Even Heming’s injury seemed a long time ago, and it had happened only the previous day. Beryl hoped Heming had been able to hobble somewhere far enough into the woods that he wouldn’t be easily discoverable, but considering he had been nearly unable to move the day before, she doubted he could have gotten very far.
As she looked down the path they had cut through the woods, Beryl saw something move. She couldn’t see what it was, but it definitely rustled the leaves in a manner that was not wind. Beryl focused, trying to see what it was.
If it was something that could kill them, she and Vlad were definitely going to be easy snacks for the creature.
Then, something in the jungle whistled, from the area of the path. It was definitely not a bird or an insect—at least, it wasn’t any sort of bird or insect that Beryl was familiar with. The whistle was recognizable, but not as a bird or insect.
It sounded like a person whistling for a dog.
“What the hell is that?” Wolf asked no one in particular, hearing the same whistle. When none of the Civitians answered him, Wolf turned to Beryl and Vlad. “You two. You’re used to the woods. What was that?”
“It sounded like a twit to me,” Vlad said, the bird name clearly meant to insult Wolf; even the Civitians would know Vlad wasn’t giving him proper names for birds. “Or maybe a twat.”
Wolf started to raise an arm to slap Vlad, but as he did, something behind Beryl and Vlad caught his attention.
Beryl turned in time to see something fast come darting across the clearing, headed from the nose area of the Bird toward the direction of the path and the whistling noise. The creature hurtled through the clearing at what seemed to be its top speed.
Watching it, Beryl at first couldn’t believe her eyes. She knew exactly what that creature was, and it had almost certainly not come from Libertas.
It was a dog.
Not just that, it was a dog she knew better than any other.
Camp.
But it couldn’t be. Camp was dead. The Civitians had killed him.
As he ran past them, the dog looked toward them, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. If dogs could smile, this one was definitely doing just that.
Beryl realized her own mouth had formed into a huge smile and there were happy tears pooling in her eyes. She didn’t know how the dog was still alive, but he was. It took all the effort she could muster not to call out Camp’s name and distract the dog who was clearly part of some sort of plan.
“What the hell is that?” Wolf said, repeating his earlier line, although this time he seemed to know exactly what he was seeing. Two of the Civitians pulled out guns and took shots at the dog as he disappeared down the path the Columbinians had carved through the woods, but neither shot hit its mark. Camp vanished in the foliage and curves of the path.
Wolf turned to the Civitians and moved so he was right next to Quince. The big man was several inches taller than Wolf and did not seem intimidated. Even compared to the well-muscled Wolf, Quince was massive. “I thought I told you to kill that dog.”
Quince looked down at Wolf. “Quince no kill dog. Dog good.”
With the big man’s words, Beryl suddenly—and finally—realized exactly who the giant man reminded her of.
“Clem,” she said quietly, but loud enough that Vlad could hear her.
“Oh my God, you’re right,” he replied in an equally quiet voice.
Beryl looked at the big man staring down the smaller leader of the Civitians, and the resemblance between he and Clem was uncanny. Not in size; Clem was just a ten-year old kid who was anything but physically imposing. In so much else, though, the two were incredibly similar. She saw it in the way the two moved, slowly and as if they were thinking about every step they took and move they made. So too were they alike in the similar manner in which they spoke—or rather, hardly spoke. When they did, neither used full sentences, though they still managed to get their points across.
Back on Columbina, Clem had loved all the dogs and the dogs had all loved him in return They didn’t love him only because he always carried treats for them, but because they seemed to sense that there was not a mean bone in the kid’s body.
More importantly, all the dogs seemed to sense that the boy was in need of their protection.
As Beryl watched the big man stare down Wolf, she realized that Camp was still alive because of him. She didn’t know how he had managed to save her dog, but he had. Quince couldn’t hurt a dog, and Beryl suspected he was unlikely to hurt any of them, either. At least, he wasn’t going to hurt any of them without a good reason.
Wolf fumed at the large man. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, but I’ll think of something. And it won’t be pleasant.”
Quince did not look overly worried by Wolf’s statement. He might not have understood all of the words, but there was no doubt about the feelings behind it. The big man smiled, as if he was OK with getting in trouble for letting the dog live. Either that, Beryl thought, or the big man knew there was very little Wolf could—or would—do to hurt him.
Something about the slight deference Wolf gave Quince suggested to Beryl that there was some unknown history between the two that neither she nor Vlad knew anything about.
“Oly, you stay with Quince and these two,” Wolf said, indicating he meant Vlad and Beryl with his gun. “If either of them give you any trouble, do not hesitate to take them out. I’d rather have to search under every rock on this damn planet to find Whit than to have them escape and find him before us.”
Oly smiled. “I think I can handle that.”
“And keep an eye on Quince. If you can come up with any good punishments for him disobeying my order, I want to hear about it.”
Oly looked the big man up and down, as if she had been waiting for this chance for a long time. “I think I might be able to come up with some very, very good ideas.”
“Good,” Wolf said. “The rest of you, come with me. If these Columbinians are dumb enough to stick around here, they are dumb enough to get themselves killed.”
“Did you hear that?” Wolf shouted into the woods. “You Columbinians better not be dumb enough to have stuck around here!”
“Oh, we’re definitely that dumb!” A voice replied. It was Iris, coming from somewhere down the path they had cut through the woods.
In response, several of the Civitians took random shots in the general direction of the voice. If they hit anything, it sure didn’t sound like it from where Beryl stood.
“This is going to be fun,” Wolf said, smiling and looking like someone supremely confident in what he was about to do. “Come on. Let’s go find us some Columbinians.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“You know, Iris, you’ve come up with some dumb ideas since I’ve known you, but I’m pretty sure this one is the dumbest of them all. And it is definitely the plan most likely to get one or all of us killed.” Heming tied the last rope to a tree, following the directions of Iris.
“Be that as it may, I’m the only one who came up with any plan better than ‘try to shoot everyone else before they shoot us.’” Iris looked over what Heming had done. When she didn’t comment or ask him to change anything, he figured it was OK.
Somewhere nearby, Heming knew Fawn had taken Camp the other side of the clearing where the Bird had landed, and where, presumably, Beryl and Vlad were still being held. If they were still alive and on or near the Bird, there were about a thousand things that could easily go wrong with the plan Iris had come up with that would result in one or both of their deaths. It was the sort of plan that could go wrong in many ways, but could only go right in a single one. Heming was fairly confident the odds suggested they were not going to succeed, though he was not going to bother to ask Iris exactly what those odds would be.
Then again, it wasn’t the first time he had been in a situation where there were far more things that could go wrong than could go right.
“OK, follow me. And be quiet,” Iris said, starti
ng back down the path to the clearing.
Heming did as told, following Iris for a few minutes down the path before she abandoned it for the thicker woods on either side of it. The jungle had already nearly reclaimed the path they had cut, though, so it was not as big a difference being on the path as Heming had expected when they were in the thicker brush. Iris turned to Heming a few steps off of the path and held her finger to her mouth, telling him to be quiet.
Heming listened. Not too far away, he could make out voices, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He didn’t have any doubt as to who the voices belonged to.
“Oh, one more thing,” Iris whispered, almost inaudibly. “If they shoot, don’t shoot back.”
“Wait, wait. Are you suggesting that we let ourselves get shot as part of this plan?” Heming whispered back, though far louder than Iris had spoken to him.
“Shh! No, I am not suggesting you get shot as part of this plan. But if you get overly excited and shoot, none of the Civitians are going to get far enough down the trail for our plan to work.”
“So you are suggesting I get shot as part of this plan, at least if the alternative is shooting my own weapon. This plan is even worse than I thought.”
“Your attitude isn’t helping.”
“I’m not sure your plan is helping, either. Unless it’s helping us get killed.”
“I’m going to ignore that comment,” Iris said. “Are you ready?”
Heming nodded, even though he didn’t feel at all ready. It wasn’t like he had a choice. It wasn’t like any of them had a choice. This was the only plan they had.
Iris took a deep breath, then let out a two note whistle.
To Heming, it sounded just like the whistle Beryl used to call Camp when he had wandered off back on Columbina. Heming immediately realized that was the point—on the other side of the clearing, Fawn would be in the woods with Camp. The hope was that when the dog heard the whistle, he would come running back to Iris through the clearing, even without his translator to remind him what they wanted of him. If they were lucky, the Civitians would see Camp and follow him, hoping to find the Columbinians they had yet to capture in the woods where they would, in theory kill them.
Good God, this is quite possibly the worst plan anyone has ever come up with, Heming thought again.
He couldn’t believe their plan was based entirely on having the Civitians follow Camp. If they didn’t—well, that would be the end of the plan. If they weren’t outside of the Bird to see Camp, that would be the end of the plan. If Camp got shot by one of them as he ran by them, that would be the end of the plan. If they decided the plan was a trap, that would be the end of the plan.
And even if the Civitians did see Camp, the next part of the plan required the Civitians to try to find and kill them. After all, why else would they want to follow the dog into the woods?
Heming really wished their plan involved something other than attempting to trick others into trying to kill them.
He really should have stayed on Columbina.
Iris let out the whistle a second time.
A few seconds later, Heming heard a commotion coming from where he had heard the voices earlier. Then, two shots.
Heming hoped the dog had made it through the clearing.
And that the Civitians hadn’t discovered Fawn on the other side of the clearing.
He hadn’t even thought of what could go wrong for Fawn.
It probably wasn’t a good thing when the person closest to the most obvious danger was the person you were least worried about. Particularly when that person was also the worst shot and least able to defend herself.
Heming decided he should stop trying to think about things that could go wrong. Not that there were many other things to think about. His life was about to either be very short, or he was about to become one of the luckiest people in the known universe. If only there had been something to gamble on.
Heming heard something hurtling through the woods, coming in fast and low to the ground. Then, Camp came out of the jungle, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and looking very pleased with himself.
“Good boy,” Heming said, patting the dog’s head as he stopped and jumped on Heming and Iris. At least the first part of the plan had gone alright.
“Excellent,” Iris looked pleased—almost as if she hadn’t expected even the beginning of the plan to work. Heming held in his thoughts on that point, though it took some willpower. “OK, Heming, you stay here.”
“What?” This was not part of the plan he had been told. The plan he had been told involved letting the Civitians pass them by. He and Iris would then follow them down the path, where, in theory, the traps they had set would spring and Iris’s crazy plan would succeed.
“Change in plans. You stick with the plan we made, and I’m going to head down the path.”
“Apparently I’m the only one here who sees that this is the worst possible idea. You do realize we’re planning on the Civitians coming down that path at any moment. If they see you, they’re definitely going to shoot you.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been shot,” Iris said with a touch of indignation. It was true; Iris had been shot at least twice in Heming’s memory back on Columbina.
That Heming had been the person who had shot her one of those times had definitely not been forgotten.
But back on Columbina, Iris constantly uploaded her memory and experiences to her servers. All she had to do there was reload, and she would be back to normal within minutes of transferring her necessary computing and knowledge to her secondary physical presence. Here, with the communications being shut down, she would lose everything that had happened on Libertas. It would be like she had blacked out for days.
Not to mention that, if this crazy plan worked despite Iris getting shot, it would mean that they would be without Iris entirely, at least until they could get back to Rediviva and Iris’ backup physical copy of herself.
“Besides, if I get shot, I lose a few days’ worth of memories, many of which I would be OK not having. If you get shot, you are well and truly screwed and dead.” Heming couldn’t argue with that. “Keep Camp here. Once the Civitians come through, give them a minute or two and then follow close enough so that you can hear them, but not so close that you can see them. Remember, if you can see them, they can see you.”
“Have I mentioned this is the worst plan you’ve ever had?” Iris ignored Heming’s last comment.
It may have been an awful plan, but it was all that they had.
As Iris disappeared down the path, Heming spoke to Iris as loud as he dared.
“Good luck, Iris.”
The last thing Heming saw as she disappeared into the woods was her giving him a thumbs up sign.
He only wished he was so optimistic.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Civitians were hardly out of Vlad’s sight when Oly took the butt of her gun and rammed it straight into the back of Quince’s right knee.
Before the big man could even so much as cry out in pain, Oly slammed the butt of her gun into the back of his left knee, the popping sound suggesting that whatever she had done to it, it was not something that was either pleasant or that could be fixed quickly and easily.
Quince crumpled to the ground. Vlad couldn’t believe the man was not in pain, but he did not cry out. Instead, he reached out from where he was lying on his side, attempting to grab Oly. For the first time since they had met him, the giant man seemed mad at something.
“Good luck with that, moron,” Oly said, dancing away from the flailing man.
“You leave him alone,” Beryl said. Vlad wished she hadn’t spoken. The last thing either of them needed was to get Oly’s attention when she was focused on someone else. She was not the sort of person you wanted paying attention to you.
Oly moved so she was well outside Quince’s reach and spat at him, hitting him in the shoulder. Vlad thought she looked disappointed she hadn’t hit him in the fac
e. “Leave him alone or what?”
Vlad definitely wished Beryl hadn’t said anything.
Oly moved closer to where Beryl stood. Beryl didn’t say anything in reply, which was something of a temporary relief to Vlad, particularly because he knew she would have half a dozen potential replies ready to go. Taking a step closer to Beryl, Oly put her gun in its holster and drew the large knife out of the sheath on her back.
Oly took the last steps toward Beryl, and put the knife blade up to Beryl’s chin, poking its tip into the bottom of her chin. A small bit of blood trickled out, drawing a slim, red line down the blade of the knife. “Did you hear me? Leave him alone, or what?”
“Or else this,” Vlad heard a familiar female voice, and he watched as Oly turned just in time to see a large tree branch slam into her face. Oly dropped the knife and fell to the ground. The blow had been heavy enough to stun her, but not heavy enough to knock her out.
Standing above Oly stood Fawn.
In her hands, she held a large branch. Oly looked stunned, but Fawn looked shocked at what she had just done. Oly groaned, clearly in pain. However, she still had enough wherewithal to reach for her gun.
Vlad realized Fawn was too surprised at what she had just accomplished to realize that she was in danger. He had no doubt Oly would shoot Fawn without a second thought. Vlad hoped he had enough time, and took the four steps from where he stood toward where Oly laid on the ground. He drew his foot back and slammed it into Oly’s arm as she aimed the gun at Fawn.
Combined with the hands behind his back, the force of the blow threw Vlad off balance, and he fell to the ground. Oly’s gun went off and Fawn screamed, but the shot flew past her, harmlessly heading toward the sky and woods behind her. Unfortunately, the kick had not dislodged the gun from Oly’s hand, and once again she aimed it. This time, though, she pointed it not at Fawn but at Beryl, who was still standing above her.
Lying on the ground, Vlad knew he did not have an angle on Oly to do anything to stop her from shooting Beryl. Beryl didn’t have an option either—as Oly raised the gun, it wasn’t as if Beryl could run away. And she was too far away to attempt to fight back. By the time she did, Oly would have gotten off a shot. At that distance, unless something interrupted it, there was little to no chance Oly would miss her shot.
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