“It’s fine,” Baretto said, almost snarling.
Gomez again spoke softly. Baretto was grinding his teeth. It was very uncomfortable to be standing there. Chris moved a few steps farther away, turning his back to the argument, waiting for it to be over.
He was surprised to see that the path sloped downward rather steeply, and he could see through a break in the trees to the flatland below. The monastery was there — a geometric arrangement of courtyards, covered passageways, and cloisters, all built of beige stone, surrounded by a high stone wall. It looked like a dense, compact little city. It was surprisingly close, perhaps a quarter of a mile. No more than that.
“Screw it, I’m walking,” Kate said, and she started down the path. Marek and Chris looked at each other, then followed after her.
“You people stay in sight, damn it,” Baretto called to them.
Gomez said, “I think we’d better go.”
Baretto put a restraining hand on her arm. “Not until we get something cleared up,” he said. “About how things are handled on this expedition.”
“I think it’s pretty well cleared up,” Gomez said.
Baretto leaned close and said, “Because I didn’t like the way you . . .” And the rest was too low to hear, just the furious hiss of his voice.
Chris was grateful to move around the curve in the path and leave them behind.
:
Kate started at a brisk walk, feeling the tension leave her body as she moved. The argument left her feeling cramped and edgy. A few paces behind her, she heard Chris and Marek talking. Chris was anxious, and Marek was trying to calm him down. She didn’t want to hear it. She picked up the pace a little. After all, to be here, in these fantastic woods, surrounded by these huge trees . . .
After a minute or two, she had left Marek and Chris behind, but she knew they were near enough, and it was nice to be alone. The woods around her felt cool and relaxing. She listened to the chitter of birds and the sound of her own feet padding along on the path. Once she thought she heard something else, too. She slowed a bit to listen.
Yes, there was another sound: running feet. They seemed to be coming from farther down the path. She heard someone panting, gasping for breath.
And also a fainter sound, like the rumble of distant thunder. She was trying to place that rumble when a teenage boy burst around the corner, racing toward her.
The boy was wearing black hose, a bright green quilted jacket and a black cap. He was red-faced with exertion; he’d clearly been running for some time. He seemed startled to find her walking on the path. As he came toward her, he cried, “Aydethee amsel! Grassa due! Aydethee!”
An instant later, she heard his voice translated in her earpiece: “Hide, woman! For the sake of God! Hide!”
Hide from what? Kate wondered. These woods were deserted. What could he mean? Maybe she hadn’t understood him right. Maybe the translator wasn’t correct. As the boy passed her, he again cried, “Hide!” and shoved Kate hard, pushing her off the path and into the woods. She tripped on a gnarled root, tumbled into the undergrowth. She banged her head, felt sharp pain and a wave of dizziness. She was getting slowly to her feet when she realized what the rumbling sound was.
Horses.
Riding at full gallop toward her.
:
Chris saw the young boy running up the path, and almost immediately, he heard the sound of pursuing horses. The boy, finally out of breath, stopped for a moment beside them, doubled over, and finally managed to gasp, “Hide! Hide!” before he darted away into the woods.
Marek ignored the boy. He was looking down the path.
Chris frowned. “What is all that about—”
“Now,” Marek said, and throwing an arm around Chris’s shoulders, he pulled him bodily off the path and into the foliage.
“Jesus,” Chris said, “would you mind telling me—”
“Shhh!” Marek put his hand over Chris’s mouth. “Do you want to get us killed?”
No, Chris thought, he was clear on that: he did not want to get anybody killed. Charging up the hill toward them were six horsemen in full armor: steel helmets, chain mail and cloth surcoats of maroon and gray. The horses were draped in black cloth studded with silver. The effect was ominous. The lead rider, wearing a helmet with a black plume, pointed ahead and screamed, “Godin!”
Baretto and Gomez were still standing beside the path, just standing there, apparently in shock at what they saw galloping toward them. The black rider leaned over in the saddle and swung his broadsword in an arc at Gomez as he rode past her.
Chris saw Gomez’s headless torso, spurting blood, as it toppled to the ground. Baretto, spattered with blood, swore loudly as he ran into the woods. More riders galloped up the hill. Now they were all shouting, “Godin! Godin!” One rider wheeled on his horse, drawing his bow.
The arrow struck Baretto’s left shoulder as he ran, the steel point punching through the other side, the impact knocking him to his knees. Cursing, Baretto staggered to his feet again, and finally reached his machine.
He picked up his belt, yanked one of the grenades free, and turned to throw it. An arrow struck him full in the chest. Baretto looked surprised, coughed, and fell back, sprawled in a seated position against the bars. He made a feeble effort to pull the arrow out of his chest. The next arrow passed through his throat. The grenade dropped from his hand.
Back on the path, the horses reared and whinnied, their riders wheeling in circles, shouting and pointing.
There was a bright flash of light.
Chris looked back in time to see Baretto still seated, unmoving, as the machine flashed repeatedly, shrinking in size.
In moments, the machine was gone. The riders now had looks of fear on their faces. The black-plumed rider shouted something to the others, and as a group, they whipped their horses and raced on up the hill, out of sight.
As the black rider turned to go, his horse stumbled over Gomez’s body. Cursing, the rider wheeled and reared his horse repeatedly, stomping the body again and again. Blood flew in the air; the horse’s forelegs turned dark red. At last the black rider turned, and with a final curse, he galloped up the hill again to rejoin the others.
“Jesus.” The suddenness of it, the casual violence—
Chris scrambled to his feet, ran back to the path.
Gomez’s body lay in a muddy pool, crushed almost beyond recognition. But one hand was flung outward and lay open on the ground. And next to her hand lay the white ceramic marker.
It was cracked open, its electronic innards exposed.
Chris picked it up. The ceramic fell apart in his hands, bits of white and silver fluttering to the ground, falling into the muddy pool. And in that moment, their situation was clear to him.
Their guides were both dead.
One machine was gone.
Their return marker was shattered.
Which meant they were stuck in this place. Trapped here, without guides or assistance. And with no prospect of ever getting back.
Not ever.
* * *
36:30:42
“Stand by,” a technician said. “Coming in now.”
In the rubber floor, in the center of the curved water shields, small flashes of light appeared.
Gordon glanced at Stern. “We’ll know what happened in just a minute.”
The flashes grew brighter, and a machine began to emerge above the rubber. It was about two feet high when Gordon said, “Goddamn it! That guy is nothing but trouble.”
Stern said something, but Gordon paid no attention. He saw Baretto sitting there, propped up against a bar, clearly dead. The machine reached full size. He saw the pistol in his hand. He knew of course what had happened. Even though Kramer had specifically warned Baretto, the son of a bitch had taken modern weapons back with him. So of course Gomez sent him back, and—
A small dark object rolled out onto the floor.
“What’s that?” Stern said.
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, staring at the screens. “It almost looks like a gre—”
The explosion flashed in the transit room, blooming white on the video screens, washing everything out. Inside the control room, the sound was oddly distorted, more like a burst of static. The transit room was immediately filled with pale smoke.
“Shit,” Gordon said. He banged his fist down on the console.
The technicians in the transit room were screaming. One man’s face was covered with blood. In the next moment, the man was swept off his feet in the rush of water as the shields collapsed, shattered by grenade fragments. Water three feet deep sloshed back and forth like surf. But almost immediately, it began to drain out, leaving the newly bare floor hissing and steaming.