They'd made it out of the caves.
They-
"Elizabeth?"
She hadn't surfaced.
Swearing, John pulled at the lifeline, only to find a frayed end that had got snagged on a piece of wood, which must have been the pull he'd noticed. Panic wanted to rise, but he refused to let it, refused to even think about the chances of finding someone in this light in a large pool with a slow but appreciable current and probably one hell of an undertow nearer the cascades. No point thinking about it, because he damn well was going to find her.
He took a few deep breaths, then a final, shallower one and dived. Airy froth churned up by the rapids and the cascades rendered the water practically opaque. He could see perhaps two feet, that was it. Fine, so he'd grope. A few strong strokes brought him to the bottom. Pebbles, which was a small mercy; at least he wouldn't have to worry about stirring up silt as well. He pulled himself upstream along the riverbed, one arm extended, patting all around him. Nothing. Finally, with his lungs burning for air, he shot back to the surface. Then he repeated the process, gradually working his way closer to the waterfall.
When he came back up for the third time, he knew this next dive would have to be the last. He was shaking uncontrollably, and the muscles in his legs were beginning to cramp. Wildly determined to make this one count, he dived directly under the cascades-and found her almost immediately, flopping like a rag doll in the undertow, clearly unconscious. Obviously unconscious. There was no alternative as far as John was concerned. He hauled her in, threaded one arm under hers and across her chest and began kicking out of the milling current and toward the surface for all he was worth, which wasn't very much at this stage. Just when he thought he'd never get clear of the undertow, the river suddenly seemed to change its mind, relinquished its grip, and let him and Elizabeth drift toward a shallow bank.
Crawling on all fours, he dragged her limp body up the shore with him, rolled her on her back, searched for a pulse, which was pointless. His fingers were so cold, he couldn't have felt a one-stroke diesel engine. What was obvious, however, was the fact that Elizabeth wasn't breathing. Blue-lipped and drained of blood her face looked as though it belonged to a wax doll-or a corpse.
How long had she been under? Five minutes? Seven?
It was difficult to say, but at least the fact that the water was cold enough to freeze a polar bear's privates would have bought her some extra time. If he could get her breathing again, and if he managed to warm her up quickly enough afterwards…
Willing his hands to move with a semblance of coordination, he cleared Elizabeth's airway and began CPR. For the briefest of moments he hesitated before starting compressions-if her heart hadn't in fact stopped this might kill her-then he went ahead, because he didn't have a choice. Five compressions, breathe, five compressions, breathe… John blanked out everything, except that steady rhythm.
After a while-minutes that felt like hours-he felt sweat trickling into his eyes and pouring down his back. His hands and shoulders were aching, and she still hadn't stirred.
"Dammit, Elizabeth! Snap out of it! The originals mustn't die, remember?" John kept going with the dogged determination of a man who had run out of all other options.
Without warning, Elizabeth convulsed in a coughing fit, water gushing from her mouth and nose.
"Yes! Good girl!" He rolled her over onto her side, rubbed her back, while she continued to bring up water.
When she wasn't wheezing and choking up fluid, she was shivering violently, and they didn't have a scrap of dry clothing on them. Perfect. Adrenaline and the glow of exertion had worn off, and John was starting to feel cold again, too. He cast a baleful glance skywards. At some point, while he'd been busy breathing for Elizabeth, fat-bellied, lead-gray clouds had begun to push in, blotting out that timid gleam of dawn. A few hesitant flakes of snow were spinning toward him, tiny and innocuous, and promising hell on whatever this planet was called.
"You're the one who did survival training," Elizabeth stuttered between rattling teeth. "This is when you ask, What have we got? What do we need?"
"We've got zip and we need a suite at the Hilton. With a Jacuzzi," he said, grinning in spite of himself. "Welcome back."
"No Jacuzzi. Nothing that involves water," she protested weakly, trying to sit up. "My chest hurts."
"You… uh… you'll probably get a whopper of a bruise there," he said a little sheepishly. "It took a few minutes to get you ticking again…"
"I…" She blinked. "You saved my life."
Uh-uh. No speeches and medals, please. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't be here. None of them would. After all, he was the genius who'd insisted on trusting Ikaros and ignoring Rodney. John pulled a face. "You heard what Junior said. The originals have to survive."
Elizabeth winced. "You think they…"
She didn't finish, but then she didn't have to. It was the first time the subject of the alternates had cropped up since that heated and utterly futile argument he'd had with her on the raft, several centuries ago or so it seemed. Of course there'd been no way of going back for them, especially since she'd made the right decision to start with. Or rather, Junior and Elizabeth's alternate had, knowing full well what would happen to them.
"They're dead," he said as gently as he could- absurdly, he thought, because there was no way of making this sound pleasant or comforting in any way at all. "Look at the water levels. They must have drowned hours ago."
Her only reply was a bleak little nod. Then another coughing fit shook her, reminding John that certain essentials needed sorting out before he indulged in the luxury of wallowing in regret. He didn't much like the thought of leaving her on her own, but there was little else he could do. Waiting around wouldn't improve things.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, easing her back until she sat reclined against a boulder. "Stay put. I've got to go and get some of those things we need."
She nodded again, tried a parody of a smile. "If you insist on that Jacuzzi, at least bring a bottle of champagne."
"Yes, ma'am." He straightened up, staggered his way through a head rush-no less than he'd expected-and made for the tree line along the top of the small beach.
It was an old growth forest, none of the trees under a hundred and fifty feet high, densely shot through with brush, ferns, and moss and a whole array of other things you could trip over. After some twenty meters of tripping and swatting aside branches John hit a narrow trail. Absence of any kind of spoor suggested that it probably wasn't a game trail but the route the esteemed members of Zelenka's ashram used to go for a swim or to wash their underwear.
Not a good thing.
By the same token, not having to stumble through the undergrowth would speed this business up considerably. He'd just have to be careful. About half a klick along, the path looped around a moss-backed hillock, overgrown with trees, rocks jutting from its flanks. They looked like limestone. Given the geology of the area, there might be a chance of finding shelter up there somewhere; a cave if they were really lucky, though right now-he'd-happily settle for an overhang.
John dipped back among the trees, sinking ankle-deep into moss and peat as soon as he left the trail. Under normal circumstances the climb would have been child's play. Unfortunately, circumstances were slightly inferior to normal, to say the least. He pulled himself up a ledge, scrabbling over its edge with the grace and agility of a flipped-over beetle. Lying flat on his belly, he spent a moment catching his breath and studying the snowflakes that were melting on his sleeve. They'd become chunkier in the last little while, and there were more of them. Charybdis was well and truly out to get him.