All these complications! he reflected with self pity. It was almost as if the
world were conspiring against him.
Still as death, Hawks had been waiting in an almost trancelike state for over an
hour as the chill, predawn mist rolled over him. Still, he was determined. After
four mornings, he was going to get himself a deer.
There was a sudden rustling off to his right, and his eyes came open, every
sense suddenly alert. He risked a look and for a moment saw nothing. Then,
barely visible in the mist, he saw them: two, no, three deer, all yearling does,
slowly wandering in search of good food to eat while the mists still protected
them.
Slowly, by feel, he threaded his arrow and brought his bow up, so silent that
the deer could have no idea he was there. The wind, too, was right, masking any
scent they might pick up. He picked his spot and drew back the arrow tight, then
froze, waiting for them to come to him.
It seemed an eternity before they started to move in the right direction. He
practiced his breathing and tried to ease his tense muscles. The lead deer
seemed to sense something wrong and stopped for a moment but then continued on,
right into his line of fire.
Now! The arrow was loosed and struck the deer in the side. The animal reared,
and the other two bounded away, but he was quick and got a second arrow up and
flying before the wounded animal, still in shock, could make a move.
Then he was out and throwing his balanced rope at the deer’s hind feet even as
it began to move. It went down with a crash and lay there thrashing while he
carefully administered the fatal arrow.
It was a good, clean kill. A lot of meat and smooth doeskin for a better lining
on his clothes. He knew he had to move fairly quickly, though. The sun would be
up in less than an hour, and the scavengers would also be out, spoiling the
kill. He had tied his horse a good hundred meters down and away, but he turned
now to go quickly and get her and assemble the wood and skin stretcher so that
the deer could be rolled onto it and carried home.
He made his way directly, ignoring the paths, but less than halfway there he
discovered something else and stopped dead, all elation, even all thoughts of
the kill, suddenly gone.
The body had been there for some time. It was dressed in a tight black synthetic
outfit and leather boots. It was not a pretty sight; the scavengers had been at
her, and the flesh was crawling with insects and maggots.
He knew in a minute who it must be and understood why the Val had been out so
long with nothing to show. She could have lain here until she rotted completely
before being found without a search party.
In her stiff hand was a briefcase barely touched by the elements busily adding
her to the woodlands. She also wore a standard emergency pack on her back, but
from the looks of it she’d had little chance to use it, and it was filled with
creepy-crawlies.
He had to break the fingers to release the briefcase. He backed away from her
and the grisly feast that had been going on perhaps for weeks and examined the
briefcase itself. It was not a courier model but something one would have
procured for personal use. Like most manufactured items these days, it was
cheap, and, while it had a lock, it did not appear booby-trapped. Almost on
impulse, he pushed on the two red points inset in the case and was startled to
hear it unlatch. The thing wasn’t even locked!
There was no way anyone could have resisted looking inside. Some were the usual
sorts of things one might expect of a woman traveling in unknown territories—
some maps, an atlas of North America, even a guidebook to the Plains Nations
with sample phrases. He wasn’t surprised to find that the Hyiakutt weren’t even
mentioned.
Beyond those, there was a small wooden box with an antique key lock, the
miniature key still in it, and an ancient-looking thick book that seemed about
to fall apart at a touch. He examined it with the care of a professional
historian. The pages were copies, not originals, which was just as well, as the
date on the book, recorded in a firm hand, was more than six hundred years old.
Still, even the copy was old—perhaps a century, perhaps more.
It appeared to be somebody’s journal or diary. He put it aside for a moment,
reluctantly, and turned to the case. The small key turned easily, and the lid
came up. He was unprepared for the sight, however.
Jewelry. Gems, some in exquisite settings, many looking like heirlooms. There
was some doubt in his mind that the things were real. Did diamonds and rubies
and emeralds come that large? And was that pure gold?
He closed the box and relocked it. Clearly the diary or whatever it might be was
the reason why somebody very important would requisition and dispatch a Val to
this area. The jewels—suddenly he understood. A universal currency of sorts. A
Caribe would think like that, not realizing how little such things meant to the
People of North America. Still, it was not a bad choice at that, for they were
finished gems and would be works of art in any tribal council.
Suddenly he was very aware of his situation. He replaced the briefcase and
almost replaced the jewels, then changed his mind. If the Val did find her, it
would see the broken fingers and the detached briefcase and would know that
someone had found her first. If the jewels were not missing, it was as much as
pointing a sign straight to his door.
He had not yet decided what to do about the book. For anyone who could read it,
and particularly for a historian, it was irresistible, yet reading it could mean
death— or worse. He would not make that final decision immediately. Instead, he
continued on down and got his horse, then went back along the regular trail to
his fallen deer and did what he had originally intended to do. Only, under the
carcass, on the unmarked side, where no blood would flow, he hid the jewel box
and the book.
He knew now that he had a decision to make that made his previous problems seem
like child’s play.
3. TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
THE MOUNTAINS OF WESTERN CHINA WERE AS REMOTE and forbidding as any in the world
and impossible to monitor or control effectively. There were no permanent
natives to the region; the nearest settlements were far down the slopes and
forty kilometers or more from the spot where the raiding party now stood, many
of its members equipped with breathing apparatus to help them in the rarefied
atmosphere where split seconds might mean living or dying. Colonel Chung, the
old pro soldier in dark-green battle uniform, heavy boots, and cap, had a cigar
stuck out of the side of his mouth. He needed no breathing gear; he sat in a
skimmer, a dark, saucer-shaped craft that was rigged for totally silent running.
It hovered there in the air while many others, deployed around the seemingly
unbroken high cliffs of the mountains, disgorged soldiers and equipment. Chung
was thankful that the spot was so remote; here he was not handicapped by
Cultural Zone restrictions and could use his best and most modern equipment.
They are good, I’ll give them that, the colonel remarked for the benefit of
anyone who could hear him there in the command module section of the skimmer. I
can’t imagine where they even got their energy sources up here, let alone how
they shielded them.