Chapter 3: Who They Met on the Mountain
If Arthur had been on a solo mission, he might've rested an hour or two in the equipment shed with the easily-picked lock, the repair shop corner and the discarded industrial rugs stored in half-comfortable rolls, then climbed the mountain in the small hours of the morning. Moonlight on snow and the village lights below, and acceptable risk of missteps, if snow drifted over ravines and crevasses and he lost the map-marked paths in the uncooperative night.
Not since he was responsible for Gwen, though. And that included encouraging her to sleep on the discarded rolls of carpentry while they waited for midnight hours to tick over into early-morning hours. Sleep and eat when you can, missions like this. Energy sticks from their kits for a breakfast-on-the-go, borrow helmets and protective eyewear along with the slide-boards, and leave the neon decorative strips buried in the repair-shop garbage.
Most of the climb was a focus on two or three of the next paces, step placement – glance up to be sure of the path. Occasional glance farther up to self-correct the chosen path to the summit. The temp was in the negatives and his nostrils tried to freeze shut, but his muscles warmed with use to the enjoyment of the exercise and some secret primal part of him exulted in his conquest of the mountain.
"You like winter?" he tossed over his shoulder to Gwen, to cover a concern that was natural, probably not completely professional, and might be mistaken for chauvinism.
Her head was down, curls peeking out under the edges of the helmet, one end of her 'borrowed' slide-board curving over her shoulder between her back and her kit. Her breath puffed whitely and controlled.
Nothing was moving on the mountain. They were too high and the angle was wrong for him to see evidence of the military troop moving from the town – but if they hadn't left the hotel yet, they would soon. He had to assume their expertise, especially if the psychic was with them. An elite unit, maybe – the asset too valuable to be trusted to soldiers with a reputation for carelessness or laziness.
"Not really," she said, saving breath for their trek. "Fall is my favorite. The smell of… woodsmoke. Old leaves, and… new pencils."
He huffed a laugh. The darkness was draining away toward the valley as he forged a climbing path, keeping to the edge of the sports-slopes so they weren't noticeable against the blank white canvas, but not impeded by the forestry dressing the rest of the hill. The chair-lift was on the opposite side of the expanse of pristine overnight snow; they'd start the motors to operate the conveyance when the resort opened at 8:00.
They had roughly an hour and a half to reach the top, make their survey, and vanish over the shoulder of the hill, further into the range.
She added, "You?"
"Winter was… hockey, and slope-sports competitions," he said. "Anything that offered a medal or a ribbon."
She snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"
It was a compliment, he supposed. But impossible to know if he would have been as athletic, as competitive, without his father's constant pushing and criticizing and demanding. Be the best. Be the gold.
"Think the Essetirians-" Gwen panted behind him, "will ride to the top, in the lift? If they do… I kind of hate them."
"No," Arthur decided. "I think they'll keep to the valleys. Use skid-carts til they find the wreckage. He can tell 'em… right where to go, after all."
She was quiet, and he half-regretted his words. Maybe it would be worse if she could tell he was deliberately treating her gently, though – she was a scout, same as him. She'd been through the rigorous training, too, and her scores rivaled his.
And then they were hiking up the shoulder of the mountain, around to see the first sunlight begin to touch the half-dozen higher peaks of the White Mountain range. Snow crunched beneath the thick soles of their heavy boots, and the unforgiving plane-and-curve of the slope-boards bumped and thudded at hips and shoulder-blades. The weatherproof coveralls wick-whisked with every step, and their breath puffed hard and deep and regular, maintaining pace.
As wan sunlight spilled down the slopes to the valley and the village, Arthur chose a lookout point to stop, just at the treeline and below the careless ridges where they could be seen.
He shrugged out of his pack, letting the board slide loose and crouched over it, warm from the deliberate pounding beat of blood through his body, even though his lips and nose and chin still felt numb-cold. Gwen did the same, but collapsed to sitting, legs outstretched and resting back on the slide-board kilted over her pack, chin pointed to the lightening sky and throat-pulse exposed.
"All right?" he said, paying attention to their surroundings, not to her sprawled position. Probably the cold was beginning to seep through her coat and trousers from the contact with the snow.
"Yep," she panted.
"Binocs in my kit or yours?" he said. He'd never been on an assignment with her; he didn't know how far she could push herself without compromising performance. How far she'd push herself, on this mission, and whether he should watch to pull the brakes when she needed to, if she wasn't going to do it.
"Mine." She stripped her gloves and fumbled blindly above and behind her shoulder, coming out with a cute-trendy pair rimmed in deep magenta.
He snorted; sure, perfect for a college student on this type of vacation. Probably the bandages stocking their first-aid had childrens' characters on them. But instead of giving him the binocs, she pulled her protective eyewear up over the lip of the helmet and lifted the binocs to her own eyes, twisting to scour the slopes around them, further into the hills, away from Ealdor below.
Arthur called the topographical map before his mind's eye. The flyover to record Fort Araun on Essetir's side of the border – approaching from the southeast, high and fast, this one at midnight which meant no one in Ealdor had noticed the crash. Some perimeter guard at the heavy-missile range testing ballistics or calibrating aircraft cannons noticing, hollering alert; some low-ranking officer making a split-second decision to open fire. Lancelot hit badly enough to go down, but not badly enough to explode midair and hurtle downward in flaming pieces. The crash-landing soft enough to survive…
"There," Gwen said suddenly, putting one hand down to scramble to her feet. Binocs still at her eyes, she pointed a gloveless finger. "That copse of pines."
Arthur pushed upright, his knees snapping protest like a pair of disillusioned veterans. Pulling his own eyewear up onto his helmet, he cupped his gloves around his eyes and squinted into the distance.
New-torn wood glinted yellow-orange among the distant bough and trunks, and dark-needled twigs and branches littered the snow beneath. Straight line, angling over the curve of the third peak northwest of them.
Just along Lancelot's expected trajectory, hit and attempting to make it back over to the safe side of the border.
"Lemme see?" he suggested. She passed the binocs to him silently, one-handed, and he fit the hard-rubber cups against his eye sockets, noting the warmth retained from her skin.
The slope leaped into clarity like he stood just downwind. Broken limbs dangled from stubbornly clinging strips of living wood, swaying in the air currents. Coming down, while trying to remain aloft as long as possible, aiming for the home border but looking to survive a landing, aircraft shuddering mortally wounded and dying around him – possibly already injured himself from the missile strike…
Thinking of Gwen. Had Gaius told her that bit?
"It might've hit ground just past that ridge," Gwen said, dispassionate with an effort. "Or it might've bounced to the further hill's broadside…"
Arthur winced. He was no pilot, but if it were him, he'd rather skid downward with plenty of room to lose momentum, than try to pull up and collide with such a massive and immovable obstacle in the landscape. He hummed corroboration, seeking the best route for the two of them to traverse to that location, and see what they could see from there.
Three hiking trails looped over and around the vicinity – closed for the season in spite of snow-shoeing enthusiasts – but in his experience there would also be numerous inquisitive exploration paths rabbiting off the main trails, twisting and backtracking and disappearing without rhyme or reason.
The air currents gusted against them, bringing a low murmur of sound that vibrated insistently against his inner ear. Almost like a dentist's drill in the next building over, or a motorized turf-bike a few blocks distant.
"Arthur," Gwen said suddenly. "It's them. They've got skid-carts. Four of them, two to a vehicle – but there's eight plus the psychic, so… No, one's got three riders."
He swung about, landscape blurring close-far in the lenses of the binocs, and found the vehicles. Skids slewing over ice and snow, slush and drift, gleaming black carapaces covering the engines, riders straddling gear-compartments, hunched behind clear wind-deflectors.
Going fast, following the curve of the valley. They knew where they were going.
"We can't beat them there," Gwaine said, agonized frustration breaking her voice. "They'll circle through the valleys and come up from the south – and if he left the flyer he'd have headed south, they'll cross his trail or they'll run right into him-"
"Take a breath," Arthur said, deliberately unsympathetic to draw her focus back to the job. "They're going too fast to notice any trail he might have left. And, Ealdor is closer than our border. He could very well have headed toward us, even if it's enemy territory, if he's capable of a little judicious raiding for food or shelter or supplies. He might even anticipate a rescue coming at him from Ealdor."
He dropped the binocs as she twisted to face him, her expression one of hesitant hope so open it reached right into his chest and laid hold of his heart. "You think?"
"It's what I would've done," he said honestly.
Well, depending on the severity of injuries. No need to mention that, though.
Another thing that occurred to him, watching the skid-carts follow-the-leader snakelike through the valley. Either the psychic hadn't mentioned whatever sensation had him stopping to turn around on the top step of the hotel – or his unit's commander had discounted his report as inconsequential.
Or they'd decided that two scouts of Camelot didn't pose a threat sufficient enough to necessitate a change of plans.
Or they'd lay a trap at the site.
Gwen was already spinning her slide-board free of the straps of her kit, dropping it to the snow to fit her feet into the boot-sockets. "Come on," she flung at him, settling her eyewear back into place. "Keep up."
Evidently she'd committed the hiking trails to memory, too. Arthur leaned over his lead foot as she glided off, toe-turning to angle north down the back side of the mountain. He let his knees drop him slightly into position, not really attempting to keep to the path she was creating, so he could better gauge the fault lines of the hill past her.
Good thing was, they could descend like this maybe twice as fast as those skid-carts could go.
And he had to admit, she was good. No hesitation he could see, no wobbling or pulling up. He saw no reason to try to take the lead from her, either to increase their speed or alter their direction.
But these slopes and trails were a lot different than the smoothly pristine runs immaculately kept for the sporting public, or the carefully-cleared routes for downhill competition marked with convenient flags. It was light, unpacked snow over long grass, single-season growth and an occasional fainting tree leaning on those growing across the path. Duck and jump and shift – not faster than Gwen, but trying to anticipate upcoming difficulties when she blocked his view, ducking and swiveling heel- and toe-turns, herself.
Dislodged snow flew up into his face like startled clouds of thumbnail butterflies. Twigs reached for him, zipping off the weatherproofing covering his body. Knees and ankles remembered this activity tautly, then hips and lower back. Almost he wished he could take a long-sled on his belly and simply steer his way down without need for balance.
Then they were slowing, leveling out, and it wasn't possible any longer to use momentum to angle slightly upwards before turning to ride gravity down again.
Gwen swished off the path, out of his way, and he angled his board to pull up just beyond her on the opposite side of the trail, breathing hard. The collar of his two shirts and the jacket inside his parka was damp with sweat – the same for his arm-pits and waist-band. Probably his socks, too.
"Want to rest?" he suggested, unfastening his boots from the slide-board even as she hoisted hers to her back.
"If you need to," she tossed over her shoulder. "And if you think you can catch up."
Arthur chuckled softly, fondly impressed, even as gloved fingers worked to secure his board and his boots crunched and squeaked snow, following her. "Figure we come around that third hill from the north," he said, keeping his voice pitched to reach her ears and no further. "Opposite the Essetirians. That one there."
She lifted her head to look, knowing what he meant without having to follow a pointing finger.
"See what we'll see," he continued. "You want to get a little higher, though? Get our first look down on them. Better vantage."
"Yeah," she said, sounding distracted, her head on a swivel. "They could have a perimeter keeping guard, too. And we don't want to come around a corner face to face with the psychic."
Long-range rifle, a Worthington 212 by his preference. Arthur amused himself by imagining how a weapon like that could be broken down and disguised in a college student's winter-sports-vacation kit. Grand-calibre rounds, and he could make them effective up to three-quarters of a league. He was no sniper, of course, but he'd do in a pinch. Even on a downhill or uphill angle…
Then again, he'd need at least eight other rounds and a helluva lot of luck, or the whole unit would be hunting him down. And Gwen. And Lancelot.
"I read," she said breathlessly; the path was leading upward again to circumnavigate the third hill discreetly. "They did some mining in these hills. Way back."
"Yeah," he responded, reaching out to steady her when her step slipped – but she caught herself before he touched her, and hiked on oblivious of the gesture. "Historic markers on that one trail, right? The long winding one, two and a half leagues and expert-degree difficulty."
"Is that the one we're on?" she tossed back, and he couldn't tell if she was joking.
Frozen creek away somewhere to the north. Too small for any kind of freight; the copper they'd managed to pick out of the earth here had to be packed out by burden-beasts. Two grave-markers for guys who were buried in the last collapse that convinced the community the trace amounts weren't worth the effort and expense, and the external sources long since picked over. The whole thing amused the few tourists who found themselves bored with the faster, flashier sports-slopes, and just plain bored the locals.
"The markers are further on," Arthur said. "Not this third hill but the one north of it, there."
She stopped, and he stopped, holding his breath and listening around the thunder of blood in his ears. Too quiet. The skid-cart engines had been turned off.
Having reached their destination, and…
Gwen shifted, angling more steeply uphill. His calves and knees ached to climb, loaded with kit and board, in a deep careful crouch. Clouds had gathered above them, enough to deflect any direct rays of the sun, and none penetrated the pine cover to indicate time of day; nothing was throwing shadows.
His stomach was willing to bet noon, though.
Beyond Gwen's right shoulder, the face of the hill opposite the flyer-scar of broken tree-tips and limbs came into view, and they slowed to a prowl. No indication yet of a crash site, final resting place or further trajectory-scrape.
No indication of a fleeing, wounded pilot, either. Maybe he'd gone up this hill, if only to see who was coming for him, friend or foe? It had snowed, since, but was an inch and a half along slopes under tree cover enough to hide the sort of tracks Lancelot would leave? Even steady on his feet, not stumbling or collapsing or bleeding…
For the first time Arthur considered what they were going to have to do if they found a body. If he'd hidden the recordings before succumbing…
Best they could do was hide and watch, he supposed. Make sure the Essetirians didn't find it, didn't find them, didn't find Lancelot.
And if they did?
Follow the troop back to the hotel in Ealdor to take back what was theirs. Stolen illegally fair and square.
Well, that was the game, wasn't it?
Gwen shrugged from her kit and unbuckled her helmet and eyewear, dropping to her belly to squirm up the rise in a practiced way. Arthur did the same, but paused to retrieve the binocs from her pack. Gripping the strap between his teeth, he shuffled just uphill from her prone body and inched cautiously forward.
He could hear voices – calling, shouting, and it spiked his pulse with adrenalin – but it was too far to distinguish words or tone.
Pushing with the toes of his boots, he leaned up and-
There it was.
Crumpled like a child's toy, carelessly and imperfectly launched and impudently kicked over a couple of times on the ground. Crash, break, tumble, disintegrate. Rest.
It hadn't burned, he didn't think. Was that good or bad, he didn't know.
Six black-clad Essetirians he could see, crawling through the scattered bits. Kicking pieces over, kneeling to uncover and examine, and discard. One left with the skid-carts, he figured. And where was the psychic?
"Bastards," Gwen breathed, with tears in her voice.
He lifted the binocs to his eyes and adjusted the focus-wheel above his nose to conduct a secret investigation of his own.
The body of the flyer lay on its starboard side, nose and abbreviated wing, as if the pilot had still been trying to bank south toward Camelot. Most of that wing was bent beneath the wreckage, but the entire port side and tail had been sheared off like the hillside was coarse-grit sandpaper.
That was where the external apparatus of the recorder was located. Did the Essetirians notice that? It could be anywhere within three hundred paces of the site – it could be buried by the snow – it could be snapped into unrecognizable components.
It could be destroyed.
But the pilot could have copied and kept a number of stills on his person, as safe as uniform and body, at least. Would Lancelot have had the presence of mind, shot and going down?
The tip of Arthur's finger clicked the focus-wheel. The cockpit canted forward, the inside of it hidden from their view. Have to climb right on top of it to look down into it.
Was that blood smeared just outside and down, or some painted insignia?
The snow around was scuffed up with the marks of many boots. They'd investigated there, first – and at least there was no body pulled from the wreckage of the 'pit and dropped, searched and discarded, in the snow.
"Arthur?"
He was aware of her controlling her breathing, next to him and nose-deep in snow, the chill beginning to seep through layers. He passed her the binocs, immediately regretting the loss of detail and clarity, pushing forward again on his toes as if that would help him see better.
"I don't see Lancelot," he murmured, and didn't add that the Essetirians could have left the body in the pilot's seat, if Lancelot had managed to unbuckle himself, but no further. "They're looking for the recording, though… haven't found it yet…"
"The flyer's on this side of the valley," she observed.
Yeah, bit of a slope up to the midpoint between the third and fourth hill, then down again to the south side, probably where the Essetirians left their skid-carts. And if they'd found Lancelot alive - or his trail - they wouldn't be taking the time to sift rubble. They weren't dressed for it like Arthur and Gwen, just black uniform trousers and boots, overcoats and gloves, and the long-strap of their military-issue weapon over shoulder or chest or back.
"D'ya think he might've instinctively gone downhill?" she suggested. "If he was… disoriented? Didn't realize it was north? He could be close…"
It might have been clever to head north anyway, especially if Lancelot knew he could count on the snow to cover for him; he'd have had access to weather reports before the mission. There was more snow in the valley, deeper drifts – blown over the marks of his passing?
She shifted, and he knew she was studying the ground for any indication of the pilot; he kept watch on the soldiers searching the wreck.
Increasingly frustrated. Voices raised, bouncing from the hillsides and snow, gestures becoming more animated. You got anything? No man, I got nothing. Can't find it. 'S not here?
More than one of them twisted to direct impatience and annoyance up the third hillside, east toward Ealdor, toward the first tearing contact of flyer and treetops. On a hunch, Arthur leaned over his elbow, rolling to feel hers in his ribs, they were so close.
The eighth man out of nine. Refraining from action, aloof in a sullen, childish way. A huddle of overcoat over close-bent knees, perched halfway up the hillside to watch the activities of the others. Fringe of black hair under the edge of the cap and over the collar of the coat.
It was him. Arthur stopped breathing.
But he didn't seem to have noticed the proximity of anyone other than his mates – who were hollering and waving with intent, now. The figure pushed to his feet, elbows tucked in – smaller gestures, quieter responses.
Arthur guessed they were demanding an exact location, and the psychic was either unable or unwilling to provide it. He recalled the reaction he'd seen on the recording, when the psychic came into contact with an object associated with violence or trauma or death, and cringed.
Yeah, I wouldn't want to get close to any of that stuff, either.
Wonder how they walk around every day. Probably most ordinary objects-people-places have had some kind of something happen to or around it-them…
The psychic's gestures were turning abrupt, responses delayed. Five of the seven weren't searching anymore, just standing empty-handed, focused on him. Taking turns yelling.
He yelled back – then moved, stumbling in the snow and the tilt of the mountain. Heading toward where Gwen and Arthur lay prone, just past the curve of the slope.
"What's going on?" Gwen hissed. "What's he doing?"
"You're the one with the-" Arthur cut himself off with a choked inhalation; she hissed and ducked, curling tighter into his side.
Because he was coming, the psychic. Unsteady-fast, chin tucked into the buttons of his overcoat, ignoring the other soldiers calling after him.
None of them followed.
What the hell? Could he tell they were there watching, or not?
The psychic stopped just next to the thick trunk of a naked deciduous tree, barely twenty-five paces away. If he glanced over he'd see their helmets and even an idiot could tell it wasn't a pair of perfectly spherical rocks huddling down…
Arthur could hear the zip of his trousers. How come he didn't sense them?
If Arthur had a throwing knife, he could do it silently but the others would probably notice immediately, which would be just as bad as the echoing report of a gunshot. Ohshitohsh- Arthur emptied his mind deliberately, tried to become a patch of snow. Cool and serene and reflective…
He could probably hear the stream of urine hitting the snow if his breath wasn't puffing back in his face. Cold seeped into his skin like liquid.
"The pilot went north."
The voice carried to them, quiet but clear. Arthur held his breath again; Gwen was frozen with tension against him.
"North. And then west. There were mines… He took the recording with him."
He knew they were there; he had to. Which meant he had to know who they were, too. Why was he telling them, and not his fellows?
Arthur wanted to lift his head and look. Meet the man's eyes, forget he was a psychic playing games, and judge for himself the veracity of those words. Stupid to think the psychic was speaking to make Arthur reveal himself, when he could easier simply crunch through the snow twenty-five paces and holler out-
"Hey!" That voice was much closer, thinly-veiled disgust and irritation. "You about finished there, freak? How 'bout making yourself useful down here? You got hands, don't you? Hey, I'm talking to you!"
A note of warning colored the tone, and – hatred?
Arthur risked lifting his head. Just enough.
The psychic had zipped and turned to face the speaker, putting Arthur and Gwen at his four o'clock. Body slightly crouched, tension bleeding through the bulk of the overcoat, and the look on his face was hunted-wary. He looked like he was about to bolt – not to rush the soldier or to return to his companions, but to flee.
What?
The nearest soldier was another thirty paces distant. Close enough to see he needed a shave, too far to pick out of a line-up. He handled his weapon casually, conveying a wordless but imperative command.
The psychic didn't move, watching the other like he was It in a game of tag, waiting to dodge at the first hint of direction.
What's he reading off that guy? Aren't they supposed to be-
Whatever the soldier saw on the psychic's face, it pissed him off, and he lifted and pointed his rifle. Without sighting, but maybe he'd be good enough to take the psychic down at that range. Arthur could've done it, in his boots.
But why would he-
It came to Arthur, that would at least be a solution that simplified the problem. Without this psychic to consider, no need for recordings to help plan any sort of invasion of the base where he was kept...
"Get back to the group," the soldier growled. "Now."
For a moment more the psychic remained motionless. Then, every inch sagging in reluctant surrender, he slumped wordlessly back down the hillside, approaching the soldier obliquely as if he meant to pass well out of arms' reach. The soldier crunched two decisive steps and seized a handful of black overcoat at the psychic's flinching shoulder with his free hand – and didn't lower his weapon even as he yanked him back to the watchful group.
Arthur breathed carefully and let his legs collapse, sliding down from the ridge, out of sight of the Essetirians. Gwen followed, scrunching back to where they'd dropped their kits.
"He's just a kid," she breathed, as if talking to herself. "He's not old enough to be as skilled or as dangerous as they say. Arthur?"
"I think he's different," Arthur managed.
Scooping up his kit and board, he began to scramble back down the way they'd come. Again she followed, stuffing the cute-trendy magenta-lined binocs into her kit. Behind her, no one appeared over the ridge. If anyone did, they could read Arthur and Gwen's approach-pause-retreat in the snow, and track them…
Even without the slide-boards strapped to their boots, they made time down the hill, letting gravity claim them, sliding drifts of snow with them, plowing furrows with their bodies. Speed over stealth, now. They hadn't been hidden exactly, anyway.
"Why did he help us?" Gwen panted, coming along behind him. "You think it's a trap?"
"Too elaborate for what we're worth," Arthur returned.
It had been less than twenty hours since he'd seen the troop at the stairs of the hotel, and only one of them absent from the group just now. An ambush of one? More of them already inside the hotel, that he hadn't seen last night? They'd have had to set out at midnight, to get around the north side of the mountains and lie in wait, and that just wasn't practical.
"If they know who you are?" Gwen offered. "I mean, who your father is?"
He didn't look back at her. It was a well-known secret in Spec-Ops, his name rather unique. But no one asked, and no one said – within his hearing, anyway.
"If they knew, they could've taken us at the equipment shed, or on the hill just now," he said. "No need for this subterfuge, sending us searching further north."
Unless the psychic only thought to get them out of the way. Maybe he didn't wish to see them captured – did he think of himself in those terms? odd thought – but help hadn't been proved, either.
"The third trail is going to fork off up here," he added, feeling ready to jog for a bit, after their rest. Put more distance between them and the Essetirians.
What were the historic trail-markers? Anyplace close that could shelter a wounded pilot? Maybe Lancelot knew, or guessed, or hoped – but then it made sense the Essetirians would know also, and come looking…
Behind him, Gwen snickered. Without glancing back, he said, "What?"
"Fork off," she repeated.
He heard it with a slightly different nuance, and felt himself blushing. Always with the foot in the mouth when he was speaking to her, huh?
Well, if it put her in a good mood…
Two more hours. And no sound of discovery or pursuit followed them. Arthur found himself wondering what the troop of Essetirians had said to their psychic – or what he'd said to them.
Then again, north and west was counter-intuitive.
Arthur and Gwen could have gone faster with the psychic in company, heading right to Lancelot like hounds nosing prey. But they were slowed by the need to watch for his trail, for any possibility up the mountainside, any hollow, any crevasse, any shadowy overhang.
Gwen's good mood waned into midafternoon. She snapped at Arthur's suggestion of dried fruit and nuts, though she ate grudgingly a moment later.
He was beginning to think about the possibility of spending the night in the mountains – because if they headed back to Ealdor they'd have to keep trusting the psychic not to notice them, not to report them if he noticed them – but that meant shelter and a fire-
Unless the psychic had diverted them, and Lancelot had been found and restrained with the skid-carts, out of sight, while they searched for the recording he told them was there...
"There," Gwen said suddenly. "Look."
The first opening for the mine was in view, a corral-style enclosure over the wedge carved into the hillside, stop 1 on the historic trail. But here – a rocky outcropping jutted over a longish shadow stretching toward them down the hillside. Surprisingly invisible depths retreated beneath the craggy lip of rock – and Gwen was already scrambling up to it.
"Have I got the torch in my kit," he said, punching the toes of his boots into the slope and bending his knees for another climb. "Or-"
She reached behind her, unzipping one of her kit-pockets and withdrawing a slender black cylinder – also rimmed in sport-girl-worthy magenta.
"What am I actually carrying, then?" he grumbled to himself. Worthless condoms.
She clicked the battery-light on and shone it into the deep hollow, one hand on the rock to steady her crouching search. White-ash light found a boot – a leg – pilot's insignia – colorless face under disheveled dark hair.
Arthur's heart was in his mouth and every atom of his being was attuned to her reaction. She inhaled-
Lancelot opened his eyes, turning into the beam of torchlight and squinting at them, raising one gloved hand to shield himself from the invasive brightness.
"Oh," she said.
Arthur's heart fell back into place with relief. Pilot. Recording. Mission nearly accomplished.
Border-crossing, here we come…