19

Return

intermezzo con accelerando

interlude, becoming faster

He pulled a little farther away. She felt his scrutiny where a moment before there’d been only sympathy. “Go on.”

“You probably don’t believe me.”

“Of course I do.”

“I’ll show you, if you’d like. Access, I mean.”

“I think that would be wise.” He motioned her back to the lounger. As he settled beside her, she reminded herself that this was the first duty of her new citizenship. She offered her eyes, then her memories of Hunter Height.

Brennen stood up before she completely refocused on her surroundings. “Come with me,” he said. “We may be able to speak with Tierna Coll before she retires for the night.”

The moment Firebird finished explaining to the tall woman in white, the outer office door slid open once more and admitted Ellet Kinsman. The Sentinel strode in without a word or glance to Firebird or Brennen, or even explaining why she’d come. “Your Honor, forgive me for intruding.”

“I am glad you are here, Sentinel Kinsman.” Tierna Coll motioned Ellet to take a seat. “Perhaps you can clarify an issue for me. Lady Firebird has just confessed to having concealed data from Master Brennen under interrogation, data which if genuine could require our immediate attention. In your opinion, is this possible?”

“Her?” Ellet sounded incredulous. “Your Honor, this woman is no match for Brennen—in any way!”

Firebird flushed.

“You’ve held her under access yourself?” Brennen glared at Ellet.

“I have not. But I know you, Brennen. I know your strength, and your training, and the heritage of your family. You seem to have forgotten who and what you are.” Ellet turned back to Tierna Coll. “Your Honor, Firebird Angelo of Netaia never could have deceived Brennen under access, not then. But maybe now that she’s had opportunity for learning to work around his abilities—”

“Your Honor, I would know deception.” Brennen’s face darkened. “And Ellet, if you know my strength, you know that too. There’s a grave danger to the Federacy. I’ve offered my services to avert it.”

Firebird bristled. “I’m not inventing this, Ellet. Access my memory, if you must.” The notion made her cringe.

The head of the council conferred with her touchboard for a minute longer, then shut it down. “This is sobering, General. We must investigate, but without showing overt disrespect to the Netaian government at this delicate moment. Lady Firebird, thank you again for your transfer of citizenship. Still, a case could be made to support Sentinel Kinsman’s suggestion. These weeks you have spent in General Caldwell’s custody do suggest a possibility of truth.”

“I’ll give her access,” Firebird said again, “if you feel she’d be more objective.”

Tierna Coll glanced at Ellet, then Brennen, then smiled mildly. “That won’t be necessary. In the morning, I will dispatch a message urging Governor Danton to investigate this locale. His staff should have answers for us within a few weeks, or immediately, should they feel the need to strike. We must walk a careful middle ground, without showing weakness. Thank you for your concern, Lady Firebird, and your counsel, Captain Kinsman. And General, your offer is appreciated, but your services are needed here on Tallis. Please return Lady Firebird to her quarters.”

Firebird’s door closed behind them as she stumbled toward the table. “Kass now?” she offered wearily.

“Please.” Brennen took a stool and stared at the table.

“At least she promised to investigate. Immediately.” Firebird pulled a pair of filled cups from the servo’s cubby and set one in front of him.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But you saw that she doubted my word. That has never—never—happened before.”

“Maybe she doubts because you’re a Sentinel.”

“They do,” he whispered. “They all do. Even those who respect us. I’m certain now.” His misery showed in the set of his jaw and the lines between his eyes. “No wonder none of us ever reach the High command.”

Firebird wanted to ease that misery, but she couldn’t think of anything to say that might help. “Do you think,” she said reluctantly, “that Danton will move quickly enough?”

He looked up. “No,” he said. “Danton is first a diplomat.” He bowed his head over folded hands and sat motionless, except for his shoulders’ slow rise and fall.

Brennen’s thoughts boiled. He must step out from this nexus. But in which direction?

Hunter Height, as Firebird just recalled it for him, could support weapons research. Phoena Angelo, “on vacation” from Citangelo, was as determined as her distant ancestors to throw off “outsystem invaders” and just as likely to use violent means. The Blue Rain had carried basium, and the wealthy Angelos still owned ships that were capable of piracy.

Could he draw any other conclusion?

No. If the weapon were deployed before Lee Danton proved it existed—a small but disastrous possibility—millions, even billions, could die.

The Sentinels’ Privacy and Priority Codes demanded that he step into danger when innocent others were at risk, “if he plainly possessed the resources to defuse that situation in a timely and appropriate manner.” With Special Ops, he’d completed covert operations of exactly the sort he was considering.

But could he disobey a direct order? His people longed to put a Sentinel on the High command, where he might live out their codes and beliefs in plain view. Many sincere seekers might step onto the Path because of such an example. He had the abilities and the ethics to bring honor to the position.

But was some higher plan in motion? Maybe even his family’s sacred hope?

Tonight, he must make only one correct decision.

If he went to Netaia covertly, against orders, he would be setting aside his lofty military goal. Insubordination must carry severe consequences. He might be demoted, even forced to resign from Federate service, though he could hope that Regional would only reprimand him if the outcome justified his decision. But he would not achieve the High command. Someone else would rise in his place.

He clasped his hands tightly. Holy One, I need wisdom more than ever. Which way shall I turn, and how far must I leap?

Then he silenced his mind and listened intently for the Holy Voice.

After a time, Brennen got himself another cup of kass, downed it standing, and tucked the cup into the sterilizer. “Get some sleep if you can, Firebird,” he said firmly. She heard an odd, brave note in his voice. “I may be back, but don’t wait up.” He left without explaining.

She stumbled to the back room and fell fully clothed onto her bed. “Firebird.” How long has it been since he called me that? Did it signify new respect, or rejection?

The next she knew, he was pulling her back to her feet and pushing another cup of kass at her. Trying to stand steady enough not to spill the bitter brew on herself woke her completely. He vanished into her freshing room. In a minute, she peered in. All her personal things had disappeared, and he was closing a small black duffel kit.

“What are you doing?” Blinking sleepily, she smoothed the wrinkled blue dress tunic she had worn to face the council.

“I want to take you to Hunter Height. Will you help me?”

“Tierna Coll changed her mind? How did you do it?”

“She did not.”

Firebird leaned against the doorway. “You mean to go without her orders?”

“Against them,” he corrected calmly.

“Brennen!” She shook her sleep-fogged head. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Get us in. Identify Cleary and her collaborators. Help me stop the research. Then get us out, if you can.”

“But Tierna Coll said—”

“If we go, if we’re wrong, the Federacy can disclaim all responsibility.” He handed her the kit. “But if we’re right, your basium people have had too much time already since the Blue Rain disappeared. That gives them a head start.”

“My basium people?”

He snorted softly. “Sorry. But we can’t wait for Danton.”

“Right. But the council—the High command . . .” Was he throwing away all hope of promotion?

Handing her the duffel, he spoke slowly, as though he were making sure he believed every word. “I must follow the vows I made when I was vested as a Sentinel. This woman Cleary is developing a way to foul an entire world, if you understand it right. It could be Caroli, Varga, Tallis.”

There it was again, that highest priority. Those Sentinel vows, and his god. “Tallis,” she suggested. “Phoena would like that.”

“Knowing that Netaia will be eligible for full Federate covenance in three years?”

“There are Netaians who won’t ever want that.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Mari, if Phoena’s project is finished and deployed, and if you’re right, Tallis could be attacked in weeks, or less. Danton wouldn’t win any support for the Federacy by sending missiles into Hunter Height, even if he did investigate instantly. Two of us, though, might destroy the project without taking other lives. We have to keep Netaia from striking. For Netaia’s sake, and others.”

She straightened.

“Will you help me?”

“Of course.” Firebird seized two extra pairs of gray shipboards from her open closet. “I’m ready.”

In the gleaming Cirrus jet, they soared out to the Fleet’s primary spaceport, where she had first stepped onto Tallan soil. An attendant took the Cirrus into his charge at the gate of the massive clear dome, and Brennen watched apprehensively as the young lieutenant slid into the pilot’s seat with undisguised glee.

Firebird watched Brennen’s gaze follow the Cirrus to a storage hangar. She laughed silently in sympathy. If she owned a jet like that, she’d worry too. Then he led onto the base proper, past rows of parked atmospheric craft and streamlined dual-drive ships that were equally maneuverable in vacuum and atmosphere: interceptors, transports, gunships, shuttles. Her eyes widened at the display of Federate striking power, gleaming under lights.

Inside a stuffy arms depot that smelled like institutional disinfectant, Brennen picked up a black drillcloth pack and gave her a peep inside at a load of miniature explosives—sonic, incendiary, and others she didn’t recognize and he didn’t explain. Three stylus-shaped recharges for his blazer vanished into the pack’s side pocket.

“I know the night sentry fairly well,” he said softly as they zipped into high-g acceleration oversuits. “SO people often pick things up at odd hours. It’s how I got a ship, too, and how we’ll get offplanet.”

Dozens of near stars shone through the arc of the dome, though the sky had started to brighten toward dawn. They stopped at a parking row near the dome’s edge, and there she looked up at a thirty-meter craft with minor atmospheric adaptations. Its enormous stardrive engine dwarfed the slim, upper cabin compartment. “It’s a DS-212, a Brumbee, designed for clandestine message delivery.” He examined its rounded surface and talked his way down its length. “They pared it down to absolute essentials for long-distance slip. It’ll maintain acceleration and deceleration at several g’s past what normal translight drives will give you.” He straightened and grinned. “In other words, it rides like a missile.”

Firebird jumped for the security handle, got her balance on the door plate, and released the entry hatch. Brennen followed her in and secured the hatch behind him, plunging the cabin into darkness. Feeling her way, she slipped into the left chair. Brilliant blue striplights glimmered on above her. Brennen squeezed between the seats and into the pilot’s, then started rearranging controls on the slanting display. “Would you stow the pack?” he asked. “There’s a bulkhead compartment behind you.”

Atmospheric engines thrummed, responding to their lasers, as she closed down a magnetic seal. Returning to her seat as he finished his checkout, she slipped into her flight harness.

“If we should get into a scrap,” he said, “you shoot, I’ll fly. Here’s the ordnance board.” He touched a rectangular orange panel at the console’s center. She studied it while he raised the ship and set it in motion.

A vast, wedge-shaped sky hatch loomed ahead, a pale slice of sapphire blue edged by luminous strips. He confirmed clearance for takeoff, flipped the last levers, then killed the striplights. The atmospheric drive roared to full power. He released the ground brakes and they shot through the wedge.

The stars of the Whorl glowed brighter and more intensely colored, moment by moment. As Brennen predicted, they weren’t challenged, but she felt uneasy. She had committed high treason, there in the chamber. Now she was helping Brennen flirt with insubordination.

His Sentinel vows, he declared, took precedence over the Federacy’s orders. As Ellet’s interpretation of those vows took precedence over his orders, she thought with a sudden chill. One Sentinel had betrayed her. What really, what now, were his intentions toward her—for this mission, and after? Uneasy, she wriggled in the deeply padded seat.

“Ten seconds to slip,” he said.

“Ready.” She snugged the harness, took a deep breath, and consciously relaxed every part of her body. First the odd vibration of the slip-shield took hold, and then the pressure hit. Even wearing a high-g suit, it was worse than she’d ever experienced. She pulled in a slow breath. Gradually, the messenger ship’s gravidic compensators caught up with thrust.

Finally, she managed to lean forward and look around. The stars on their visual screen had vanished. Brennen seemed unaffected. “I checked the conversion factor for Netaian pressure units. That was six-seventy, perceptible. Almost twenty percent over your rating, but our suits are more efficient.”

She took another deep breath, glad he hadn’t slowed the mission to make it easy for her, but assumed command as a colleague.

Colleagues. She could accept that, for the moment. She released her harness and yawned.

“You’re done in,” Brennen observed. “It’s been a long night.” He brought the striplights back up and dropped one of a pair of broad shelves from the curved overhead compartments. “Here are bunks. Across the way—watch your head—is the galley servo. If I complain about the food, it’s only overfamiliarity. I’ve been through the menu too many times.”

She examined every part of the cabin. It didn’t take long. “How long do your psych people think a human can travel in a compartment this size and not go off balance?”

He let down the second bunk, little more than a black-blanketed pallet. “We have life support for two for just over a month.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. These ships were designed to make the Tallis-Elysia run. The messenger service uses this model, and I’ve spent more time in one than I care to remember.” He rolled his eyes. They shone deep blue under the striplights.

Exhausted, she stared at those eyes a little too long. She could almost feel the power behind them.

She flushed. Colleagues! she rebuked herself. He has proved he won’t force himself on you. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to trust him entirely. He was a man, a stranger. Potentially dangerous.

Yes, and she was a traitor. Apostate. And if Phoena won the next round, soon they would both be dead.

Why did it still seem important to keep him at arm’s length? He offered an honorable relationship.

What would it be like to love him?

He leaned against a bulkhead, waiting for her to speak.

Her cheeks warmed. “Ellet admitted, that is—well, she said that you people had ways of . . .” Words stuck in her throat. She sat down carefully on the lower bunk.

He walked as far away as he could, to the pilot’s chair.

Was he still trying to prove she could trust him? And was she being cruel, pushing him to answer such a personal question before she settled her mind about his faith?

But she had to know this. She found her voice. “Ellet said Sentinels could please one another in ways outsiders can’t. Is it like—the way you touched me the day we took out your Cirrus?”

He nodded somberly.

His gentle-eyed respect seemed a priceless gift, particularly tonight, when she felt stripped of all honor. “Is it permitted to show me? Just a little.”

“As long as I don’t touch you.”

No wonder he retreated. “Please,” she said. A tingle of apprehension heightened her longing. She could no longer pretend she didn’t want this.

Brennen looked deeply into her eyes, and the tingle of access-beginning brushed through her. This time, though, he called up neither memory nor emotion, but sensation: a caress of the soul, like feathered wings beating against her heart.

She tried to look away. Immediately his strength flooded her, warm and reassuring. He would do nothing inappropriate. Gradually, the urge to struggle left her until she felt only Brennen’s enfolding, accepting presence.

Then he drew back the tendril of epsilon energy, though she sensed a lingering glow. He’d relaxed sideways on the pilot’s seat, and the beveled star on his shoulder caught the blue striplights, reflecting sparks that dazzled her eyes.

“Pair bonding,” he said softly, “is created when two connatural minds join in a contact like that, only closer—to the total interweaving of emotional fiber. That seals the physical marriage. For life.” He folded his hands. “Only the connatural can endure such a close approach. That’s why only they can pair bond. But connaturality alone isn’t enough to make a union. There must be love. Shared goals. And trust.” He stressed the word a little sadly. “Each bond mate remains an individual. Each one can please or devastate the other.”

“Brennen.” This hurt her pride, but she had to say it. “You realize, don’t you, that I’ll never be able to do . . . what you just did . . . for you. Is that fair to either of us?”

He answered without hesitating. “Yes. I would feel your pleasure, and my enjoyment would pleasure you. It would echo between us. It wouldn’t matter how it began.”

An echo, a resonance of tenderness. “Do you still want that with me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured. Then he added, “I’ve never asked anyone else.”

She pressed her spine against the cold bulkhead. “First, we have a job to do. If it doesn’t come off . . .”

When she didn’t finish the sentence, he nodded. “Even if it does, the other masters could rule that I misjudged in disobeying orders.”

Wouldn’t that be amazing?—outcasts, both of them. “Better us in trouble than both our worlds.”

He rose out of the pilot’s seat, stepped onto the foot of her bunk, and climbed into the upper. “You’re right.” His voice came down to her, accompanied by rustling noises. “We’ll talk about it later, when we’re both awake again.”

Awake? How could she sleep? Echoes of Brennen’s touch ricocheted through her memory like laser fire.

Ellet had spoken truly. She would never forget.

Carradee Second stood alone in an ornately appointed sitting room that had been Firebird’s. Only the furniture looked familiar. Servitors had archived Firebird’s personal possessions when her death was first announced.

I will never bear a wastling. I could not take the anguish.

She’d talked with Danton for an hour today in her day office. He insisted—again—that Netaia was ripe for rebellion, and that the Federacy wanted to help the noble class prevent bloodshed by smoothing the change to a more equable system.

She couldn’t concentrate on that, with Firebird in jeopardy again.

What would happen if Friel and Burkenhamn succeeded and brought her back to Citangelo?

Sunlight streamed through high, white-curtained windows, giving marble walls a soft sheen and setting off dark wooden furnishings. More keenly, Carradee noticed things that were no longer there. Scanbooks full of pictures from distant worlds didn’t clutter the dark fayya-wood end table. The coat-of-arms crested desk had been cleared of Academy trophies and ribbons. No flight jacket was flung over the brocade desk chair.

Burkenhamn would report to her, Friel to Phoena, whether their mission succeeded or failed. Soon, within days. They’d taken a fast craft.

She strolled into the adjoining study. This room had been stuffed with musical paraphernalia. Gone now. Sold, all but the clairsa, to pay those education debts. Firebird’s portrait, removed from the gallery after Lieutenant Governor Caldwell drew her attention to it, hung on the inner wall.

Carradee touched its gold frame. She had grieved for Firebird, really grieved, and storing this portrait in darkness would’ve been too much like consigning her to a mausoleum. Carradee had hung it here herself, in the music room where Firebird had always seemed happiest, if she were on the ground.

If they brought her back, must Carradee put her on trial? Even more terrible, must she arrange her execution and burial? Plainly Firebird wouldn’t suicide, and with heir limitation outlawed, they couldn’t touch her for geis refusal. No, it would be treason. A terrible death.

That was hard to imagine. Of all people, Firebird had kept the high laws so passionately. Her rebellions had centered on minor matters. Commoners’ concerns, palace protocol . . .

Siwann had kept a healthy distance from the fire-haired imp, but not Carradee.

Surely, though, the Federacy would keep her on Tallis. Carradee stared at the diadem the girl in the portrait wore proudly—if a touch off center. Could the Federates let Firebird be punished for becoming the key to their victory? Perhaps it was hope, asking that. Phoena’s hopes were different. Phoena’s ideological retreat would be well under way now, free from Federate intrusion, as Carradee promised.

Hunter Height—Carradee loved the place. She shut her eyes, basking in the pleasant sadness of her small martyrdom. She would stay in the bustling city, while Phoena and her friends enjoyed the majestic old Height. At least Phoena will cherish it, and it won’t stand empty. The lieutenant governor was right, though—the city is quieter without her.

Carradee studied the portrait’s impish smile, comparing it to the sad courage in her eyes. That artist had captured her sister’s nature perfectly.

Could I attend Firebird’s trial?

As queen, she must not only attend but preside. And she could not veto an execution order if the Electorate handed it down.

“Please!” she whispered to the unseen Powers. “Keep Firebird on Tallis!”

On their last day in slip, Firebird and Brennen finalized plans, talking through every level of tunnels under the Height, each spur, and the worrisome possibility of fumigation. He’d requisitioned oxygen sniffers and lightweight chem suits; he’d explained the different types of explosives. Finally she rose from her bunk, opened the galley servo, and stared at its contents. Her brain, stuffed with plans and information, wouldn’t hold one more detail.

“Mari?”

Turning, she caught a wistful look in his eyes.

“What will they do with you if you’re caught? Have you considered it?”

Why did he want to know? Could he intend to abandon her, use her as a distraction? “Kill me, of course,” she answered, considering as abstractly as she could. “Any faithful Netaian would now. But I suspect—I think—they wouldn’t shoot to kill on sight if they recognized me. Phoena would have to be there. She sponsored Cleary’s research from the beginning. If I know Phoena at all, she’d love to create a spectacle. Parade me around. Make it sting.”

“And if they took me?”

“How could they?” she scoffed.

“It’s possible. What might she do?”

Firebird leaned against the servo counter. It had never entered her mind that Brennen might falter, whatever he tried. The image of Brennen powerless in Phoena’s hands appalled her. “That’s hard. She’d want to hurt you, to punish you, but she’d want to make everything ‘proper.’ Are you—”

“Afraid?” he asked softly, completing her thought. “More than I have ever been. Afraid to come this far, but to lose what you and I could have had.”

“You’ll come through, Brenn. With your resources . . .”

“I’m not invulnerable.”

“I suppose not.” Only incomprehensible sometimes, such as in the council chamber with that eerie weapon— “Brennen,” she said sharply. “May I look at your crystace?”

He flipped the bunk up out of sight, groped inside his left cuff, and withdrew the slim, dull gray dagger hilt. He laid it on his palm and held it toward her. Near the wide handguard she spotted a small, round stud. It was just as Korda described.

Brennen shifted his grip, held the crystace at arm’s length, and pressed the stud. Instantly, the piercing resonant frequency sang in her ears, and the blade appeared. It caught the monochromatic cabin light and reflected scarcely visible shades of green, blue, and violet. He swept it around to stand upright between them and eyed her through the shimmering crystal.

Korda had described the blade’s edges as of one atom’s width, and she finally believed him. Wonderingly, she reached out a hand.

Brennen gave it to her. She made a tentative swing in the air. It was lighter than it looked but exquisitely balanced. “What is ehrite?”

“I don’t know. I’m no chemist.”

She swept it side to side, across her midline and back, and traced a few tentative fencing parries she’d learned long ago in school. She was no swordswoman, though. Afraid she might damage something, she handed it back.

He took it and pressed the stud. “Are you hungry?”

She chose the stew, variety number three, spicy and warming. Brennen ate without comment, preoccupied with a map spread out on her bunk.

Soon they sat at their stations, g-suited again, strapped to the acceleration chairs. The final seconds counted off on the break indicator, and then the little craft’s engine reversed with a roar. Pushed painfully against the black webbing, Firebird glimpsed Netaia’s majestic arc as Brennen leaned forward to correct their course. He had assured her that his secure transponder codes would take them past any Federate surveillance satellites. They approached from the south, over the vast polar ice, speeding toward the South and North Deeps, as far as possible from any population center. One swirl of cloud frosted the Great Ocean.

The cabin heated with atmospheric friction as they crossed Arctica. She watched hungrily, more homesick than she’d ever felt. She could never call this beautiful white-frosted blue globe home again. Never. The thought made her chest ache, as when she lost Corey.

Still decelerating hard, Brennen dropped the craft to low-level and skimmed the flat, icy continent as predawn light began to glow. Then the Aeries raised their magnificent shoulders. Like a hovercraft on open sea, the ship rose and fell with the high passes of that ice-locked range, running south.

“There it is.” Firebird spotted two familiar peaks. League Mountain, separated by a short ridge from Hunter Mountain, filled the horizon. Both continued to grow as Brennen decelerated hard, dropping the ship on a snow field as near that ridge as the slope’s pitch would allow. He cut the atmospheric engines. Silence rang loudly in Firebird’s ears.

They unbuckled and stretched. Brennen moved aft, which was now downhill. From the cargo area, he pulled two dark gray suits and handed one up to Firebird. “Thermal controls on the left wrist.”

She turned around, slipped out of her gravity suit and shipboards, and stepped into the heavy gray pants. After struggling with the shirt, she joined the pieces at her waist. The suit didn’t hang too badly. The shirt collar fit high and snugly, and the sleeves ended in flexible gloves. She touched a wrist panel and immediately started to shiver. Obviously, that wasn’t what she wanted. She touched a different corner. Warmth flowed through her hands, feet, and body.

“Have you figured it out?” Brennen came up beside her and eyed the wrist panel. “Comfortable?”

“A little too warm.”

“Leave it that way.”

She slipped back into her boots, then buckled on a gun belt. Brennen opened the outer hatch. Frigid air swirled into the cabin. They needed no stepstand; the Brumbee’s hot skin had melted a trench in the ice and snow. It still settled slowly.

She hoisted the drillcloth pack and jumped down, then waited in calf-deep surface snow as Brennen sealed the hatch, perching on the tilted door plate and clinging one-handed to the security handle. Gracefully he leaped down to her side and took the pack.

“I’ll spell you carrying that,” she offered.

“The best way to work as a team is for each of us to do what he—or she—does best. I’ll haul.”

He reminded her suddenly of a teacher she’d almost forgotten, one who had urged her to study music and forget the military. “Go ahead. But I’m not along for the scenery.”

He smiled. She headed upslope, trying not to break through a thin crust into deeper, older snow. It made for slow going, particularly for a man carrying a pack as heavy as that one.

“We’re leaving tracks,” she observed.

“We won’t have to worry about it, going down the other side. Southern exposure.”

“And what about the ship?”

“Danton’s people aren’t watching this area for anything so small.”

True. They weren’t watching this area at all.

He passed her and plodded ahead, breaking trail. Her heart pounded with the altitude and unaccustomed exercise, despite her recent weeks of training. They skirted the summit just west of the ridge, where the wind roared stiffly. Here, even the old snow had been blown away. They made faster progress on rocky ground. The view south into staggered lines of distant foothills raised her spirits, but they dropped down quickly to avoid presenting recognizable silhouettes to any watching eyes.

About ten meters below the ridge, Firebird stopped for a breath. Behind her, Brennen whistled softly.

Hunter Height lay below, on a stony knoll. The house, built of Hunter Mountain granite, was designed like a small hexagon atop a larger one. From the southern foothills, an ancient, winding road approached, and from the north a switchbacking lane led up from a box canyon, which ran east and west and concealed a sizable airstrip. The knoll was ringed by a venerable stone outwall—etched, as Firebird remembered it, by lichens and the wild mountain weather—and inside the wall lay informal grounds, often battered by blizzards, sheltered somewhat by Thunder Hill’s forested shoulder.

“From orbit,” he murmured, “it would look like part of the mountain.”

Firebird smiled smugly. “That’s why your recon flights haven’t picked it up.”