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Chapter Forty

Riordan glanced at Pandora Veriden, who’d been pacing for the past half hour, the length and speed of her strides constantly increasing. “This is taking too long. O’Garran is in trouble. We have to—”

“It’s longer than we thought,” Caine interrupted, “but his last check-in was on time, and his biosigns are good.”

“He slowed down for a long time, though!”

Riordan glanced toward Bannor, who was in charge of the dive-support team. The Green Beret shook his head and shrugged. “Yes, but he’s always been moving and the tether keeps playing out just fine.”

“But his air—?”

Bannor called up. “Biosigns show no unexpected exertion, which means he won’t even have tapped the pony tanks, yet.” The Green Beret looked away as Ayana sent a hand signal. “He’s beginning his ascent.”

Gracias a Dios! Never thought I’d be glad to see that little pendejo again!”

Riordan smiled. “Well, you’ll have enough time to get back to the point where you’re just annoyed at him.”

“What? Why?”

“Because even though he’s in a pressure suit, he’s not going to come shooting up like a cork. There could be problems or dangers here that don’t exist back home.”

“Like what?”

Duncan called up to her. “That’s the hell of the unknown: not knowing anything about it!”

She responded with an ancient and unmistakable gesture and stalked off.

***

Although fairly certain that nothing had gone wrong, Riordan still exhaled a suppressed sigh of relief when Chief O’Garran trudged up the opposite bank, trailing both the tether and the crossing line behind him. After hauling in enough slack so that he could move easily, he spared a few seconds to respond to Eku’s various Morse code inquiries about what had detained him. His reply was markedly terse: “Later.”

After setting up a security perimeter—four Dornaani stun grenades remote-controlled from the HUD screen that scanned for approaching objects—O’Garran secured a knot like Bannor’s to one of the rocks. Then he set about reeling in both the tether and the extremely fine Dornaani cable: almost four hundred meters worth of each. It was not a swift process.

Once the line was above water, Bannor secured the loose end of a secured composite line—three linked one-hundred-fifty-meter Dornaani cables—to a grapple and, after several seconds of assessing the muzzle’s elevation, launched it across the river toward Miles.

At least that was the intent: it fell short. Bannor and his team towed the grapple back to the west bank where he and Duncan reran the ballistics, tweaked the elevation again, increased the charge, and fired a second time. The grapple and line went arcing well past O’Garran. After securing the line’s midpoint to another rock, the chief used his own grapple gun to send the remaining slack curving across the river, back toward the west bank.

In minutes, Bannor’s team had fashioned the four-hundred-fifty-meter line into an endless loop that spanned the river with about twenty meters to spare on either bank, even accounting for midspan sag. Hauling on the loop to cycle it, the first items they towed over the river were the loose ends of four more lines. According to the crossing team, it would take every single one of those Dornaani cables to provide the necessary support and redundancy to get everyone and all the goods safely across.

Riordan glanced back at the team leader: Ayana, whose long years overseeing cargo transfers and port-to-hold lading made her the natural choice for the job. “Officer Tagawa, if you please.”

***

In fact, the actual technique they used was a collaborative mix between her experience with moving objects and Bannor’s training for complex river crossings. The only awkwardness was personal: both were trying so hard not to notice the other or seem otherwise infatuated that their interactions were stiff, even obstructive.

Still, they finished their joint tasks within half an hour. By then, everyone was briefed—again—on the manner of crossing and had their gear double-checked; anything that shook loose into the river was gone for good. Including them. When Ayana had asked the locals how many knew how to swim, only Yidreg and Bey raised their hands. Hesitantly. And in the case of the grat’r, Yaargraukh had already explained that he would need to manage the being himself; whether modern or primordial, the physiology of Hkh’Rkh made water an unnatural, and very dangerous, medium for them.

When Bannor and Ayana had joined him, Riordan nodded toward Bey and the h’achgai leaders to gather around with their groups. He adopted the severe, unblinking gaze that seemed to bring them to silence more quickly than anything else. “Pay close attention. It is the last time you shall hear these instructions.

“We shall soon cross the river. I shall go first with Ulchakh, so that you shall know that the method is sound and that you shall be safe.

“We are using something called the ‘buddy system.’ Nine of my team’s ‘Leaders’ have fully sealed suits. They shall be your ‘buddies,’ and will ensure that you get to the other bank safely. When these suits are sealed, we cannot drown. Also, we have done this before.” Well, most of us.

“The other eighteen of you are passengers. Each of you will travel across with one of those buddies. In addition to being attached to them, you will be attached to one of these inflated suits as you cross.” Riordan held up one of the two Terran duty suits; it was so inflated that it looked like the body of an overstuffed scarecrow. “If you hold on to it, you will float.

“Your buddy will be heavier than you. This is because they can carry more cargo safely, but also because, if an unexpected current sweeps across you, it is they who will roll down toward”—or into—“the water. Remember: neither you nor your buddy need to do anything except stay attached to the towline. The shore groups will be pulling you across.

“Each buddy must make two round trips in order to carry all eighteen passengers across. After they are done, Colonel Rulaine will return here. He will unfasten all the lines, clamp himself to them, and be towed back through the water to the eastern bank.” He let his gaze travel across the faces, noticed several that were terrified: mostly trogs. “Any questions?”

Arashk glanced at Yaargraukh. “But what of the grat’r lord and his follower? They have no such gear as you . . . and, with respect, it is well known that their kind drowns very easily.”

“They will take their turn, although toward the end. You are correct that Leader Yaargraukh does not have a full suit, but we have provided additional gear that shall help him.”

All the locals’ eyes had opened very wide. Arashk’s question was almost a whisper. “Do you mean to say that . . . that Leader Yaargraukh can swim?

“He can.”

Arashk threw a fist in the air. “Surely, he is a great lord!”

As loud acclamations answered Arashk’s bold assertion, Riordan leaned toward Yaargraukh. “Have you been in the water since Turkh’saar?”

The Hkh’Rkh’s eyes rotated slowly toward Bannor, who had to stifle a laugh. “Once. During the Epsilon Indi campaign.”

“And has it become easier?”

“I would say I am simply more accustomed to it.”

Dora leaned over. “Enough to help your mascot across the river, Grendel?”

“The grat’r is not my ‘mascot,’ Ms. Veriden, any more than the ‘trogs’ are your mascots.”

She swallowed as she met his stare. “So touchy! Still . . . point taken.”

Ulchakh stepped forward. “Friend Caine, when should we begin?” His voice and eyes were firm, but Riordan noticed a slight trembling in his upper legs.

Caine smiled as reassuringly as he could. “Let us begin now.”

***

Bannor and Craig—whose old paratrooper training made him well suited for final harnessing and checks—settled Caine into the makeshift rappel seat and then c-clamped him to the double anchor line that was slightly upstream of the towline. As Rulaine leaned over to check the clips, he murmured too low for anyone else to hear. “If something goes sideways, hang on to the anchor line. It’s got no weight on it and we can keep it more taut than an endless tow loop.”

“That’s my safety line,” Caine replied, mouth suddenly dry. “Got it.”

“Get a little more air in your suit as soon as we shut the visor. Keep your hands on the towline to keep you and Ulchakh steady, but don’t tow yourself. Like you told the locals, that’s the shore teams’ jobs.” He smiled. “This is too easy. Particularly compared to deorbiting on the back of a foam shield.”

Riordan smiled. There was no gainsaying that.

Bannor helped Craig do much the same for Ulchakh. He had a Dornaani strap lashed around his waist like a belt: whatever else happened, that was certainly not going to break. He, too, was clamped to both the tow and the anchor lines, but the cable by which he was attached to them was almost half a meter shorter than Riordan’s: that way, the h’achga was certain to stay above, rather than roll beneath, him.

Craig stepped back, patted the top of Ulchakh’s helmet—who flinched, startled. “Uh, that means ‘good to go’!”

Ulchakh nodded dubiously and licked his almost nonexistent lips.

“Ready?” Bannor asked.

“Let’s get going,” Riordan answered.

The movement was gentle as they moved beyond the bank and over the water. As they continued and their weight moved more to the center of the towline, they dipped from about three meters above the water to slightly less than one.

“How are you doing?” Riordan called up at Ulchakh through the visor.

“If I do not soil myself, I shall brag of this to all my clan. And I shall do so until they wish me dead so that they need no longer endure the tale.” At the midpoint, when Riordan felt spray hit his back from a few colliding swells, the h’achga asked, “How do you fashion such tools, so light and small yet so strong? I had thought your weapons and magic helmets the greatest of your artifacts. But now that I am being held to a tiny line that bears us both, and by another from which I alone dangle, I see the subtler miracles of your arts. I would know more of this, Friend Caine.”

“And one day, I hope I may explain. But for now, do not look down. It will be easier if you do not.”

Ulchakh made a choking sound. “You are right. We are more than halfway to the eastern shore. But Friend Caine?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, I hope we shall be able to take the ferry.”

Riordan laughed but also had a nagging doubt that Khorkrag would ever become a safer town for them.

In fact, he suspected it was going to become much, much worse.

***

As Miles helped Ulchakh out of his crossing rig while checking for signs of wear or loose connections and knots, Riordan stepped beyond his own straps and rappel seat to inspect the duty suit’s pressurization. It was still good: not bubbling at any seams.

Miles took it out of his hands with a grin. “Back it goes,” he almost chirped. Connecting it to the return line, he tugged the main. The shore crew finished attaching the next buddy-passenger pair—Newton and Arashk—and then started towing again. The duty suit went back toward the river, sealed sleeves flailing as if raging against its departure.

Riordan followed him. “Chief, why were you down so—?”

“Commodore,” he muttered back in abysmal German. “Not now. Besides, I gotta get hooked up and towed back for buddy-duty. See you on the other side.”

***

Hanging onto the lines that he’d freed from their moorings on the west shore, Bannor got his feet under him and moved up the eastern bank, both walking and being reeled in. He staggered a little bit as he came over the rocky lip and released the lines. “Been a long day,” he explained.

Indeed it had. Although they’d had barely enough pulleys to keep things moving smoothly, it wasn’t as if they had the leverage of a block and tackle. Every person who could wear the Dornaani or Terran gloves had worked themselves to near exhaustion on the narrow, hard-to-grasp towlines. There were also just enough minor malfunctions—wet lines snagging on each other, loops slipping out of the tiny pulleys, retightening the towline as successive loads loosened it—to ensure that no one got any rest.

Even now, as Riordan stood panting as he looked down at the river, the current was beginning to pick up; equiflow was coming to an end. And they still needed to grab a fast meal, finish respooling the lines, packing the other gear, and then find a defensible campsite.

Caine scanned the weary bodies. One of the h’achgai and two of the trogs looked a bit less exhausted. They’d been the next in line to return to the towline crew, which meant they’d been the ones who’d been off it the longest. And, fortunately, Riordan could count on one of those two trogs: Bey.

She saw his glance and before he could even gesture, trotted over. “Yes, Leader Caine?”

“Bey, go among the h’achgai. See if any are familiar with the east bank this far above Khorkrag. We need to find a safe place to make camp. If they have no suggestions, go inland and look for high ground. Take one of your kajh and Hresh with you. If you encounter any creatures, do not fight but flee back here. And before you go, alert Leader Bannor; he will have someone keep watch over you with our helmets.”

She nodded and ran off; her legs were not exactly long, but her bounds were so forceful that they made up in power what they lacked in reach.

A mutter at his shoulder: “Hsst, Commodore?” It was O’Garran. “A word?”

“Just one?”

“You’re killing me, here, sir. How about you stroll with me while I gather in my stun grenade pickets?”

“Fine with me.” When they were far enough beyond the tight defensive ring of the exhausted formation, Riordan asked, “I don’t suppose this is about what caused you to be at the bottom of the river so long?”

O’Garran nodded, glancing around.

“And what would that be?”

“Traffic jam, sir.”

“Traffic jam?”

O’Garran was about to reply, when they heard someone approaching behind them. He hastily bent over and deactivated the first of the Dornaani grenades.

Bey loped past with Zaatkhur and one of the young kajhs in tow. Clearly the h’achgai weren’t that familiar with this part of the river, after all. As he watched, she pointed ahead and led them down into a dry wadi that paralleled the river just beyond the high-water lip. In a moment, the three bobbing heads dropped beneath its rim, heading north.

Riordan sighed. “So: you were held up by traffic?”

“Well, sir, isn’t that what they call it when a street is jammed with vehicles?”

Riordan frowned, then stopped in mid-stride. “There’s a city on the riverbed?”

Retrieving yet another grenade, O’Garran answered without looking up. “A big one, sir. My guess? This whole area was a low-lying river valley of some kind, judging from the topography down there.”

“And the buildings? And cars?”

O’Garran straightened up, storing the last of the grenades, before looking at Caine directly. “It’s like an . . . an underwater junkyard, Commodore. Cars, trains, parts of bridges: you could find a lot of places just like it if you went to the backward countries on Earth. But that wasn’t the creepy part.”

“There’s more?”

Miles nodded and looked up again slowly. “Sir, that’s only the upper city. I think there was another one beneath it, maybe at the bottom of a lake or river that went through it. And that one is—” The chief closed his eyes. “All the stuff in the upper city is rusted, sagging, rotting away. But the lower one? Metal frames still intact, vehicles—I couldn’t tell what kind—poking up through the silt. And almost nothing rusted, sir. Couldn’t be sure until I got close, but even before I shone a light on it . . . Well, it just didn’t have that mossy silhouette that old junk gets from being underwater.”

Riordan tried to rein in the raging speculation Miles’ report had spawned. “So, you were delayed because you were exploring this site, Chief?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Not so much that as navigating it, sir. I didn’t go down deep into the lower ruins. Just enough to see the difference between them and the upper ones. Most of my time was spent laying out my lines carefully. I had to be sure that when it came time to reel in both the tether and the anchor line that they wouldn’t snag on something.”

Riordan nodded. “Make a complete report at the next Fireside Chat. We can’t be sure if—”

O’Garran’s head turned away slightly. Riordan heard the sound a moment later.

Something was coming back down the wadi.

O’Garran shook his head when Riordan started forward, gestured back toward the group, and began closing his helmet.

“Leaders,” Bey’s voice called from around the nearest corner of the wadi, “there is a problem.”

Riordan gestured that O’Garran should complete closing his helmet and send a warning, then answered, “Bey? Why don’t you step out where I can see you?”

“I shall.” She did.

A tall, powerful man stepped out with her. He was wearing what looked like steel chain mail, had a very long sword in one hand, and what appeared to be a crude flintlock pistol in the other. It was snugged against Bey’s right temple.

Before Riordan could react, two other dim figures, cloaked and shadowy, rose further up the wadi, just enough to reveal that they were hunched over ready crossbows.

Both aimed at Caine and O’Garran.

“Well,” Riordan sighed, “this is awkward.”


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