Lois Bujold - Barrayar

Their run was steady, unpanicked. Bothari had his route all picked out, taking advantage of sheltering rocks and trees and water-carved steps. They scrambled up, down, up, but just when she thought her lungs would burst and their pursuers must spot them, Bothari vanished along a steep rock face.

“Over here, Milady!”

He’d found a thin, horizontal crack in the rocks, half a meter high and three meters deep. She rolled in beside him to find the niche shielded by solid rock everywhere but the front, and that almost blocked by fallen stone. Their bedroll and supplies waited.

“No wonder,” Cordelia gasped, “the Cetagandans had trouble up here.” A thermal sensor would have to be aimed straight in, to pick them up, from a point twenty meters in the air out over the ravine. The place was riddled with hundreds of similar crannies.

“Even better.” Bothari pulled a pair of antique field glasses, looted from Kly’s cabin, from their bedroll. “We can see them.”

The glasses were nothing but binocular tubes with sliding glass lenses, purely passive light—collectors. They must have dated from the Time of Isolation. The magnification was poor by modern standards, no UV or infrared boost, no rangefinder pulse … no power cell to leak detectable energy traces. Flat on her belly, chin in the rubble, Cordelia could glimpse the distant cavern entrance on the slope rising beyond the ravine and a knife-backed ridge. When she said, “Now we must be very quiet,” pale Gregor practically went fetal.

The black-clad scanner men found the horses at last, though it seemed to take them forever. Then they found the cave mouth. The tiny figures gesticulated excitedly to each other, ran in and out, and called the flyer, which landed outside the entrance with much crackling of shrubbery. Four men entered; eventually, one came back out. In time, another flyer landed. Then a lift van arrived, and disgorged a whole patrol. The mountain mouth ate them all. Another lift van came, and men set up lights, a field generator, comm links.

Cordelia made a nest of the bedroll for Gregor, and fed him little snacks and sips from their water bottle. Bothari stretched out in the back of the niche with the thinnest blanket folded under his head, otherwise seeming impervious to the stone. While Bothari dozed, Cordelia kept careful count of the net flow of hunters. By mid-afternoon, she calculated that some forty men had gone below and not come up again.

Two men were brought out strapped to float pallets, loaded into a medical—evacuation lifter, and flown away. A lightflyer made a bad landing in the crowded area, toppled downslope, and crunched into a tree. Yet more men became involved in extracting, righting, and repairing it. By dusk over sixty men had been sucked down the drain. A whole company drawn away from the capital, not pursuing refugees, not available to root out the secrets of ImpMil … it wasn’t enough to make a real difference, surely.

It’s a start.

Cordelia and Bothari and Gregor slipped from the niche in the gloaming, cleared the ravines, and made their way silently through the woods. It was nearly full dark when they came to the edge of the trees and struck Kly’s trail. As they crossed over the ridge edging the vale, Cordelia looked back. The area by the cave mouth was marked by searchlights, stabbing up through the mists. Lightflyers whined in and out of the site.

They dropped over the ridge and slithered down the slope that had so nearly killed her to climb, hanging on to Rose’s stirrup two days ago. Fully five kilometers down the trail, in a rocky region of treeless scrub, Bothari came to an abrupt halt. “Sh. Milady, listen.”

Voices. Men’s voices, not far off, but strangely hollow. Cordelia stared into the darkness, but no lights moved. Nothing moved. They crouched beside the trail, senses straining.

Bothari crept off, head tilted, following his ears. After a few moments Cordelia and Gregor cautiously followed. She found Bothari kneeling by a striated outcrop. He motioned her closer.

“It’s a vent,” he announced in a whisper. “Listen.”

The voices were much clearer now, sharp cadences, angry gutturals punctuated by swearing in two or three languages.

“Goddammit, I know we went left back at that third turn.”

“That wasn’t the third turn, that was the fourth.”

“We re-crossed the stream.”

“It wasn’t the same friggin’ stream, sabaki!”

“Merde. Perdu!”

“Lieutenant, you’re an idiot!”

“Corporal, you’re out of line!”

“This cold light’s not going to last the hour. See, it’s fading.”

“Well, don’t shake it up, you moron, when it glows brighter it goes faster.”

“Give me that—!”

Bothari’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. It was the first smile Cordelia had seen crack his face in months. Silently, he saluted her. They tiptoed softly away, into the chill of the Dendarii night.

Back on the trail, Bothari sighed deeply. “If only I’d had a grenade to drop down that vent. Their search parties would still be shooting at each other this time next week.”

Four hours down the night trail, the distinctive black and white horse loomed out of the dark. Kly was a shadow aboard it, but his thick profile and battered hat were instantly recognizable.

“Bothari!” The name huffed from Kly’s mouth. “We live. Grace of God.”

Bothari’s voice was flat. “What happened to you, Major?”

“I almost ran into one of Vordarian’s squads at a cabin I was delivering mail to. They’re actually trying to go over these hills house by house. Dosing everyone they meet with fast-penta. They must be bringing the drug in by the barrel.”

“We expected you back last night,” said Cordelia. She tried not to let her tone sound too accusing.

The felt hat bobbed as Kly gave her a weary nod of greeting. “Would’ve been, except for Vordarian’s bloody patrol. I didn’t dare let them question me. I spent a day and a night, dodging ’em. Sent my niece’s husband to get you. But when he got to my place this morning, Vordarian’s men were all over. I figured we’d lost everything. But when they were still all over by nightfall, I took heart. They wouldn’t still be looking for you if they’d found you. Figured I’d better get my ass up here and do some scouting myself. This is beyond hope.”

Kly turned his horse around, heading back down the trail. “Here, Sergeant, put the boy up.”

“I can carry the boy. Think you’d better give m’lady a lift. She’s about out.”

Too true. It was a measure of Cordelia’s exhaustion that she went willingly to Kly’s horse. Between them, Bothari and Kly shoved her aboard, perched astraddle on the pinto’s warm rump. They started off, Cordelia gripping the mailman’s coat.

“What happened to you?” Kly asked in turn.

Cordelia let Bothari answer, in his short sentences made even shorter by his burdened stride, as he carried Gregor piggyback. When he got to a mention of the men heard down the vent, Kly barked a laugh, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “They’ll be weeks getting out of there. Good work, Sergeant!”

“It was Lady Vorkosigan’s idea.”

“Oh?” Kly twisted around to glance back over his shoulder at Cordelia, clinging wanly.

“Aral and Piotr both seemed to think diversion worthwhile,” Cordelia explained. “I gather Vordarian has limited reserves.”

“You think like a soldier, m’lady.” Kly sounded approving.

Cordelia wrinkled her brow in dismay. What an appalling compliment. The last thing she wanted was to start thinking like a soldier, playing their game by their rules. The hallucinatory military world-view was horribly infectious, though, immersed in it as she was now. How long can I tread water?