“That’s what admirals are for,” Ky said, grinning. About half the group managed a laugh. “Sergeant Cosper, Corporal Yamini, I’d like you to come along as well. Anyone else who has mountain experience, you’re welcome to join us.”
They set off at once; the clouds were already thicker. “It looks to me,” Ky said, “like there’s a real gap in the cliffs beyond these boulders. They could be what’s fallen off the cliffs, but there’s a regularity—it could be intentional, to block the way.”
“I’d agree,” Yamini said. “A roadblock, not a complete barrier.”
When they got in among the rocks, they found a mix of impossible unstable piles and narrow gaps that sometimes led to another narrow gap. In several hours, they’d worked out a path to the slope beyond, rising between walls of rock to either side, and marked the way with reflective stickers.
“I think we can get up to the plateau in—one day?”
“Easily,” Sergeant Cosper said. As Ky had expected, he had proven both strong and untiring. “We could go up today, in fact.”
“But not make it back to camp by dark,” Ky said. “We’ll need supplies for two days, and some of those survival blankets, because we’ll need to overnight up there somewhere.”
“I could go on just a little way,” said Cosper. Even as he spoke, a wall of cloud lowered down the slope.
“It’s going to snow,” Yamini said. “We’d better start back.”
By the time they reached the camp, it was hard to see more than ten meters. “We’re not starting out in this snow. But the next clear spell, we leave at first light.”
Later that evening, Marek asked to speak to her privately. “Sir, I’m not—well, I am, actually—questioning your decision. People are already losing weight on these short rations. The effort to climb up there, to explore—it’s just going to cost them more. It won’t help.”
Ky held up her hand, and he stopped. “Master Sergeant, I believe we’re on the same side here—we both want the best for everyone here. Tell me how staying here, with no more shelter than we have, and no more food than we have, will let everyone live through the winter, in shape to find a way to signal for help when the weather eases.”
“Sir—Admiral—I can’t. I don’t think there is a way. But I think what you’re doing is just giving them false hope.”
“We won’t know that if we don’t try, Master Sergeant.”
He nodded, looking down. “I understand, sir. I hope you’re right.”
“So do I,” Ky said.
“I know you mean well,” he said. “And good luck on the search.”
It was an odd farewell, but Ky thought she understood. For all that she was from Slotter Key and had been to the Academy, she wasn’t really part of his chain of command. It worried him—it would have to worry him—to have her making life-or-death decisions for Slotter Key personnel.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I have to get back to Cascadia,” Stella said as soon as the door to Grace’s inner office closed behind her. She had come to the government offices early, by cab, avoiding the media avid for her reaction to Ky’s presumed death. “I can’t wait until Ky is found or is officially declared dead—I have work to do there that cannot be done by ansible connection. I’ve already stayed longer than I planned. And the Cascadian government is probing my office about what happened, because of Ky’s aide.”
Grace nodded. “I don’t like it, but I do understand. What does your mother say?”
“What does my mother always say but Family comes first? But Ky’s not my only family; the entire Vatta family is my family. I can’t shut down everything because she’s missing. If I’d done that when she went off to fight, where would we be?”
“I know,” Grace said. “And my sources suggest that the Commandant was the real target in this, though I haven’t yet gathered proof enough for a court.”
“Any idea who?”
“Oh, the Quindlans. The former President’s family, especially his uncle Byron. They’ve made tries at me, too, but so far unsuccessfully, as you can tell.”
“The construction Quindlans? The ones who built our old headquarters?”
“Exactly. Who claim to know nothing, absolutely nothing, about how terrorists got hold of the plans and knew where to plant the bombs for maximum effect. Thing is, it was mostly Alexander, the former President, who arranged it, and with operatives from outside. It’s possible, though unlikely, that Byron didn’t know. His son Egbert certainly did, but again—the proof isn’t admissible in court.”
“Any connection with Gammis Turek?”
“No, but a good one with Osman Vatta, with that branch of the family. I wish we had Turek’s genome; I suspect he was one of Osman’s by-blows.” Grace leaned back, stretched. “So, when are you leaving, Stella? How will you travel?”
“Vatta ships only. We have three in dock right now, with three departures in the next four days. I might be on any one of them.”
“You’re not telling me?”
“No, Aunt Grace.”
“Indeed. You’re right. I’ll have Olwen and Mac arrange your return to your mother’s; we have enough visitors on official business that another anonymous black car won’t be noticed.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace.”
“Safe travels. Keep hope; she still might be alive.”
Grace looked out the window, blinking back tears. Twenty-three days here had brought brighter weather, flowers, green leaves to the trees. Twenty-three days on the other side of the planet could bring only shorter days, deeper cold, more storms. Sea ice would have formed all the way to Miksland’s south coast now.
Twenty-three days—she had told Stella to keep up hope, but she herself had none. No one survived twenty days in that ocean at this time of year.
A tap at her door brought her back to her desk. “Yes?”
MacRobert eased into her office and shut the door behind him. “I found this in the archives.” He handed over a roll of paper. “Really old map, with markings not on any of the newer ones. Apparently it’s never been included in the digital map collection.”
“Miksland?”
“Yes.” He unrolled the map as he talked, weighting the corners with files. “It was stuffed in with ‘unreliable, archaic, possibly fantasized’ material in the old university library annex. They have an enthusiastic research librarian over there who’s found odd things for me before. I said I wanted everything, no matter how ridiculous, on Miksland.” He pointed at a mark near the eastern edge of the continent. “See that?”
Grace peered at it. “What is it?”
“Nobody knows, but it’s not a natural feature. Natural features don’t come with neat straight lines and ninety-degree corners. It’s almost five kilometers long, this skinny bit—and down at this end there’s what may be a shaft leading underground.”
“But nothing’s seen on flyovers?”
“Haven’t been any sightings reported,” MacRobert said, with a little emphasis on the last word. “The map’s hand-drawn, you can see that. There’s no proper legend, no real provenance. My source said she first saw it years ago, when she was an undergraduate volunteer and they were sorting very old materials into the newly built annex. She remembered a few handwritten pages as well, but those were separated from the map and she’s looking for them in a different archive.”
“But we know the age?”
“Not precisely, not without testing the paper and ink. Personally, I think it was one of the early explorers, three or four hundred years ago, someone unofficial. In a boat of some kind. I can’t imagine an aviator marking the shoals and reefs—here, you see, and there. And these faint lines could be courses charted.”