by Amy Gallow
They reached the schooner and translated to a hover two hundred feet above the water, the aircraft buffeted by wind gusts ricocheting of the cliff. The boat lay on her side, water lapping the edge of her deck and her people in a crowd on the high side. Coils of rope were lashed to the foot of each mast and a figure she recognized as the skipper, who'd coached her in singing a bawdy song on the first night, was waving his arms.
Jack flicked a switch on the control panel and an external speaker gave a boom of sound. “I'm lowering a cable. Attach it to the mainmast rope and I'll lift it to the cliff top.” A wave acknowledged his instruction and a half-dozen figure broke from the crowd and slithered down the deck.
"Out of your harness. There's a winch panel below the galley. Open it and the winch will deploy beneath the aircraft giving you a clear line of sight. The controls are clearly marked with symbols. Lower the hook until it brushes the water and discharges any static build-up, then hold it at that and I'll maneuver to put it in the right place.” His confidence in her ability gave Rachael the boost to obey, yet the next hour tried her nerve to the utmost as Jack achieved feats of airmanship she would have thought impossible.
At the end, twin cables linked the schooner to the cliff top, preventing any increase in her list and a third cable from her stern supported a breeches buoy transfer system ferrying passengers to the cliff top. Two Spanish windlasses were being rigged to the supporting cables on the cliff top to improve the ship's condition and Rachael was certain she recognized Peter and Karrel, Jack's father, leading the work there.
"The family was on the way home,” Jack said. “They heard what was happening and detoured to lend a hand. Jean-Paul and the girls are dealing with the injured."
Caught up in the tempo of events, Rachael didn't question the aptness of his comment, but a small part of her mind added it to her store of oddities.
"There's a clear spot two hundred yards back.” Jack pointed. “We'll land and check how things are going."
"Yes. I might be able to help."
"They'll be pleased to see you. Your work on the winch attracted attention."
Jack's original intention of maneuvering the hook with the flyer alone had proved impossible and they'd had to work together in taking up the strain more times than not. It had been exhausting, requiring absolute concentration and instant communication, but oddly exhilarating and, at the same time, imbued with the strongest sense of déjà vu—as if she'd worked in tandem like this before.
"Strap in for landing.” He grinned at her. “It will be rougher than it looks."
She grinned back. “Another of your promises?"
"You should complain to the authorities."
"You are the authorities."
"Your complaint is noted."
They both laughed, pleased with their success and themselves.
Everyone who could be spared from the work of attending the injured or securing the schooner rushed towards the flyer as soon as it landed, greeting them not as President and Ambassador, but as personal heroes, reposing in them a trust Rachael knew she would never willingly betray. Her days with the Federation were numbered. Given the choice between these people and the Federation, she must choose them.
She felt herself lifted and borne on willing shoulders.
"Food,” someone called.
"Wine,” another answered.
"Gather wood for a fire. The sailing master says his ship is lightened enough. We'll build a wind break and wait till the high tide comes to save the schooner,” the mayor of the village decided. “You three,” he selected three teenage boys. “Run back to the village and have them bring carts for the injured. Load all the spare food. We'll feast the night away to celebrate the deliverance of our children. Hurry."
The boys fled, cheered on as they ran.
"Let them down,” he instructed the four carrying Rachael and Jack. “I want to thank them for my grandchildren's lives."
Rachael's feet no sooner hit the ground than she found herself enveloped in a hug threatening to cave her ribs. She had no choice but to give up breathing until it was over and the mayor moved on to Jack.
"Ask anything of me and it is yours."
Rachael felt his sincerity and her throat tightened, making speech impossible. All she could do was nod, the warm tide of gratitude flowing from everyone overwhelming her.
"My friends,” Jack spoke, commanding silence by doing so. “We feel fortunate to have been of service, but nothing could have been achieved without everyone doing what was necessary. You answered the call, just as we did. If we are heroes, so are you. Always remember. Together, we can perform miracles."
A roar of approval answered him.
"He's learning.” Peter was at her side. “You did well.” His eyes probed hers. “This hero business is over-rated. Drink this.” He handed her a raffia wrapped bottle. “It's a bit raw at the edges, but it will soothe your throat."
Rachael took the bottle, suddenly aware of how dry her throat was, and drank deeply. The wine was rich, the bite of the alcohol concealed until it reached her stomach, generating the warmth to dispel the after-effects of her fear.
"Thank you,” she said, about to hand it back.
"Keep it,” Peter said. “I've got one of my own and one for my grandson as well. There'll be no more flying tonight."
Jack took his bottle and drank, pausing after the first mouthful to ask, “Torred's?"
"There's a few left.” Peter said. “You can still taste the rum of his casks."
Rachael felt the warmth of their memories of a long-dead friend, picturing a stocky dark-haired seaman with a merry smile and joined them in a silent toast. The wine was strong and her stomach empty, inducing the strangest thoughts.
How could she know what Torred looked like ... or Samara, his wife, Dael's last host?
She looked around. A dozen people seemed to be speaking at once, but none of their lips moved. She knew what Dael, Gabrielle and Anneke were doing without seeing them and they were aware of her thoughts.
A terrifying idea slipped into her mind, connecting the incidents of the day into an unbelievable whole...
Have another drink, Dael suggested. It will help.
"I will,” Rachael spoke aloud, but neither Jack nor Peter was surprised. They too were sharing her thoughts.
"Dael's right,” Peter said. “She usually is."
I'll remember that. Dael's thought was full of laughter and love.
The enormity sank in to Rachael's mind. She was either insane or had become telepathic, sensing other thoughts and communicating the same way. Every event of the day explained. She'd been reading thoughts as well as expressions without realizing it.
What have you done to me? she demanded, turning to face Jack.
Nothing. You are as you always were. Anneke recognized it on Thanatos without realizing it.
Thanatos? Rachael shuddered as she remembered the scaffold and the rest came rolling back.
Chapter Six
Anneke watched the petty tyrant of Valentia's men-at-arms arranging the dozen Federation agents on an improvised scaffold, eleven of them with a noose already around their necks. Dusk was falling and the flaring pine torches gave the scene a surreal light. Peter had forbidden direct intervention, but she couldn't stand idle while these fools died. She liked this world, had made friends here. Yet, to involve them would trigger a bloodbath. She had to depend on the Federation responding in time, even if it meant doing something to buy them time.
The redhead at the far end understood. She was resisting furiously, four men-at-arms inadequate to the task of restraining her. One was down already, both hands clutching a part of his anatomy he wouldn't have willing offered as the target for a full-blooded kick. Another bled profusely from a torn ear, most of the earlobe bitten off.
The sergeant swore foully, damning the girl and the men-at-arms equally as he strode down the line and rapped the girl behind the ear with the handle of his dagger, dropping her in an uncons
cious heap at the men's feet. “Lay her aside. We'll hang her later."
Anneke used the distraction to get closer. The Federation rescue party was near. She needed to be on the opposite side of the group when they arrived, ready to intervene.
"Are you ready?” The sergeant remained by the unconscious girl, looking back along the line, his sword raised to give the signal.
"Wait. I want to watch them dance.” Anneke's imitation of the tyrant's voice wouldn't have passed muster under normal circumstances, but, coming from behind, it was enough to turn everyone to the darkness of the forest when she hid.
They were looking the wrong way to see four dark objects lob through the air to fall at the men-at arms’ feet. Recognizing them as stun grenades, Anneke translocated two hundred feet before they exploded, shielding her eyes and turning away. The chain mail jerkins would protect the tyrant's men from harm, but they'd be stunned. None of them had ever faced explosives. She could leave the matter in Federation hands now.
The crack of the stun grenades was muted by the distance, but there was a flash grenade amongst them and it lighted the evening sky revealing the approach of at least fifty more men-at-arms. Fortunately, they skidded to a stop at the explosions and the Federation leader had time to release his people on the scaffold and then throw more grenades to cover his retreat. They were gone before Anneke realized the redhead was not among them.
"Damn,” she swore, translocating to the girl in time to drag her into the safety of Limbo.
"Damn.” She swore again as the girl stirred. They must be back in real space before she woke.
The river was closest and its banks were steep. She plunged them both into the water where overhanging bushes would hide them. Peter would never understand her revealing the existence of Limbo to a Federation agent.
The cold water completed the girl's revival and Anneke's hand was bitten when she tried to stifle her outcry. “Quiet, damn you, they'll hear."
"Sorry.” The girl understood. “Get these ropes off,” she whispered, turning to give Anneke access to her bound wrists. “Who are you."
"A friend."
"The others?"
"Safe.” Anneke shushed her with a finger to her lips. She could sense the approach of men-at-arms. “Squeeze under that bank and cover your face with mud. If they use lights, close your eyes. Whatever you do, don't look at them.” Anneke disciplined herself not to smile at the girl's reaction to being instructed in basic field craft by the inhabitant of a planet regressed to medieval feudalism. She had a fiery temper, this one.
The men were good at their job, worst luck, probing every bush with spears or pikes. Leaning far over the bank with raised torches to study the water. The girl should be safe, the undercut was deep here in the bend of the river, the current tugging at them, but there wasn't room for two of them.
Anneke leaned close and whispered in the girl's ear. “Stay here. You'll be safe. I'll come back for you when they move on."
A nod answered her and Anneke let the current carry her away, diving deep and slipping into the safety of Limbo as soon as she was out of the girl's sight.
"A good move.” Peter was waiting and she braced herself for a lecture. “Be careful. The Federation has trying to be smart. There'll be bloodshed. Keep yourself out of its way.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and was gone.
Anneke shook her head in amazement. Her father would never stop surprising her. She moved back to the portal into real space and watched over the redhead, scanning her thoughts to pass the time.
* * * *
Rachael was cold. Partly it was the river, but mostly it was her reaction to how close she'd come to dying on the scaffold. She'd fought more from the horror of what was happening than from the knowledge she must buy whatever time she could for the Federation to react and save them. The local girl said the others were safe but Rachael remembered nothing. There was a hard lump behind her left ear with the skin broken and her head ached abominably so someone had knocked her unconscious. The men around her had been fully occupied, she smiled at the memory, and so it was probably the sergeant. There'd have been confusion during the rescue and she must have been left for dead. Her rescuer, the local girl, must have been watching and dragged her away.
She nodded unconsciously. The girl would know the river and slip away safely. She was probably on her way home now. The men-at-arms would know her too. They were all local and had seemed reasonable until the ugly little man in charge had taken offence and ordered the Federation party hanged at the crossroads bridge as an example. The site had been used before, the materials for the scaffold in a shed beside the bridge. She had a vision of her body and those of the others hanging limply in death and shuddered.
"Over here.” She recognized the sergeant's voice and squeezed herself further under the bank, dragging the pendent roots across her face for concealment. The flare of a torch lit the water and she closed her eyes and waited. Even when clods, broken from the bank above, splashed close, she kept her eyes closed. The girl was right, eyes caught the light and destroyed concealment.
"We're wasting time,” the sergeant said. “We need to catch those bastards and ram their tricks down their throats before we hang the lot of them. The red-headed vixen will be with them. She couldn't have escaped by herself.” He paused, as if looking around for a final time. “Come on. Trumpeter, sound the Assembly and we'll get on with the real job."
The notes of a bugle followed and the noise of the men retreated, but Rachael didn't trust the sergeant. His speech had been a little too pat. She'd stay right where she was.
An hour slipped by, then another and Rachael was slipping into a half doze of hypothermia when the touch of a hand startled her awake.
"Time to go.” It was her rescuer, the local girl.
Too stiff and cold to move easily, Rachael had to be assisted into the hide coracle and she lay helpless beneath its thwart as the girl covered her with dripping fish traps, thankful for the rough blanket they wrapped around her body first.
"Don't move. They're guarding the bridge and we have to pass under it.” Rachael felt the boat surge as it entered the main current.
A shout from outside the boat froze Rachael into immobility and there was a seemingly endless conversation in the local dialect between the distant speaker and the man in the boat. It ended in laughter all round, her rescuer, the local girl, joining in, so Rachael relaxed a little as the boat bumped under the bridge and moved out of the torchlight.
"Another ten minutes and we'll get you into some dry clothes.” The girl said. “Hang in there."
Rachael mumbled a reply and slipped back into a half doze. Everything felt distant and unimportant now. She no longer felt cold and just wanted to lie there.
"What's your name?” The girl's voice was urgent. “Wake up and tell me.” Rachael felt her body prodded by something. “What's your name?” The girl repeated the question and increased the prodding.
"Rachael. It's Rachael. Leave me alone."
"Is your hair color natural? We may need to dye it?"
"S'natural.” Rachael's voice seemed oddly slurred. “Do you want me to prove it?” She giggled at the thought.
The girl chuckled, as if she understood Rachael's thought. “I'll see soon enough.” The boat rocked as the girl stood up to look around. “We can't wait any longer.” She was speaking to their companion, probably the boat owner. “Take us in over there. There's shelter enough.” Her voice turned urgent. “Rachael. How many brothers do you have?"
Rachael had begun to slip away again and she resented the question. “None of your business. They're all married."
"Good for them. How many sisters?"
"Too bloody many.” That seemed funny too and Rachael tried to laugh, but found it beyond her, mumbling to herself instead as she tried to recall their names.
The boat grounded, tilting enough to displace the fish traps above her and Rachael's mumble became a grumble. “Watch it. I'm under here."
"Not
for long.” The girl was tossing the traps onto the bank in her haste to get at Rachael. “Help me get her ashore. We need to get her into dry clothes and warm before she slips away completely."
"There's a hut in the center. Used by poachers. You'll be safe there.” The man rumbled. “I'll carry her. You tie the painter to that branch and bring the bundle of clothes."
Rachael felt herself lifted and lay cradled like a child in strong arms. She sighed and closed her eyes.
"No you don't.” The man shook her awake. “Stay with us."
He kept it up as he carried her down a narrow forest path and into a tiny clearing at the entrance to a hut cut deep into the ground, with only the earthen sod roof showing, perfect camouflage in its surroundings.
"There's dry wood over there. Make the fire small and the big trees will hide the smoke.” He was talking to the girl. Perhaps she wasn't local?
"Put her on the bed. You'd better get back to your fishing. Thank you."
"You saved our child. I could do no less.” The man lay Rachael on a bed of dried reeds. “Good luck,” he said, and was gone.
The girl stripped Rachael of her wet clothes, rubbing her dry with coarse sacking.
"Your red hair is natural,” she remarked conversationally as she wrapped her in a rug of soft fur and laid her on the bed once more. “Let's have a look at you, and then I'll light the fire and we can start warming you from the inside as well."
"What's your name? I haven't thanked you properly.” Rachael struggled to appear gracious. It felt important.
"I'm Anneke and you'd better save your thanks until I succeed."
The girl, Anneke, knelt by the bed and closed her eyes, as if in prayer, and Rachael fell prey to the oddest sensation that someone was probing and testing every fiber of her body. It wasn't unpleasant, just strange.