Several hours passed with only the musical tinkling of water falling into the large pool. A bar of concentrate eased the hunger pangs, but Bubbles would have been very glad of a hot breakfast. The cave’s damp coolness no longer seemed a comfortable refuge from the heat outside. Slowly, in tiny lapping ripples, the water rose. Each hour, Bubbles put another weight at the edge of the water. The first one now lay two centimeters under; the last, as the third hour came to an end, was hardly covered by a skim of water.
“Made it,” Raffa said, giving Bubbles an affectionate shove. Then they both heard the voices. Raffa reached out and snuffed the candle in the lantern; darkness closed around them. They dared not move, lest they trip on something and make a noise. Bubbles slipped the dark goggles back on, to find her vision just as black.
Then a ray of light flared across. . . . Someone had flashed a light inside. A man’s voice, magnified and distorted by the cave’s echoes, boomed from the entrance. “Nothing. There’s water right up to the entrance; if anyone had come inside, we’d see the marks.”
Another voice. “—got here before the rain?”
“Not likely. Nothing—no sounds, no movement—nothing on IR scan.” Bubbles blessed the thick rock that lay between them and the entrance, and the cold cave water that had covered any mark they’d left. She had thought of the hunters having dark goggles; she’d forgotten the special equipment on the rifles.
“—those weapons?”
“Nah. They’ll be basic by now—they don’t have any way to revalidate them. C’mon.” The light vanished, and the voices faded. Bubbles realized she was shaking, and tried to take deep slow breaths. What had they meant, the weapons would be “basic” by now? She reached out and found Raffa’s shoulder; Raffa grabbed her back and they hugged, both of them still trembling. For an unmeasured time they clung together, until they were both breathing normally.
“We were stupid,” Raffa murmured in Bubbles’s ear. “We didn’t even have our weapons within reach.”
“It’s so hard to believe,” Bubbles said. “I keep remembering the old camping trips: we played at chase and smuggling and capture . . . but it was just play, though we took it seriously then. Now—it’s real, but it’s hard to keep remembering that.”
“I’m going to check that rifle.” Raffa stood up and reached for it. “It can’t have a locator, or they’d have known it. Must have been something else.” Bubbles heard soft noises, Raffa handling the weapon, and then a grunt. “Ah. I see. That socket in the side must be for a computer link—probably an ID chip. That’s what they meant by validation. None of the good stuff works now—the range finder, IR scope, all that—but it’ll still fire.”
“Which means?”
“It can’t see in the dark. We have to be better. But if we avoid them completely, we won’t need them anyway.”
Bubbles had forgotten the earlier alarm, the sound of falling rocks, but when it came again, an echoing clatter and roar, she remembered. Something was in the cave with them. Her mind pictured all the large predators on the planet, even though she knew none were on the island.
“What was that?” asked Raffa. Her voice sounded shaky and breathless.
“Rocks,” Bubbles said. “I guess.” She lifted the rifle, although she had no target at all. “Maybe the water loosened something, and it just fell.”
* * *
Ronnie had found the meager cache of food and water, and a couple of swallows restored some of his wits. He couldn’t move George alone. Even if he got the vines woven the right way, dragging the travois alone would leave obvious tracks. He would have to find Petris and the others, even though that had been against his orders. He sucked at a ration bar, letting the surface coating of salt and sugar revive him, then took another swig from the safe bottle. He shouldn’t eat much, he remembered, if he was short of water.
A gust of wind stirred the trees overhead, and its warm moist hand brushed his face. If only it weren’t dark—if only his head didn’t hurt—if only he had someone to help him . . . but reality settled on his shoulders like a cloak of misery. Dark, hurt, alone; either he figured it out, or no one would.
He made his way back to George’s unconscious body in the dark, tripping more than once on unseen roots and stones. How long would the drug or poison keep George unconscious? He wished he knew more about drugs. He tried to redo the vines, in the dark, by feel, but his heart wasn’t in it. A drop of cold water flicked his hot neck, and he jumped. Then another. Now he could hear the spatter of rain, as well as the rush of wind gusts in the trees.
If it rains, he thought, if I can pull George along, the rain will wash out our tracks. He didn’t let himself think how much harder it would be to pull the travois through mud. Instead he yanked at the poles, straining, staggering uphill, away from the creek. Suddenly it was easy; he lurched forward, almost jogging, then realized that must mean George had fallen off, or through, the vine webbing. He was almost sobbing as he turned back. It was too much, the pain in his head, the rain, the danger, the uncooperative vines.
He had just found George’s body when he saw the lights in the sky. A flitter, its searchlight directed into the forest. . . . He threw himself back, away from George. They had IR sensors, of course, and night-vision goggles. They could see George. They could see him. He crouched, shaking from fear and exertion both, dithering. Above the wind and thickening rain, he could just hear the flitter’s drone. Its searchlight flicked among the trees, probing, but the canopy was thick here near the stream, and the light never touched him. It did flick across George, and that garish beltpack he’d refused to bury . . . and it came back, and centered there. Ronnie bit back the groan he wanted to utter. Why hadn’t he taken the thing off? He’d known it was stupid . . . too late now.
The flitter sank into the canopy, its searchlight illuminating slanting lines of rain above, and drips below. He heard the squeal and clunk of a hatch opening. They would have a ladder or line, he realized, for dropping hunters directly into the forest. If he stayed here . . .
He took a deep breath and plunged away, into darkness. Upslope, upstream, into the thicker forest and more broken country. If he could get rock between him and the IR scans, they couldn’t see him. He picked his way from tree to tree in the dim radiance of the flitter’s light. It would do no good to hurry; he must not fall and make a noise. He had a few seconds perhaps, as someone came down the line from the flitter, someone who surely must be concentrating on a safe descent rather than a possible fugitive.
He heard the metallic clatter of someone landing, a weapon (he was sure) rattling against something else, the cable or a ladder. Light brightened behind him; he dared a peek and saw a lightsource at head level. A helmet light, feebler than the flitter’s searchlight, but perfectly adequate for close work. It lowered, as if its bearer crouched. Over George, Ronnie was sure; he struggled against the desire to go back and protect his friend. He heard the peculiar squawk of a badly tuned comunit, then another clatter as if someone else had come down. Now two helmet lights glowed back there. The flitter’s engine whined—retracting its cable?—and then moved off, to the east. He heard voices, muted by wind and rain.
He had to leave. He had to go now, while they did whatever they were doing to George, because they must not catch all four of them. That was the only chance. But he had never imagined that he might have to leave a friend behind. He made himself move, one slow step after another, away from the lights. I’m sorry, he let himself say to George in his mind. I’m sorry.
He had covered perhaps fifty meters when he heard the shout behind him. Reflex threw him forward, into a wild panicky run. The shout came again, then a shot smacked into a nearby rock. Ronnie fell over another rock, banging both shins, and scrambled up. Too late for silence, for subtlety; only speed would help him now. Lightning flashed overhead, blinding him momentarily. He tried to move faster through his memory of what it revealed and fell again. He was in the creek, now only a meter wide; rain lashed at him as he climbed, s
tumbled, climbed again. Another shot rang out, but he never heard it hit anything. Surely, the one rational corner of his mind thought, surely the lightning will blind those in night goggles even worse. . . .
Ronnie struggled on, uphill, ignoring everything but the need to get away. His feet slipped on wet rocks, in mud; rain beat in his face, plastering his hair down, dragging at his shirt and trousers. Flash after flash of lightning revealed a grotesque landscape of wind-whipped foliage, ragged rocks, wind-tossed rain. He followed the creek, no longer worried about the poison in its water, until he reached its source. Behind him, he could see flickering lights . . . the hunters, following what must be an obvious trail. He licked his lips, grateful for the pure rainwater that drenched him. Where now?
The next flash of lightning showed him a narrow black cleft, above and to his right. He clambered over the wet rocks, hoping it was deep enough to hide in, hoping it wasn’t just a trick of lightning. Thunder shook the ground, trembled in his breath. Behind him, a shout and a stab of light; his shoulder burned. He plunged to the ground, behind a rock, and tried to see where the cleft had been. Lightning again; there, only a jump and stretch. It still looked deep, a black gash in the rocky slope. Rain poured down, even harder now. He forced himself to stand, to take those few steps, to reach up and haul himself into darker darkness.
When the next lightning came, he saw it as a blue-white flash against dark walls. Limping, staggering, he tried to work his way further in. Water trickled along between his feet, getting deeper; pebbles rolled and he lurched against the rocks, biting his tongue at the pain in his shoulder. Then the ground fell out from under his feet, and he slid down a crumbling slope into black oblivion.
Chapter Seventeen
George awoke with a stiff neck and aching head. It was dark. Night, he thought. He tried to stretch, and discovered that his wrists were bound behind his back. This, he thought, will never do. He blinked several times, and drew in a breath that stank of cleaning solution, old wood, and sour water. When he let the breath out in a gusty sigh, the sound seemed small and confined, as if he were in a closet. He felt around with his legs, glad to find that his captors had not tied his ankles. He could sit up, though he felt dizzy.
The mind his father always doubted he had began to work. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into this, but his friends never pulled tricks this unpleasant. He forced his mind back to the last clear memory, then tried to go forward. The flight to the island—the crash—Ronnie pale and sick—the ragged islanders who claimed to be the victims of a manhunt. He and Ronnie, building a trap of leaves and branches—a sound in the night—dawn—then nothing.
He had not liked capture the first time, with Petris and Oblo; this time, when he was sure it was their enemies, he liked it less. He had been captured somehow—that he could not yet remember—and he was confined in something that sounded and smelled like a closet for cleaning supplies. The others must still be free—or some of them—or he would be dead.
He brushed that thought aside. He, George Starbridge Mahoney, was not going to die. That would not happen; sordid deaths happened to others, not to young men of good family whose trousers never lost their crease. He was going to escape, and warn Lord Thornbuckle, and then go rescue Ronnie and the others. And the first thing to do was find out more about his prison.
With difficulty, he levered himself up to his feet. It was remarkably hard to find his balance in the dark. He backed up slowly, until his hands bumped a wall. His fingers recognized wood, then something papery, then more wood. He edged along, feeling for a corner, and bumped into a shelf that caught him painfully above the elbows. Something rattled on the shelf, and he felt a small bump against his back as whatever it was fell over and rolled.
It occurred to him then that he should not let that object fall off the shelf. It would make noise, and noise might bring his captors, and his captors might think he knew where the others were hiding. His captors might even be unpleasant. He had not enjoyed the classes on interrogation resistance which even the Royals found necessary; he wanted nothing to do with the real thing.
He leaned a little on the shelf, trying to encourage the small item to roll backwards, and the entire shelf fell off its supports. Hard, sharp-edged cans banged against his arms, the backs of his legs, and clattered on the floor; something breakable smashed. Stinging fumes rose, and he choked, then coughed helplessly. His eyes burned, tears rolled down his face; he staggered away from the shelf, tripping over unseen rolling hazards on the floor, and hit his shin on a bucket with a loud clang. He gave a most ungentlemanly curse.
Light stabbed his eyes, and the door opened. He lunged toward it, but the shadowy figures there shoved him back so hard that he could not keep his feet. He fell against the bucket—it hurt just as much on the backs of his legs—and sat down hard in a puddle of whatever it was with the strong smell. He could feel it oozing through his expensive Guilsanme trousers.
“Shut up!” said one of the shadows, before he knew his mouth was open. “Or get another dose.”
Another dose. That meant he’d been drugged or poisoned—he had a tiny, shrinking vision of a creek, of a full waterflask coming to his lips. With that memory came thirst, worse even than his headache.
“I’m thirsty,” he said, surprised by the rough weakness of his voice.
Someone laughed, unpleasantly. It reminded George of the senior bully, the year he’d started school. “Too bad,” someone said; the voice sounded as if it belonged to the laugh. “But not for long.”
“No, wait . . . if they autopsy, they’ll look for dehydration.” The other voice had an undertone of anxiety.
“So?” George tried to squint past the lights aimed at him, but still could not see either figure—or if there were more than two. “Seawater might do that—”
“Nah. The old man said take care of ’em until we got the whole bunch—”
“He didn’t say tell ’em the whole plan!” The door slammed; George could hear raised voices, but not the words. He glanced around the closet. In the light of its single fixture, it was as cramped and unpleasant as his experience in the dark suggested. It was about two by three meters, with the door on the middle of one long side, and shelves on either side of the door. Above the shelf he’d broken, two more supported a collection of brushes, cans, and jugs; on the other side of the door, the shelves held bathroom supplies in neatly labelled boxes. Behind him mops and brooms hung from a rack; he had been lucky not to dislodge any of them when he fell over the mop bucket.
It had to be a large house or building, probably on the neighboring island. Bandon, its name was. Bandon where the landing field had signalled that they were unwelcome. Where the hunters, according to Petris, were living in comfort in the lodge, while the victims struggled to survive on the island.
George shook his head at the state of his trousers, which the bright light revealed to have suffered from the island even before the noxious green liquid that still filled his nose with stinging vapor. Never in his life had he been this disheveled. . . . He noticed a rip in one sleeve, and a long greasy stain, as if he’d been thrown in a dirty cargo compartment for the trip here. He probably had. And without the use of his hands, he could not even tidy himself up.
But he could get out of the puddle of smelly green stuff, which he was sure would do his trousers more harm than simple grime. For all he knew it would eat its way through his skin, as well. He braced his back against the wall of mops, and stood. There. He could just grasp the handle of a mop. . . . There ought to be some way of using it as a weapon the next time those persons opened the door. But he couldn’t think of one, and the door opened again.
“You weren’t supposed to get up,” said the voice he associated with the nasty laugh. With the two spotlights trained on his face, he still could see nothing of the men holding them.
“I couldn’t breathe,” George said. “That stuff chokes me.”
He had been right; it was the same laugh. “I wouldn’t worry
about that,” the voice said. “But you said you were thirsty—come on, then.”
Was it safe to go out? It wasn’t safe to stay here, he knew that much. He tried to step forward with assurance, as if he weren’t even worried, but the green liquid was slippery as oil. He staggered, and fell into the door frame. Ungentle hands caught him under the armpits. “What a comedy act you are, aren’t you?” He had no time to catch his breath before it was slammed out of him at the end of a hard fist, and he fell back against a wall. Thick cloth muffled his head, blinding him, and he felt hands—large, strong, and gloved, he thought—yank him along.
He tried to judge from the sounds—the scrape of shod feet, the sound of breathing—what sort of space they were in, how far they’d come. A corridor, he thought, but he could not judge distance, not with the hard hands shoving him this way and that, breaking his concentration with slams against the wall or yanks on his bound arms.
Finally he heard a door open—a swing door, he thought—and a final shove sent him forward through it just as the cloth was pulled away from his face. He staggered, and fell onto a hard, cold floor in the dark, and heard the snick of a lock on the door behind him.
For a time he lay there, nursing his new bruises, and wondering what to do now. But thirst drove him to explore. This smelled different, cleaner, colder. Like a bathroom, he decided. He got to his knees, and considered shuffling around like that, but the hard floor hurt his knees after only a few awkward moves, and he realized he would have to stand up. Again.
This exploration, however, ended in success. He found the door through which he’d been shoved, and beside it the predictable panel of switches to control light and ventilation. Cool white light showed him a bathroom—certainly a staff facility, for it had none of the amenities the family rooms would have had. A row of sinks set into a counter, with mirrors above—he winced away from his image—and a row of plumbing fixtures. The stack of clean glasses on the counter mocked him. How was he supposed to turn the water on? Or get it in the glass?
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