Rift (67 page)

He couldn’t determine if Salidifor was present. This orthong lord was in charge of the operation, and Reeve desperately needed to talk to him. Salidifor—with help from Nerys—had questioned Reeve extensively about the Stationers and their defenses. But for his own part, Salidifor would reveal little, promise little. There would be lives lost—Reeve had resigned himself to that—but they must take prisoners, Reeve had pleaded. When Nerys translated that, Salidifor hadn’t answered. At Reeve’s protests, Nerys only shrugged, saying as she had before that the orthong did what they pleased.

The orthong giant next to him shifted uncomfortably away from Reeve after a veering of the craft tipped them ever so slightly together. Reeve shared the fellow’s reluctance to touch, but here they were cheek by jowl, with not much room for personal niceties.

He had a sinking feeling that he was being exploited by the orthong, that they had no intention of honoring any agreements. The whole thing was out of control, heading toward what Reeve feared was disaster. Nerys put great store in Salidifor, trusting him. But Reeve didn’t even trust Nerys. He didn’t entirely trust that Nerys’ translations were without prejudice. Or that she would speak favorably for the Stationers in any way. But then, why would she? Reeve himself had given them over for slaughter.

They had arrived. The craft touched down so lightly he only realized they had landed when the side of the ship clanged open.

As the orthong poured out, Reeve followed, noting that the warriors simply hopped down the ten-foot drop to the ground and were already loping away. He swung himself down and hurried to catch up, keeping a watch for Nerys. Vapors boiled around them, making it impossible to judge their position, but he spotted Nerys and forced his way through knots of orthong to her side.

“Nerys,” he said, taking her by the elbow and forcing her to look at him, “I don’t want a bloodbath. We just need to prevent them, not massacre them.”

She regarded him with irritation, one hand resting on her belly. It seemed to Reeve that her pregnancy had advanced greatly even in the two days he had been in her company.

“You’ve told him that,” Reeve said, hoping it was true. “Impress it on him.”

“I have,” she said. Around her, in eerie silence, the orthong were clustering in groups and handing out weapons.

Reeve searched her face. Surely she wouldn’t take out some perverse revenge on the Stationers. But once she had made clear that she hated “zerters,” and now she had them in the palm of her hand.

“Where is the dome?” he asked her.

“Up on the ridge.” Noting his expression, she said: “We flew over it. It was abandoned. We’re in the valley.”

It didn’t need saying where the Stationers were now. Reeve felt the news in his chest, pushing his breath back into his body. No wonder the orthong had mobilized so fast.

A warrior approached them, and by his aspect of authority, it was Lord Salidifor.

Reeve signed to him,

Tufts of mists clung to Salidifor and drifted away in an intermittent breeze. The orthong regarded him with that maddening immobility.

Reeve thought the creature said.

“Will you kill a Stationer if you must?” Nerys translated, loosely enough.

He hesitated, but knew his answer. he signed to the lord.

Salidifor handed him a gun as tall as Reeve himself. He had three minutes to learn how it worked before the entire company was racing over the cooled black lava flows of the valley floor, into a mist so thick the only thing Reeve could see before him was Nerys’ dark hair.

2

Mitya crouched, staring into a small pool surrounded by orange oxidized rock. Stained jade green from the iron chloride suffusing the water, his reflection was a face trapped in a poison world. Pulling his mind back
to the task at hand, Mitya stood and glanced once more at what he’d hidden among the rocks. He had rigged everything the best he could, given that there was no time to indulge his urge to check and double-check. He could hear the occasional shouts from the camp, signaling the final adjustments to the cableway over the vent.

It was time. A microearthquake rumbled beneath his feet, synchronized with his own trembling. He would march into camp, make his excuses, then wait for the right moment and tell them everything. They might just stare at him, or kill him outright. He couldn’t stop trembling. Finally he walked toward the voices.

Theo, guarding the perimeter, almost shot him. But Mitya called out his name in time, and the man let him through. Mitya ignored his questions and walked straight into the middle of the makeshift camp.

Liam Roarke saw him first.

“Mitya, by the Lord!” Roarke cocked his head. “Where the hell have you been?”

Jess and Gudrun stopped at their tasks and stared, as did several others.

“Tenzin!” Roarke shouted. “Look who dragged himself in!”

Tenzin Tsamchoe was up a small embankment of rock, at the base of the nearest cable tower. He looked down and waved.

But Mitya’s arrival was only a minor turbulence in this scene, with crew hauling materials from crates and hastening in all directions under the shouted orders of Val Cody. In the near distance stood Captain Bonhert, intent on his handheld display. Everyone had a gun at the hip, and most of the crew were on perimeter duty, watching for the orthong raid they had expected all this time. Mitya wondered which ones were the chosen ten. He didn’t doubt that Roarke and Cody were among them.

“Where the hell were you?” Roarke asked him.

“Fell asleep,” Mitya said, hoping the questions would go no further.

“Nearly slept to death then,” Roarke said, shaking his head. Moving on to other tasks, he left Mitya peering at the cableway, judging its readiness.

Through the belching steam and gases of the roaring vent, Mitya noted that both towers were in place and cables suspended between them, with the giant truck ready at the far tower but resting on the ground prior to being hoisted into place. Crew were muscling the geo cannon into the truck with the help of a great winch. This activity was obscured by the intervening vent and its bilious outpourings. But it was clear they were closing in on their goal.

One problem Mitya had not foreseen was the noise. Besides the rumblings of magma under their feet, the roar of the vent itself was formidable. It would mean people would have to stop running around and pay attention in order to hear what they had to.

He would have to make them pay attention, thereby blowing his cover.

From the vent, occasional lava fountains spewed small shards of quickly frozen basalt that fell in a crystal rain, prickling his face. When Mitya swallowed it felt like his trachea was shredding. He stood straight, gathering his courage. Any moment they could have the truck up and running on the cable.

Captain Bonhert was standing with Marie, turning around as she pointed out Mitya. The Captain’s face flushed with pleasure, and he came striding over.

Mitya knew that Bonhert would read him like a book.

It was time to speak up.

3

Stumbling on the irregular terrain, Reeve picked himself up and ran on. The orthong, with their long strides, had left him behind. In truth he could barely keep up with Nerys, so weakened he still was. But the sheer panic of their late arrival kept him going, feeding adrenaline to limbs that hurt in every joint.

He saw shapes in the fog, spindly trees that looked like crucified men, rock outcroppings in the shape of hulking insects. Once, he thought he saw Spar, sword drawn, parrying an orthong.

Reeve heard Spar say:
You see a group of thong, boy, kiss your behind good-bye
.

I know, Spar, I know. But I have to trust them, you see?

Don’t see nothin’, boy, but a young fellow gettin’ led around by the nose
. Spar shook his head.
Least you got yourself a good sword. Maybe you ain’t forgot everythin’ I taught you
.

No, I’ll never forget, Spar, never.

When he looked again, there was nothing.

He ran on.

In the distance, he heard a noise. A giant’s voice, spreading through the mist.

4