to walk, and every time he fell forward into the snow-which was often-he was able to push himself back up. His eyes were beginning to freeze, and the tiny amount of exposed skin around them was dead to his gloved touch. The rest of his stick trudged ahead of him, heads down, hunched shapes disappearing into the snow-driven darkness. Only the monofil guideline laid by Fellsworth’s advance party kept them on track, with each member of the stick secured by a single safety strap clipped to the line. It was their only protection against a fall into the howling black void that dropped away from the narrow path that wound its way along the foot of a sheer black wall, disappearing up into the night.
There was no going back. Michael did the only thing he could: He struggled on, chest heaving in the thin air, and prayed that the nightmare would be over soon.
They were close to the top now, thank God. It had been a long climb up to Koenig’s High Pass from the complex of caves they had sheltered in to escape the Hammer aircraft scouring the mountains for the escapees. Every step of the way, the wind had ripped and torn at them like a howling animal. He knew that his stick could not take much more punishment.
He climbed on. Suddenly he almost lost his footing as the path turned sharply down. The snow had been scoured off the track by the wind, leaving only rough broken rock; the dim light from his chemstick showed him where to put his feet as he accelerated downhill. They had made the crest, but if anything, conditions had worsened. With every meter he climbed, the wind had strengthened, battering at him, threatening to pick him up and throw him bodily down the mountain. Now it seemed to have a mind of its own, a demented, malevolent creature determined to rip him off the path, out into the emptiness, and down to his death on the rocks far below.
Michael had to force the pace. He had to get his stick into shelter soon or he would have severe frostbite to deal with on top of all the other injuries his team had picked up in the relentless climb to get clear of Camp I-2355. Ichiro had fallen heavily, a greenstick fracture of her forearm the result. Piccione had a badly gashed forehead but fortunately, in spite of an impressive amount of blood, no concussion. Stone, the weakest of the team, still not completely recovered from the injuries he had suffered in the Hammer attack on the
Making his way down the hill, Michael uttered a small prayer of thanks. The wind had begun to ease at last. Even as it did, the snow began to deepen, the track ahead of him a well-beaten furrow in the soft white surface. Michael cursed softly. The track was a mixed blessing-good for getting off this damn mountain quickly, bad because it would show the Hammers which way their missing charges had fled. He could only hope that the blizzard lasted long enough to cover it over. Otherwise, they were probably dead. There were only two ways in or out of Camp I- 2355; if their tracks were spotted, even the dumbest Hammer commander would have no trouble bottling them up until they starved to death.
A faint gray tinge marked the start of a new day by the time Michael’s stick hit the tree line. They came off the rock-strewn slope into the protection offered by increasingly thick forest, the wind dropping away almost to nothing, a shocking, snow-deadened silence falling like a blanket over the group. By Michael’s calculations, another few hundred meters would see them at the control point. Once he had checked in, another kilometer would bring them to their lay-up point, a deeply cut ravine that was thickly wooded overhead. Once there, they would have a good chance of finding a deep, dry cave where they could recover in safety.
The control point was around and underneath a huge boulder tucked away out of the snow that still was falling heavily. The tracks left by Michael’s stick already were disappearing. Fellsworth and her small command team stood motionless as Michael made his way over, signaling his stick to take shelter.
The pale green light from the chemstick made Fellsworth look shockingly worn, her face a mask of exhaustion. Even so, she was smiling. Michael’s was the third from the last group across. Sixteen more spacers to come, and she would have led the
“Michael,” she said, her voice hoarse with tiredness. “Good to see you. Not much fun, I know.”
“You can say that again, sir.”
“Your stick looks good. No casualties?”
“Some minor stuff. Nothing serious.”
“Good. Any sign of the sticks following you?”
“None, sir. Sorry. Couldn’t see the proverbial red barn at ten paces.”
Fellsworth laughed. “Not to worry. They’re two of the strongest teams, so hopefully we’ll see them soon. On you go. Lay up until first light tomorrow. Whatever you do, set a fire only if you can find a cave, a deep one. And keep it small. No bonfires. Got it?”
“Sir.”
“Good. Stick commanders’ conference at point Bravo Golf one hour after first light.”
“Roger that, sir. See you then.” Turning away, he moved downhill, waving his stick into line behind him.
Wednesday, December 1, 2399, UD
Even though he had slept well, Michael was exhausted. He had been completely drained by the enormous effort it had taken to get his stick away from the camp and safely across the brutal nightmare that was Koenig’s High Pass.
Michael lay back against a rock while he waited for Fellsworth to get things going. His feet hurt, his hands hurt, and parts of his face had the bluish-white patches of early frost damage. Even so, he had gotten off lightly. Apart from his face, he had avoided any serious damage even if the process of rewarming had been a painful one. A few days and he would be fine; happily, so would the rest of his stick.
He looked around at the group, counting heads. He sat up; something was wrong. Another quick check confirmed it: It looked like they were one stick commander short. With the blizzard still howling over the treetops high above them and the snow falling relentlessly through the trees, Michael knew that anyone not off the mountain by then had no chance. He shivered, and it was not just from the cold. The mountainside fell steeply away from Koenig’s High Pass in an uninterrupted sweep of icy, wind-scoured snow, dropping hundreds of meters down into a boulder-strewn, snow-choked ravine. Anyone who came off the guideline would fall. Unable to slow down, let alone stop the fall, they would have smashed into the ravine too fast to have any chance of surviving.
Michael closed his eyes at the awful thought. He had been less than half a step away from the same fate for all those long hours, a perverse and vindictive wind toying with him as he struggled to keep his feet along a path that was only thirty icy centimeters wide in places.
“Okay, folks. Listen up.” Fellsworth’s voice was tired, but her underlying strength showed through the fatigue. Nobody listening to her could have any doubts that she was going to make a success of what inevitably had become known as the Long March.
“Right, first the bad news, though I’m sure most of you have worked it out already. Lieutenant Kamarova’s stick is lost. They were last to cross the pass, and no one saw them go. We think they may have cut the guideline too early, someone slipped, and that was it.” She stopped for a moment, the pain of losing eight of her spacers clear in her eyes. “We won’t forget them. I’ve sent a team to check out the bottom of the ravine below the pass in the hope that someone made it. There’s a faint chance, but I don’t hold out much hope. I’ve given the search party until last light, and then they’ll come back in, earlier if the blizzard looks like it’s easing.”
She took a deep breath in. “Right,” she declared firmly. “First up, there’s a small change of plan. I am concerned that Lake Schapp could be a trap. Here, have a look.”
With a few strokes from her staff, she drew a quick mud map of the Gwyr River as it ran northwest toward the Forest of Gwyr. A small circle in the middle marked the position of the moraine-dammed Lake Schapp.
“By now, the Hammers must have worked out that we did not head for the coast. That is,” she said with a
