Chapter Eighteen

Behind, Zeb heard a shout in Burian, some passenger doubtless raising a half-hearted alarm about this black-clad line-jumper.

Ahead, at right angles to his direction, were numerous train tracks, more than he could count, parallel lines of them, many of them with trains or at least a few train cars upon them—sidings, he assumed, places to store cars while they waited to be attached to trains. He paid them no mind. He kept his attention on the ground in front of him, which was rough, covered in ankle-high grass and dangerous with occasional pieces of broken concrete the size of footballs, and to the right, where the taxi, now clear of the little guard station, was now accelerating toward the rail yard. The narrow paved road it was on would lead it in a turn to the left, toward Zeb, then another turn right to take it between two of the long buildings, well away from the ones that seemed to be the civilian passengers' destinations.

The taxi veered along its path and slowed to a stop between the two buildings as Zeb reached the pavement. He stood there, breathing heavily, not approaching closer for the moment—the space between buildings was illuminated, and the taxi's occupants would surely see him if he got too much closer. Remembering, he dug the chalk from his pocket and scrawled a peace sign on the pavement before him.

Four men piled out of the taxi. Three wore overcoats; one of them pulled Swana, still half covered by the cloth bag, with him, while the other two opened the trunk and looked in. But they did not drag Rudi out; after assuring themselves of something, probably just his continued presence, they shut the trunk again.

The fourth man wore a Sonnenkrieger officer's uniform. Even at the distance of forty yards or so Zeb recognized him, for his exceptional blondness, for his perfection of form.

Colonel Conrad Förster.

Förster took a cigarette from a case and lit it with a match, taking a casual look around as he did so. As his gaze swept across Zeb, he stopped, frozen in position, hand still cupped against the wind over the cigarette.

Zeb fought the urge to duck. Förster shouldn't be able to see him. Zeb was all in black and dark green, with bushes behind him so he couldn't be backlit. If Zeb ducked, Förster might detect the motion. So Zeb held perfectly still, though he slowly narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits.

Förster held his pose for several long moments, long enough for the men with him to act. Two dragged Swana around the corner of the building. The third got back in the car, in the driver's seat, and started it up, then drove it forward and around the corner to the left. In just these moments, Zeb had lost sight of both the people he was trying to protect.

Förster's gaze wavered, slipping off Zeb. He looked back and forth a little. Then he started and shook his hand to extinguish the match he still held. Irritably, he tossed the thing aside and turned to follow the men dragging Swana.

Keeping low, Zeb followed.

He reached the corner of the raised wooden platform beside which the taxi had been parked. This platform was empty of people, and the ticket windows of the building it was attached to were all closed.

From this vantage, he could see Förster, his men and his prisoner, all walking across tracks between them and a short train—one engine, one caboose, and five cars in between. None of the men looked back in his direction.

Zeb moved forward to look around the corner of the platform. This put him in clear sight of anyone looking in this direction, directly beneath an overhead light, but for the moment no one was looking at him. Two buildings down to his right, the place was thick with passengers boarding some sort of civilian train, but this portion of the yard seemed lightly populated at best. To his left, there was no sign of the taxi. Then he heard the car from behind him. He spun, still crouching, to see it turning back onto the narrow lane that had brought it here. It had circled the building and was now headed back toward the main street.

Zeb cursed. He couldn't follow both Swana and Rudi. Well, that was no choice. Swana was the innocent here.

On the pavement beside the platform, Zeb chalked another peace sign, this one with the three tines of the symbol pointing toward the train onto which Swana was now being dragged. He thought about adding to the symbol the many-digit number painted in white on the dark surface of the engine, and reluctantly made that modification. Officials seeing the numbers might figure out what they meant, might realize that someone was pointing out that train to the attention of others. But if he didn't identify the train more precisely, another train might be positioned onto a track between the platform and Swana's train, and Noriko might be misled.

Then Zeb moved out into the darkness, toward the rear of the short train, his heart beating faster as he waited for someone to note his presence, to call for guards, to make this screwed-up situation even worse.

Whoever had dragged and carried Swana this far—had kept her half upright as she stumbled and tripped across rough ground and what felt like rail tracks, had hauled her on his hip up narrow steps and scraped her along hallway walls and across doors, had ignored her demands for information—finally stopped. She assumed she was on a train, from the familiar noises of the rail yard and the narrow entry she'd been hauled through after being carried up the steps. She heard something—a door, she thought—slide open. Then she was shoved through an entryway, her left shoulder scraping against it, and was held upright.

Fingers fumbled at the rope around her waist and loosened it. Her captors pulled the bag from her. She was blinded in sudden light, but the comparatively fresh air on her face was welcome. She breathed in its coolness.

As her vision cleared, she saw that she was indeed on a train, in one compartment of a sleeper car. It was set up for daytime, its bench seats not yet converted to beds, despite the fact that it was well after dark. She turned to see two men in coats leaving the compartment, one man, a Sonnenkrieger colonel, remaining with her.

He was fair, handsome, emotionless. He held a cigarette to his lips and inhaled as he looked at her, but he said nothing.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Slowly and deliberately, he expelled a lungful of smoke before answering. "I am Förster. Colonel Conrad Förster," he said.

"Why—" She heard the shrillness of her voice and realized that she must sound, and look, like what she was—a frightened woman hopelessly out of her depth. But that's not who she was supposed to be. Doc had been wrong, he hadn't been able to protect her, and now she was in their hands . . . but she knew, from the way things had changed since the Reinis came to power, that showing weakness before them would automatically make her a victim in their eyes. Showing strength wouldn't necessarily do her any good . . . but victims were to be victimized.

She took a deep breath and tried to bring her voice down into its normal range. "Do you know who I am?"

Finally, he smiled, a very slight smile, but at least it held no contempt. "No."

"Why did you pick me up in this manner?"

He shrugged. "I was told to pick you up. No manner was specified in my instructions."

She turned to the window. In it, she could make out her dim reflection. Her hair was a mess, strands having worked loose from the bun. Her lipstick had smeared and the pancake that had lightened her complexion ever so slightly, so that she might better resemble Teleri, was sweat-streaked. Though it was difficult to tell in the reflection, she imagined that she was still red from the heat of the sack. She made an exasperated noise and pulled the rest of her hair free of the bun, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. "You could have just asked. Do you have a brush?"

"I'm afraid not."

"A handkerchief?"

"Of course."

He handed her one. She used it to remove her lipstick. There, she decided. More plain, less Teleri . . . but not so much a mess. 

She heard the door to the passageway slide open again. She turned to see another Sonnenkrieger officer, this one a general, enter. He was a tall man, blond and balding, his officer's cap held under his left arm. His expression, curiously, was not severe—his eyes were far more kind than Förster's.

He only looked at her for a moment before turning his attention to Förster and assuming a more serious expression. Förster saluted him and he returned the salute. "Any problems?" he asked.

"None, sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

Förster offered Swana a nod of minimal courtesy and left, shutting the door behind him.

The general turned to Swana. She returned his gaze—not defiantly, because that might incite him, should he be a cruel man despite his kindly manner, but expectantly.

"Teleri," he said.

She felt a sudden thrill and she cleared her throat to cover her emotion. He didn't know who she really was. Her disguise was intact for the moment. "Yes?"

"You don't know me?" His expression had gone from mere earnestness to actual vulnerability; he looked as though he were one wrong answer away from being hurt.

She searched his face, hoping that it would buy her a little time. She had only two answers available to her and either could be wrong. But if she said "Yes" and were challenged on it, she couldn't back it up. "I do not," she said, but tried to make her reply sound sad rather than accusative.

"Your father . . ." The man sat on one of the benches. He gestured for her to sit beside him, and she did. "Your father didn't ever show you cameos of me? He certainly showed me many of you."

"I . . . I . . ." It was time, she knew, to put everything on one roll of the dice. "I don't remember." She let tears flow, real tears brought on by the real terror she was feeling. "Since I've been in that monster's hands, he stares at me and I cannot remember, I don't know where I am most of the time, I can't recall my name some days, my mission is lost to me . . ." She closed her eyes and let the tears pour out, let her body shake with the magnitude of the terror she'd felt since being seized.

He took her about the shoulders and held her tightly. "Teleri . . . Teleri . . . May I call you by your true name?"

She felt herself split then, her physical presence, racked with sobs and shudders, somehow staying in place while her mind took a step sideways and evaluated her with an odd calmness. Doc would be so pleased with me, she thought. If only I live long enough for him to hear about this. 

"I don't think I'd know it if I heard it." Her throat was tight, making her words emerge almost as a squeak.

"Adima," he said. "Adima, I am your fiancé, Daenn Ritter."

She forced her eyes open and turned to look at him. She knew there had to be wonder in her expression—her analytical self wanted her to appear wondering, but the emotion was real. If he were Teleri's fiancé, how could he not know she was not the real girl?

"I don't—I'm sorry," she said. "That memory is gone too. How can I not remember you?"

"We have never met. Our fathers arranged the marriage not long before you went to the New World. My father said you did not oppose it . . ."

"Of course not. Why would I? I would be proud . . ." She wiped away tears and tried to force her analytical self to the forefront. "You have saved me?"

"Yes. Your jailer is in custody, but he does not resemble the description of the man you have been accompanying. He is supposed to be taller, a light. We must know—"

"You are taking me to my father?"

"Yes, tonight. You will be with him within two bells. Can you tell me—"

Cut off his questions before you give him a wrong answer, she told herself, and burst into tears once more, yielding to the fear that gripped her. She let the volume of her cries grow until she could barely hear his words—now soothing, meaningless entreaties—above them.

Two bells. That might just be how long she had to live.

There was a guard on each of the train cars except the engine, coal tender and caboose. Zeb lingered in the darkness, well away from light shining from the windows of the passenger cars, and watched them. They wore the uniforms of regular Weserian soldiers and carried rifles slung over their shoulders.

These men were wide-awake and alert but relaxed; they were not anticipating trouble. Most turned at irregular intervals to survey a new direction. They often called out comments to one another, jokes by the sound of their tones and the response of the others.

One of them, the guard on the foremost passenger car, paced. He did not move from one end of the car to the other, just along a portion of its length, but the regularity of his motion was something Zeb could use.

Keeping low, moving in a crouch his back muscles were sure to complain about later, Zeb crossed the track well away from the caboose and slowly moved up parallel to the train at some distance from it. He kept to the darkness.

Opposite, he heard a shrill whistle from the passenger train at the station. Even at this distance, even with Swana's train between them, Zeb felt hammered by the noise. As it faded, he heard the cars' metal joints shriek as the engine strained to bring them into motion. Gradually the train came up to speed, the rhythm of its clattering wheels increasing. By the time Zeb was opposite the foremost car of Swana's train, the passenger train was gone in the distance.

Now, each time that foremost guard turned to pace toward the rear of the train, Zeb crept forward. Each time the guard turned toward the engine, Zeb froze in place, watching. Unfortunately, the rail yard was much quieter than it had been when the passenger train was in place, and Zeb's stomach lurched whenever gravel crunched under his foot.

But still the guard remained unaware of him, and he crept forward until he was beside the car, the corner of its roof blocking him from the guard's view. Ahead, beyond the coal tender, the engine hissed, like a gigantic cat unhappy about Zeb's arrival.

Zeb was also within the glow of light shining from the car's interior. Through the windows he could see that this car was divided into passenger compartments; the windows he was looking into opened straight into compartments, with doors and windows on the far side apparently opening onto a passageway. The nearest compartment seemed to be unoccupied, or else its occupants might be seated out of his line of sight, but one compartment back he could see Sonnenkrieger soldiers seated, talking, laughing.

Just ahead, a man shouted in Burian and Zeb froze. Footsteps clattered across the top of the nearest car, and Zeb could hear more from the other cars. But when he turned to look, no one was staring at him. In fact, the footsteps were receding, not approaching, and then Zeb could hear boots ringing on metal ladders. The soldiers were descending.

This engine's whistle blew. It was like being hit by a ten-foot wave. The noise cut through Zeb's clothes and skin, awoke the pain of his bruises, struck at his ears like hammers; he cupped his ears with his hands and winced away from the sound.

Then, as the whistle faded, the engine offered up a mighty chuff-chuff noise; its wheels turned and it began to move forward.

Dammit, Noriko, where are you? Zeb grabbed the nearest handrail on the car. He stepped up onto the platform and the train slowly began to carry him forward into the darkness.

As the train got under way and began to bear Swana toward her death, Ritter held her with tenderness, saying soothing words as she cried.

Gradually she let her sobs subside. She relaxed into his embrace, leaving her eyes shut, feigning exhaustion.

"It will be well," Ritter said for the tenth or thousandth time. "Your father will be able to free your mind from that monster's embrace. You will be well again."

She nodded, like a child too sleepy to speak.

"Are you tired? Would you like to sleep until we are there?"

She nodded again.

"Here." Carefully, he slid out from beneath her and lowered her so that she lay the length of the padded seat. She heard him rummaging in the rack above the seat, and then he gently lifted her head to slide a pillow beneath it. "I will be two compartments down if you need me."

The lights dimmed, Swana heard the door open and close, and she was alone.

She stood, her hand on the wall behind her against the rocking of the car, and tried to force herself to think clearly.

She moved to peer through the glass in the compartment door, and could see no people in the incomplete view of the companionway the window afforded her. She'd have to poke her head out into the companionway to see its full length, and she might be spotted.

And even if she weren't, what then? She'd have to get to the end of the car, into the vestibule, and then . . .

Jump. There was no other feasible solution. If she hid on the train, they'd find her. So she had to get off. If she wanted to do that before the train's next stop, she'd have to jump.

And she'd have to do so as soon as she had the opportunity. If she waited until the train slowed to a safer speed, they might walk in on her. Stop her.

Well, if she was going to jump, she might as well do it from right here, rather than venture into the passageway and risk discovery. She moved to the window, unlatched it at the top, and lowered the glass. She was instantly battered by wind. The door behind her rattled. That would alert Ritter or others soon. She had to go fast.

She stepped up onto the seat opposite the one on which she and Ritter had used and leaned out through the window. Tree branches whipped by, close, with a suddenness that terrified her. She could dimly see the boles of the trees mere paces from the dirt and gravel that lined the tracks, and though she was no expert in such matters, she guessed that the train's speed had to be at least a hundred destads per bell, maybe half again that rate. There was no way she could survive a fall at that speed.

No, maybe she could. Maybe she would fall on soft grass instead of unforgiving dirt and gravel. Maybe the gods would smile on her.

Besides, interrogation at the Reinis' hands had to mean death. Didn't it?

Or, once she told them everything about the Foundation and its plans to trick them, might the Reinis let her go? She could claim that Doc had forced her. She could invent some story of blackmail . . .

She stood there, indecision freezing her, her new thoughts about sacrificing Doc and the others filling her with shame, and something struck her on the shoulder.

She shrieked and looked back, but no one stood behind her. She looked up.

A man's head protruded over the edge of the roof. He held the edge with both hands. His features were masked by a hat clamped low on his brow and a dark green scarf wrapped many times around his mouth and nose. Only his eyes and the black flesh of his upper face showed. The scarf over his mouth flexed as his jaw moved, as if he were saying something—

Black flesh? She gaped at him. "Zeb?"

Finally she could hear his words, if dimly, over the roar of wind across them. "Don't jump . . . too fast . . ."

"Are you here to rescue me?"

He nodded. He released his grip with one hand and pulled the scarf away from his mouth, then braced himself again. Desperation in his eyes told her how difficult it was for him to hold that perch, how close he was to being slung free with every lurch of the car.

Now he shouted, and the increased volume and the fact that she could see his lips allowed Swana to understand him. "We'll get you out of here! I'm sorry. This never should have happened."

"Will we jump?"

"Maybe. That's one way to do it." His voice, even distorted by volume, sounded uncertain.

"How else?"

"Listen. If we escape now, you'll be safe and Doc will send you wherever you want to go. But if you let them take you where they're going—"

"No!"

"If you let them take you there, we can see where that is, see more of who's giving the orders. That'll help us figure out who to stop. Then we'll grab you back."

"Are you sure—are you certain you can save me if we go that far?"

He took a moment to answer, and when she saw his eyes soften into sympathy she knew the answer. "No," he shouted. "I can't be sure. But you can be sure of this. I won't just let you go. I'll come after you and I'll either get you out of there or die myself. I promise. But it's your call, Swana. You decide you want me to take you off this train now, that's what we'll do."

She looked at him, at his earnest face, so dark, so alien in comparison with all the people she'd ever met, and yet in spite of his alienness she knew he was telling the truth.

She also knew shame at what she'd been thinking just moments ago, and knew that she couldn't bear for him to think as badly of her as she was thinking of herself right now.

"They're taking me to see Teleri's father," she said. "General Ritter is here. I know of him. He is chief architect of the Reinis. He's also Teleri's fiancé but they have never met and he thinks I am her. I'd better get back."

He nodded.

She pulled away from the cruel, invasive sympathy still evident on his face. She raised the window and latched it.

Then she lay down again where Ritter had last seen her. Her face twisted with her effort not to cry once again.

On hands and knees, Zeb made his way forward to the front of the roof of the car. Once he was seated there, staring forward into the night, the thick smoke and occasional sparks and cinders billowing forth from the engine's smokestack washed across him again. He rearranged the scarf across his face—protection from the smoke and sparks, protection from night air that had grown surprisingly cold.

He'd been lucky in several ways, as lucky as a man sitting on top of a train full of enemies could count himself. He'd managed to board the train just after the guards atop the cars had been ordered down. In his creeping around atop the thing, he had managed not to get thrown off, had managed to lean out far enough to peer into the various compartments of the lead car and see the many Sonnenkrieger and regular soldiers there and, most importantly, had managed to find Swana. Had he not seen her in the first sleeper car, he would have had to make the dangerous transition to each car in turn and repeat the process there.

He might be lucky in another way, too. Noriko had never caught up to him, but a car was following this train. He'd spotted it minutes after the train had left Bardulfburg, headed southeast. Then, the car was two headlights on the road paralleling the tracks some distance to the right. It had just been a car at the time, but he'd seen the same headlights return again and again—though roads led it away, it always seemed to find a new lane in the train's wake. Let it be Noriko, he told himself.

Whenever the train blasted through a town or village, Zeb flattened himself on the roof, presenting no silhouette for onlookers to see. The rest of the time he sat up, hands gripping the nearest air vent, his merry-hat clamped firmly down on his forehead. He was growing more and more fond of that hat and its tenacity.

And, oddly, it occurred to him that there was something very liberating about his current situation. True, he was a black man in a country governed by white racists, he was sitting on a gigantic egg carton full of men who'd be happy to shoot him. But for just this moment, they didn't know he was here. He rode atop them, cloaked in the night, his training and the pistols in his pockets and the promise he'd made to Swana making him more dangerous than any of them, and he felt freer and more alive than at any time in the last dozen years. A laugh bubbled up out of him, and had any of the soldiers aboard the train heard it, they would have been chilled by the mad humor in it.

Swana woke, jarred from her sleep by the shrill noise the train made as it braked, jarred further by the fact that she had actually fallen asleep. She would have liked to spend more of her last few chimes of life awake . . .

No. She couldn't think like that. Zeb would save her. Or she would save herself.

"How do you feel?"

Startled, she jerked upright. Ritter was seated opposite her, concern in his eyes.

She rubbed her eyes, to give herself a moment to think, and then turned an artificially calm expression toward him. "Better," she said. "I am so ashamed of my panic. You probably think me a complete fool."

He shook his head. "No, of course not. You proved your courage when you volunteered for this assignment. Proved it again when you sent the package home. Anyone would be unsettled by what you've gone through. Myself included."

She managed a small smile for him. "Would you cry?"

"No. It would do harm to my career. But it will do none to yours."

"Are we there?" Swana had no idea where "there" was, but it seemed to be the thing to ask.

"Just pulling in to Goldmacher."

"What a relief." She wondered what she would say when she met Teleri's father. She wondered whom she ought to be. It would probably do her no good to appear as frightened as she was, no harm to pretend to be a hardened adventurer like the Sidhe Foundation agents.

It occurred to her that, though she wasn't Teleri Obeldon, she was actually a spy. For this one brief moment she was what she had seen on the screen in film plays. The thought made another smile cross her lips.

The train shuddered to a halt and they both stood. "Welcome home," Ritter said.

As the train came into the village station, Zeb flattened himself and slid over to the left side of the car, so as not to be seen by anyone standing at the station. He leaned well out over the edge so he could see into Teleri's compartment.

And he bit back a curse. She and Ritter were on their feet; the Sonnenkrieger general was dragging a briefcase from an overhead rack. As Zeb watched, they moved out of sight into the passageway. They were leaving.

And Zeb heard orders being barked in Burian, followed by the sound of booted men moving at a trot, boots and hands making ringing noises against the ladders on the ends of the train cars.

Zeb rolled to sit upright at the edge of the roof, giving himself a moment to get his balance and position right, and then pushed off. He dropped right past the window Swana had tried to jump from and hit the gravel beneath it. He landed in a crouch, the impact jarring his legs and the places in his back still sore from the morning's fight, and rolled off into the darkness beyond the car.

By the time he came upright, a soldier was climbing up onto the roof of his car by the ladder at the front, but that man's posture and casual motions, even in silhouette, suggested that he hadn't seen anything wrong. Zeb stood, his legs a little shaky, and then moved as fast as he dared through the grass, paralleling the train.

His timing, though accidental, was perfect. As he came around the engine, several yards ahead of it in the darkness, he saw Swana, Ritter and two Sonnenkrieger soldiers descending from the train's first passenger car. Swana seemed oddly poised, in control, considering her state when he'd last seen her.

Ritter led her forward to the end of the station and down the steps there, where an automobile waited, idling. It was a massive thing, black, with little Reini sun-flags flying from posts at the front corners; the driver's compartment was separate from that of the passengers and open to the sky. Ritter held the door open for Swana while she stepped up on the running board and into the passenger compartment, but then he placed his briefcase in beside her and shut the door. He waited outside and consulted a pocket watch.

Zeb continued circling around and moved in toward the car, approaching its right rear. At the very least, he needed to see and memorize the numbers of its plates, but he'd prefer to get on or in it, perhaps in the trunk.

As Zeb reached the rear bumper, on the far side of the automobile, Ritter straightened, looking irritable, as another Sonnenkrieger officer approached from the direction of the train. This man was younger, apologetic of expression, also carrying a briefcase. They exchanged a few words in Burian, Ritter's words harsh, the new man's words conciliatory. The new man opened the door for Ritter, then followed the older officer into the car.

Zeb heard gears grind in the car. He swore to himself. There wasn't much to hold onto on the rear of the car—the bumper didn't offer the sort of purchase he needed. But at the front end of the right-side running board, where it rose up to become the beautifully curved housing for the front wheel, a niche held a spare tire. Zeb scrambled forward on hands and knees, got one hand on that tire and was just lowering his weight onto the running board when the car pulled forward.

Zeb rolled sideways, half off the running board. Wrist strength kept him from falling clean off. He lay on his back on the narrow ledge, his right leg supported, his left leg swinging off and threatening to rotate the rest of him off as well. But he kicked down and his left heel made hard contact with the ground, just enough to allow him to swing back up atop the running board. He lay there on his right side, both hands now gripping the tire, and prayed that the vehicle make no hard turns to the left.

He held on as the car made bumpy progress along a winding dirt and gravel road, mostly going uphill. Occasional glances over his shoulder told him the lane was lined with trees.

Then the car made an abrupt left turn and slung him off the running board. His grip on the tire failed. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolled, uncontrolled, several yards.

Then the ground dropped out from under him.