The Adversary - 4 (41 page)

Patricia was at the wheelhouse door. "We will. With the Xlasers behind us, and all the concerted coercion we can lash together!" Then she was gone.

Walter tracked her briefly to make certain that she had retired to her cabin, then scanned the rest of his shipmates. They were all either asleep or occupied with their work-except two. Marc was gone on the jump and Alexis Manion was unexpectedly at large, wandering about the main deck, pausing from time to time to swab at the brightwork with a polishing rag. He was under the influence of the docilator. No one had thought to send him to bed, and only the magnates had the requisite command code. Subsidiary Grand Masters such as Walter were forbidden to interfere with the potentially dangerous Manion.

"Poor devil," Walter muttered. The dim figure disappeared behind the night-shrouded forward deckhouse. For some time Walter brooded about Manion, whose crime had been revealing to the children the truth about their elders. Then it was time to farspeak Veikko, and Walter forgot the dynamic-field specialist as he sent his mind ranging eastward to the Alps.

WALTER: Hey, boy.

VEIKKO: I'm here, Walter.

WALTER: How are things going?

VEIKKO: One of the climbers got a touch of pulmonary edema and another has frostbitten feet. But we progress. Camp 3 was stocked today. The assault teams leave here for the big push tomorrow. Basil is still on the mountain leading the support group down, and by rights the assault party should wait until he gets back. But we're expecting Firvulag company, so they're jumping the gun. Basil delegated a Tibetan medic named Thongsa to lead the other six assaulters in a single group until they connect up with him. Then they'll split into two smaller teams as originally planned and Basil will lead them to the aircraft.

WALTER: Sounds like this Basil hasn't had much rest in the last week.

VEIKKO: He's led just about every other support group. I can't believe the guy is seventy-two. Rejuvenated, of course.

WALTER: That makes him a year younger than Marc. And a couple of years older than me.

VEIKKO: Well, we all know bloody Marc's immortal. But you look-I meanWALTER: The Ocala regen tank was getting a bit obsolete. I didn't make much use of it. I'm sure this Basil is a product of more sophisticated Milieu technology if he's the climbing superman you say he is.

VEIKKO: It must be quite a place ... the Milieu, I mean.

WALTER: You'll see.

VEIKKO: ... Walter, are you sure you still want to try it?

WALTER: You kids have got to have your chance.

VEIKKO: Oh, God. But Marc might kill you.

WALTER: It's possible. But he might think twice. Suppose the course director autopilot broke? It's not too tricky manoeuvring Kyllikki in fine weather. But given a storm-and there might be one lurking out there-this big four-poster is a bitchkitty to steer manually.

VEIKKO: I remember the gale in the Ross Sea! ... So you think that even if you-you think Marc won't dareWALTER: I'm going to try it, and hope that Marc won't kill me when he finds out. But whatever happens, happens. I don't know when my chance will come, but when it does, I'll grab it. The things are locked up tight, but I'll figure some way to neutralize them.

VEIKKO: Oh, Walter. Oh, Daddy.

WALTER: See that you and Irena don't get yourselves killed by the damned goblins or whatever they are. If anything happened to you, I don't think I could go through with this.

VEIKKO: We've got the base camp all dug in and there are plenty of weapons. We'll be fine. But you-whenWALTER: When I can. Don't worry. Call me tomorrow if possible.

Otherwise, on Tuesday.

VEIKKO: The Tanu with us say that the Firvulag will probably quit when their sacred Truce begins at dawn on Wednesday.

WALTER: Well-that's something. Take care, son. Someone's just come into the wheelhouse and I'll have to let you go.

VEIKKO: Good luck ...

Walter thumbed the autopilot and turned smiling from the wheel. "Hello, Alex. Come in."

"A wand'ring minstrel I," Manion sang, "a thing of shreds and patches." He began to rub industriously at the port-frames with his polishing rag.

Walter said distinctly: "Alex. Stop that. Come here and listen to me."

The docilated man obediently lowered his cloth and stood before Kyllikki's captain.

"You're the best PK-head of us all, Alex. And not too shabby a coercer either. I wonder if you're strong enough to get past the docilator. I wonder if your coercion can push down the command-set if I give you the proper inspiration. Listen Alex!

I know how you and I can help the children!

I need your help.

Do you understand?"

A broad smile spread slowly across the ravaged face. Manion sang softly: Am I alone, and unobserved? I am!

Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham!

Walter grasped him by the arms. "Can you do it? Have you been picking away at it from the inside? You know I can't turn the docilator off."

Alex sang: This air severe is but a mere veneer!

This cynic smile is but a wile of guile!

This costume chaste is but good taste misplaced!

"Good man! I want you to go down to the forward hold with me-and break Marc's fancy lock."

Alex whispered: With catlike tread upon our prey we steal; In silence dread our cautious way we feel ...

"I'm going to sabotage the X-lasers, Alex, so that Marc can't use them against the children. He'll still have the other weapons, of course. But the kid's sigma-shields can turn them aside. And there's a fair chance that our metaconcert potential has dwindled at the same time that the Little King's has been growing. When Marc finds out what we've done, he might kill us. But he needs you badly, and nobody can sail this tub as well as I can-so there's a chance. And if we make it to Europe, who knows what might happen? Marc might even change his mind about using force against the kids if the hell-zappers aren't an option anymore."

Alex sang: When a felon's not engaged in his employment (his employment) Or maturing his felonious little plans (little plans), His capacity for innocent enjoyment (-cent enjoyment) Is just as great as any honest man's.

With tremulous slowness, one eyelid dropped shut, then opened again. Alexis Manion had definitely winked.

"Marc's out jumping and the rest of them are asleep or busy,"

Walter said. "Let's go do it right now, shall we?" He took the physicist by the hand and led him away like a happy child.

CHAPTER TEN

Bets! Wake up guy! Wake up it's time to march!

Mr. Betsy stirred. A manicured hand crept from the interior of his silk-and-swansdown sleeping bag and hooked over the opening of his balaclava, which had ridden up to the vicinity of his receding natural hairline. A finger pulled the pink knitted helmet down so that a single green eye peered from the woollen slot and read the illuminated digits on the inturned wrist chronograph: 0216. The grey torc tingled, banishing sleep.

Mr. Betsy's telepathic voice was surly: Good grief Ookpik it can't be starting time I just went to bed!

Bad news. Elizabeth sent word our Tanu farsensor that Firvulag coming up fast on Bettaforca. Also Basil on mountain says weather looking iffy. We can't wait until dawn to start climb. Ten minutes.

Betsy said aloud, "Oh, friggerty fudge."

Ookpik said: And don't forget your gun.

Growling feebly, Betsy levered himself upright and hopped across the hut like an acrobatic caterpillar enveloped in its cocoon. He lit the hut lantern and knelt in front of the oven of the cooking unit, where his boots and outer clothing had spent the brief night toasting at fifty degrees Celsius. He checked the outside temperature and was surprised to find it hovering just above freezing. Right. Never mind the down pants and jacket for now: on with the breathable grintlaskin wet-wind gear over his layered woollies, snap on the boots, then the snow gaiters and climbing harness. To extract the perspiration from his sleeping bag, he stuffed it into the oven for a few moments and let the busy little microwaves do their work. Then the bag and down clothing went into his pack. He pulled on his mitts and grabbed ice-axe and Weatherby Magnum blaster.

Six minutes. Mr. Betsy allowed himself a satisfied smirk as he stepped out into the alpine night.

A warmish wind was blowing from the west and the freshfallen snow of yesterday had gone slushy. The camp was blacked out as a safety precaution, but Betsy saw dark shapes moving among the huts of the gold-torc soldiery. A fuzzy half-moon lit Monte Rosa with wan, greenish radiance. The massif was crowned with an unusual double cloud formation, a smooth cap curving over the highest elevation, surmounted by an elongate, eastward-trailing plume.

After a quick visit to the latrine, Betsy came into the climbers' staging hut. Ookpik was the only one there as yet, hunched on a bench next to the grub buffeteria, drinking tea and nibbling slugs Villeroy.

"I'm glad somebody in this outfit is quick on the aufgesprungen," the Eskimo remarked wryly. "The rest of the team are still stumbling around looking for their socks-and that includes our redoubtable leader, Dr. Thongsa. Have some tea, Bets. The French-fried slimies aren't too bad. You see that cloud on the mountain?"

"Yes," said Betsy shortly. He dropped his gear and shucked his mittens. "Lord Bleyn was doing his best to put a good face on matters yesterday. I might have known we'd never get out of here so easily! Those Firvulag must be able to conceal their movements somehow if they've managed to come so close without Elizabeth farseeing them. They weren't supposed to arrive until late tomorrow. A night start over the glacier snout in warm weather like this could be extremely hazardous."

Ookpik scrutinized a gasteropod fritter before popping it into his mouth. "That's not the only waktoo hitting the fan, good buddy. I farspoke Basil myself. Couldn't sleep."

Betsy ladled a big dollop of honey into his tea. "I thought you couldn't broadcast more than a few hundred metres?"

"I've been practicing. You'd be surprised how sheer panic jacks up the old cerebral output ... Anyhow, Stan's worse."

"Oh, my."

"He's a rugged old walrus, but pulmonary edema's nothing to fool around with. Getting him down to Camp Two eased his condition a little, but he's still a bagger. Basil and Taffy will have to hump him all the rest of the way on the decamole sledge."

"How's poor dear Phronsie?"

"Her feet are responding to the torc-induced circulation boost. She can walk, but not very fast. She wants Baz and Taffy to leave her at Camp Two and press on down with Stan. She says she thinks she could make it back here on her own, given a couple days' rest. Or we could send a rescue team."

"If the Firvulag don't wipe out Bettaforca first," Betsy muttered. "Rescue team-? The only climbers left down here after we take off will be Cliff and Cisco Briscoe, and neither one is very strong." He pulled a dubious face and replaced a half-eaten slug on the platter. "Attrition is thinning the ranks of Basil's Bastards rather rapidly. We really don't need a premature Firvulag attack and a storm on top of everything else."

The hut door opened, admitting three exotics and Kang Lee, the gold-torc officer of the watch. The Tanu climbers Bleyn the Champion and Aronn looked almost like outsized humans in their alpine clothing; but Ochal the Harper was an eerie sight, a white anorak and pants pulled over his brightly glowing amethyst armour.

"The others are coming immediately," the farsensor said.

"We'll use this map for orientation rather than attempt a mindmeld." He spread a large sheet of durofilm on the table in the centre of the hut. More people came stomping in-Bengt, Sandvik and Nazir of the second assault team, and the nonclimbing physician, Magnus Bell. Last of all, smiling and imperturbable in the face of the others' coolness, came the little deputy assault leader, Dr. Thongsa.

"Now let the briefing commence!" he ordered. Somebody snickered.

Ochal's mailed finger traced a path across the map, leaving a lingering bright mark on the plass. "It seems the Foe has done the unexpected. With their forces diminished by the landslide back in the Tarentaise, no one suspected that they would dare to split what was left. Nevertheless, this is exactly what they did. After crossing the Little St. Bernard Pass and marching into the Proto-Augusta Valley, they arrived here." He indicated a point on the river some forty kilometres east of the pass.

"About one hundred Firvulag continued to move east along the Augusta in a straightforward manner to the Val d'Ayas, which is their most logical corridor of access to Camp Bettaforca. This was the force Elizabeth tracked."

"And the rest of them?" Ookpik asked.

"The force she did not perceive," Ochal resumed, "consisted of some seventy of the more stalwart Foe, those able to exercise strong shielding functions. After these troops broke away from their fellows, they went through the steep gorges of the Valpelline, where even a Grand Master would have the utmost difficulty farsensing them. They travelled northeast and then east across very rugged terrain, then curved back southward.

They will fall upon us from the head of the Ayas instead of the foot, probably attacking from that ridge to the northwest."

"The storm's coming in from that direction," Ookpik noted brightly. "Might slow the bastards down."

"We must be off at once!" piped Thongsa, prodding the air with his ice-axe spike. "Once we reach the glacier, the Firvulag won't dare follow-and at least we'll be safe!"

An embarrassed silence greeted this gaffe.

Ochal said gently, "We think that the Foe are poised to attack Camp Bettaforca, and our people are armed and ready. But you must understand that another possibility exists. The Firvulag nation were anciently born and bred in the high snowy mountains of Duat, our native world. Even a thousand years in the Many-Coloured Land will not have diminished their craftiness in such terrain-and the Famorel Little People are even more mountain-wise than their kinfolk of the northern realm. They are keen farsensors. They undoubtedly know the locations of our advance camps on Monte Rosa."

"Surely not!" wailed the Tibetan physician.