That was Trudeau, his face looking pale and ill in the fading light. That reminded her that the enemy would probably be much better at sneaking around in the dark than most of her command. "Let's get some floods set up here," she called over her shoulder. "Mr. Trudeau?"

He was an upperclassman, near graduation; a slender dark blue-eyed young man, Maine-born of French Canadian stock.

"Ma'am, I've, uh, found where some of the Bentley's crew went."

She began to suspect as he led her over to one of the hearths. The bones were unmistakably human, and the dental work in the skulls equally certainly of the twentieth century. The meat on the spits and in the pots… The smell was thick, like pork stewing or roasting, horribly appetizing. She swallowed heavily once; behind her came the sound of retching.

"Arrange a burial detail, Mr. Trudeau," she said. "But not until I give the word. There was something else?"

Lights blinked on as the equipment was carried up from the village. Trudeau turned away, obviously relieved. "This way, ma'am."

Like the village, the settlement on the platform was laid out on either side of a street. At one end was an open space, trampled hard and set down into the soil. Wooden scaffolds set with stone and painted figures held hoops at either end; in a weird way, it reminded her of a basketball court. At the other end was a wooden platform, smoothly pegged together. Its front was carved in the likeness of a cross-legged man wearing a jaguar mask and holding a rope in either hand. That led around the sides of the slab, to carved images of bound prisoners on either side. Behind the slab in turn stood a roofed cage, with a single door that could be securely fastened. The senior cadet led her toward it.

"It took a bit of looking, ma'am," he said. "And we were sort of, you know, shook up. But here it is."

They entered the cage, flashlights probing. Insects fluttered in and out of the beams. "Over here by the back."

The bars of the cage were hard wood, notched into a single huge undecorated foundation beam on each side. Part of their surface had grown soft and punky with rot, and doubtless they would have been replaced soon. In the meantime they had a surface soft enough to scratch. The shaky letters on one of them spelled one word: Upstream.

Behind her, Ian Arnstein spoke softly: "At least it's not 'Croatan.' Some of them were alive, then. One at least."

"And I know just which one, Professor," Alston said.

Deep in a fissure of the wood, metal gleamed. She went to one knee and dug carefully with the point of her tanto knife. The wood was hard below the weathered layer, but in a few seconds the metal popped free and she scooped it up. A plain golden ring, sized for a woman's hand. A wedding ring. She held it up and shone the flashlight on the inner surface.

"Martha Cofflin's," she said, and knelt silent for a moment, long black fingers curling about it. Then she rose and spoke briskly: "Trudeau, maintain your perimeter." With the handset in her grasp, she gave further orders: "Mr. Ortiz, please relieve all perimeter guards and workin' parties in succession. I want them all to come and see something up here." It was a good thing to know your enemy.

"So, does this count as our first fight?" Doreen said, tight-lipped.

"We're not fighting, we're just discussing," Ian hissed back.

The expeditionary force had built up the hearths from stored firewood-except the ones where that had been cooking-and put a line of watchfires along their perimeter. Doubtless the eyes of the village's inhabitants saw that, where they huddled in the jungle and swamp that bordered the inland edge of their fields, and also the harsher brilliance of portable electric lights. Insects buzzed about; the stores of mosquito repellent were already running low, and huge bright tropical moths plunged into the fires. Despite the shock of what they'd seen, the camp was no longer funeral-quiet. Food was cooking, stored rations, fish and duck caught on the trip up the river, cornmeal and vegetables from the huts. For a while he'd thought he would never want to eat again, but the smell set his stomach rumbling. It had turned very slightly cooler, with a breeze from the river, as the sections assembled below the earth platform. The Arnsteins fell silent with the rest as Captain Alston stood to address them.

"You've all seen what was going on here," she said.

A snarling mutter went through the ranks below. More angry than afraid, Ian decided. Evidently Captain Alston knew them better than he did… which was, after all, her specialty.

"We have definite proof that Ms. Cofflin, at least, was still alive yesterday and was taken upriver toward these… people's main town. I intend to follow and rescue her. Because I really don't approve of Americans being tortured, killed, and eaten. These people need to be taught a good, hard lasting lesson along those lines."

The mutter grew into an angry cheer, guttural and full of menace. Alston nodded. "Good. Keep eager. Just remember that the difference between a real military force and a bunch of savages is discipline. We've got it, they don't, and that's why we're going to go up that river tomorrow and kick cannibal butt."

The next cheer was more like a roar. Alston cut it off with a chopping gesture of her hand. "So eat hearty and get a good night's sleep; you'll need your strength tomorrow. Dismissed."

"Where were we?" Doreen said, as the ranks broke, their noise louder and more cheerful.

"Ah… I think we were about to have a totally useless argument," Ian said.

"Yup, that sounds right," Doreen said. They met each other's eyes and laughed.

"It's not as if the captain would lay on a boat to take you back to the Eagle, anyway," he sighed. "Still, I wish you hadn't insisted."

"We're a team," Doreen said. They began walking toward their quarters. "How'd you put it… Speakers-to-Savages?"

A burst of laughter came from the next hearthfire down. "A little touch of Harry in the night," Ian quoted. Doreen chuckled. Most of the sections assigned to huts had kept the fires going at a low level even after their cooking was done, despite the heat and the insects it attracted. The flames were heartening, he supposed; ancestral memories.

"Odd to think we're actually going to be fighting a battle like Agincourt," she said. "Swords and spears and all… Hi, Marian."

Alston sank down a little way from the fire that burned in its clay bowl before their hut, nodding reply to their greetings. "Fo' Christ's sake don't offer me another cup of that goddam sassafras tea, Doreen," she said. "I'm going to be up often enough tonight as it is." Her teeth showed white against the darkness, and her eyes; otherwise she almost vanished.

"Wait until you're my age," Ian grumbled. "Every bloody night."

"You should try being pregnant," Alston said, topping him neatly.

He blinked. Yes, she was once, wasn't she? Twice. Odd to think of it. Odd to think of her as a mother, too.

"Aren't you going to reassure us?" he asked.

"I might, if you were going to be anywhere near the action," she said. "Assumin' there is action. I'd prefer to bargain Martha out and go." She paused, arms around her knees and chin on them. "Well, no, that's not quite right. I'd prefer to drop napalm an' cluster bombs on them. As it is, I'd rather not fight. Too much chance of our hostages bein' hurt, for starters."

"What do you think our chances are?" Doreen asked.

"Mmmm, pretty good," she replied. Little flames licked in the dark irises as she stared into the flames. "Cortez conquered Mexico at longer odds. I-we-could probably do the same."

"You think so?" Ian said, surprised.

She nodded slowly, with the faraway look of deep thought. Alston wasn't what he'd consider well read in history, but she had a good working knowledge of those parts of it that interested her.