plan!”
“Sure we do. We’re gettin’ the name of the admiral and his inspector.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s a goal.”
“I’m gonna head up the tower, all sneaky-like, and jot down the name. Nikita is gonna climb up and ask the inspector what his or her name is, and then I’ll come back here,” Coop said. “Kind of figured it went without sayin.’”
“Why don’t you just send Nikita? They’ll never notice an extra inspector crawling about. Most people consider them just part of the equipment.”
The bulge in Coop’s pocket that represented Nikita visibly trembled and produced a subdued tapping. Nikita didn’t go alone.
“Her and me’s a team, Digger,” Coop said.
“Look at the tower, Coop. It is fully staffed. And even from here I can see a pair of patrolmen on the catwalk around the observation deck. It is profoundly optimistic to suppose you can even climb it without being seen. But what will you do when you get to the top? Just kick down the door and demand the information you’re after?”
“I just need a couple names. I reckon I could look in a window or get Nikita to ask.” He tipped his head to the side. “Ship’s comin’ in. Best to get in and out before it arrives. New folks comin’ and goin’ tend to make it hard to work out where folks will and won’t be lookin’.”
Digger glanced to the facility. “Give me the spyglass.”
“I just said we need to hurry, Digger.”
“The spyglass, please.”
Coop handed it over. Digger scanned the place.
“You lookin’ for somethin’ particular? Or just stallin’ so you can catch your breath a little better?”
“That is a barracks. Which means there are at least six permanent troops here. Permanent troops have certain necessities. Food. Water. … Ah hah! And laundry. You see? There are some lines right out in the back, out of the sight line of any of the towers.”
“I know you ain’t used to workin’ in the field, but now ain’t the time to be worryin’ about clean socks.”
“It’s not about clean socks! Just… listen closely…”
#
A few nerve-wracking minutes later, Coop had returned with a bundle of purloined clothing. “This better work out good,” he said, handing them over. “I had to hop the same fence twice to get these. Could’ve been in the tower and out again by now.”
“And you could have been shot along the way. Now turn your back. I’ve got to get dressed.”
In an experience he hoped never to repeat, Digger stripped to his underthings and got dressed in a slightly damp, stolen uniform while a sailor with a rifle stood by. About halfway through the process, he found that Nikita had crawled up to peer over Coop’s shoulder, locking her enormous eyes on him as he buttoned up his shirt. Not so long ago he wouldn’t have thought any more of such a thing as he would have if a dog or cat had been watching him. Now that he knew just how intelligent the aye-ayes were, he felt certain Nikita was spying on him specifically to get back at him for staring her down back at Ichor Well.
“All right,” Digger said, donning his cap. “How do I look?”
Coop turned. “If you looked any more like one of the troops up there, I’d’ve put a bullet in you. Suppose that’s a handy thing about all you folk lookin’ alike.”
Digger narrowed his eyes. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Now, get back to the ship and be ready to move it if the incoming ship spots you. I’ll be back with the information as quickly as I can.”
He hurried along in the darkness, quietly cursing the sequence of terrible decisions and poor judgments that had led him to this ridiculous situation.
The trip to the facility was entirely uphill, and the tense wait for his disguise hadn’t done much to restore his stamina. As the fence loomed closer, he could see the flaws in his plan bubbling to the surface. Unlike Coop, who seemed perfectly at home hauling himself up and over fences and walls, Digger hadn’t even enjoyed jungle gyms in the playground growing up.
He didn’t know precisely how he was going to get over the wall at all, let alone quietly. And it didn’t matter how good his disguise was if he was spotted scaling a wall.
Overhead, the rumble of engines was joined by the glow of lights as the ship arrived. It was smaller than the Wind Breaker. The envelope was sleek and dart shaped, and the thrust was provided by a pair of large propellers.
“Okay. Scout-and-rapid-response ship,” he said. “One combined captain and navigator, plus a three-person crew. They’re probably here to refuel and resupply. Possibly they are going to rotate crew in and out. Please, please let them be rotating crew.”
He quickened his pace. The good news about the arrival was that all eyes would be turned to the incoming ship. The bad news was the ship’s lights and their potential to reveal him as he approached.
Twice the lights swept over him, but no shots were fired. He glanced at the fence. There was no way he would ever climb it without being seen. It was nothing but vertical slats, no decent hand- or footholds. How Coop had been able to scale it was anyone’s guess. Up ahead, the main gates were opening. Crew started to trot out to catch the dangling mooring lines and secure them.
Digger swallowed hard and rushed for the gate. When he got close, he matched the pace of the men hustling out from inside and fell into line beside them, heading for the ship.
There were two ways to avoid being spotted. One was to not be seen at all, the other was to avoid doing something out of the ordinary. This was a moment when uniformed soldiers were tying up a ship. Lacking the basic skills of subterfuge, his best option would be to get lost in the bustle of activity.
He held back until one of the other soldiers caught a line, then hurried in behind to help haul it toward the mooring pole, keeping carefully behind him as he did so. When they got close, he released the line and rushed for the line on the opposite side. Before he could reach it, the other members of the ground crew had handled it.
“Hey!” called a voice from above.
Digger looked up to find the crew hatch of the ship was already open.
“Look alive!” called the sailor within.
A greasy bundle pitched out toward him, thumping him heavily in the chest when he caught it. It was refuse, poorly packaged and reeking of spoiled food and things he’d rather not identify.
“More where that came from, so get moving!” the sailor said.
He nodded and hurried through toward the main gate.
As others rushed past him, he tipped his head to shield his face with his hat as best he could.
Once inside, he pitched the bundle into the rubbish pile and carefully slipped out of the path of activity.
So far, things had gone unrealistically well, and he was smart enough to know it could only go on this way for so long. He attempted to thread the needle of moving quickly without looking like he was moving quickly, heading for the doors at the base of the tower.
The commander’s name, the inspector’s name, and any associated protocol. In and out.
He pushed the door. It was unlocked. Inside was a small reception area with a directory painted on the wall. Communication room, six floors up. Observation deck, two floors farther.
“You!” called someone from the door.
“No time,” he blurted, rushing for the steps. “I’ve got to send a message. The captain was insistent.”
He hurried up the steps with what he hoped was a convincing imitation of an underling attempting to follow orders.
“I’m the communications officer,” the man replied.
Digger paused and placed his hand on his belt, where his pistol was. It was at that point he discovered that he’d neglected to transfer its holster to this uniform when he’d changed. The relief that he wouldn’t have to use it was tempered by the fact that he wouldn’t be able to use it.
The man stepped up beside him, and they began the slow trudge up the steps side by side. Digger did his best to keep from giving them man a clear view of his face.
“You came in on that ship?” the communications officer said.
“That’s right.”
“You really must be in a hurry. I hadn’t even realized they’d dropped the ladders.”
“The message is rather urgent.”
The officer looked him over. “That’s not a flight uniform. That’s ground crew.”
Digger coughed. “Yes. I’m, ahem, I’m slated to begin a rotation here.”
“There aren’t any rotations due to end for at least another three weeks.”
“Yes… Yes, I’d heard as much from the other crew on the way here. That’s why the message is so urgent. I’ve clearly been sent here in error. I need to find out where I was intended to go.”