Part 10 (1/2)

”Great,” Steinhauer said. ”Just great.”

Graylock scowled at the grousing private before saying to Lerxst, ”Brain damage? Death? It sounds as if the risks of this 'fusion' far outweigh the benefits.”

”The alternative is death,” Lerxst said.

”For you, maybe,” Pembleton replied. ”As soon as we have enough snowshoes to go around, we're going south.”

”Or north,” Graylock said. ”Whichever way the equator is.”

The Caeliar turned his inscrutable visage toward Pembleton. ”How far do you think you'll get? Shall I draw you a map of what lies ahead?” Lerxst hadn't raised his voice, but there was something smug and angry in his manner. ”This is an island, Gage, more than a hundred kilometers from the nearest major continent. You and your friends can no more flee from your predicament than we can from ours.”

Pembleton looked at Graylock. ”Your call, sir.”

The lieutenant's brow tensed, and a V-shaped wrinkle formed between his thick eyebrows. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ”To h.e.l.l with rank for a minute,” he said. ”This is all of our lives on the line. We'll put it to a vote, a show of hands. Who wants to risk becoming a Caeliar meat puppet?”

A look around the room revealed not a single raised hand.

”All right,” Pembleton said. ”Who votes to look for a way off this island?” He lifted his own arm, and four others reached for the drooping fabric ceiling.

Graylock nodded, and they put their arms down. ”The ayes have it,” he said to Lerxst. ”Escape, five; meat puppets, zero.”

”Please reconsider, Karl,” Lerxst said. ”If we don't join together now, while my people still have the strength to control the process of the fusion, we might never have another chance.”

”Sorry,” Graylock said. ”We've made our decision.”

”Then both our peoples will die,” Lerxst said.

The Caeliar envoy stood and walked out of the shelter. As he exited through the overlapping flaps of the shelter's portal, a gust of subfreezing air slipped past him and momentarily cut through the pungent miasma of body odor, bad breath, and mildew.

Graylock got up, tied the flaps closed, and returned to the heated rocks with the other survivors. He reached forward, picked up the makes.h.i.+ft cooking pot, and poured himself a bowl of bitter bark soup. He had a worried look on his face as he confided to Pembleton, ”If Lerxst is telling the truth about this being an island, we're in big trouble.”

”Relax, sir,” Pembleton said, pretending to be confident. ”We'll be fine. After all, you're an engineer, aren't you?”

Exhausted and perplexed, Graylock replied, ”What does that have to do with anything?”

Pembleton shrugged. ”So there's an ocean. How hard can it be to make a raft?”

The lieutenant sipped his soup and winced. ”Harder than you think, Sergeant. A lot harder.”

”Didn't Thor Heyerdahl cross an ocean on a raft?”

”Yes, he did,” Graylock said. ”But that was the Pacific in high summer, not an arctic sea in deep winter. Also, Heyerdahl built his raft in Peru, where he had access to the right kinds of wood and fabric. At the rate we're going, we'll probably end up drifting out to sea on ice floes, like dying Inuit.”

Pointing in the direction of Junk Mountain, Pembleton said, ”Do you want me to go get Lerxst and bring him back? Should we just give up now and ask the Caeliar to mulch our brains and put us out of our misery?”

Graylock sighed. ”No.”

”Then we'd better start thinking of ways to stay warm, dry, and afloat,” Pembleton said, ”because the only way we'll survive until spring is if we get off this island.”

”Let the inner edges slide over each other as you step,” Steinhauer said, coaching Graylock. ”And roll your foot a bit when you lift it. Exaggerate your stride a little.”

Graylock did his best to turn the young MACO's directions into actions, but he continued to stumble and teeter as he trudged across the snow-covered plain by the fjord. ”Scheisse,” he said under his breath. ”I feel like I'm drunk.”

”It takes some getting used to,” Steinhauer said. ”Of course, if you think going forward is hard, wait until it's time to learn how to turn around.”

Glaring in frustration, Graylock muttered, ”I can hardly wait.” He took another halting step forward, supporting his weight with two walking poles. The snow settled under his feet.

”Right now, it's harder because you're breaking a trail,” Steinhauer said. ”It'll be easier when you're following.” He watched Graylock make a few more clumsy lunges and said, ”Sir, stop a second. Watch me.” Graylock halted and turned his head to observe the private, who moved in gliding strides. ”As you finish each step,” Steinhauer said, ”pause a bit before you put your full weight on the shoe. It helps smooth the snow and pack it better for the person behind you.”

Nodding, Graylock said, ”Okay. Noted.”

”Give it a try,” the MACO said.

The engineer did as Steinhauer had said, easing into each step, keeping his eyes on the terrain ahead so that he could train his muscle memory to feel when his stride was correct. After a few minutes of exhausting pus.h.i.+ng against the wet snow, his movements became more graceful, though still tiring.

”Now you're getting it,” Steinhauer said. ”Hold a second. It's time to learn how to turn.”

Graylock was grateful for a chance to stop, even if only for a minute. He was the only one of the survivors with no previous experience at snowshoeing, so he had committed himself to an intensive training regimen. Once he mastered the basics of the skill, the only barrier to the team's departure would be Crichlow's fever.

Steinhauer shuffle-stepped alongside Graylock. ”When you have a lot of room to turn around, like we do here, the easiest thing is to walk a wide semicircle,” he said. ”But in a forest or on a slope or narrow trail, that might not be possible. In those situations, you'll have to do a kick turn, like so.” He lifted one of his snowshoes high off the ground while keeping the other firmly planted. Then he set his lifted shoe down at a right angle to the other, and brought the second one up and set it down parallel to the first. In a few kicks, he had done an about-face. ”It's hard on the hips,” he said. ”And it's easier with poles than without. Use them to keep yourself steady.”

As Graylock emulated the MACO's athletic leg lifts and turns, he strained a muscle in his groin, stopped, and doubled over. Through gritted teeth, he said, ”I hate you.”

”Wait till tomorrow, when your whole body starts aching,” Steinhauer said. ”Then you'll really hate me. Breathe a minute, then we'll head back to the slope near the shelter, and I'll teach you how to use kick steps to make climbing easier.”

Graylock squatted and watched his breath form white clouds while he waited for his pain and nausea to subside. He had almost recovered his equilibrium when he saw someone in the distance, standing outside the shelter and frantically beckoning him and Steinhauer to return.

Steinhauer made a few comical hop steps sideways and placed himself directly in front of Graylock. ”I'll break the trail back, sir,” he said. ”Are you ready to move?”

”I'm fine,” Graylock said, masking his lingering discomfort. ”Move out. I'll be right behind you.”

The MACO cut a fast path across the open snow, and Graylock did his best to keep his eyes on the man's back and his feet in the smooth rut Steinhauer's snowshoes had carved. Just as the private had said minutes earlier, following a trail was far less taxing than breaking one. Less than two minutes later, he aped the young German's sidesteps up the slope to the camp. Once they were in the cleared area around the fire pit, they unwrapped the snowshoes' crude bindings from their boots and hurried inside the weather-beaten, ice-covered shelter.

As soon as Graylock was inside, he saw Pembleton and Thayer hovering over Crichlow, who was deathly pale and breathing in short, weak gasps. Graylock freed himself from the bulky layers of fabric in which he had wrapped himself for the afternoon of outdoor training. Wiping cold sweat from his beard, he said, ”Sergeant. Report.”

”He's dying,” Pembleton said. ”We tried keeping him warm and cooling him off. Nothing works.”

Graylock frowned. He'd feared the worst a few days earlier, the morning after Lerxst had left their camp. Crichlow's symptoms had been steadily worsening, and without a doctor or the hand scanners, they'd had no idea what was wrong or how to help him. They'd fallen back on the basics: keep him warm, dry, and hydrated, and let him rest. It hadn't helped.

Crichlow had always been pale, and his face had always had a gaunt and awkward quality. Now, despite the wiry scraggle of beard whiskers on his chin and upper lip, he looked almost skeletal. Lying on his back, partly mummified in his bedroll, he stared up at his comrades with dull eyes that lay deep in their sockets. His lips parted, and a weak tremor shook his jaw as air hissed from his mouth. Everyone leaned closer to hear him as he said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, ”Kiona...”

Thayer reached out and pressed her palm to his face. ”I'm here, Eric,” she said.

”Sorry, love,” Crichlow said.