None of them seemed to have the strength to reply; they just stared at the flames of the fire. Snow-flakes fell towards it, then were caught in the updraft and whirled away. The snow seemed to be thinning again.
“Alternatively,” Feril told them, “I could return to the coast and signal the submarine. Though I’d have to leave now.”
“Or you could stay here on guard,” Zefla said from the tent, putting Sharrow’s satchel under her head as a pillow.
“Or he could head for the tower again,” Dloan said. “With a gun, he might be able to hold off the Solipsists for a while.”
“I still think we should get word to outside,” Miz said. “Get the sub to call up some air support. Hell, the Security Franchise people didn’t bother about Roa’s fucking great flying boat, and one lousy fighter-bomber would be all we’d need.”
“Nobody sane would take it on,” Zefla said, after satisfying herself that Sharrow was comfortable. She hunkered down on the other side of the fire, her voice sounding faraway, distorted by the column of heated air rising between them. “So, we need to get word to outside, we need a guard tonight, and we need to guard the tower, too, to prevent Roa getting to it first.”
“All these things are possible,” Feril said. “What would you like me to do?”
They all looked at each other; and they each glanced at Sharrow, a bundled shape in the tent.
“Vote,” Zefla said. “I say… oh, guard the tower.”
Dloan nodded. “Me too.”
Miz made a tutting noise and looked away.
“Feril?” Zefla said.
“Yes?” It looked at her.
“What about you?”
“What-? Oh, I abstain.”
Zefla glanced back at the tent. “Guard the tower it is.”
They gave the android a laser pistol; the snow had stopped and the sky was clearing.
The fjord was pure black. A clear blue light came down from Maidservant, gibbous in the sky above; it coated the mountains and the dozens of small, snow-covered islands with a ghostly silver. Junklight sparkled in the northern skies, towards the equator. There were no fires on the far side of the water.
The android flitted away into the trees, silent and quick.
22 The Silent Tower
Zefla awoke in the middle of the night, her bladder full. She had tried to stave off the hunger pangs by drinking quantities of water made from snow they’d melted. Miz had talked about doing some night-fishing through a hole in a frozen stream, but then fallen asleep.
Snuggled down between the warmth of Dloan and Sharrow, she didn’t want to get out of the tent but knew she’d have to. She checked on Sharrow, who seemed to be breathing peacefully, then got up as carefully as she could, extricating herself from the others and wriggling her way out through the tent door. Somebody-probably Miz-lying cradling the machine gun murmured behind her, and she whispered, “Sorry!”
The fire was still glowing. It was light enough for her to see without a nightsight. She walked downhill through the quiet carpet of snow and squatted amongst the trees near the shore. The night was still and cold and clear. She heard a couple of muffled crumping noises in the distance, and guessed it was snow falling off trees.
She got up, fastening her fatigues. Steam filmed up from beneath her, just visible in the moonlight. Maidservant stood big and silver above the mountains on the other side of the fjord; it would be disappearing soon. She looked at it all for a few moments, thinking how beautiful this place was, and wishing the ache in her muscles and the hunger and the steady gnawing fear in her guts would vanish and let her enjoy it.
She turned and made her way back towards the camp.
The two figures were about twenty metres from the tent. They wore matt-black suits which covered their faces, and they each held small hand guns. They were creeping slowly closer to the tent, coming from the direction of the fjord head down a small ridge.
Her mind raced. Her gun was in the tent. The two figures hadn’t fired yet though they were well within range and must have realised there was no guard posted. They didn’t seem to have seen her. If she simply shouted, rousing Miz and Dloan, the two figures might shoot straight into the tent.
She shrank back and ducked, then ran downhill and curved round to get behind them. She tried to go as quietly as she could, slipping twice on buried roots but not making any appreciable noise. She found the rear of the ridge and ran up it, crouching.
The two black figures were right in front of her, still creeping toward the tent. She stayed where she was for a moment, getting her breath back, keeping her mouth wide so that her breathing didn’t make a noise.
The two figures were separating; one stayed where he was, crouched on one knee, gun pointed at the tent, while the other started to circle.
Zefla drew both her gloves off, placed them on the snow and crept down towards the kneeling figure, her hands out in front of her. There was a tickling feeling in her throat, probably because she’d been breathing hard. Fate, girl, she told herself, this is no time to cough, or sneeze, or get the hiccups… She got within five metres of the crouching figure, then something in the fire collapsed with a snap and a cloud of orange sparks swirled into the air.
She froze. So did the person circling round to the front of the tent. If they turned to look at the kneeling figure in front of her, they’d be bound to see her. She wasn’t close enough to make a dive for the kneeling figure. She watched the one near the tent, her heart thudding.
The circling figure kept its gaze on the tent, then moved slowly closer. Zefla relaxed fractionally and crept on towards the kneeling figure, her breath silent. The tickle in her throat wasn’t so bad now. Four metres; she would get to the kneeling figure with the gun before the other one got to the tent; three metres.
The snow fell from a tree immediately behind her without any warning.
She heard it, started to straighten as she thought there might have been another attacker behind her, then-realising, but knowing it was too late-pounced, shouting, at the man in front of her as he whirled round, bringing the gun up and firing as he rolled.
Miz had woken from a dream. He had been aware of somebody getting out of the tent. He felt stiff and sore and incredibly hungry. He still had the machine gun in his arms. He started to ease his arms and shoulders into a different position, then heard a whooshing, thumping noise, followed immediately by a scream and two shots. He tore the tent entrance open to see a black-suited figure right in front of him looking to one side, then turning to point a gun at him.
He had gone to sleep dreaming about this; his thumb flicked the safety an instant before his finger pressed the trigger. The gun shuddered and roared in his arms, trying to burrow back down past him and blowing the figure outside backwards, gun firing up into the trees.
Miz threw himself out of the tent. He felt Dloan follow.
There was a body lying in the snow, and an impression of move-ment downslope. Miz ran after the fleeing figure. The black-suited figure dropped the hand gun it had been carrying, dived into the water, swam for a few seconds then dived, disappearing in a black swirl of moonlit water.
Miz raised the machine gun and sighted at where the black suit had disappeared, then raised the gun a fraction. After a few moments there was a hint of turbulence to one side of where he was aiming; he corrected and fired, moving the gun around as though stirring the distant, fountaining water. The magazine ran out and the gun fell silent.
He remembered the nightsight and clipped it on. The body in the water floated darkly, oozing warmth.
Miz let the machine gun drop to the ground, then picked it up and started walking back up to the tent, shaking. He had just realised: the body on the snow had been wearing fatigues, and Zefla hadn’t been in the tent.