He turned toward the northeast edge of the glade. The group had scouted this site quickly — they’d had little chance to do otherwise — but there were two bumbershoots which had fallen, side by side, just inside that tree line, with a sizable depression between them. Riordan frowned: the chance that an enemy would fail to detect him there was next to zero—
He angrily dismissed that thought: there was no other plan. And odds that are slightly better than zero are, well, better than zero.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of dragging his broken left tibia behind him, Riordan began to crawl the ten meters toward the fallen bumbershoots.
Chapter Forty-Nine. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)
Dora Veriden sprinted hard for the far inland clearing where Riordan had sent Nasr Eid to stand watch on that flank. Most likely to keep him out of the way of people who can stand up in a fight. But now, Eid — and what he was overseeing — might just be her salvation.
Well, that and Macmillan’s physical condition. He was a big man, but beefy; a bear, not a tiger. And she could outrun a bear. All day long, if she needed to. But she didn’t have all day.
She stopped, caught her breath, listened. Yes, there was Macmillan, bashing his way through the brush, following the trail she was carefully leaving for him to follow. Keep running, big guy; keep pushing and sweating and gasping. She angled away from Eid’s position: can’t get there too soon. Have to make sure Macmillan is exhausted first. So let’s you and I take the scenic route, you traitorous asshole.
Dora stretched her almost disproportionately long legs into an easy, deerlike stride. As she ran, she chose her path by the terrain: first a patch of rough ground, then a large clearing—yeah, you’ll see that and try to make up the distance between us by sprinting. She stopped again, listened for Macmillan’s approach, heard it faintly. He’s less tired than I thought; probably got a little stamina back when he was talking with Riordan. Well, you’ll be running out of that second wind any time now. And you can’t afford to let me go, can you? Not only would that displease your masters, but knowing your story, I might pop up on Earth someday, surrounded by Slaasriithi diplomats, and ruin you. Or your sacred memory, if the bastards who hired you clean up their loose ends.
Dora swung back toward the clearing where Nasr Eid was waiting. Or rather, where he was supposed to be waiting. Either way, though, that little glade is the ace up my sleeve. From the start, she had been worried that the unknown traitor might become active once the attackers arrived. So she had not gone immediately when Riordan had sent them to their first defensive positions, but had lagged behind, had heard Caine instruct Nasr “to watch a large clearing that is on our other flank — and you’ll have some local help.” Intrigued, she had stayed around long enough to learn about the nature of that local help. And now she was very glad that she had.
Macmillan’s thumping progress was a bit louder. Good; spend yourself. She picked up the pace: she’d need a few extra minutes to locate Nasr and set her plan in motion.
She scanned for anything that would serve as a reasonable weapon as she ran, but was disappointed: no serviceable rocks amongst the few she passed, and the plants on this planet did not tend toward hardwoods with heavy branches or shoots. No crude clubs or spears lying ready to hand, therefore.
As she neared the clearing, she called out to Nasr, concerned that if she approached too quietly, he’d be startled, let out a shout, and ruin everything.
Eid responded, rising up from the blind that the convectorae has fashioned for him. “Ms. Veriden, what has happened? I have heard much shooting and then—”
“The battle is not over yet, but it will be soon. You only have to do one thing.”
Eid visibly shivered. “And what is that?”
“Run through the bait zone.”
Nasr turned, eyed the winding path she had indicated. “I am not sure if—”
“Nasr, have the Slaasriithi biomarkings ever failed to work? And you got a special dose from Unsymaajh, so you are perfectly safe. So what I want you to do is run down that path”—she took his arm, both leading him in that direction and blending the tracks she was leaving with his—“and keep running. As far and as fast as you can.” That’s probably what you’re best at, from what I’ve seen.
“But what good does—?”
“Just do it.” He looked uncertain. Time to change the incentive. “Nasr, if you do this, it’s a near-certainty that you’ll survive this battle.”
Eid’s eyes widened. He turned and raced down the path, flinching as he traversed the bait ground. Which of course, elicited no response, thanks to Unsymaajh’s marking.
Dora retraced her progress, backed up by stepping into each of the tracks she had made just before. When she drew alongside a thick patch of foliage, she took a wide sideways step off the path, ensuring that the first footprint she made in leaving her prior tracks was obscured behind a sizable frond. She moved carefully into the taller growth, checking to make sure she left no obvious trace of her exit from the main trail. Paralleling it, she crept to a position seven meters back from the bait ground. Once there, she lowered herself into a sprinter’s crouch, calmed her breathing, and listened.
She didn’t have long to wait. Macmillan, thrashing his way through the closely spaced bushes and fronds, was audible fifty meters away. At thirty he slowed, then stopped. Probably sees the clearing up ahead. Figuring out how he wants to approach it. Which prompted Dora to review what she knew of her adversary: a career soldier, tough, smart, a little past his prime, probably chosen for the legation because despite a few extra pounds, he had absolute determination. And, they had probably thought, absolute integrity. But whatever his fitness or ethical flaws might be, he was a dangerous opponent: quick reflexes, even if he wasn’t a particularly fast runner, and daunting upper body strength coupled with some kind of martial arts training. But, looking at his build, she eliminated a variety of styles of self-defense: anything that required extreme flexibility of the torso, or that relied heavily on kicking, was unlikely. He was too heavily built for the first, and didn’t have the leg snap for the latter. Which, together with his exhaustion, determined her tactics.
Pandora Veriden was not accustomed to being surprised; indeed, she prided herself on not being subject to that reaction. Consequently, she was not only alarmed but annoyed when she heard a dried frond snap very nearby. Rather than turn her head, she moved her eyes in that direction.
Keith Macmillan had clearly seen her path, but had been cautious in following it; he was paralleling it four meters to the right. Which would bring him within three meters of where she was crouching. Damn it; can I take him here? In this thicket? Can’t tell. Just gotta wait and see what he does.
Macmillan, surprisingly stealthy, was unable to fully conceal his labored breathing as he approached and passed within two meters of where Dora was crouched behind a fan-shaped fern. He stopped a meter further on. Dora could see his feet under the lowest leaf covering her: he was still facing further along the trail she had made — well, the one Nasr Eid had made at her behest. Which meant he was looking at the tight foliage hemming in the bait ground.