"Correct."
"Exact location, local longitude and latitude."
sig'Alda read the numbers unhesitatingly out of a mind that could not forget them.
Val Con touched his tongue to his lips. "What measures were taken for concealment?"
"Ship's ambient field." The voice sounded a trifle breathless, as the heartbeat continued to accelerate.
"Detail other protections and solutions."
There were three, detailed entirely, while the voice grew faint and breath came in gasps.
Val Con looked at the man's face, locked as it was in his frenzy, then recalled it, in sharp counterpoint, clouded and confused. Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare . . .
"Describe, briefly, makeup and known antidotes of accelerants ingested within the last one to three hours, as well as the drugs forced upon you by Miri Robertson."
"Lethecronaxion—no known antidote. MemStim—no known antidote. Accelerant—name unknown; antidote unknown; runs system in approximately three hours."
"Loop reading!" Val Con snapped.
"Chance of Mission Success: Point oh one. Chance of Personal Survival: Point oh three . . .falling— Point oh two, oh one! Chance of Mission Success: Zero!" Horror in the gasping voice. "Chance of Personal Survival—"
"No!" Val Con slapped the mad face before him, trying to pull him out of the trance. "Tyl Von, it lies!"
"Chance of Personal Survival . . ." The pulse was beyond repair, beyond belief that any heart could beat so and not rip itself to bits.
"Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare!"
The man's body spasmed, his back arching as every muscle in his body locked, then slumped back in a bonelessness that had nothing to do with life, pulse and heartbeat gone forever.
After a time, Val Con reached out and closed the staring black eyes, then quickly and efficiently removed everything from the man's pockets, belt, and person. The leather pilot's jacket he left, despite the fact that it was not of Vandar and should not be found there.
"I will tell your Clan," he said, very softly.
He found the palm-gun and Miri's stickknife, slid them away with the other gun, went to Miri, and knelt at her side, laying his fingers against her throat.
She stirred, eyes flickering. "Skel?" she muttered. "Dammit, Skel . . ." Val Con waited, hovering over her, but the moment subsided before she came to true wakefulness.
Carefully, then, weary in bones and soul, he picked her up and began the long trudge back to the Winterfair, leaving Tyl Von sig'Alda alone and unburied on the hard, dark snow.
The walking was all there was; that and the slender body in his arms. He listened to her breathing, agonized that it was so shallow but joyous that it continued at all. Twice more she stirred and spoke to Skel, directing him once to put her down and go on alone: "s'an
order,
damn you . . ."
He spoke to her then, hardly heeding what he said, and it seemed that the sound of his voice calmed her. But for most of it, he walked, fighting the snow and a sort of leeching exhaustion, as if his strength were running out a drain rather than being efficiently expended.
It took, in fact, several heartbeats for him to recognize the lanky shape and concerned face before him. He frowned, studying the blondish hair, the bristly mustache, and the myopic blue eyes. "Hakan."
"Cory," the other said carefully. He gestured. "What happened, man?"
"I—" Val Con sighed. "Miri is hurt."
"Alive?"
"Alive," he agreed, feeling the sluggish beat of her heart and hearing the rasp of her breath.
"Right. You stay here and I'll get the fair med—"
"No!"
Hakan froze then frowned. "Cory—"
"She has had—aid. The fair doctor will not do more. I—Hakan, will you take us? It is wrong to ask . . ."
Understanding dawned in the nearsighted eyes. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory. Sure she can take the ride?"
"She can take the ride," Val Con said, "to the place we need to go."
"Right," Hakan said again. He glanced around, jerking his head at an alleyway between two wooden pavilions. "Shortcut to the parking lot."
"All right," Val Con said, and started walking once more.
Hakan did not speak again until they were clear of the buildings and had started across the field that had that morning been the site of the log-pulls.
"I can carry her, you know," he said, hesitantly. "Give you a rest."
Val Con blinked. Hakan to carry her? Nonkin, when there was her own lifemate to aid her? With an effort, he perceived the kindness of it and the concern for both that had prompted it, and noted his growing weakness. It was imperative that he conserve his strength for the tasks ahead, or Miri's lifemate would fail her at the last.
He smiled up at his friend and nodded. "Thank you."
"No problem." Hakan took his burden gently and set off across the field in a consciously smooth stride.
Val Con followed, fumbling among his store of
L'apeleka
dances. "The Spirit Demands" presented itself and he danced two steps as he walked, his mind encompassing the whole. His heartbeat increased, though not nearly to the level that Tyl Von sig'Alda's had; his breathing deepened; his body began to work with more accustomed efficiency, drawing on stored vitamins and other reserves.
"Thank you, brother," he whispered to the memory of Edger, and stretched his legs to catch up with Hakan.
"Turn right," he said sometime later. Miri was on the seat between them, her head on his knee, a scruffy lap rug tucked around her.
Hakan blinked. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory," he said with a sort of nervous patience. "That's left."
"We go right." Val Con reached into the High Tongue for the proper cadence of authority. Hakan frowned, his mouth straightening stubbornly—and, slowly, turned right.
"Thank you," Val Con said softly, but Hakan only drove on, silent.
Three times they passed spur roads going left, toward Vale and the hospital. Three times Hakan made as if to turn in that direction, and three times Val Con had his way.
The next time, he thought, seeing the determination in Hakan's face, in the set of his hands on the controls. He'll take the next road left, no matter what I say. He sighed to himself. Maddened with grief, I suppose, and don't know what I'm about.
"Skel?" Miri asked and shifted fretfully.
Val Con stroked her wild hair and touched her too-pale cheek. "Skel is not here, cha'trez. Rest now."
But she would not be soothed so easily; she moved her head on his knee and tried to toss the rug off. "Skel!" she insisted. "Damn weather. Damn weatherman. Take readings five times a day and what's the good? Weather ain't
got
a pattern down here, Brunner. World's comin' apart—the
land's
movin', Brunner—like walking on wax. Lost a squad this morning. The hill they were camped on just—fell down . . ." Her agitation was growing; Hakan glanced over and then back at the road as he touched the accelerator, his face tight with resolve.
Val Con captured the questing hand and held it tightly, one part of him trying to think how to calm her while another coldly and continually counted distance and direction. They must not overshoot the ship.
"Gonna have to ditch the machine, Brunner, you hear me? Unit's pinned—what's left. Told Liz I'd kill the gun—give 'em a chance to get out . . .What does 'galandaria' mean, anyway?"
"It means," Val Con said softly, stroking her cheek, willing her to be calm, "compatriot—countryman. Miri—it's Val Con, cha'trez—you must rest . . ."
She stilled abruptly. "Val Con?"
Had she come out of her memories then, back to the present? "Yes."
"Don't leave me, Val Con."
"No," he said, touching her lips lightly. "I won't leave you, Miri."
She sighed then, like a child assured that a dream-monster was well and truly slain, and slipped back into unconsciousness.
"Stop here," Val Con said, and sighed at Hakan's glare of stubborn denial.
"There's nothing here," the musician said flatly. "Just rocks and snow. Miri's
sick,
Cory—she needs a hospital, not a walk in the weather." He turned his eyes back to the road. "There's a turnoff about a half-mile up the road, get us to Vale in a little less than an hour."
"Hakan, stop the car."
The glare this time was less hard-edged, and the car actually did slow a bit.
"Miri is sick," Val Con said softly. "She needs the best medical care it is possible for her to have." He extended a hand. "Am I so mad with grief that I will murder my zhena?"
Hakan looked at him long and hard, then turned away and looked out at the crisp, starry night and the wild tumble of snow-covered rock. "Here?" he asked uncertainly.
"Actually," Val Con said, "approximately a quarter-mile back." He held his breath as the car slowed, stopped, and began to back up.
"Thank you, Hakan," he said softly. But the other only shook his head.
The ship itself was easy to find—merely a matter of following the line of half-filled footsteps back to their source. Val Con held up a hand as the turret beam lit. "Stay here a moment, Hakan," he said, and went on alone, clutching the multi-use key he had taken from Tyl Von sig'Alda's pockets.
The turret rotated, its beam seeking: Val Con twisted the thing in his hand, brought it to his mouth, and blew two sharp notes. After a pause, he added two more.
The turret stopped its rotation. Val Con pulled the portable beacon from his pocket, flashed a series of long-and-shorts at the beam, and sighed with relief when it simply went out.
"All right, Hakan," he called, and went to the ship's belly. He twisted the multikey, used it on the obvious hatch lock, then bent to find the hidden latch and disarm it.
The hatch slid open, silent in the silent night. The interior lights came up, touching the silver snow with gold.
Hakan stood holding Miri in his arms, mouth open. "An—airplane?" he asked doubtfully.
"Aircraft," Val Con corrected softly, and held out his arms. "I will take Miri, Hakan. Thank you for your aid."
"What?" The stubbornness was fully back in Hakan's face. "You have me drive you to an
aircraft
in the middle of nowhere, with Miri hurt and raving, and I'm supposed to just
leave
you here?" He shook his head. "No."
Val Con considered. Balance, after all, was owed. He bowed, very low. "As you wish. Come with me. Quickly."
The 'doc was behind a partition directly opposite the entrance to the control room. Val Con punched the emergency access, and the clear hatch cycled open. He had Hakan lay Miri on the pallet and then forgot him as he stripped off her coat and the bloodstained shirt, pulled off her boots, and peeled the skirt down. He scanned the board, relieved to find that the Department had thought enough of Tyl Von sig'Alda to supply his ship with a top-of-the-line autodoc, then cycled the hatch closed and watched the lights flicker as the 'doc cataloged Miri's injuries, taking blood samples, X rays, and brain scan. A chime sounded, and a line of characters appeared in the screen directly above the observation window.
GUNSHOT WOUND, HIGH RIGHT CHEST. NO FOREIGN BODIES NOTED WITHIN CHEST CAVITY. COMPLICATIONS: BLOOD LOSS, SHOCK, EXPOSURE. TRACES PSYCHOSTIMULATIVE DRUG DETECTED. PROJECTED REPAIR TIME: TWO HOURS FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.
The observation window opaqued. Val Con shuddered, knees sagging. It was going to be all right.
"Cory?" Hakan's voice was not doing well. Val Con straightened and turned to look at his friend.
Hakan's face was unnaturally pale, and he seemed to be trembling.
"Yes."
"Where's Miri?"
Val Con pointed. "In the—healing unit. This—" He touched the readout. "This says that she will be—repaired—in three hours." He smiled slightly. "She will still need to rest and regain her strength, but she will be out of danger."
Hakan frowned. "That machine is fixing Miri, right now?"
"Yes."
The musician nodded, glancing around, then squared his shoulders. "I've seen planes before, Cory—and this isn't a plane."
"No," Val Con said softly. "It's not."
"What is it, then?"
Val Con sighed. "An aircraft, say, Hakan—and now forget that you have seen it."
Hakan stared at him, and Val Con sighed again, moving out of the 'doc cubicle and crossing to the menuboard. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" Hakan shook his head, perhaps to clear it, and then sighed in his turn. "All right, Cory. Tea would be fine."
Val Con requested two—sweet for his guest, plain for himself—then took the cups out of the dispenser and handed one to Hakan. He sipped, astonished at how good the spicy Liaden tea was; then he saw his friend still staring about wild-eyed, and waved him toward the co-pilot's chair.
"Sit down, Hakan, and rest."
Hakan did, gingerly, and sipped his tea with caution. "Where did this come from?" he demanded.
Val Con looked at him levelly. "Out of the kitchen. You saw it."
"I saw you punch a couple buttons on that wall there, and then you handed me this!" The musician closed his eyes and seemed to be concentrating on taking deep breaths. Val Con wandered over to the pilot's station and sat down.
After a time, Hakan opened his eyes and looked at him, very calmly. "Where are you from, Cory?"
Val Con sighed. "Away."
"Not," Hakan insisted, "Porlint."
"No," Val Con agreed. "Not Porlint."
"Where, then?"
"No," Val Con said. "Hakan, I cannot tell you that. Ask me again, and I will lie to you—and I would rather not lie to my friend, to Miri's friend. I should not have brought you here. For anything less than Miri's life, I would not have brought you here." He smiled ruefully. "I have played a sorry joke on you, my friend—you have seen something that you cannot have seen. Not only that, but if you describe this ship—the kitchen, the medical machine—no one will believe you."
"Why not?"
Val Con moved his shoulders. "Can you go to a wall in any house in Gylles, push a few buttons, and get tea, hot and brewed to perfection? When you are hurt or ill, do you go to the doctor and have him slide you into a machine for an hour or two, until you feel better?"