An instant later, she heard his voice translated in her earpiece: “Hide, woman! For the sake of God! Hide!”
Hide from what? Kate wondered. These woods were deserted. What could he mean? Maybe she hadn’t understood him right. Maybe the translator wasn’t correct. As the boy passed her, he again cried, “Hide!” and shoved Kate hard, pushing her off the path and into the woods. She tripped on a gnarled root, tumbled into the undergrowth. She banged her head, felt sharp pain and a wave of dizziness. She was getting slowly to her feet when she realized what the rumbling sound was.
Horses.
Riding at full gallop toward her.
:
Chris saw the young boy running up the path, and almost immediately, he heard the sound of pursuing horses. The boy, finally out of breath, stopped for a moment beside them, doubled over, and finally managed to gasp, “Hide! Hide!” before he darted away into the woods.
Marek ignored the boy. He was looking down the path.
Chris frowned. “What is all that about—”
“Now,” Marek said, and throwing an arm around Chris’s shoulders, he pulled him bodily off the path and into the foliage.
“Jesus,” Chris said, “would you mind telling me—”
“Shhh!” Marek put his hand over Chris’s mouth. “Do you want to get us killed?”
No, Chris thought, he was clear on that: he did not want to get anybody killed. Charging up the hill toward them were six horsemen in full armor: steel helmets, chain mail and cloth surcoats of maroon and gray. The horses were draped in black cloth studded with silver. The effect was ominous. The lead rider, wearing a helmet with a black plume, pointed ahead and screamed, “Godin!”
Baretto and Gomez were still standing beside the path, just standing there, apparently in shock at what they saw galloping toward them. The black rider leaned over in the saddle and swung his broadsword in an arc at Gomez as he rode past her.
Chris saw Gomez’s headless torso, spurting blood, as it toppled to the ground. Baretto, spattered with blood, swore loudly as he ran into the woods. More riders galloped up the hill. Now they were all shouting, “Godin! Godin!” One rider wheeled on his horse, drawing his bow.
The arrow struck Baretto’s left shoulder as he ran, the steel point punching through the other side, the impact knocking him to his knees. Cursing, Baretto staggered to his feet again, and finally reached his machine.
He picked up his belt, yanked one of the grenades free, and turned to throw it. An arrow struck him full in the chest. Baretto looked surprised, coughed, and fell back, sprawled in a seated position against the bars. He made a feeble effort to pull the arrow out of his chest. The next arrow passed through his throat. The grenade dropped from his hand.
Back on the path, the horses reared and whinnied, their riders wheeling in circles, shouting and pointing.
There was a bright flash of light.
Chris looked back in time to see Baretto still seated, unmoving, as the machine flashed repeatedly, shrinking in size.
In moments, the machine was gone. The riders now had looks of fear on their faces. The black-plumed rider shouted something to the others, and as a group, they whipped their horses and raced on up the hill, out of sight.
As the black rider turned to go, his horse stumbled over Gomez’s body. Cursing, the rider wheeled and reared his horse repeatedly, stomping the body again and again. Blood flew in the air; the horse’s forelegs turned dark red. At last the black rider turned, and with a final curse, he galloped up the hill again to rejoin the others.
“Jesus.” The suddenness of it, the casual violence—
Chris scrambled to his feet, ran back to the path.
Gomez’s body lay in a muddy pool, crushed almost beyond recognition. But one hand was flung outward and lay open on the ground. And next to her hand lay the white ceramic marker.
It was cracked open, its electronic innards exposed.
Chris picked it up. The ceramic fell apart in his hands, bits of white and silver fluttering to the ground, falling into the muddy pool. And in that moment, their situation was clear to him.
Their guides were both dead.
One machine was gone.
Their return marker was shattered.
Which meant they were stuck in this place. Trapped here, without guides or assistance. And with no prospect of ever getting back.
Not ever.
36:30:42
“Stand by,” a technician said. “Coming in now.”
In the rubber floor, in the center of the curved water shields, small flashes of light appeared.
Gordon glanced at Stern. “We’ll know what happened in just a minute.”
The flashes grew brighter, and a machine began to emerge above the rubber. It was about two feet high when Gordon said, “Goddamn it! That guy is nothing but trouble.”
Stern said something, but Gordon paid no attention. He saw Baretto sitting there, propped up against a bar, clearly dead. The machine reached full size. He saw the pistol in his hand. He knew of course what had happened. Even though Kramer had specifically warned Baretto, the son of a bitch had taken modern weapons back with him. So of course Gomez sent him back, and—
A small dark object rolled out onto the floor.
“What’s that?” Stern said.
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, staring at the screens. “It almost looks like a gre—”
The explosion flashed in the transit room, blooming white on the video screens, washing everything out. Inside the control room, the sound was oddly distorted, more like a burst of static. The transit room was immediately filled with pale smoke.
“Shit,” Gordon said. He banged his fist down on the console.
The technicians in the transit room were screaming. One man’s face was covered with blood. In the next moment, the man was swept off his feet in the rush of water as the shields collapsed, shattered by grenade fragments. Water three feet deep sloshed back and forth like surf. But almost immediately, it began to drain out, leaving the newly bare floor hissing and steaming.
“It’s the cells,” Gordon said. “They’ve leaked hydrofluoric acid.”
Obscured by smoke, figures in gas masks were running into the room, helping the injured technicians. Overhead beams began to crash down, shattering the remaining water shields. Other beams smashed down into the center of the floor.
In the control room, someone gave a gas mask to Gordon, and another to Stern. Gordon pulled his on.
“We have to go now,” he said. “The air is contaminated.”
Stern was staring at the screens. Through the smoke, he could see the other machines shattered, toppled over, leaking steam and pale green gas. There was only one still standing, off to one side, and as he watched, a connecting beam crashed down on it, crumpling it.
“There are no more machines,” Stern said. “Does this mean—”
“Yes,” Gordon said. “For now, I’m afraid your friends are on their own.”
36:30:00
“Just take it easy, Chris,” Marek said.
“Take it easy? Take it easy?” Chris was almost shouting. “Look at it, for Christ’s sake, André—her marker’s trashed. We have no marker. Which means we have no way to get home. Which means we are totally screwed, André. And you want me to take it easy?”
“That’s right, Chris,” Marek said, his voice very quiet, very steady. “That’s what I want. I want you to take it easy, please. I want you to pull yourself together.”
“Why the hell should I?” Chris said. “For what? Face the facts, André: we’re all going to get killed here. You know that, don’t you? We’re going to get goddamn killed. And there is no way out of here.”
“Yes, there is.”
“I mean, we don’t even have any food, we don’t have goddamn anything, we’re stuck in this—this shithole, without a goddamn paddle, and—” He stopped and turned toward Marek. “What did you say?”
“I said, there’s a way out.”
“How?”
“You’re not thinking. The other machine has gone back. To New Mexico.”
“So?”
“They’ll see his condition—”
“Dead, André. They’ll see he’s dead.”
“The point is, they’ll know something is wrong. And they will come for us. They’ll send another machine to get us,” Marek said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they will.” Marek turned and started down the hill.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Kate. We have to keep together.”
“I’m going to stay right here.”
“As you like. Just as long as you don’t leave.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”
Chris pointed to the ground in front of him. “This is exactly where the machine arrived before. And that’s where I’m staying.”
Marek trotted off, disappearing around the curve in the path. Chris was alone. Almost immediately, he wondered if he ought to run and catch up with Marek. Maybe it was better not to be alone. Stay together, as Marek had said.
He took a couple of steps down the path after Marek, then stopped. No, he thought. He’d said he would stay where he was. He stood in the path, trying to slow his breathing.
Looking down, he saw he was standing on Gomez’s hand. He stepped quickly away. He walked a few yards back up the path, trying to find a spot where he could no longer see the body. His breathing slowed still more. He was able to think things over. Marek was right, he decided. They would send another machine, and probably very soon. Would it land right here? Was this a known spot for landings? Or would it be somewhere in the general area?
In either case, Chris felt certain he should stay exactly where he was.
He looked down the path, toward where Marek had gone. Where was Kate now? Probably some distance down the path. Couple of hundred yards, maybe more.
Jesus, he wanted to go home.
Then, in the woods to his right, he heard a crashing sound.
Someone was approaching.
He tensed, aware that he had no weapon. Then he remembered his pack, which was tied to his belt, beneath his clothes. He had that gas canister. It was better than nothing. He fumbled, lifting his overshirt, searching for the—
“Ssss.”
He turned.
It was the teenage boy, coming out of the woods. His face was smooth and beardless; he couldn’t be more than twelve, Chris realized. The boy whispered, “Arkith. Thou. Earwashmann.”
Chris frowned, not understanding, but an instant later he heard a tinny voice inside his ear: “Hey. You. Irishman.” The earpiece was translating, he realized.
“What?” he said.
“Coumen hastealey.” In his ear he heard, “Come quickly.”
The boy was beckoning to him, tense, urgently.
“But . . .”
“Come. Sir Guy will soon realize he has lost the trail. Then he will return to find it again.”
“But . . .”
“You cannot stay here. He will kill you. Come!”
“But . . .” Chris gestured helplessly toward the path where Marek had gone.
“Your manservant will find you. Come!”
Now he heard the distant rumble of horses’ hooves, rapidly growing louder.
“Are you dumb?” the boy asked, staring at him. “Come!”
The rumble was closer.
Chris stood frozen in place, not certain what to do.
The boy lost patience. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned and ran off through the forest. He immediately vanished in dense undergrowth.
Chris stood alone on the trail. He looked down the path. He didn’t see Marek. He looked up the path, toward the sound of the approaching horses. His heart was pounding again.
He had to decide. Now.
“I’m coming!” he shouted to the boy.
Then he turned and ran into the woods.
:
Kate sat on a fallen tree, touching her head gingerly, her wig askew. There was blood on her fingertips.
“Are you hurt?” Marek said as he came up to her.
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me see.”
Lifting the wig away, Marek saw matted blood and a three-inch gash across the scalp. The wound was no longer bleeding freely; the blood had begun to coagulate against the mesh of the wig. The injury deserved sutures, but she would be all right without them.
“You’ll survive.” He pushed the wig back down on her head.
She said, “What happened?”
“Those other two are dead. It’s just us now. Chris is a little panicked.”
“Chris is a little panicked.” She nodded, as if she had expected it. “Then we better go get him.”
They started up the path. As they walked, Kate said, “What about the markers?”
“The guy went back, and he took his. Gomez’s body was trampled, her marker was destroyed.”
“What about the other one?” Kate said.
“What other one?”
“She had a spare.”
“How do you know?”
“She said so. Don’t you remember? When she came back from that reconnaissance trip, or whatever it was, she said that everything was fine and that we should hurry up and get ready. And she said, ‘I’m going to go burn the spare.’ Or something like that.”
Marek frowned.
“It makes sense there would be a spare,” Kate said.
“Well, Chris will be glad to hear it,” Marek said. They walked around the final curve. Then they stopped and stared.
Chris was gone.
:
Plunging through the undergrowth, ignoring the brambles that scratched his legs and plucked at his hose, Chris Hughes at last glimpsed the boy running, fifty yards ahead. But the boy did not heed him, did not stop, but continued to run forward. He was heading toward the village. Chris struggled to keep up. He kept running.
Behind on the trail, he heard the horses stamping and snorting, and the shouts of the men. He heard one cry, “In the wood!” and another answered with a curse. But off the trail, the ground was densely covered. Chris had to scramble over fallen trees, rotting trunks, snapped branches as thick as his thigh, dense patches of bramble. Was this ground too difficult for horses? Would they dismount? Would they give up? Or would they chase?
Hell, they would chase.
He kept running. He was in a boggy area now. He pushed through the waist-high plants with their skunklike smell, slipped in mud that grew deeper with each step. He heard the sound of his panting breath, and the suck and slap of his feet in the mud.
But he didn’t hear anyone behind him.
Soon the footing was dry again, and he was able to run faster. Now the boy was only ten paces ahead of him, still going fast. Chris was panting, struggling to keep up, but he held his own.
He ran on. There was a crackling in his left ear. “Chris.”
It was Marek.
“Chris, where are you?”
How did he answer? Was there a microphone? Then he remembered they’d said something about bone conduction. He said aloud, “I’m . . . I’m running. . ..”
“I hear that. Where are you running?”
“The boy . . . the village . . .”
“You’re going to the village?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“You think so? Chris, where are you?”
And then, behind him, Chris heard a crashing, the shouts of men, and the whinny of horses.
The riders were coming after him. And he had left a trail of snapped branches and muddy footprints. It would be easy to follow.
Shit.
Chris ran harder, pushing himself to the limit. And suddenly he realized the young boy was no longer visible ahead.
He stopped, gasping for breath, and spun around in a circle. Looking—
Gone.
The boy had vanished.
Chris was alone
in the forest.
And the riders were coming.
:
On the muddy path overlooking the monastery, Marek and Kate stood listening to their earpieces. There was silence now; Kate clapped her hand over her ear to hear better. “I don’t get anything.”
“He may be out of range,” Marek said.
“Why is he going to the village? It sounds like he’s following that boy,” she said. “Why would he do that?”
Marek looked toward the monastery. It was no more than a ten-minute walk from where they were standing. “The Professor is probably down there right now. We could just go get him, and go home.” He kicked a tree stump irritably. “It would have been so easy.”
“Not anymore,” Kate said.
The sharp crack of static in their earpieces made them wince. They heard Chris panting again.
Marek said, “Chris. Are you there?”
“I can’t . . . can’t talk now.”
He was whispering. And he sounded scared.
:
“No, no, no!” the boy whispered, reaching down from the branches of a very large tree. He had whistled, finally taking pity on Chris as he spun in panicky circles on the ground below. And he had waved him to the tree.
Chris was now struggling to climb the tree, trying to pull himself up on the lowest branches, getting extra leverage by bracing his legs against the trunk. But the way he did it upset the boy.
“No, no! Hands! Use only the hands!” the boy whispered, exasperated. “You are dumb—look now the marks on the trunk, by your feet.”
Hanging from a branch, Chris looked down. The boy was right. There were muddy streaks, very clear on the bark of the trunk.
“By the rood, we are lost,” the boy cried, swinging over Chris’s head and dropping lightly to the ground.
“What are you doing?” Chris said.
But the boy was already running off, through the brambles, moving from tree to tree. Chris dropped back to the ground and followed.
The boy muttered irritably to himself as he inspected the branches of each tree. Apparently he wanted a very large tree with relatively low branches; none suited him. The sound of the riders was growing louder.
Soon they had traveled a hundred yards or more, into an area carpeted with gnarled, scrubby ground pines. It was more exposed and sunnier here because there were fewer trees to his right, and then Chris saw they were running near the edge of a cliff that overlooked the town and the river. The boy darted away from the sunlight, back into the darker forest. Almost at once, he found a tree he liked, and signaled Chris to come forward. “You go first. And no feet!”
Timeline Page 19
