Heris and the militia captain leaned over them. Three shots of Bandon, five minutes apart, and two of each adjacent island. They looked at the Bandon pictures first. One atmospheric shuttle stood on the end of the runway; no other vehicles were near it. Three flitters were parked on an apron off to one side in two pictures, and only two in the third and last. A tiny blob the captain identified as an electric groundcar moved along the narrow driveway between the landing field and the lodge. Comparing the three pictures, they could tell that it had left the lodge for the field—and then a flitter had taken off.
On the islands to the east, south, and west—four in all—the captain found nothing remarkable, though heavy clouds still clung to the peaks of the eastern island. But the island to the north—“where the children camped”—Lord Thornbuckle put in—they saw what they were looking for.
A flitter on the east beach, hatch open. A flitter parked on the south end of the island another a few hundred meters offshore, as if approaching. They could see nothing on the visual of the island’s center; it, too, was cloaked in cloud.
“We have continuous loops, of course,” Lord Thornbuckle said. “And we can get infrared and radar images. But it seems to me that’s enough to go on.”
“Right, sir.” The militia captain closed his eyes a moment, and then said, “We’ll need all the Homestead militia, and those at the Neck. Day ’n night gear both, full armor, and riot weapons—” He paused, as the clatter of hooves broke upon them. Heris looked up to see Buttons riding breakneck up the avenue on a lathered horse. Servants ran out to take the horse; he flung himself off and ran up the steps to the portico.
“What happened? Is Bubbles all right?”
His father glared at him. “What do you know about Bubbles?”
“She took a flitter with the others to Whitewings for a few days—she asked me to cover for her—what’s happened?”
“We don’t know. We know the flitter’s down on that small island north of Bandon, the one you youngsters camped on. We haven’t been able to contact her, and Cece’s Captain Serrano has reason to believe she’s in great danger.”
“And you want me to do what?”
“Be my representative with the rescue force. We expect some opposition. . . .”
“Opposition?”
“Captain Sigind will brief you fully. You’ll need your personal gear—”
“Liftoff in thirty minutes, sir,” the militia captain put in.
“Right.” Buttons dashed into the hall, as changed as his father from the amiable and rather foolish young man Heris had thought him. Captain Sigind eyed her thoughtfully.
“You want to come along?”
“Of course we’re coming—” began Lady Cecelia, but the militia captain’s eyes never wavered from Heris’s. Heris shrugged.
“It’s your operation; I don’t know the terrain, the entire situation, or your troops. If you can find a corner where I won’t be in your way, yes—but I’m not going to step on your toes.”
“Heris!” Lady Cecelia’s bony finger poked her in the back. “We have weapons—!”
“We have weapons, milady,” said Heris formally, “but you have no training and I have not been on a groundside operation in years. We are superfluous, and we might even be in the way. Captain Sigind must decide.”
His earlier indecision came down on the side of respect; she had won that much. “Thank you, Captain Serrano. I’m glad you understand. Now, if you and the lady will agree to act under orders, I’m sure we can fit you in.”
“We had a supply shuttle almost loaded,” Heris said. “Including personal armor for Lady Cecelia and me, and decent weapons.”
“Good. Then I can send a squad with you—expand the standard medical unit—and now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off. Twenty-five minutes, now.”
Heris set off for the flitter hangars again, Cecelia in tow. They’d have to change there into whatever clothes Cecelia had packed earlier, or go in hunting attire and look like idiots. It shouldn’t bother her, she told herself, after that purple uniform. She knew it wasn’t really the clothes that made her feel incompetent. She had never been on a mission as an observer; she had always had a place, a duty. Now her duty was to keep out of the way, stay out of trouble, keep Cecelia out of trouble. It felt wrong.
“I wish we could take the horses,” Cecelia grumbled. Heris looked over at her. Cecelia was not used to being rushed; the bustle and scurry of the militia’s preparation, the need to scramble out of her clothes and into others in the cramped restroom at the flitter hangars, had ruffled her composure, and she had reacted with a string of complaints. The personal armor Heris had insisted she wear under her jacket made her look, Cecelia had said, ridiculous.
Heris didn’t agree; nothing looked as ridiculous as holes in one’s body. She hadn’t said that, since it hadn’t been necessary. Heris’s own armor felt odd, shaped differently than military issue, but she hoped it would be effective. She hoped even more that they wouldn’t need it. The supply flitter’s cargo compartment held food, weapons, tools, ammunition, clothes, medical supplies, and flexible plastic tanks of water. With them were four trained medics, two of them full-time militia. A saddle wouldn’t have fit aboard, let alone a horse.
“Horses? To this island? What good would that do?”
“I’ve always said war wouldn’t be as bad if I could ride into it.” Cecelia twitched her shoulders. “Not that I could ride with this thing on—another advantage of riding.”
“You’d be dead before the first stride,” Heris said. She could feel her own breathing tighten. . . . It always did, until the action began, and here she had no way to work it off. The supply flitter, needing no pilot, stayed in position well behind the troop carriers. The medics talked softly among themselves, eyeing her as if checking her for stress levels. She made herself open her hands, let them rest lightly on her lap as if she were relaxed.
“It’s on an island, with a forest,” Cecelia said. “Horses are faster over the ground than people.”
“Bigger target,” Heris said. She didn’t want to talk; she never wanted to talk ahead of time. She wanted to pace, to check over the plans she had not made, to see the faces that were not her people look at her the way her people had.
“You’re nervous,” Cecelia said more quietly. Heris glared at her.
“I am not nervous.” It came out with more bite than she intended; Cecelia did not flinch, but nodded as if it confirmed her opinion. Heris stretched her hands and shrugged. “Not nervous, exactly . . . just unsettled. It’s not the way I’m used to.”
“Did it bother you when you had command?”
“Bother me? Yes, and no.” She knew what Cecelia was doing, trying to keep her focussed intellectually, but she did not mind. It might help both of them. “I worried—one always does—about the plan. Was it good enough, had I missed something, would people die because of my stupidity? And that includes preparation—had I trained them well enough, often enough? Would they make stupid mistakes because I’d been too lenient? But beyond that, it didn’t bother me. There’s a . . . a sort of quiet place, between the commitment and the combat itself. In a way you probably felt it, from what you’ve said of starting a cross-country. Once you’re on the course, once the horse is galloping, the time for worry is over. From then on you just deal with it, one fence at a time.”
Cecelia nodded slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way—but that is what I said, and that’s what I did. One fence at a time, but remembering all the ones ahead, too.”
“Oh, yes.” Heris sat still a moment, remembering. “You don’t quit riding the course until it’s over—the last fence, or the last opponent, can kill you if you’re careless at the end. But the commitment is there. The difference here—I can’t begin to explain it.”