Sten wished they had powered bunnysuits. Or fur coats. If you are wishing, he thought, why not a new tacship?
If the suits had been less heavy or the weight could have been compensated for with McLean generators, they could have floated over the drifts. Or else improvised snowshoes from tree branches. Instead, they waded doggedly onward.
As night dropped down, Sten looked for a bivvy site. At the edge of the valley they were following, there was a huge tree with snow banked up to its lower limbs. Sten remembered a bit of trivia from a Mantis survival course and ordered his people to burrow toward the tree's trunk. The snow had not completely filled the area around the trunk, and there was a small, circular cave. By rolling about, they compressed the snow, enlarging the cave.
Kilgour checked the wounded. Sten was most grateful for Mantis cross-training, since his TO didn't include a medic. Alex was most competent—Mantis emergency med school would have qualified him as a civilian surgeon very easily. Not that there was much that could be done—their medpak was limited. Kilgour changed burn and stasis dressings and narcoed the injured. One of the wounded would die during the next few hours.
They settled in for the night. None of the sailors believed Tapia or Sten when they were told that they wouldn't need the suit heaters at all, until they saw the exhaled heat from their bodies melt the snow around them to water, which quickly became ice. The temperature in the cave made the space almost livable. Sten widened the hole around the tree's trunk for an air passage.
And so the night crawled into day. The mortally wounded soldier had died during the night. They found a rocky cleft, interred the corpse in its bubblepak, and used three willygun rounds to seal the crevice. Then they started out again.
The next day was a constant trade. Walking with faceplate shut made one warm—warm, and rapidly drained the suit's air supply. If the faceplate was opened and atmosphere breathed, the suit's heater went full on, depleting the powerpak and increasing the chance of facial frostbite.
The skies cleared about noon, and Cavite's sun blazed down. That made matters worse—Contreras went temporarily snowblind; she had to close her faceplate and set it for full polarization. And the snow melted.
There was also the increased chance of being spotted by a Tahn ship, although Sten couldn't figure why any Tahn would bother to patrol this white wasteland.
The second night was a repetition of the first, except with less shelter. Alex used the last of the cutter's power to burn a trench in the snow that would at least get them out of the direct blast of the wind.
That night passed hazily. One sailor was constantly on watch. At first light, they swallowed the last of their suits' liquid rations and moved out again.
Sten was somewhat disgusted at himself. He was starting to wheeze a little around the edges. Feeling exhaustion after only two days on the march? That would have been enough to get him returned to unit immediately back in the Mantis Section days. Sten was starting to understand why so many navy types were lardbutted.
Kilgour didn't make it any easier. His home world of Edinburgh was three-gee, and Cavite was E-normal. And somehow, even though he resembled an anthropomorphized beer keg, he had managed to keep in condition. He tanked through the snow as if it weren't there, as if he weren't wearing a shipsuit, and as if he weren't laden down with the front end of a bubblepak and carrying a medpak and two weapons.
Also, he kept making jokes—or trying to. Sten had to threaten him with close arrest to keep him from telling the awesomely imbecilic spotted snake story—Sten had heard it once back during Mantis training—three times too many. Kilgour had other stories that were almost as bad.
"Ha' Ah gie y' aboot in' time Ah were tourin't th' estate," he began cheerily to Ensign Tapia.
"What's an estate?" she growled as she almost fell face first into a drift.
"Ah, wee Sten, pardon, Commander Sten, hae dinnae spoke th' Ah'm th' rightful Laird Kilgour ae Kilgour?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Ah'm tryin't't' tell y' boot th' pig."
"Pig?"
"Aye. A great mound ae swineflesh, ae were. A' any rate, th' first Ah e'er saw ae tha' pig wae when Ah wa' tourin't th' estate. An' Ah seeit thae great porker. An' it strikit me, for it hae a wooden leg. Three legs an' aye, a peg."
"A three-legged pig," Foss put in suspiciously, having waded up close enough to Tapia to hear the story.
"Aye. A wonderment. So thae's this wee farmer standin't nigh his fence. An' I begin't an say, "Tha' pig, mister.'
"An' he speakit, an say, 'Aye, aye. Thae's a pig ae marvel. Three year ago, m' wee lad fall't down. Inta th' pond. Tha' dinnae be anyone around, an' m' heir's a drown't.
"'Doon plung't th' pig, an' pull him out.'
"An' Ah'm listen't, an' Ah say't, 'Tha's ae marvel. But—'
"An once't 'gain he cuts me off. 'Two year gone, m' gran's in th' gravsled, an' the controls go. An' the gravsled lifts an' 'tis headed for yon viaduct.'"
"Viaduct?" Tapia asked.
"Noo, tha's a fair question, lass. Ah'll answer in a bit. T' continue. I agree wi' m' wee tenant. 'Aye, tha's a pig tha's a wonder. But about'... an' ag'in he chops me.
"'One year past, 'tis a deep winter. Y' c'lect, Laird Kilgour.' An Ah says, 'Aye, Ah remember'
"An he says, 'M' croft catches fire. An' we're all asleep ae' th' dead. But this pig, he storm't ae th' hoose an' wakit us all. Savin't our lives.'
"Ae tha' point, Ah hae enough. 'Be holdin't tha' speech, man,' Ah roars. 'Ah 'gree. 'Tis a marvelous hog. Wha' Ah want to know is, Why th' clottin' wooden leg!?'
"An th' crofter look't ae me, an' say, 'Why, mon, you dinnae eat ae pig like thae all at once!'"
Tapia and Foss, both thinking indictable thoughts about premeditated murder, continued wading through the snow. That was Alex on the march.
But possibly his worst trait was the inveterate cheeriness—the constant chants of "Only five more klicks, Skipper" grew wearisome. Especially since they were now plowing through snow that was turning to slush.
Slush? Sten looked ahead and realized there weren't any more peaks in front of them. The valley widened out toward foothills. There were now patches of bare rock in the valley center.
They had made it.
Now all Sten had to worry about was getting his noninfantry deckwipes through the Tahn front lines, into Cavite City.
A piece of cake.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
When the ground stayed flat for seventy-five meters and the temperature went above 15°C, they unpeeled. Kilgour choked politely.
"Th' universe smell't mightily a' feet," he observed. "Th' Tahn'll track us by the reek."
He wasn't exaggerating—they collectively stank like a cesspit. But that lasted only until they ran across the first cattle tank. Kilgour shooed off the three scrawny bovines and charged into the water, tearing off his coveralls as he waded. The others were close behind him.
Sten gave them an hour to scrape off the worst before continuing the march. Now they needed rations and a secure place to plan just how they were going to return to friendly lines.
Navigation was easy—they marched toward the columns of smoke on the horizon that marked the battleground around Cavite City. The land was dry, poor grazing country, spotted here and there with ramshackle farms, most of which were deserted. Sten skirted the few that showed signs of occupation—they didn't look to have enough for their owners let alone be able to resupply Sten.
Then they hit prosperity: green fields and, in the distance, farm buildings. But 2,000 meters from the main building, prosperity showed itself as tragedy. The fields around the farm were deserted.