 
The Hummingbird series

Books 1-6, by TR Nowry

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The Hummingbird series

Books 1-6, by TR Nowry

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by TR Nowry

All Rights Reserved

Published By TR Nowry

All 'Art' By TR Nowry

This is a composite of

The art of the Houdini Scientist

and the other soulless zombies who were never here, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2010 by TR Nowry

Patent Mine, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2008 by TR Nowry ition

Hell from a Well, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2008 by TR Nowry

The Heredity of Hummingbirds, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2007 by TR Nowry

Mourning After Dawn, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2007 by TR Nowry

And

Daughters of Immortality, by TR Nowry

Copyright © 2011 by TR Nowry

The characters in this book are entirely fictional and rightly belong in the fiction section. Any resemblance to real people, places, countries or religions is completely unintentional. As with all copyright books, copies (physical and digital) are restricted to what is legally defined as fair use. No other use is expressed or implied and all other uses are reserved. Think of 'fair use' like Tivo. You can Tivo movies, TV shows, and the NFL (that's making a copy!) You can even convert them so you can watch them on your iPod (at work when the boss isn't looking!). But you can't put them on YouTube, sell them on the corner as DVDs, or put stills on T Shirts. These same principles apply to Ebooks. Even the free copies given out from time to time should NOT be redistributed, much like it's improper to distribute copies of 'The Office' just because it was recorded over the 'free' air. Basically, don't hand it out like candy, print dozens of copies, email it to all your friends, post it on servers or web sites and everything will be fine.

Starve the beast and feed the artist. This book is brought to you 100% free from the tyranny of traditional editors and publishers as an independent novel. Future titles depend entirely on your support. Thank you for keeping prices low by not distributing copies! If you received a copy without paying for it, please, do the right thing and purchase a copy and give it to a friend!

The Twisted Timeline Trilogy is Personal Space, Older than Dirt, and The Bottle tossed across the sky.

And if you've got a few hours to kill, be sure to check out my Free short story, The Wandering Island Factory.

**WARNING**

THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT

AND SHOULD NOT BE READ BY

CHILDREN

The Art of the Houdini Scientist

Patent Mine

Hell from a Well

The Heredity of Hummingbirds

Mourning After Dawn

Daughters of Immortality

The Art of the Houdini Scientist B1.C2 B1.C3 B1.C4 B1.C5 B1.C6 B1.C7 B1.C8 B1.C9 B1.C10 B1.C11 B1.C12 B1.C13 B1.C14 B1.C15 B1.C16 B1.C17 B1.C18 B1.C19 B1.C20 B1.C21 B1.C22 B1.C23 B1.C24 B1.C25 B1.C26 B1.C27 B1.C28 B1.C29 B1.C30 B1.C31 B1.C32 B1.C33 B1.C34 B1.C35 B1.C36 B1.C37 B1.C38 B1.C39 B1.C40 B1.C41 B1.C42 B1.C43 B1.C44 B1.C45 B1.C46 B1.C47 B1.C48 B1.C49 B1.C50 B1.C51 B1.C52 B1.C53 B1.C54 B1.C55 B1.C56 B1.C57 B1.C58 B1.C59 B1.C60 B1.C61 B1.C62 B1.C63 B1.C64 B1.C65 B1.C66 B1.C67 B1.C68 B1.C69 B1.C70 B1.C71 B1.C72 B1.C73 B1.C74 B1.C75 B1.C76 B1.C77 B1.C78 B1.C79 Aftermath...

Patent Mine B2.C2 B2.C3 B2.C4 B2.C5 B2.C6 B2.C7 B2.C8 B2.C9 B2.C10 B2.C11 B2.C12 B2.C13 B2.C14 B2.C15 B2.C16 B2.C17 B2.C18 B2.C19 B2.C20 B2.C21 B2.C22 B2.C23 B2.C24 B2.C25 B2.C26 B2.C27 B2.C28 B2.C29 B2.C30 B2.C31 B2.C32 B2.C33 B2.C34 B2.C35 B2.C36 B2.C37 B2.C38 B2.C39 B2.C40 B2.C41 B2.C42 B2.C43 B2.C44 Free her ...

Hell from a Well B3.C2 B3.C3 B3.C4 B3.C5 B3.C6 B3.C7 B3.C8 B3.C9 B3.C10 B3.C11 B3.C12 B3.C13 B3.C14 B3.C15 B3.C16 B3.C17 B3.C18 B3.C19 B3.C20 B3.C21 B3.C22 West...

The Heredity of Hummingbirds B4.C2 B4.C3 B4.C4 B4.C5 B4.C6 B4.C7 B4.C8 B4.C9 B4.C10 B4.C11 B4.C12 B4.C13 B4.C14 B4.C15 B4.C16 B4.C17 B4.C18 B4.C19 B4.C20 B4.C21 B4.C22 B4.C23 At Last

Mourning after Dawn B5.C2 B5.C3 B5.C4 B5.C5 B5.C6 B5.C7 B5.C8 B5.C9 B5.C10 B5.C11 B5.C12 B5.C13 B5.C14 B5.C15 B5.C16 B5.C17 B5.C18 B5.C19 B5.C20 B5.C21 B5.C22 B5.C23 B5.C24 B5.C25 B5.C26 B5.C27 B5.C28 B5.C29 B5.C30 B5.C31 B5.C32 B5.C33 B5.C34 B5.C35 B5.C36 B5.C37 B5.C38 B5.C39 After...

Daughters of Immortality B6.C2 B6.C3 B6.C4 B6.C5 B6.C6 B6.C7 B6.C8 B6.C9 B6.C10 B6.C11 B6.C12 B6.C13 B6.C14 B6.C15 B6.C16 B6.C17 B6.C18 B6.C19 B6.C20 B6.C21 B6.C22 B6.C23 B6.C24 B6.C25 B6.C26 B6.C27 B6.C28 B6.C29 B6.C30 B6.C31 B6.C32 B6.C33 B6.C34 B6.C35 B6.C36 B6.C37 B6.C38 B6.C39 B6.C40 B6.C41 B6.C42 B6.C43 B6.C44 B6.C45 B6.C46 B6.C47 B6.C48 B6.C49 B6.C50 B6.C51 B6.C52 B6.C53 B6.C54 B6.C55 B6.C56 B6.C57 B6.C58 B6.C59 B6.C60 B6.C61 B6.C62 B6.C63 Sitting Gracefully

Author notes:

Waffen

The Art of the Houdini Scientist

and the other soulless zombies who were never here...

by TR Nowry

The Art of the Houdini Scientist

and the other soulless zombies who were never here...

by TR Nowry

"Some savants can play concert-level piano at the age of five, without ever taking a lesson. Others can do advanced math in their heads, draw a Picasso with crayons, or recite every word they've ever read or heard. Her piano was a lathe, a plasma cutter, and an automated mill. And the songs she played shook the world."

In the control room of a secret base in the Rockies, a dozen engineers crowded around a wall of monitors as the girl on the screens connected the final pieces of a month long, multimillion-dollar project.

"They can't seriously be thinking about turning that thing on, can they?" the new engineer said.

"Believe it."

"She's what, thirteen?"

Stepping closer to the screen, the lead engineer just shook his head. "I've seen her like this before. Almost a trance the way she—"

"Have you looked at that thing, from the ground I mean?" He pointed to the schematics on the large plasma. An array of ducts, pipes, and tubes fed an enormous ring bolted to the ceiling, dripping with frost. "Staring up, it almost looks like a—"

"A Stargate, right out of the TV sho—"

"And they're prepared to let a teenage girl not only build one, but turn it on? Are you guys crazy?"

The girl on the screen stopped what she was doing, hesitated, waved her hand around as if she was conducting an orchestra that only she could see, then pointed to the camera.

"God help us," the lead engineer said as they turned it on, and more power than in the entire US grid surged through the alien-looking device.

Booooommmmmm!!!

Dozens of cameras failed, all at the same time, and the entire complex plunged into darkness as the percussion of a muffled explosion rumbled through the base. The desks rattled as books fell from the shelves, pencils and cups spilled to the floor. "Richter 3.9!" someone announced, lights flickering on.

"Get those monitors back up," the XO ordered, "I want to see what the hell is going on in there!" He pounded the wall beside the monitor, "Now!"

"Getting it, Sir. Only one of the cameras survived the blast, rebooting it... now." The engineer gestured to the main plasma. "We should see something... there!" It blinked to life. The ring bolted to the ceiling had melted into clumps dripping stalactites of glowing orange to the floor. Smoke filled the top of the chamber, obscuring everything that wasn't burning within the camera's view.

"Get a fire team down there, and get me a camera that can actually see someth—"

"Sir, switching to infrared."

"Better," the XO said, stepping closer to the screen. "What's that stuff under the gate?"

"I don't know, Sir, it wasn't there before. But it's big. Thermal imaging says it's two thousand degrees— No, make that eight hundred degrees— What the hell? It's room temperature already. I don't know, Sir, it's off the screen. Thermal doesn't see it anymore."

The XO pounded his fist into his hand, "Get me eyes in that chamber, right now! I want to see what kind of rabbit she just pulled from our hat."

Two men ran from the room as others busied themselves getting the computers back online...

A much calmer eleven years earlier...

The Major showed his badge to the guard at the gate, was quickly cleared, then drove to the back of a base that oddly looked like a high-end, gated strip mall, complete with fake signs and false windows painted on block walls. After parking the Suburban, he checked his hair in the mirror, adjusted his uniform, then walked into the office for his appointment. He hadn't slept since he got the call last night. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

"You've been transferred to a special assignment, Major," the Colonel said, gesturing toward the seat before his desk.

"Special assignment? That wasn't what I was told over the pho—"

"It's an orphan under the highest security clearance. Nothing about it can be discussed, even over a secure phone. A black, off-budget project that— Someone has to take over this thing and turn it around, and you're about the only—"

The Major thumbed through the folder just handed to him, "This has got to be some sort of joke, right?"

The Colonel shook no. "It's real, Major. Some civilians convinced the brass to take over this abomination, funneled millions into it, then when the administration changed, everything they had just done became illegal overnight and—"

"I'll say, I think the UN even outlawed this kind of thing. Why can't we just shut it down? You know, pull the plug?"

"And do what with all those names in that folder?"

The Major flipped to the back and skimmed hundreds of first names, and first names only. "Orphaned project, huh? You can't experiment on real orphans, so, where'd they get the stock DNA for the stem cells?"

"Prisoners and—"

"Prisoners? Why not from military personnel?"

"Prisoner DNA came complete with a huge database and hundreds of skills and attributes on long rap sheets that were already indexed and cross referenced. All the info— all the hard work had already been done by the criminal justice system. Ready made, turn key operation that way. Car thief and pickpocket translated into high dexterity, for example, even graded them on number of suspected crimes before getting caught."

"I don't know how to fix this, Colonel. How does legal come down on it all?"

"Well, at the time it was legal, of course, so there's some degree of grandfathering. Hell, up until last year they could have shut it down by putting 'em all in a landfill, but not now. Legal says we can classify them as lifetime enlistees, which puts them under the military justice system and keeps the whole thing under the rug, but just barely. Those with fingerprints on this project want it to disappear, desperately."

"I don't know what the hope here is. You're looking at a fifteen or twenty-year investment of capital and effort, and I don't see any way to make any of it back. What were they thinking?"

He shrugged, tapping a pen on the desk. "Don't know. Ultimate deniability, I suspect. People without an identity, without a DNA match to anyone but a soup of common criminals. The blackest of black ops, but that's just a guess. It explains why no military DNA was used and criminals were preferred. Everyone associated with it is long gone. Well, except for that list of names in that folder right there. As for the government, they're looking to sever all liability.

Look at us, a lowly colonel and a major. It's no coincidence that any paper trail will stop at our scapegoat ranks. No generals within miles.

You'll get a modest budget that can't be traced, that doesn't appear on any federal line item anywhere. It isn't huge, but it'll do for housing, employees and such. As I see it, you have just a few choices from here.

First, you can play babysitter and just hide it and hope it all sort of goes away on its own. Minimal effort. That's what most people would do.

Second, you can check it out, look it over, evaluate it like you did for us on other lost causes, and try to steer it into something productive for this country, instead of the horrible embarrassment that it is.

Either way, every employee that you hire has to come through the military; and just like you, they will be officially let go for deniability. We are officially divorcing the government from this. It's a redheaded bastard orphan. And it's all yours."

With a wooden squeak, the Major leaned back in the chair. "Prisoners, huh? Maybe I should run it like a prison." He thumbed through the file again, checking the dates. "They're all infants. Why not put them up for adoption, dump them into the system, say the Coast Guard found them adrift in a sea container or something?"

"Well, that's another option. I think they're skittish about that, though. Medical oddities might pop up and front page this little operation into a worldwide scandal. One child here or there may fly under the radar, but dump a few hundred into the system and questions are bound to eventually unravel everything and leave the government trying to explain this, uh, abortion of an idea. My God, man, think of the headlines, 'Military clones Frankensteined prisoners for CIA assassin squads'. I think they'd rather there was an 'accident' where they all died in a fire than let them be discovered in adoptions. At least, that was my impression." The Colonel shrugged, "I'd evaluate it first, before you make that call."

The Major closed the folder, then tucked it under his arm. He knew he was committed to it, like it or not. But the weight of it kept him pinned in the chair. A weight he doubted he could ever lift. It would be harder than swimming with chains to turn this around. He stared at the Colonel, knowing they had both been volunteered to jump on this live grenade, so some politicians could keep from getting eggs on their faces.

The Colonel signed a sheet on his desk and aimed the form at the Major, "Sign at the bottom."

He sighed, leaning in. "This wasn't at all what I was expecting." Without a choice, he resigned so he could continue to serve.

"Your funds, your calls, your baby. Technically you'll still be under me, but I don't want you clearing anything with me, the chain of command stops with you." He looked over the page, then stared him in the eyes. "You're a civilian now, and the CEO of," he scratched his head for a second and flipped through the papers on his desk, "oh hell, whatever the damn name they came up with was. Make sure your taxes are filled out right, nobody can help you with the IRS; they're more sadistic and lethal than Al-Qaeda. Remember, I don't make any decisions for you, I just help with resources and employees." He filed the papers into the drawer. "As far as the world is concerned, I'm just an old friend you keep in touch with every now and then."

The civilian stood, saluted, and surrendered his military ID as he drove out the gate.

This was not the promotion he had expected.

In the Rockies of Colorado, the military had acquired an entire series of mountains, officially for training, with a small set of buildings located about midway up one's southern side. Middle of nowhere and practically devoid of homes for twenty miles in every direction, it was exactly where he expected to hide just such a clandestine operation.

He wasn't happy about it at all, but he followed orders well.

First thing after relocating, he met with the staff. The meeting lasted a full twenty minutes before he dismissed them.

"Nurse, uh, Benita," he said, "stick around a second. You're the only one who has been here from the beginning, right?"

She nodded as the rest of the staff left to continue with their normal duties.

"What, uh, huh..." he scratched his head, "I see where they had over three thousand children when they started, but they're down to just a few hundred now. How were the selections, uh, how were—"

"We," she looked away and shook her head, "they graded them. Defects, looks, eye-hand mostly, some intellectual evaluations, and a lot simply because they were girls. In the usual nine months it took to go from scientific theory to reality, the budget, and the project, radically changed." She looked him in the eyes, almost angry. "Any teen-mom could have told them making babies was the easy part." She looked away again. "We had only so many automated teaching units, you see, and no funds for more, or regular teachers. Even on rotating sleeping schedules, ten could share a single teaching unit only so long. Only the smartest of each group was... kept." She looked down, "Budgets. A tough call, really. Glad I didn't have to make it."

She was being kind, but the irony was breathtaking. When read into the program the day before, he had discovered the reductions were planned from the beginning. The same politicians that routinely called the military 'baby killers' thought up this abomination and made those selections. Only people who thought of embryos as lumps of cells could dream of such things, and her visible discomfort spoke well of her. Out of morbid curiosity he wanted to ask the actual mechanics of what happened to 90% of them, but felt it was better if he didn't really know, for legal reasons. Besides, it was a practice he planned to discontinue. That did provide him with another question, however. "So these are the top ten percent then, right from birth. Any truly outstanding?"

She visibly relaxed. "We had one, or thought we did. A girl built to an unbelievable vocabulary of over five thousand words in each of sixteen languages by nine months. Or, at least we thought she had. She's never spoken. It's now our opinion that she was simply lucky with the auto—"

"Wait." He shook his head, "I guess I don't understand this automated teaching thing, then. Explain that to me."

She sat, crossing her legs. "Well, think crib with a computer screen over it and a school teacher giving standard courses. The infants are fitted in suits with reflective chips so the computer can grade their responses. Since a computer is limited in what it can evaluate, it's essentially all multiple choice.

Think a primitive version of sign language." She made a few gestures with her arms. "Most of the videos were commercially sold as a kind of educational video games anyway, we just tweaked the interface for children unable to work a keyboard or mouse.

Anyway, we had lots of other high scorers in it, but most mastered just a handful of languages or a few subjects. The one girl defied probability and seemed to master them all. But, like I said, we've revised that. She must have noticed some sort of pattern, shading, or artifact in the program that let her pick the right answer every time. Like how sometimes you can see a hidden door in a video game by the way it's drawn. We never figured out what she saw that gave it away, though."

He had wondered what taught them, since the staff and his budget was way too small to employ the masses of teachers they would need to give them all individualized instruction. Since all those that weren't compatible with this form of digital learning were eliminated, it simplified things greatly. But it was about as moral as teaching them to run faster by letting wolves thin the class, eating the slowest ones. "The learning systems are still being used then, right?"

"Yeah, with keyboards and mice, now that they have the motor dexterity to work them. Several hours a day, every day, as often as we can work them in. It's very economical, mostly commercial stuff, and we have material all the way to advanced college courses, thanks to E-Diplomas. But again, no essays and nothing other than multiple choice."

"Interesting," he said. "I bet diapers are a nightmare for hundreds."

"Actually, no. They were all toilet trained by one. Most only had problems making it through the night. They're all a little creepy that way. Like little soulless zombies." She stood, hand on the doorknob, looking visibly uncomfortable again, before staring him in the eyes, "You'll see what I mean soon enough. It's like they're," she shrugged, "empty... or something. Missing something."

"Toilet trained by one? How far ahead are these kids?"

She paused, "They're about two years old, chronologically, but they test, on average, about where you would expect a five-year-old. Walking, eye-hand coordination, and speech with almost all of them. A few even higher, but even the bottom test around where a three-year-old would be. Their lives are extremely structured, teaching, tasks, training, testing, then bed. Military discipline seems to work well."

He headed for the door. "I'd like to see a typical day, review some of the curricula they're—"

She stood in his way. "Well, what requires a human instructor, they do as a group, but the vast majority of their instruction is done individually. Since the 'teachers' are computerized, they progress at their own pace and quickly diverged from each other. We think that is, at least in part, what is responsible for their rapid advances, since none of them are subjected to peer pressure or held back by their slowest members. At least, not with the automated classes. But I can provide you with their grades and the tests that they took," she pointed at the terminal, "that's all on the base's server."

"Yes, that's perfect. Thank you," he said, getting comfortable behind his new office desk.

She logged him onto the system and pulled up the appropriate files before leaving for her chores. He was so new, his codes didn't work, yet.

Mismatching monitors, towers, keyboards and cables were everywhere in the building, even their servers were cobbled and recycled from discarded leftovers of Pentagon upgrades, but were more than adequate for the tasks at hand. The computer graphed and charted every detail of every student, down to the seconds it took them to answer each question.

The problem he had almost instantly was that of perspective. This was like a science experiment without any control subjects. None of them were allowed to grow normally. None of them were allowed to play. They were kept focused and loaded down with tasks every waking hour, with military efficiency.

Well, that wasn't entirely true about not having control subjects. He had a child that was about two.

His son couldn't type complete words or sentences, like all of these could. His son didn't have a vocabulary of thousands of words, nor could he talk in complete, rational sentences in even one language. All but one of these could.

He investigated the highest-scoring girl in question, oddly also at the top of the list to be deleted for not communicating.

Luck seemed impossible as a factor in math. Math wasn't multiple choice, it required typing actual answers. She was answering ninth grade questions with almost 100% accuracy. He clicked on the last test she took.

A complex word problem popped up, and before he even finished reading the sentence, she had answered it correctly. Six seconds was her average response time. Six seconds was about as fast as he could type, but he took a minute or more and got the trick question wrong.

He investigated further and clicked on her origin tab.

Three embezzlers, a terrorist bomb maker, a famous mob hit man even he recognized by name, two car thieves, and about two dozen others, plus some cells intended for autism research.

Autism.

She had never spoken. 'Avoids eye contact' was all over her file. Autism would make sense with her rapid advances in math. It could also give her a way to 'see' the pattern in multiple-choice answers, without actually learning the languages.

He clicked more links and started to read.

Near the end of the gene-splicing experiment, someone had a "Rain Man" / "Beautiful Mind" thought and added autism into the mix of 'leftovers'. The cynical side of him bet it had to do with qualifying for more research funds. Officially it was an afterthought, simply because they had the extra incubators and abundant embryonic stem cells. She was the only one in that batch that survived the aggressive weeding process.

Even their names were computer generated.

Toilet trained, highly disciplined, and all reading and doing math on advanced levels. All were multilingual.

His son was just making rough sentences.

The Colonel was right. This warranted a thorough investigation before he made any rash decisions or changes of policy. What they were doing seemed to be working. It would probably require a few years of careful evaluation before he could decide on an appropriate course of action. Clearly lots of potential was here, waiting to be found. Perhaps some good could come from it.

For now, he had adopted this orphan.
B1.C2

"Left hand," the voice said.

A picture of a woman holding up her left hand was projected on the screen.

"Left hand," the voice said again.

BZZZZZZ!!!! A strobe light went off in the infant's face.

"This is a left hand," the woman's voice said again. "Show me your left hand."

The infant covered her eyes with her arm before the light flashed and it buzzed again.

"Left hand," the voice relentlessly repeated until the infant complied.

The next picture appeared on the screen and the instructions continued in a new language.

The infant tried to sit in her crib. The screen covered the top; the sides were opaque and solid. She crawled to the foot and continued to explore. She could touch all four sides, should she stretch just right. It seemed solid, but she knew it was not. She had seen it open before. She pressed against it again.

BZZZZZZ! Flash!

She complied with its instruction.

She pressed her ear against the side and tried to focus on the voices outside her crib. "This is our most promising one," a muffled woman said. "We are having compliance problems with it recently, but it is thirty-two tapes ahead of any other, six languages so far, about two thousand words in each, and shows an aptitude for numbers and—"

BZZZZZ! Flash!

"... terminate 10% of the low scores," a muffled man said. "Embryos are cheap, those learning pods are killing our budget."

"Kill them?" the woman said with sadness. "They're just—"

"Replaceable, nurse Ben—"

BZZZZZ! Flash!

Shadona woke in the darkened room, heart pounding. She wiped her cheeks and rubbed her fingers across her closed eyes. One of the few survivors, she looked across the room, lit by a single nightlight.

A dozen children, all around her age, were stuffed into this tiny room, with dozens of other rooms just like it down the hall.

Expensive. She remembered the word expensive, and associated it with terminations. Those terminated weren't flawed, simply expendable to the budget. Under performers.

She crawled to the edge of her bed and stared at the distant floor. She was only two, if she understood the nurses correctly, and their numbers had been cut to a tenth of what they once were. Most of the girls like herself were gone, but plenty of boys too. She wanted to leave the room, but she knew the floor was covered in sensors and an alarm would sound before she could get even a few steps from the bed.

Bari was asleep in the bunk above hers. All the infants in this room were fast asleep, except her. She didn't sleep well, most nights.

The combination to the door leading out into the main hall was 6-1-4-9-3-2, though one of the men, who seemed new and in charge, used another number, 9-8-2-3-1-7-0-1-7-2. Each person seemed to have a different number, and each lock, she assumed, would only allow certain numbers to pass through them. She memorized all the numbers she had ever seen, but assumed the man in charge could open all doors, since his code had three extra digits. It didn't matter at the moment, however, because the only keypad on this door was mounted in the hall. She even knew the code to disarm the floor, yet its pad was just as unreachable and located outside the room. Thwarted, she stared at the floor while she listened.

"I've got to get home early tonight," a woman said in the hall outside the room. "Jason is in over his head with our eight month old."

"They can be a handful," the night guard said, muffled by the door.

"Oh, the poor guy. She won't go to sleep without a long lullaby and about twenty minutes of rocking."

"You ought to enroll her here for two week—"

Shadona leaned forward at the sounds of a scuffle— the woman had punched the guard, but he didn't react like it was an attack and seemed to simply shrug it off.

"Hush your mouth," the woman said, "I'm not having my child turn into a soulless zombie like one of them! Not in a million years."

Clearly offended, her heels made a louder-than-usual echo down the hall.

Shadona rested her head on the pillow again.

'One of them'

'Zombie'

'Lullaby'

'Rocking'

'Home'

She knew all the words, but had never been told a lullaby. Had never been rocked in someone's arms. Had never had someone in a hurry to see her.

She, was one of them.

The lights flickered on as the tubes started to hum.

"Everyone up and on the floor," the Drill Sergeant ordered. "On the floor, on the floor!"

She climbed down the ladder before Bari above her and assembled in a straight line with all the other children on her side of the room.

"Straighten. Straighten," the Drill Sergeant said, and the children quietly complied. Nobody would be allowed to eat, drink, or use the bathroom until the line was perfect and everyone was quiet.

The Drill Sergeant marched between the lines, then back to the front of the room.

"Green line, yellow line, blue line. Go," he said, opening the door to the hall.

Her side of the room waited until the other side made it out the door before following them. Green line, yellow line, blue line meant the dexterity testing room.

It also meant bathrooms and food.

An assortment of nuts, bolts, washers, and parts were arrayed on the table in front of each child, with blinders such that no child could see what the other was working on. A whistle blew when a green light lit and a diagram of the finished project was displayed.

Twenty-six children worked as fast as possible to assemble the project. Only the first eighteen of them to complete it would get breakfast.

She assembled most of it as quickly as possible, then stopped with the last four parts, and waited. The first five would get a dessert with their meal, and eight of the boys fought ferociously to get that bonus. She had gotten the prize once, and got hit in the head with a plate later that day by one of the boys she beat out.

She didn't want a dessert that bad. She aimed for the middle and was rather consistent at getting the tenth, eleventh, or twelfth meal.

She waited, pieces in hand, as other children ran with their completed projects to exchange them for food.

She waited her turn.

"What did we designate that one?" the Major asked the nurse while reviewing the daily videos.

"Shadona," she said. "She only scored top five once, finishes near the middle. She's the only girl that hasn't spoken yet." She typed a few keys, "Physical said she's healthy, though. No medical reason that we can find for her silence."

He leaned in and pointed to the screen, "Rewind that, please."

"Sure."

"Bring up the other children, synchronized, same screen if you can."

She clicked the keys.

"Interesting. Bring up the last month of dexterity exercises and run them at 16x."

She clicked away, and they watched for a few minutes.

"Why hasn't anyone brought this to my attention?"

The nurse played the video again, "What, I don't see anything?"

"She almost finishes the project a full six minutes faster than any other kid, and stops. Not just once, but for weeks. This is the kind of thing that we are looking for."

She reviewed it again, as the Major walked away.

Shadona sat in front of the monitor, headphones on, fingers poised at the keys. Bored out of her mind. The woman's voice was distracting, but fortunately the lesson's text and questions were displayed at the bottom half of the screen. Clicking 'Skip' turned the page and cut her monologue short, but she couldn't skip the questions and answers at the end of each chapter. She would prefer to skip entire chapters, but it wasn't allowed.

She stared at the screen, barely able to focus. Fortunately, she didn't need to. The answers seemed obvious, when she could finally reach them.

"Congratulations," the voice said, music in the background, "You have completed this section with a" then the voice shifted to clunky and artificial, "ninety-eight percent." The music shifted to a tension building, quickening tempo, then the voice came back, "Welcome to organic chemistry, advanced level three."

She adjusted her posture as she checked the clock on the bottom right of the screen. She had another forty minutes of this boredom to endure.

"Assemble at the desks, left to right, first come," the instructor said as the line of children marched into the dexterity room. "At the whistle, open your box and assemble your project. Talking will be punished by forfeiting half of your lunch. First eighteen will receive a full ration."

The children stood at attention beside their assigned mini-cubicles, all to the right of the chair.

When they were perfectly quiet and at full attention, the instructor blew the whistle and said, "Have a seat and begin."

She opened her box, glanced inside, then closed the box again.

The Major stared at the monitor as he reviewed the experiment.

"I don't get it," nurse Benita said, "what's she doing?"

He leaned back and snickered. "I instructed that a single washer be removed from her box so she wouldn't have enough pieces to complete it." He checked the time code from when she opened the box until the time she closed it, "Eight seconds. It took her eight seconds to see that it didn't have enough pieces. Faced with complaining, she didn't. She didn't even turn her head to look at the instructor. But she didn't waste time trying to assemble it either. Today was just for a half ration. Tomorrow I've instructed the same experiment, but that time it'll cost her lunch. I want to see what it'll take to get her to talk." He was reluctant to alter the educational curricula of the previous administration when it was showing such spectacular results, across the board.

She went without lunch for a week.

She sat at the desk, opened the box, then closed the box again.

The instructor stomped behind her. "You will participate in this exercise," he yelled, right beside her ear.

But she didn't move.

The instructor dumped the contents of the box onto the desk, "You will assemble the project, right now."

She said nothing, did nothing.

He grabbed her hands and forcefully placed them on the table. But as soon as he let go, she returned them to her lap. "You will comply. You will complete this task or you won't get anything to eat today."

She shrugged, placed her hands on the edge of the desk, pushed her chair back, and headed toward the door. Only to be forcibly returned to the chair and shoved back to the desk.

"Start now!"

She silently refused.

Seated in the dining room, full plate on the table before her, she sat silently, as instructed.

"Everyone," the instructor said as her hunger deepened, "take one forkful from her plate before getting a plate of your own."

She stared at her plate as the food slowly disappeared. Most smiled with glee as they sank their forks into her ever-diminishing meal. She stared, but didn't cry. Instead, she slowly rocked forward and back.

As the last child was fed, the instructor dumped what was left in the trash. "Maybe you'll obey next time."

She sat in a room filled with the clatter of meals being consumed, while her stomach rumbled.

She refused again the following day, and her punishment was repeated.

The Major reviewed the video and was looking over the reports when Benita entered his office. "Can I help you?" he said.

"It's now becoming a nutritional development issue," she said. "Besides, I'm not sure you can break someone from silence by denying her dinner."

"Point noted. Let's supplement with vitamins for now, see if we can get her to—"

"Supplements will just prevent— She won't continue to develop on just supplements. It's been a week now, a week of one meal a day. We'll be talking stunted growth soon."

"Put her on supplements and we'll continue for one more week. She will start communicating, one way or another."

She nodded, then left the room.
B1.C3

"Have a seat, and... begin," the instructor said, blowing the whistle.

She sat, folded her arms on the desk and rested her head, box unopened.

The instructor pulled her chair out from under her, "You will stand at attention if this is going to be your attitude," he said.

She sat on the floor and crawled under the desk.

The instructor grabbed her foot and dragged her— When the door to the room opened, the instructor let go and stood at attention. "Major," he said.

A man she had never met knelt before the desk, "Come with me," he said, offering her a hand.

Reluctantly, she complied.

A plate of food sat on his desk, steam wafting off the chicken and mixed vegetables with broccoli. The mashed potatoes were covered in a golden, thick gravy. The smell in the room was driving her crazy, but she simply sat in the chair as instructed, and waited.

The Major scribbled a complex formula onto a sheet of paper, then slid it across the table to the child. "If you can complete this formula, I'll give you this plate."

She was starving, but didn't know this man. She knew what to expect from all the others. She could predict their reactions fairly easily, but she had never interacted with him before. She lifted the pencil and glanced at the equation. She looked him in the eyes, briefly, then pulled the page closer and scribbled the answer.

He looked it over, then slid her the plate.

She ate as fast as she could.

He typed at the keyboard, then turned to the child, "Why not complete the assembly? You've been getting an 'incomplete' for weeks."

She pulled the plate closer, in case he should renege.

He turned the monitor so she could see the screen, then played the video. She watched, captivated for a few seconds by the child on the screen, then abruptly turned and scanned the ceiling for—

"There are no cameras in this room," he said, then smiled at the child.

She stared him in the eyes, briefly, glanced at the screen, then returned her focus to the plate, pushing a chunk of chicken through the gravy and potatoes before shoveling it into her mouth.

"You're clearly very bright." He clicked his way to another video, "See here, you complete all but the last few pieces a full six minutes before anyone else. And these aren't easy projects they have you working on. Kids three times your age would take twice as long, and even then most would fail to assemble it correctly. You should be proud."

She glanced at the screen, but focused on the food quickly being consumed. She paused, suddenly compelled to separate the mixed vegetables for a full minute before she could continue to eat.

As she approached the end of the plate, he pulled a box from under his desk, then dumped the contents before her. "Show me how far you can assemble this one."

She glanced at the parts, the empty plate, then sat back in her chair and stared at the floor.

"Please," he said, "just do the best you can."

She paused. Please was the word the video instructor often used. It sounded strange coming from a living person. Eventually, she leaned toward the desk, examined the parts, then sat back in her seat again.

He smiled. "What's missing?"

She pulled two bolts and a small washer out to the side, then sat back again.

"Why didn't you do that with the instructor?"

She stared at the floor.

"What can you make with these parts?"

She rocked back and forth.

He shrugged, pulled a KitKat from the desk, then broke off a piece and handed it to her.

She gobbled it, then looked over the parts again.

"Just make anything you want from it, see what you come up with. There's no right or wrong answer."

She ran her fingers across the top of the assorted parts, but did nothing with them.

After a few minutes, he handed her the rest of the bar and told her to rejoin her class.

She noted that his door had the same keypad on the outside as all the others, but was unlike any she had seen. It wasn't locked to those inside the room. He could leave any time he wanted.

He was the one with the extra digits.

"Yes, good morning," he said over the phone. "This is retired Major Brigspan calling for Colonel Westingale... Yes, thank you, I'll wait."

He looked over the scribbled equation. It looked right, but he had gotten it off the internet, so his trust level with it wasn't very high. Autism and savants ran hand in hand, sometimes. Math was a marketable skill, lucrative in some niche applications. But it wasn't his area. He needed to hire a professional, and his company couldn't just put an ad in the paper.

He discussed his idea with the Colonel before leaving for the day.

The next morning, six faxes were waiting for him in his office. Each was a complex formula that needed solving. None of them had, to his knowledge, ever been solved. A true test of a savant, if there ever was one. But perhaps an unreasonable test of a two-year-old.

She was pulled from the dexterity class and delivered to his office.

"Can you solve this equation?" he asked, pushing the first one in front of her.

She glanced at it, paused, then sat back in the chair.

"What about this one?" he turned to another.

She glanced, but showed no interest.

"How about this one?" He unwrapped a KitKat while she looked.

She was interested, but just in the candy.

He showed her the rest, but she offered no help. It may well have been beyond her, even with her math scores near college level. He broke off a piece and gave it to her anyway, while he contemplated what her silent problem may be. Thinking of her obstinance in assembling with missing pieces, he pointed to the one on top, "What's wrong with this one?"

She stared at it for a second, then circled six figures in the equation.

"What about the others?" he said, giving over the rest of the candy.

She leafed through the rest, circling what could be entirely random parts for all he knew.

"Thank you," he said, "Go to the cafeteria and get a real lunch."

He faxed the pages back and waited for a response.

She was not a savant. None of the equations were 'flawed', according to their authors.

Disheartened to find his hunch was wrong, he had nonetheless established a dynamic with the child. Others punished, he rewarded. Good cop, bad cop. He looked over the computerized reports. She was the highest flyer in math. The computer even let her skip grades because of her high scores. But math wasn't her only marketable skill. According to the file, she was fluent in every language they had courses for. Most were provided by the CIA to bring spies up to speed on our enemies and went far beyond vocabulary and sentence structure and even delved into slang and regional dialects. He placed another call and requested copies of intercepts that needed analyzing.

They arrived in his inbox as MP3s. Forty hours worth.

She sat at his desk and waited. A plate of food was already there, covered with a dome to keep it warm, the smell saturating the room.

The door opened behind her, and the Major crossed the room to the big chair behind the desk. "I haven't given up on you yet," he said. "They want to reduce your rations as punishment for obstinance, but I don't think that's wise. Worse, I don't think it's a particularly helpful way to get you to communicate more.

In these files is a needle in a haystack. We know that the enemies of your country have hidden a secret message in these files of seemingly casual conversations. They have a clandestine plan to harm us, but I think you can help. I think you can find their plot in all these taps. I want you to give it a try while you eat, ok?"

She stared at the ground, then looked at the terminal turned her way. She moused over the first file, clicked it, then opened a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth—

The conversations blurred together into an indecipherable noise, "One at a time," he said.

She continued to click until they were all open before starting to eat.

The noise was annoying, but soon it sounded like a crowded room, or cafeteria. Within the hour, she had listened to all of them, deleted all but three, and wrote Philadelphia, bridge, and Tuesday the 25th.

He flagged the three files and emailed back the warning.
B1.C4

By age three, her insights had thwarted six attacks and led to the decimation of four terrorist cells overseas, and one at home. Yet, limitations were becoming apparent. Though she could focus on dozens of conversations simultaneously, he noticed she could only remain focused for an hour a day, even when restricted to a single conversation at a time. That still meant she could analyze in one hour of one day what a trained professional took almost a week to review. Consensus was it had something to do with the large number of languages she was fluent in, but nobody knew for sure. Since she couldn't possibly transcribe dozens of conversations within an hour, she only wrote down the relevant info and flagged the file. But detailed transcripts from her taps, done by others, yielded nothing out of the ordinary, even to the ears of trained professionals. Yet her tips came with results.

She was a proven asset, and he was deploying her to the advantage of his company, and country.

Over the last year they had added code breaking to the children's curricula, and mixed real wiretaps into their testing, with limited success. Twenty-three other children proved capable of accurately transcribing large amounts of intercepts, but failed at divining the hidden meanings behind them. To them, they sounded like typical conversations. Transcripts, though useful, didn't provide the same clues she was honing into. And her talent didn't seem teachable, nor was she interested in sharing. She was still the only child that had yet to speak.

The staff's best guess was that because languages came so easily to her, she didn't listen to the words themselves, but how they were subconsciously pronounced. Much like a mobster might hesitate slightly while ordering 'flowers' to be 'delivered', she had an ear for words and phrases that were unnatural, out of place, or broke the expected flow, and a mind that quickly found meanings from context. But that was wild conjecture at best. The child was anything but forthcoming and rarely, if ever, communicated beyond simple answers.

When this abomination was passed to him, the Colonel had suggested an evaluation period before choosing a course of action. Just to see if he could find some way to salvage the investment.

Their CIA/NSA translation contracts generated several hundred thousand a year, with a twenty thousand dollar bonus for each cell penetrated by their information. That still fell far short of meeting the financial demands of a facility this big, but it was a step in the right direction. And it was a priceless contribution to national security, something that didn't go unnoticed by the Colonel, nor the hidden funders.

A year ago, when nurse Benita said the children were soulless zombies, he dismissed her comments. But now he had a year of contact with them. They were soulless, in a way. They didn't play, run around, or constantly chat, they didn't smile, and they only seemed to laugh at the misfortunes of others.

Soulless was a strong word, but he was at a loss to find another that fit any better. He had had Shadona in his office every day for months, dark black hair, dark brown, almost black eyes, lightly tan complexion. She was as cute as any child he had ever met. Yet, she didn't feel real. Detached. Had a dog sat in that chair for as long as she had, he would have easily felt something for it... but not her. Not any of them.

They felt like things, lab rats or experiments. Not people.

Not children.

He had intentionally sent her to bed without dinner, starved her for weeks, and thought nothing of it. No remorse at all. How was that possible if they weren't soulless?

He felt horrible when he sent his own son to bed without dessert for not finishing his vegetables.

There was something about them that made everyone want to stay detached.

As a practical matter, they lacked the funds to employ enough qualified daycare providers and were structured more like a boot-camp/prison than anything else. Guards and drill sergeants, not parents. Orphanages typically grew detached, soulless children. But orphanages rarely produced children this disciplined, or accomplished.

And no orphanage in the world had produced a three-year-old that could crack terror cells.

So what if she did it while rocking back and forth in a chair, staring at the floor. Results were results.

He checked his email. A scientist reported back on one of the formulas she had corrected. He admitted the error and requested to talk to whoever found it, since the solution still eluded him.

A face-to-face was out of the question, of course. First, these kinds of email were filtered through the Colonel, and second, she was three.

That said, they would find some way to accommodate the DOD scientist. After all, he had already managed to get NSA/CIA contracts without anyone from either organization setting foot on the base. It wasn't impossible. Simply difficult.

The girl was delivered to his office later that week.

"Well, Shadona," he said, looking over her file again. She was at a college level in math, chemistry, physics, and biochemistry, just to name a few. Yet, her grades in each had dropped to barely passing. He minimized the window on his monitor, "You were right on the formula you corrected last year. Do you remember it?"

She rocked back and forth, but had no other reaction.

"I'd like you to take another look at it. They've adjusted it and think they've fixed it." He pushed the piece of paper to her.

She didn't look up.

"Take a look at it."

She continued to rock.

She could be incredibly frustrating for the first few minutes. "Take a look," he said in a stern voice.

She glanced at the desk, straightened the pens in his cup, then returned her gaze to the floor.

He produced an Oreo from his drawer, then placed it on the paper. "Take a look, please."

She looked, while nibbling the cookie.

"Is it correct now?"

She shrugged, then went back to rocking.

"What's wrong with it?"

She slowed when another cookie was placed on the paper, next to a pencil, but didn't look at it.

"It's very important. This formula could save hundreds of lives."

She sat still.

"It's very expensive to feed all the children here. Your assistance will help bring everyone more food, and help your country immensely."

She paused, then circled two new places and underlined a third before pushing the paper away.

"Thank you." He produced a third cookie, then sent her on her way.

He scanned the paper and emailed it back, then reviewed her records again. The sudden drop in grades was disconcerting. It may well be a sign that she was struggling, or that her talent was coming to an end. Though the dozens transcribing taps were the bread and butter of their contract, she was the real star of the project. Transcriptions accounted for, at best, 60% of their revenues, her analysis alone accounted for the other 40%. The number of simultaneous taps she could handle had also dropped by three in the last month.

According to his research, autism had a big genetic component and their window for productivity may well be limited. Some turn inward and completely shut down by five. Some recover from it, in limited ways, and become like a "Rain Man", limited to a niche application and socially dysfunctional. With little or no information on how to steer her clear of any of these outcomes, he was left with blind guesses. If she shut down, it was doubtful that his current budget could afford to keep a special-needs child, and he had no idea how or what he would do then. Records placed all the other deletions as SIDs, but she was a little old for that fiction to fly.

He needed an expert in child raising in general, autism specifically, and there was no chance of finding just such an expert serving in the military, let alone one with the required security clearance.

The child with the highest value could quickly become his biggest problem. He wanted to get ahead of this, if possible.

"Nurse Benita," he said, looking up from his terminal, "Please, have a seat."

She did.

"You're primarily a, um, triage battlefield nurse, right?"

"Well, officially, yes. But I've done surgeries, tonsils, broken bones, stitches, we're really as trained as the doc—"

"What I'm getting at is, I understand your duties when they were infants. Back then, records show there were two nurses on three shifts, six in total. But you're the only one still with us, right?" He didn't let her answer, "I guess what I'm getting at is, you're the only one here with any medical qualifications, right?"

"Yes, that's true."

"Your duties aren't nearly as full now as they were."

"I still see several cuts and bruises every day. And if you're thinking of budget cuts, just keep in mind that getting a qualified doctor or nurse with my clearance—"

"That's not what I'm getting at. We're going to start having problems with, them, at some point or another. Since it would be nearly impossible to find someone who knows how to handle them with the needed security clearances, I thought we could send someone who already has such clearances to acquire the training. Hopefully we can avoid..." He tapped his finger on the desk. "You know, drill sergeants are great at fostering unit cohesion, but what we're asking of them may be a bit much."

She visibly relaxed in the chair, "What are you thinking, then?"

"I don't really know. This isn't exactly my area, I'm more of a military accountant, an organizer and manager, than a warden or a parent. Hell, raising one kid with another on the way is a little more than challenging for me. And that's two adults to one child. These inmates outnumber us, badly, and I don't see any way we'll ever get enough funds to properly staff this place.

We've got some proven assets here. Investments we need to protect, if we can. But I don't know enough about the traps and pitfalls that we're plum headed for. And we've got the makings for some powerfully special-needs kids. I've read the original plans for those cases, and I'd like to have a humane alternative.

We need an expert that we'll never find, so I'd like to make one. If you're up to it. And I think your schedule is flexible enough to handle the classes. To be honest, I'm not even sure what classes we're talking about. We have a limited window to send you right now, while money is coming in and you're mostly seeing scrapes and bruises."

She contemplated the offer. "It'll mean moving from the valley, there isn't any such schools for a hundred miles in—"

"I'm thinking more online, through the mail, or some home-based classes for the bulk of it, like what we're force-feeding these kids. I was surprised at how fast some of these kids—"

"Every waking hour of their lives is spent studying, drilling, and practicing. They spend the same number of hours in classes in one year that any other child would spend in three or four. I'm not surprised that they are where they are, and I'm not willing to devote 24/7 to—"

He waved his hands like an 'out' in baseball, "Just when you're on the clock and not busy with medical things. If you want to take it home with you, we'll work out something extra. I'm thinking some sort of bonus structure for each 'on-line' 'mail-order' certificate you get in the field, that way it'll include any effort you put in at home.

Think about it. If you're interested, and I can see you are, we'll work out the pay increase and come to some sort of agreement.

Think of it as a raise or a promotion. I can even give you the authority to alter the curricula and schedules, as needed.

Think about it on your way home, and let me know by the end of the week."

She smiled, then left the room.
B1.C5

Shadona sat in the dim room, unable to sleep. Numbers and conversations crowded her mind. A farmer complaining about crop failures due to poor irrigation. It seemed a common problem in that region, she even remembered reading an article in the Major's office about millions dying every year. Too many of the taps contained conversations like these, of desperate people trying to survive, often hungry and in abject poverty. She felt sorry for them, while others talked of dating and gossiped about family members and new cars.

Whenever her eyes closed, the conversations and formulas swam into view.

She disliked formulas the most. Those first ten took months for her to forget. Not that she ever truly forgot anything.

She sat up, fluffed her pillow, adjusted her sheet, then tried to settle again.

Gossip. Parents. Relatives. Farming. Hunger may be a worldwide norm, but how she was living was not. It felt very wrong. Families were something very different than the unit cohesion practiced here.

The lives she listened to were very different, too.

Passions, love, friends, relationships, these things were all outside her experience.

When she wiped her eyes, the sea of formulas reappeared.

The lights flickered on. "Assemble!" the Drill Sergeant said as the children silently complied. "Report to dexterity testing."

The children exited the room in single file order.

"Today, we have a change," the nurse said. "Instead of building something someone else designed, for the next few days I want you to draw something, anything you want, on the pieces of paper provided for you. This exercise will last for twenty minutes and you will be graded on originality, not on volume or completion time.

You may begin."

"What are these?" the Major said, looking over crayon drawings in a crudely made notebook.

"We're not sure, exactly. But look at these." The Drill Sergeant flipped through seven, slowly, "This one looks like the core in a reactor, doesn't it? But the fuel rods look like it's eaten up with those ant-farm tunnels, water on the bottom and wood chips on top. And it looks like flammable fumes coming out of the rods, and the ants themselves get used as livestock feed." He flipped to another, "And these look like potatoes separated by shapes, leaves, and stem types. It starts here with each plant yielding multiple offspring that get remixed," he flipped through another sixteen pages, "until here, where she's written in the margin, in Arabic, 140 degree, drought tolerant, and a listing of the vitamins, minerals, and calories in each potato." He flips through another dozen, "and here she does the same with corn, circling the key traits required for a low-water, high-temperature corn. But it's the last six pages that are the most fascinating. This looks like a, well, a way to modify a typical steam-turbine cooling system."

The Major took the notebook from his hands, "For what purpose?"

"Well, it looks like, well, it's a four-year-old kid remember, but this looks like seawater coming in and fresh water going out, with no decrease in power output and no increase in fuel consumption. Matched with the other things in the book and three pages of solid calculations, it looks like millions of gallons for irrigation as a byproduct of generating power. We've got no way to know for sure," he shrugged, "above my pay grade, which is why I brought it to you."

"Where did you find it again?"

"Well, she had hidden it in the mattress above and one behind hers. It was the furthest she could reach without setting off the floor sensors. We assumed it was Chroma's, it was her bed after all, but the videotapes showed it was Shadona's. She's the terrorist cracker that can only do it when she's in your office."

"Yeah, don't remind me. Listening to dozens of chattering sand-niggers for an hour every day is driving me crazy, and she looks just like 'em. Just one of the many things about that girl that just pisses me off.

When will she be back in the room?"

"Already there, Sir. Midday nap."

He rubbed his forehead. "We can assume she knows it's missing then."

The Drill Sergeant shrugged, "Yes Sir, expect so."

The Major punched his fist into his hand, then sat at his desk. "What's done is done. No point in putting it back now. You did the right thing bringing it to me, Sergeant. If you had left it after discovery, there's a good chance she would have moved it someplace else by now.

Thank you." He put the notebook in the desk. "I'll give it a better evaluation later."

After a long phone conversation with the Colonel, he acquired another staff member. A major like himself, but this one had retired from the Marines decades ago and had spent the remaining time moving up in the Department of Agriculture. Nearing mandatory retirement age there too, the man eagerly accepted the Colonel's offer.

That the drawings were in crayon made the man an instant skeptic, but he recognized the varieties by her drawings and was eager to follow the breeding program. Since they didn't wish to spend a decade on it, they accelerated the process by turning two large rooms into indoor greenhouses. With 24/7 lighting for a few months under fans, dehumidifiers, and heaters for an artificial climate, he figured they could condense the aggressive program into just a few years. But in case of the unforeseen, they ran a parallel program under precise conditions that accurately emulated the conditions listed on each page.

Their new addition, though cleared for such disclosures, was nonetheless kept oblivious about the existence of the children. His greenhouses, while on the base, weren't even in the same building that housed the children. In fact, the new major didn't even need to memorize a single access code to get into his unsecured area of the complex.

The other ideas in the notebook needed to be looked at by the DOE, something the Colonel facilitated as well. Surprisingly, one of the engineers assigned to look over the reactor core of ants suggested that it wasn't ants, but termites. The DOE was already investigating microorganisms inside termites for converting corn stalks and wood chips into ethanol. Her design, they estimated, would yield slightly less fuel as methane and hydrogen. But unlike their complicated ethanol scheme, hers required no energy inputs and would, in theory, yield a ton or more of high-protein livestock feed per acre as a byproduct, in addition to rich, organic fertilizer. If it worked, and they had doubts, it was a trifecta of efficiency. Adding desalination to the cooling cycle of steam turbines was a no-brainer that caught a roomful of engineers off guard, especially since they were located in water-starved California where the brightest minds on the planet had overlooked this simple, elegant solution for nearly a century.

At the base, they also added a small, ten-colony termite cluster to the potato-breeding program.

"How are the potatoes going, Jeff?" the Major asked, entering the greenhouse for the first time since creating the program five months ago.

"Fine, actually. I used my contacts at the department of agriculture to inspect a farmer's field and gather some samples, keeping an eye out for those specific leaf and stem characteristics identified in the notebook. That gave us a one-generation jumpstart. These are actually the second generation, and they are already showing the predicted signs." He pointed out some oddly shaped leaves on the sprouts. "The notebook said I would need a pool of six hundred sprouts to have the statistical probability of getting the needed trait variations, and so far that's checking out too." He gestured to a composting pile, "Since the traits exhibited themselves early, I can recycle all those that are way off, long before they start consuming much room.

Indoors gives us complete control with no need for pesticides, weeding, or anything. Actually, one of my concerns is that these potatoes, if we get the predicted end result, will have a weak immunity to bugs and other—"

He slapped the man on the back, "That's what pesticides are for, Jeff. Look, obviously nobody can predict ten generations of mutations and natural variations and such with this level of precision. This is a long shot project that was handed off to me from one of those drooling idiot savants, locked in a rubber room somewhere near DC. It's something that we don't exactly expect to work, but can't afford not to investigate. So, just give it an honest effort.

What about the termites?"

"Well, as you know, breeding termites into clusters of mega-colonies needed to prove that concept will require at least five to ten years, and no amount of artificial lights and dehumidifiers can change that timetable, like simulating Alaska's night-less summers can for plants.

Queens simply required a minimum of five year to mature into literal egg-laying machines, and currently, there are no commercial venders where we can buy already mature queens. In fact, not only are there no termite venders of any kind, there's precious little data anywhere on how to industrially farm termites.

To the contrary, nearly all the info available on termites was geared toward their eradication.

Hell, took a week with a shovel out back to get these ten queens!"

"How's the control-rods thing coming?"

"Well," he pulled the photocopied notebook from his desk and pointed to the diagram, "this is a lot more complex than it needs to be to just prove the concept. Right now, I'm using these plastic bins," he pointed under the shelves of potatoes. "It turns out that termites love to be neglected, they shun the light, hate fresh air, and they just might be the only insect that's practical to industrialize on this scale without pissing off PETA. The more I researched, the more merit the idea seems to have.

Did you know, acre for acre, there's more pounds of termites under the average farm than cattle on top of it? By the calculations on the page, its footprint should be tiny too. From all I've researched, termites seem like they'd be happier living in confining vertical tubes like it suggested than in these plastic bins. Tubes would make storage and harvesting extremely efficient, but plastic bins will do to evaluate the theory.

Give it five, six years before I can start building you an accurate estimate on that, though. If we could borrow a few hundred Australian or African termites, we could probably jumpstart this project as well and jump right to building the control-rod-looking reactor. They seem to be a hundred times more prolific than American breeds, and a hell of a lot easier to find."

"Work with what you got, Jeff, we don't have the kind of budget that includes gallivanting around the world collecting bugs."

"Once we have mature colonies, we may be able to trick them into cloning adult queens the same way we do with bees. If so, we'll expand to industrial capacities much faster than that ten-year figure.

Figure three years on the potatoes, six on the corn, five or six on the termites before we really know, one way or the other." He smiled like a kid at Christmas, "We never got to do this kind of thing in the Ag Department."

"Bet you didn't do much of it in the Marines either," the Major said, giving him another pat on the back before leaving the room.

It would be nice to add another revenue stream to their budget.

Benita played the video on the Major's terminal again.

"I don't see it, what am I looking at?" he asked.

She pulled the papers out of her folder, "Since I started this freestyle drawing exercise, I've gotten a lot of the typical results I was expecting. Some would draw objects that they saw in the room, others would vent feelings, some disturbing images indicating children we need to keep an eye on, things like that. Her first drawing was one of someone drawing a picture of someone seated at a desk drawing, like those mirror of a mirror things you see all the time."

He looked at the picture, then the monitor. "This is almost the camera's perspective of her."

"Yeah, I noticed that too. But that isn't the most interesting thing, look at the next ones. Picture drawn on top of picture. And this one looks like a schematic drawn on top of another schematic. But look at the way she's drawing it." She replayed the video again. "She's hunched over so the camera can't watch her draw it. And watch here, when another kid knocks these books off the desk. Everyone else reacts, but she doesn't flinch. Not even a pause." She digs into the file again, "And this one looks like it's full of formulas. Some written left to right, some written right to left, others diagonal, some circular, but all on top of each other in such a way as to make them nearly indecipherable."

He paused. "Code breaking. They had a course on it last year. I thought it would help them make more sense of the NSA/CIA taps." He looked at the first picture, "She knows she's being watched, and she knows these were going to be analyzed, but doesn't want them to reveal anything. Encrypted?" He looked at the video again, "She's playing with us, isn't she."

"I don't really know. She never drew anything that revealed something about herself, like the exercise was supposed to produce."

He stared at the screen and thought about all the notebook held. Corn and potatoes that thrive in the desert, free desalination of millions of gallons, and termites. None were terribly lucrative, in and of themselves, but they all could have a huge impact on the world. "Maybe there's no personality to be revealed."

"I was wrong about that zombies comment. These are all classic character traits of—"

"I don't believe in zombies, vampires, werewolves, or coincidences." He looked up from the papers, "Thank you, nurse Benita. I assume you are equally on top of those children with the disturbing drawings."

"Of course."

"Very good, then. Continue to keep me informed."

She opened the office door.

"Another second, if you don't mind. I want to run an idea across you.

We, uh, can't afford to give hundreds personal attention, but what about one or two. What if we tried to integrate them, a few at a time—"

"Well, two things come to mind.

Foster care, which is what I think you're hinting at, might leave a child raised here with a bitterness toward here, like most orphanages are perceived as horror factories today. Most abused children just think what they've lived through is normal, until they see what normal actually is. If you do something like that, you'd have to screen them carefully and place them with outsiders that they have never seen before, and true professionals most likely. They may flourish under that, or they may turn into sociopaths, like some of the drawings hint at.

But they may flourish here too, without any animosity against us. Some already are. And here we're best equipped to deal with the sociopaths.

I'm not sure these kids will fit into society in any event.

Educationally, half are on track to PHDs by their early teens, especially at this pace. The slowest kids will be PHD level before twenty. They won't fit in anywhere, in my opinion.

So what happens when foster care can't handle them in a few years and they end up right back here? And what are the financial and security implications of PHD-level mischievous kids inspired by watching MTV and JackAss, living on the outside?" She shrugged.

He dropped the drawings on his desk. "A few years... Hundreds of teenagers, with horny boys outnumbering horny girls. You want to run this thing for me in a few years?"

She shook her head, "Hell no!" then paused. "I'd draft them all as soon as the military will take them off your hands. I might not even wait until they were of age, just as long as they looked it, we can fake the paperwork for everything else."

When she left the room, he logged onto the automated instructor server and leaned his star student's curricula toward engineering classes, just in case crayons proved to be the notebook's only visible flaw.

Besides, he wasn't too worried about their social skills. He was a third generation Marine, literally raised by a strict drill instructor. And he turned out fine.
B1.C6

"These are called first person shooters, and they will simulate actual field combat you will probably face as adults. You will be expected to work as a unit to achieve mission objectives," the Drill Sergeant said. "Only twenty percent of your grades will be based on the number of kills. You will be evaluated on teamwork and your ability to solve problems. Members on your team will be identifiable by an armband that matches yours, communication will be in sign language and only within the simulator, no talking in class. The camera mounted on your monitor will capture your gestures. Familiarize yourself with the controls for a minute, and begin."

She moved her man forward in the simulator, retrieved weapons, ammo, and rations from the desk, then located her team leader in the game. A map of the terrain appeared with penciled locations for their objective and suspected enemy emplacements. Her assigned leader signaled his intentions to ignore the primary target and to instead immediately engage their closest enemy position.

She registered no complaint and simply followed his orders.

Their squad was ambushed almost immediately, and her team was the first counted out.

She stood in line, pulled a tray from the stack, and placed it on the rail. When the boy to her left moved, she slid to his position and received a scoop of mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and two chicken strips. She carried the tray to an empty table and sat.

"Mind if I have one of your chicken strips?" a boy said, taking one off her plate. "What's that? Just say something if you mind." He smacked her on the back of her head, "Retard," and continued to his table.

She ate the remaining strip as fast as she could.

"What do you expect from a Flaming Fag," Chroma yelled across the room, then sat beside Shadona. "I ought to file a report with—"

But Shadona shook 'no' while continuing to eat. Reports tended to end in retaliation.

"That retard's been doing that crap for days now. Stand up for yourself, Girl, or they'll all start walking on you."

Seven more girls soon filled out the rest of the table and talked amongst themselves, while Shadona sat silently and just observed.

9-8-2-3-1-7-0-1-7-2, click, and the door opened to the office. He made a fist at the very sight of the girl, rocking silently back and forth in the chair. MP3 files unopened on the computer. "Why the hell can't you just once—" it took every ounce of self-control not to bash the child in the back of her head, but he refrained. He loosened his fist and patted the girl on the back instead, "Sorry. These intercepts are incredibly important. Vital to the lives of hundreds." He walked over and sat in his chair. "Two dozen citizens were recently blown up in a shopping mall," he lied, "because someone missed some valuable intel on a file just like these. So please, can we just get started today?"

Her rocking slowed.

He started opening files, but she reacted by covering her ears and rocking faster until he closed them again. "Ok, ok. When you're ready, alright?" He made a fist under the desk.

Within the next six minutes, her rocking slowed on its own. And after she rearranged several items on his desk, he started to endure his hour of chatter torture.

He watched as the girl sat, blankly staring at the desk, her right hand moving slightly up and down, side to side, much like a conductor of an orchestra, or a teen listening to classical, if there was such a thing. She seemed oblivious to everything around her, yet, should he leave, she would abruptly stop. He had tried leaving often enough to know.

He watched as her left hand scribbled two words, a time, and a file number every now and then, but otherwise remained motionless. Constantly poised over the paper.

If she reached the bottom of the page, she would continue scribbling on the desk unless he turned the page for her and repositioned her hand.

It was almost like a trance— nobody was sure what was actually going on inside her head, if anything was. But whatever she did, worked.

At the end of the hour, her right hand slowed its quivers, like a dancer that suddenly lost the beat. When it stopped altogether, even if there were more on the files like today, she was done with all she could do.

She started rocking almost immediately.

"Shadona," he said, snapping his fingers in front of her.

She blankly stared at the desk.

"Shadona," he said again to no reply. "I see here you have excellent grades in your new engineering courses. Are you enjoying them?"

She barely blinked.

"We may have enough in the budget this year for a small machine shop. Nothing elaborate, but something. Would you be interested in such a thing?"

She blinked normally, then shifted her gaze to the floor.

"They'll be surplus. Used. Nothing new. I also see programming may be another interest to pursue. We have terminals we may be able to let you use."

She looked as if she might have mumbled something, but no words came out.

Frustrated, he pulled her notebook from the desk and flopped it before her. "Would you like to tell me what's on this?"

She clutched it tight to her chest before rocking violently again.

"You're allowed to have notebooks, you don't have to hide them. They need not be kept secret. There were some very sharp ideas in that book. Perhaps you'd like to explain some of them to us?" he said, but she failed to respond. "You should have brought them to one of us. We can help you with such things. Like when you don't have enough parts to assemble your project, you simply have to ask one of us, the ranking officer in the room. Just follow the chain of command."

For the first time in over a year, he thought of his son as she left the room. She was five, five and a half at best, and she was a few credits shy of a PHD in organic chemistry and physics. She would qualify, if they were an accredited school, for dual PHDs before turning six. Her grades in each where a consistent low C average, same as his son. Same age as his son.

Free desalination from power plants, potentially drought tolerant crops if they continued to track with her predictions, a trifecta of termite farming, and the disruption of terror cells worldwide, while his son played with Legos, blew his nose on the drapes, and pasted macaroni 'art' at school that kept finding its way to his refrigerator doors. And he was prouder of his son than that girl.

The thought of his son rebuilding military equipment was absurd, yet he was contemplating getting her a machine shop as early as this fiscal year.

That would require more than just the expensive equipment. It would require adding to the staff. A machine shop would require close supervision by trained professionals if the children were allowed hands-on contact with power tools.

They would need a machine shop if the termite experiment proceeded beyond the testing phase, since none of the equipment in crayons was off-the-shelf. They even had three empty garages on the secure part of the base that would be suitable for such.

He placed another call to the Colonel. If timed correctly, they could inherit some hand-me-down DOD or motor pool equipment. Shadona was not the only one with high dexterity and a mechanical aptitude, dozens actually tested higher. And there was always a need for qualified repair personnel of military equipment. Jet mechanics alone cost a fortune, and he had access to all the digital manuals... and soon, all the equipment as well.

The next morning, two more of the corrected formulas found their way into his inbox, complete with requests for meetings. The Colonel also left several links to auctions for just such used equipment, where with a wink, a nod, and a clerical error, the Major was likely to be the only bidder in the room. He needed to wait another six months, though, red tape was red tape, and military wheels were slow to roll.

"Jeff," the Major said entering the greenhouse, "what's the good news?"

"Well, the potatoes are, surprisingly, thriving. The soil has been altered, the air is already adjusted to ten percent less humid and ten percent hotter. The potatoes themselves, now the fourth generation, are a little more bland. The skins are a little thicker, almost reminds me of a leather glove," he cut one open with a sharp knife, "and inside it's darker and has a hint of red and blue, just as predicted in the book." He splashed some oil in a frying pan on a hotplate, "If you have six minutes, I'll fry you up some."

The Major laughed. He was actually on his way home, but he had a few minutes, especially with Jeff's enthusiasm. "Fry away!"

"They're actually not that bad. A little chunky perhaps. Meaty might be a better word. I baked a few from the first batch—"

"You're not eating them all, are you?"

"Well, sure. Why not? But I'm cutting out the eyes and growing them in the dirt out back, just in case. Cloning, if you will. But just the select few varieties in each batch so I can back-track if I need to." He smiled wide, gold fillings showing, "Don't worry, I'm charting them for flavor, nutrition and such, too." They sizzled and started to brown. "Check out the skins, I think they're acting like bacon strips."

He picked a questionably clean fork from a jar Jeff had gestured at, then speared a curling skin. He blew on it, then sampled, "Not bad. It's got the crisp, but not quite the taste."

"You just had a full day's worth of vitamin B in that little slice of skin."

"Really?"

Jeff nodded. "The potatoes themselves are smaller than those french fried behemoths we're all used to. Try the meat."

He speared one with his fork and gobbled. "Not bad. Not great, but not bad. A little dry, rubbery perhaps. First potato I had to really chew."

"I suspect that the potatoes we'll end up with will be closer to wood than the potatoes we're used to. Take these. Fried like this, you notice how dry they are. Almost inedible, really. But take the same potato and boil it, and it plumps like dried chickpeas. Slow cook it over night, and it's," he shrugged, "twenty percent bigger and almost as tender as a normal potato. I doubt you can ever make fries from it, though."

"Got any to take home with me?"

Jeff smiled again, pulling a small lunch bag from near the door. "I was going to work on some recipes at home, but I suppose since this is your baby, you might as well have 'em. Just skin them before you boil them, otherwise it'll taste like eating a glove. Fry the skins separate." Jeff pressed his finger into the Major's chest, "This generation, right now, today, would reduce irrigation costs by twenty percent. That's a huge cost savings and would let you grow them in even the poorest soil in America. And none of these qualify as genetically modified.

That's still not good enough to grow them in the desert yet, but we're close already. It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen." He pointed over his shoulder, "Out back, I've got another forty pounds growing. And thousands of seeds stored from this generation. I don't know how to tell you this, but this, right here, the vitamin boost and its lower requirements, is already a game changer. This would be bigger than GM soybeans in the department of Ag, if they knew about it." He handed the Major the bag of potatoes, "Enjoy, Man, you did it!"

"What about the corn?"

"Well, that's taking longer. It also takes a lot more space, though with each generation the stalks get shorter and shorter. The leaves look like they have a waxy paper film on them. And the cobs are taller and thinner." He showed The Major one, "Almost a foot and a half long, as thick as your thumb, and it hides in the shade of the leaves. The waxy thin paper film on the leaf looks like it soaks up the moisture leaving the leaf and recycles it. Reminds me of pine needles in a way. It's fascinating too, and every prediction is coming true.

Same changes are happening here. The corn is dryer, harder, less sweet. Smaller. But boil it, slow cook it overnight and it plumps up into what everyone's used to. Still not as sweet, though."

The Major opened a second paper bag.

"Sorry, unlike potatoes, the seeds are what you eat. All the seeds have to be kept for future generations." He fished in a filing cabinet, "I have some stored from the close, but rejected pile, if you want to give them a taste, but I only harvested eight hundred of the next generation seeds, and I have to sprout six hundred of them to get the stock for the next generation. Little margin for error. I dared only cook ten for a taste."

"Give me some defects then."

Jeff nodded and filled the bag, while keeping as many seeds as possible for future use.

"Keep up the good work, Jeff. Remember, your contacts in the Department of Ag only go one way. This, even though it's just potatoes, is still highly classified. You have a non-disclosure—"

"I know. I haven't even told my wife, as much as it's killing me to chat her up a storm. She has digested some of it, though, hope that doesn't count."

The Major laughed, "That's fine. I just don't want to find any in your home garden. And that photocopied notebook has to be kept in a lockbox whenever it isn't in your personal possess—"

"No worries, I remember the rules. Seems silly for potatoes, but this is the easiest, most exciting job I've ever had. And I did two combat tours in the Middle East," Jeff smirked, "and 'tours' and 'Middle East' is as specific as that conversation can ever go."

The Major rolled up the tops of the paper bags, then stuffed them under one arm. "You're a little crazy, Jeff. And, I think I like it," he said, closing the door behind him.

At a year's salary and a huge electric bill, tonight his family was having the most expensive meal they'd ever have.

Slightly tough potatoes and a little bland corn.
B1.C7

"Back off, David," Aaron said when David reached for Shadona's roll.

"This isn't your business, Ass-wipe," David said, grabbing the roll anyway.

Aaron smacked it out of David's hand, flipping the helpless roll across the room. "Do it again and I'll stomp you into the ground, Retard," he said, now standing face to face.

"What do you care? I do what I want, when I want. You don't out rank me."

Aaron swiftly kicked him in the shins, then continued to pummel him while he was down, to the delightful shouts of nearly the entire room. Until both children were separated by adults and yanked from the cafeteria.

"Damn," Chroma said, just sitting down. "What set that off?"

Shadona sat, silently eating like she always did.

"Look who I'm asking." Chroma turned to the others seated at the table, "Anyone?"

The chatter continued while Chroma was filled in.

"What the hell am I looking at now," the Major said.

Nurse Benita pointed at the screen, "Human dynamics, 101. The weak get picked on. Guess how kids interpret a five, five-and-a-half-year-old kid that never talks, doesn't react normally, and just sits and rocks when she gets stressed out?"

He couldn't let this get out of hand, the child was a valuable savant at spotting terrorists. "I reckon we ought to crack down and—"

"Careful not to make her teacher's pet, that'll only make things worse. It looks like it might work itself out anyway, in the way these things usually go. Aaron seems to be willing to do your work for you, for now. My advice is intervene, discretely, and only when Aaron looks like he's losing the argument. If he does.

But if it ever looks like you're protecting her, it'll go from bad to worse." She looked him in the eyes, "She's going to get picked on, that's just a fact of life. Not a lot you can do to prevent it, especially if she's going to act like a lame sheep in a pack of wolves.

Unless you want to isolate her from the rest, in which case I doubt she ever overcomes this sheep phase. I don't see an easy solution." She clicks a few more videos. "As odd as it seems, she isn't without friends. Look." She points to each, "She sits alone at the table, but others come. Mostly girls, but not always. Nobody sits beside her just to pick on her. She might even have made a few friends by now, as impossible as that sounds without talking."

The girl was incredibly annoying, but it wasn't because she acted out. She wasn't troublesome, so much as troubled. He watched the video of the fight again. She looked oblivious, even to the fight just a few feet from her. He backed up the video, she was actually sorting her vegetables during the pummeling. "Thank you, nurse Benita. Any red flags about the boys involved?"

"David was one of those with the disturbing drawings. Blood red, fires and decapitations."

"Thank you. Keep on top of this, best you can. Can we separate David from his friends? Alter his schedule, covertly? Do it as punishment for breaking ranks and poor conduct, but not for taking the roll."

"The punishment would have to include Aaron, and seem proportional, but sure. That should work."

He smiled, "I think there's a covert way to make David's projects more difficult to assemble than usual, don't you?"

Shadona sat at the table, but Aaron never showed. Neither did David. Two weeks had passed since she had seen either of them.

She touched the roll, but didn't eat it. It seemed to be the reason she hadn't seen him. She looked at Chroma's plate while she talked with the others at the table. 'Stand up for yourself' echoed in Shadona's head. Not standing up for herself had pushed Aaron into acting on her behalf, and got him punished for it.

A roll wasn't equal to punishment.

A roll wasn't equal to a fight.

A roll seemed like a roll. A chicken stick was just that as well. How could it ever be more?

Her roll equation was missing something.

Something symbolic perhaps.

When was a roll more than just a roll?

She started to eat again, but left the roll alone.

She sat at the desk, blinders preventing her from seeing her neighbor. Her project had been completed for some time now, leaving her time to ponder.

This was the same desk where she did the psychological tests. A kind of inkblot test, designed to tap directly into her mind. How foolish did they think she was?

She always seemed to get this same desk. A second camera had recently been added to cover her desk from a different angle. This one was attempting to hide as a new hole in the drop ceiling. A tiny dot, really, no bigger than a pencil eraser. It should have eluded anyone's detection. It should have, but didn't.

Not hers.

She noticed changes, even tiny ones. Change was unsettling to her. The tile with the new hole hadn't been reinstalled correctly. Nor had three others that traced a straight line back to the main camera in the room. A smudge of a fingerprint gave the middle tile away.

New camera angle meant she had to hunch over further, paper drawn closer to her chest. More inconvenient, sure, but it changed little. She assumed they would dissect her papers, much as they had torn her notebook apart.

She stared at the completed assembly on her desk.

Others seemed to be able to control themselves better than she could. Sometimes, she couldn't stop rocking. Nobody else ever rocked. She could win the assembly challenge any time she wished, the others fluctuated in the amount of time it took them.

She forced herself to answer questions incorrectly with the automated classes, just so she would fit in better.

But she didn't fit in.

She didn't fit in with anything she did.

She touched the assembly. It was clearly a diesel fuel-injector pump, not just a simple project.

'Forced herself to answer questions wrong...'

She couldn't control herself as others did. She had compulsions others never struggled with. Formulas swam in her head, outside of her control. She struggled, painfully at times, to keep from completing such assemblies as fast as she could. It hurt her, physical discomfort, to see a functional work of engineering art torn to shreds, deprived of its beauty and function, in a cardboard box before her. Like just so many pointless parts.

Blank pages screamed at her in the same way.

Beckoning for the ink that would reveal their hidden greatness. Their artful destiny.

Compulsions.

She removed a bolt and held it in her hand. Her hand seemed to be arguing with her mind, like it had a will of its own, demanding she let it restore the project to completion. Against her own will, she completed the pump again.

Her ideas should be her own. If she owned anything in this place, it had to be her thoughts, right?

The theft of her notebook was deeply personal to her. It was the theft of her ideas. Her very thoughts. Had they asked, she probably would have given it freely. But they didn't. They simply took it from her, as if it had never belonged to her.

That would never happen to her again. Yet, her compulsions were difficult to fight. Impossible at times.

She had automated instruction in another hour, where intentionally answering questions wrong was still difficult for her. But getting easier. If she aimed at a solid average score, a target grade, answering enough wrong to perfectly hit that target was easier than leaving them blank.

She may be unable to leave a blank page alone, but perhaps she could control what answers she placed in its very public keep.

Wrong answers could be written, so long as they had a clearly defined purpose. An alternate target for her to aim perfection at.

She had a purpose. She looked up at the ceiling and stared at the tile, just slightly misaligned.

Aaron sat at the table, his punishment over.

Shadona didn't look up when he sat, she hardly reacted at all.

Chroma elbowed him teasingly, "Where you been, Stranger?"

"Solitaire. Solid automated instructor. Hours on discipline and the importance of unit cohesion crap." He stabbed a chunk of ham with his fork, "Two weeks of bread and water. Believe it or not, they make crap that tastes far worse than this!"

Dana sat across from Shadona, right beside Aaron, and gave him a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Damn I missed you," she said.

He hugged her back, "They have a room, just David and me, where the lights never went out. The room was kept around fifty degrees. It was miserable. That punk little Fag just pisses me off like you wouldn't believe."

"Well, he's not here right now." Dana smiled.

He touched Shadona's tray, "I overheard them talking in the halls about remodeling and renovating some garages they have here on base. Maybe we'll get more than automotive parts to assemble, but actual vehicles. I bet they assign the fastest assemblers to any kind of shop."

Shadona paused, then handed him her buttermilk biscuit.

He returned it to her plate, "I kicked his ass because it needed doing. If we let Fags like him get away with punking the defenseless, they'll start thinking none of us are willing to stand up." He looked at the rest of the table, "Could have used a little extra help to make that point loud and clear to his little cli—"

"You didn't look like you needed any help from—" Chroma said.

"I wasn't even here yet," Dana said.

"Well, doesn't matter, I suspect," Aaron said, fork of vegetables this time. "A little overwhelming shock and awe would have sent a better message than a one-on-one sends, that's all."
B1.C8

A few days later, Aaron was jumped in the bathroom by three other boys. Nurse Benita had to set two broken bones, put four stitches in his forehead, wrap a sprained ankle, and treat for a concussion that kept him out of everything except automated classes.

She sat in his office, rocking back and forth, blood on her pant leg. No files on the terminal for her to review. She was there for another reason.

9-8-2-3-1-7-0-1-7-2, click, and the door opened.

Her rocking slowed as the Major sat at the desk.

"You stabbed a boy in the leg eight times with a fork. That can't be tolerated under any circumstance." He put his hand on the girl's shoulder, "Want to tell me about it? Explain it to me?"

She continued to rock.

"You're the last person I expected to see for fighting. You sure you don't want to tell me what set this off? Mitigating circumstances may reduce your punishment." He waited, but she never looked up from the floor. "Very well. Two weeks of isolation, and half rations."

The room was small, perhaps a utility closet at one time. The drain in the center of the concrete floor was a dead giveaway. Toilet, sink, and a cot. The room was very cold, but unlike the boys, she got a blanket, and a pillow. The lights went out at night. And by the next morning, the room had settled to a comfortable temperature.

Two out of three meals were bland bread and water, but her dinner was consistent with what she had come to expect from the cafeteria. She wasn't allowed to leave the room, locked from the outside, but a learning terminal prevented her from slacking off on her studies.

The floor and walls were painted white, corrected formulas taped to the walls at eye level. A dozen MP3 intercepts played two hours a day. This wasn't at all what she had expected.

The Major watched the video. "There," he said, "that's the same reaction she has with me. Check the time stamps and mark those MP3 files so we can give them special scrutiny. There's something setting her off, and I'd like to know what it was."

"Yes Sir," the Sergeant said, "I'll get right on it."

"Anything written in any of the notebooks yet?"

"No Sir, not yet. But she's only been in isolation for three days."

The lights woke her.

As an experiment, she didn't go to the terminal and begin instruction as ordered. Instead, she sat in bed.

After six minutes of obstinance, the air-conditioning kicked in; after another ten minutes, MP3 taps filled the room with dozens of extremely loud conversations.

Draped in a blanket, she sat at the chair and started the lesson. The air slowly warmed as the chatter faded to silence. As another experiment, an hour later she abruptly stood, walked over to one of the formulas, and stared... middle of the lesson.

She stared for two hours, in silence, without so much as a trickle from the AC.

They were watching her. If it was automated, then the computer would directly control punishment for noncompliance. It could have been completely software driven that way. But this suggested that a human was monitoring her. A guard with specific instructions.

This was intriguing.

She poised her pencil near the formula, then relaxed her hand again. She had solved the problem, all of the problems, years ago. They required no further contemplation on her part. But she didn't want to play the automated teacher game. She wanted to explore the rules her guard was following. And the only way to do that was to test her boundaries. It seemed she would be allowed to stand at the formula indefinitely, though indefinitely was definitely too long for her legs to bear.

She hated formulas and was reluctant to give them an excuse to bombard her with more of them. They stayed in her mind, consuming her thoughts for entirely too long. They tapped into her compulsive nature far too easily. Should she solve any of these, they would be just the beginning of a bombardment from which she could see no end.

Formulas were no fun. Taps, at least, offered her a window to the outside world. And the taps clearly saved lives, or at least had the potential to. Yet she didn't want to be consumed by them either. Had she not faked limitations, it was clear that her entire day would be filled with intercepts and the trivial lives of others. She contributed more than anyone else, that should be enough. She knew of two dozen that sat in a room, four hours a day, seven days a week, translating. She didn't want any part of that either.

She parlayed her taps into years of interaction with the man in charge. She felt she knew him, in subtle ways. She picked up lots of unintentional information from the personal items in his office. She had exposure no other child there did.

She poised the pencil again. This was the most important of the ten, and the most complex. It had to do with high-energy physics, but was incomplete. And the portion she was looking at was still incorrect. She circled one part, then drew a line through another. She provided a hint in the right direction, but not the solution they were hoping for.

Bored with standing, she sat at the desk and continued her automated lesson, the lesser of the evils.

Aeronautics was new and fascinating to her. Despite her best attempts at being perfectly average, she couldn't bring herself to answer any of them wrong. So freeing and liberating, the very concept of defying gravity in such a mocking, flagrant way appealed to her. Excelling in subjects had already proven useful, with construction on a machine shop just beginning.

By the end of her punishment period, she had a working knowledge of all civilian jet engines, flight controls, and the complex engineering that formed the foundation behind it. Her grades in all related disciplines shot to perfection again.

"Her grades reflect her interests, not her capabilities," Benita said. "This other stuff was probably boring her. She probably has some mutant PHD/redneck gene."

"Well, multilingual interests are paying the largest portion of our bills. I'm willing to entertain indulging this too. Rebuilding military equipment is hugely expensive, and lucrative. I was thinking automotive after they did so well rebuilding injector pumps and other small parts, but I'm tempted by the shiniest apples higher in the tree. To essentially clear her for the top-secret plans to our cutting edge planes, if her grades keep this high. Officially, we're not Marines, Navy, or even military anymore. But everyone here has top-secret clearance, so getting the plans shouldn't be much more than filling out the paperwork. Rebuilding jet engines would be a bigger revenue stream."

"The kids don't have a top-secret clearance."

"No, but they are a top secret. It's a gray area, to be sure." He shrugged, "I'm looking at a projected two hundred thousand in shortfalls that can't be picked up by rebuilding small parts. I've got two projects that are soaking up funds, and will continue to for another three or four years before I get anything out of them." He leaned forward, "I need to find funds, quickly, before I have to start letting people go and closing down departments before they even have a chance to show results. And the promising results they are showing now aren't quite mature enough to do anything lucrative with. Yet."

She looked puzzled, "What the hell are you rambling about?"

He realized she didn't know about the notebook or Jeff, "Nothing you need be distracted by. I've got more pots on the stove than I've got burners, that's all."

"Two hundred thousand—"

"Don't worry, I've still got good credit at reasonable interest rates... for now."

She shook her head, still confused, "As long as you've got my check straight, I don't care much.

Aaron is still in physical therapy and refuses to finger any of the boys involved. We may want to add more cameras, but I think that might end in changing the wheres, not the whens or whats. I expect that this is the beginning of trouble, not the end of it. And Shadona getting a slap on the wrist for forking David isn't going to end well either."

"What are you suggesting? Time outs? Group therapy? Hug circles and sing-a-longs?"

"I don't know off the top of my head. Most of the courses I've taken push that conflict resolution crap. We could give it a try, but it only has a chance if all the participants aren't sociopaths. I'll keep investigating, though."

"Thanks, nurse Ben—"

"Let's not rule out the power of buying Prozac by the bucket."

He laughed, but took it another step, "Make sure we have some on hand, just in case. You need any help getting pharmaceuticals?"

"No, not yet. But then, most of the stuff I've been dispensing is OTC."

He nodded, "Let me make a call, I should be able to get you a—"

"All I need is the same thing any teenager needs. A credit card and an internet connection."

He laughed again. "Alright, but I'll try to get you a legit pipeline. We can't have an FBI or 20/20 investigation for drug trafficking, or doctor shopping. I should be able to get us classified as a drug research facility. You should have a bigger budget for such— Crap!" He slapped his forehead, "We're going to need to get you a dentist and that equipment here, too. Adult teeth are right around the corner, aren't they?" He shrugged, making a note and sticking it to his monitor, "It just never ends, does it?"

"Not for another decade when you can push 'em off onto the Core, where they belong."

He obsessed over the spreadsheet for another hour. They had huge expenditures for this quarter and went way over budget. Next quarter wouldn't be as bad, but it still would be in the red, no matter how he fiddled with the margins. Food, lights, heating, there just wasn't enough wiggle room. The equipment was cheap. What he hadn't counted on was the enormous expense in delivery, installation, service upgrades, and retrofitting the base. It was his most painful fiscal failure to date, and he had to fly to DC to justify the overruns with his secret funders. There was nothing more absurd than flying across the country to sit in an empty room surrounded by speakerphones on conference calls, but that was what it amounted to. But that was like a lot of things that only made sense in DC.

Besides, the money was already spent. He had a credit account for a reason, so he wouldn't have to explain every little expenditure. Or so he had thought.

This amounted to an audit, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

The Colonel stressed that it could NOT be assumed that the funders knew all the details about the children. Therefore, only the projects, and just the unclassified ones could be discussed with complete frankness. Intercepts were out. Potential military fabrication work was out. His hands were tied, but he was prepared to soldier on.

Besides, what was the worst they could do, the money was already spent.
B1.C9

"Yofi Stosou," the Major said, meeting the man in his office, "Glad you decided to take the Colonel up on the offer. The Sergeant showed you the shop you'll be working in, right?"

"Yeah," he shook the Major's hand, "I took the nickel tour. It's all used, but everything's in top shape. The layout is a little cramped, but I see you didn't have that much room to work with." Yofi walked over to the chair, pressed a pin in his left knee, and eased himself down, "Hope you don't mind, but this thing is killing me today."

"Quite alright, get comfortable. Take a second." He punched a few keys, "The Colonel said you're certified on the stealth fleet, everything from paint to pistons."

Yofi rubbed his upper thigh, "More than that, paint to pistons just covers the Ps.

When an unexploded piece of flack took off my legs and half my arm, that pretty much ended my usefulness for the military. Full disability. But the Colonel said this was more a teaching position, that I wouldn't have to rebuild, fix, or fiddle with anything all day. I can't tell you how anxious I am to get back into being useful again. My body may be shot, but from neck up is ready to serve."

This was the most difficult part of the interview. "You any good with kids?"

"Kids? Am I teaching recruits fresh out of high school?"

"Not quite..."

Yofi stood by the equipment. Two fully automated lathes, plasma cutters, welders, mills... Almost all of it worked right off of cad software, like they were giant printers. Feed it the part specks, load the blank, close the Plexiglas lid, and press start. It did all the rest. Millions in used, high-end equipment. But they had an assortment of dies and hand tools too. A complete set of just about everything he would ever need. If they didn't have the right tool, they had the tools to make the 'right tool', almost out of thin air.

He was familiar with everything in this room. But what was next couldn't help but take him by surprise.

The door opened, and two dozen six-year-olds flooded in, lined up, and stood at attention. All in orderly silence.

"My name is Yofi Stosou, and you are going to learn everything I know about fixing, fabricating, and rebuilding just about everything out there. I'm a firm believer in the saying 'learn by doing.' We are going to do a lot of doing around here." He ushered the kids closer with his good arm. "Since all of you are rather small, physically, it is hugely important that we learn safe work practices first. And," he indicated the deformed half of his face and arm, "I can not stress this enough, we are in no hurry to complete anything. Always stop and think before you do anything. Stop and ask yourself, 'What are the unintended consequences of the actions I'm about to undertake.'

We are going to learn techniques and ways to do everything other people do using brute muscles and sweat, but we're going to use leverage, planning, lifts, skill, and finesse. We're going to wear out all this equipment, without wearing out ourselves." He gestured at a badly damaged Apache, "I'll have you all for the next six hours, and we are going to start with this helicopter."

Yofi sat at the desk in the machine shop when the door at the far end opened and footsteps echoed across the floor, end of his first day.

"No, don't get up," the Major said, "I'll be there in a second."

Yofi stood anyway, straightening papers before turning the Major's way.

"Listen, if six hours is too demanding—"

"Oh no, it isn't that at all. I'll be up to eight hours in a week or two. I'm still living out of boxes at home, an hour drive from here. It's the drive that's killing me, really."

"Well, listen, a lot of the staff has bought in the valley, twenty minutes or closer. Land goes for pennies, just slap a prefab on a lot and you're done. I'll sign you to a five-year contract, if that'll help you with a sense of financial security, loans and whatnot."

He sighed, "That would, actually. I'm renting for now and—"

"I figured. What do you think, can you make use of them?"

"Pth, absolutely. Smart, quick, not a dull tack in the bunch. Where'd you find them?"

"Well, the less you know..." he shrugged, then put his hand on Yofi's good shoulder, "don't think of them as children. Think of them only as recruits. Recruits with a little larceny in their blood. Keep an eye out for equipment, I don't want anything going missing. And if something does go missing, I want to know about it immediately. I won't hold you responsible, they'll always have you outnumbered and it's way too easy for them to distract you, but I will hold you responsible if something goes missing for weeks and you just wait for it to show up.

Any estimates on when we'll have that bird back up in the air, and the price tag?"

He pivoted on his artificial leg with a squeak, "Right here." He handed over the page. "If you take labor out of the equation, well, everyone's but mine, it's really quite reasonable. And they do a quality job."

"Well, these are the highest scoring, most well behaved of the bunch. The honor students, if you will. I expected nothing less. Double-check all their work. This will, officially, have your name on it. And your name only. Your reputation is riding on each one they fix. And each one is funding your stay."

"With them, that's not going to be a problem."

"Let's talk hours and look over your schedule as we walk out, shall we?" The Major walked him out of the complex, since Yofi didn't have an access code yet.

Shadona sat at the terminal, typing.

"Class is over, little girl," Yofi said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She kept typing.

"Come on, let's go so I can get out of here." He looked at the screen, "What are you building there?" he attempted to adjust the screen, but was rebuffed. Yofi reached for the phone— When it suddenly rang. "Hello," he said, looking up at the camera in the ceiling, then over to the girl. "Yes Sir, not a problem. Ok, Sir, but... Yes Sir." He hung up, then got a chair and watched. Out of the way.

She pulled the card, walked over to the plasma cutter, inserted the card, loaded the steel slug, and waited as it ran the program that cut the piece behind the Plexiglas. She stood, hovering around the door while the device beeped softly, hazard light blinking that it was in use. Her right hand moved randomly side to side, up and down, like she was listening to music only she could hear.

When done, she loaded the roughed piece into the automated mill, loaded its program, and watched it refine the piece again, metal slivers and oil slung against the glass.

She walked back to the terminal, loaded another design, and proceeded to put nearly every other piece of automated equipment to work fabricating tiny pieces of a grand puzzle only she knew how to assemble.

He stayed in the shop for another thirteen hours while she fabricated and assembled a complex array of tiny parts, springs, washers, gaskets, and tubes, before finally falling asleep at the table.

"What the hell is it?" the Major asked the next day.

"You've got me," Yofi said, "could be a pipe bomb for all I know."

"Kinda looks like one, doesn't it? You don't have any explosives or flammable substances in your shop, do you?"

"Nothing she could get at."

"Go check, just to be sure."

Yofi put his hand on a wheel-looking device that was attached by tubes to the two bigger pipes. "I think this part had a tiny crankshaft in it. It's about the only place she could have put it." He grabbed one of the large pipes to steady the device and gave the wheel a gentle spin. To his surprise, it continued to move. Very slowly, the wheel continued to turn, long past what momentum alone could account for. "It can't be perpetual motion, can it?"

The Major stared at the man, then the spinning wheel. "Is it getting faster, or is it just me?"

Yofi looked stunned. He let go of the pipe, and after a few seconds, the wheel slowed to a stop. "I don't know what we're looking at here, Sir. And I watched her assemble the damn thing." He grabbed the wheel, "I'm guessing this is a flywheel, connected to a tiny crankshaft. The shaft is connected to two tiny hydraulic pistons, 90 degrees out from each other. Each of them is connected, hydraulically, to each of these big pipes that look like bombs. Inside each of them are weird washer-like pistons, and each of those big pipes are connected to each other by four pairs of tiny tubes." He looked over the desk, "Charged with CO2, I think." He stared, puzzled, "I have no idea what she's built here, do you?"

The Major stood, shook his head, then said, "That's what I hire experts for, Yofi. Figure it out. Just try not to break it in the process. Or blow up my shop."

Three days later, Yofi filed a report with the Major.

It was, for lack of a better description, a compact, high efficiency version of an obscure motor called a Stirling, with an almost unbelievable 67% efficiency. Compact was an understatement. Bench tests revealed that the two pipes, neither of which were much bigger than a typical thermos, had the same displacement and power potential of a conventional two-liter engine. That, in itself, was rather staggering. An engine the size of a lawnmower was now as powerful as the engine in a car, yet still as cheap to make as the mower. What was more, it was as quiet as an old refrigerator.

It had limitations, though. If it had RPMs (it didn't really) it couldn't go much faster than a diesel, redlining at about 4,000.

What was truly impressive was, because of its high efficiency and effective displacement, it actually ran off the heat of his hand. Albeit slowly and with the help of a kick-start.

Yofi was clueless as to how it was doing what it was doing. It had dozens of intricate valves, springs, and interesting calibrations with nearly a hundred linking tubes, sensors, and regulators that Yofi couldn't begin to figure out.

He had tried to replicate it, but, even with the original and all the patterns for the parts still residing in the computers, he was unable to get any of his copies to work. At all. The interplay of the tubes, valves, and regulators were simply too complex for him to figure out.

Externally, it was as rugged as a tank, but there was something magical about how she assembled it. Like the hidden insides ran off balancing a dozen spinning plates on the ends of sticks. Even the detailed surveillance failed to reveal her secrets to its assembly.

Weeks of frustration turned into months with no results.

Complicating things was that she showed zero interest in the little engine, except for that one obsession-fueled night. She never even stuck around to see it run. And she never had conversations with anyone. She didn't answer questions. Ever. She just sat in the chair and stared at the floor.

They had refurbished six Apaches, one APC, and three Hummer engines, mostly with the help of that silent little girl and his crew of children. He couldn't complain too much if she wasn't forthcoming on the mystery engine. Neither could the Major; the shop was in surplus, as far as the budget was concerned.

Yet this kind of frustration was something that a military mind rarely put up with, without resorting to an air strike.

She sat in his office, gently rocking in the chair, waiting.

The Major placed the engine on his desk, then slid it to her. "You want to explain this to me?" he said.

She glanced at the device, then stared at the floor.

"Yofi is very impressed with you, you know. He thinks this tiny little machine has incredible potential. A lot like you, in a way. He placed this one between the engine and the radiator of a Jeep and got an extra ten kilowatts off the waste heat from the engine. Said you might have a hundred dollars in materials here. That's quite an achievement.

Said that at higher temperatures, with stainless parts of course, you could expect a few hundred horses out of this one. Small enough to fit in a lunchbox. About the size of two thermoses. That's the kind of thing you might expect from someone with the equivalent of four PHDs, but not from someone who's only six."

She tried hard to hold still.

"This could help a lot of people, all over the world, Shadona. Yofi can't figure out how to make them work, though." He tapped his fingers on the desk. "What is it you want? I can't guess it for you, you have to find some way to tell me."

She put her fingers on the edge of the desk, but hesitated.

"Write it, if you want," he said, pushing her a piece of paper.

She wrote a single word, in Arabic.

"I can't read that," he said, "I only read in English." He slid the paper back to her.

She ran her right fingers across the word, picked up the pencil, with her left hand this time, and wrote 'freedom'.
B1.C10

The Major argued with Yofi for three hours that night, but didn't budge from his decision that giving in to a six-year-old was out of the question. There was no way that he could put her up for foster care, or even hire retired operatives to give her the facade of freedom she asked for. They even thought of things like ankle trackers for home confinement, to no avail. It was simply too big of a risk to ever be taken.

Especially if she didn't think she was free now.

Eventually, she would resent her life here. And that was something he was certain she wouldn't be silent about, once she tasted true freedom.

The engine was tiny for sure, but the stakes were huge. It was worth millions at least, billions perhaps, and it was sitting on his desk.

The best engine mechanic he could get was equal parts awed and stumped. He had a basic theory, and he even had all the parts, but was unable to get any of the copies to work. He even X-rayed it without revealing the secrets.

He was one hell of a mechanic, but he wasn't an engineer, and the engine it was based on was incredibly obscure.

The Major made another call. He would soon be dipping into the red again.

She was his most lucrative, and most expensive, child.

"Thi-ox-an-then-es," the Major asked, looking at the bill for the drugs filtering into the base.

"Thioxanthenes, it's an antipsychotic drug, like Thorazine. I'm not exactly a doctor, you understand, and no clinical diagnosis is really available, unless you want to talk truly expensive staff upgrades or—" nurse Benita started.

"No no, I— to be honest, I've looked at David's file, and I've double checked your inkblot drawing evaluations. He isn't particularly productive or useful, slow at transcription, might even be too aggressive to be a Marine, perish that thought. If he strokes out on them, I'm cool with it. Just as long as you don't make anything worse, or get him hooked on something really expensive. Give him adult doses, if you think you need to. Hell, double that if you think it'll help. I wouldn't give them to the girl just right now. Maybe start her out on some Prozac or something mellow like that, see if that brings her out of the shell."

"David was on Prozac when Aaron was jumped. I thought he needed something harder, but didn't exactly clear it with you before I—"

"Don't care. It's your department, I'm not interested in micromanaging, but if you need to bounce ideas off someone, I'm here."

"I'm using the heavy stuff sparingly. Prozac isn't exactly candy, but I've had the red-flagged ones on it for months now. Some it helps, some it has no effect at all. Might as well be water with David.

Weird isn't it? A good number of the truly bright are truly fucked in the head. Ever notice?"

"Top ten percent, huh? I wonder if we'd have this much problems with the middle ten percent."

"Probably not. But you wouldn't be rebuilding a helicopter every month, either."

He was taken off guard, "How'd you—"

"It comes in on a flatbed, ties up the parking lot for hours, then the fixed one sits on a flatbed just inside the gate until it gets hauled off, probably only gets towed twenty miles away where they have an airfield for it to fly home. It's hard to miss, unless you're blind, or on drugs."

"Good point. Let me know if I can facilitate anything else."

A dark Suburban pulled into the Hardee's parking lot, quarter past six.

"Major?" a uniformed captain asked, standing beside a classic red Mustang.

"You must be my six thirty." The Major pointed to the Suburban, "Let's talk inside, if you don't mind."

The captain walked around and got in the passenger side. "The Colonel said you had an engineering project that you needed solved, but that was as specific as he could get over the phone. Said it would have to be a face-to-face if I couldn't decide then and—"

The Major handed him the engine.

"What the hell is this, some sort of pipe bomb? I can't defuse anything, I'm not that kind of engi—"

"Just hold that pipe with both hands." The Major started the wheel rolling.

"What the hell?"

"We know what it does, we need an engineer to figure out how it's doing it, and how to mass produce them and find a practical application."

He set it down and inspected it closer. "You start by taking it apart and—"

"That's the trick. We only have the one. We have a machine shop, we even have all the original specs, but we just can't get any of the copies built to those specs to work, and we can't risk damaging this one by taking it apart. As you can see, it's somewhat tamper-proof."

"Why can't you just ask the guy who invented the thing?"

"If it was easy, I wouldn't need an engineer, top of his class at MIT, would I?"

"No, I suppose not. You've got my interest, Major. I think this may be worth resigning for."

"This may be just the tip of the iceberg, Captain Hanly; besides, it isn't really resigning, it's a move sideways. I have a feeling that having an engineer on hand will be very useful, very soon."

"This is the TF-34, the stock GE engine for the WartHog, and they each provide a little over 9,000 pounds of thrust," Yofi said, slapping the side of the bullet-torn hulk sitting on the pallet. "We have an even dozen to rebuild, if we can. Our first task will be a detailed evaluation of the damages and the salvageability of each. To get accurate figures, we will do two evaluations. First, as they sit, with a minimal of dismantling.

Our second evaluation will come from tearing it all the way down and inspecting each part along the way. Tear-downs will be preformed later tonight.

Now, the Major has cleared your schedules because these engines are a high priority. My initial inspection when they arrived last night revealed that two are so badly damaged that they will be best used as parts.

Put on your Kevlar gloves, and begin."

The usual three approached to complain.

"I know, I know," he said, "the gloves reduce the sensation and make it more difficult to work. Well, get used to it," he said. "Adults have to learn to do almost everything fun wearing one kind of glove or another. Since I was able to get gloves specially made in your sizes, cuts and laceration have dropped from one a week to none in the last month.

You will continue to wear gloves at all times—" he raised his voice, "At all times when working on this equipment. Your dexterity will improve with practice, and you will soon find that you'll be able to install the smallest, most delicate parts, wearing these gloves.

These Kevlar weaves are as thin and strong as possible, and they cost a small fortune, but it's worth every penny.

What's more, anyone found touching one of these engines without wearing gloves will be suspended from this program." He pointed at the glove bin. "Anyone who stays gets pizza, soda, hamburgers and fries for breaks. As usual."

The chronic complainers hesitated, but knew that shop was, by far, the best place to serve time on the entire base. They gloved up and went to work.

Hanly shared Yofi's small office in the shop, since it was nearest to the equipment. Hanly had nights to himself, where Yofi had the days. They did, on occasion, overlap.

"Morning," Hanly said, arranging the parts on the workbench. "I don't think I've destroyed it, but I'm no closer to figuring it out either."

Yofi looked over the engine, now covered in a mesh of wires and sensors.

"I've tapped every pipe and port on this thing. I've got the computer charting, recording, and graphing every movement it makes. But pressure and temperature sensors only shed so much light. I've been on it for a solid month now, and I'm no closer to getting one of the copies working than I was when I first took this job."

Yofi looked over the graphs running on the computer, then watched the engine silently slosh along. One pipe in a tub of ice, the other in a tub of hot water. "Remember, this thing uses rubber rings, not metal like in a car. You can't expose it to open flame."

"I know, but it delivers ten horse on hot tap water and a bag of ice.

I have to take it apart, I just have to. But look at how many intricate parts it has." He gestured at the TF-34's on the pallets, "At least those came with manuals, detailed specs, tolerances and such. I'm flying blind here, and I don't think that's sitting well with the Major. I think he thinks I'm just collecting a check, sitting on my ass all day. Hell, I feel like I've been running in circles since I got here."

Yofi dipped his fingers into the melting ice, "Nah, he knows. I told him I'd have to disassemble it, too. That's when he called for you. It was eating too much of my time. It's one hell of a Chinese puzzle for sure."

Hanly perked up, "Chinese?"

"Figure of speech, sorry. You know the crew here during the day, don't you?"

Hanly shook no.

"Ever wonder about those tiny gloves?" he said, but didn't give Hanly a chance to answer. "This ain't the North Pole, those aren't toys, and these gloves ain't for elves. They're kids. A six-year-old built the thing in her spare time." He made his way to the terminal in their office, "Check out these videos before you leave. No prototypes, no adjusting pieces, no extras. No missteps at all. Nothing measured, everything cut just once. She just built it one night, and it worked on the first try. She didn't even stay to see it run."

He watched the monitor, "I have to talk to her."

Yofi smiled, "That'd be a trick. She's never said a word, to anybody. Ever, as far as I know."

"She works in here, then?"

"One of my best students, I never have to check her work."

He stared at the monitor again. "Six?"

"Don't let it throw you. My understanding is she's got more PHDs than you do. I don't think of them as kids anymore. It weirded me out the first week; you look at them and you think, 'break out the crayons, cardboard, and safety scissors, not turboprops. But after a week you forget all that, and you're talking torque settings, pitch degrees, and tolerances. You forget and just start thinking about them like tiny adults."

The phone in the office rang, and Hanly picked it up. "Yes Sir," he said, then handed it over to Yofi.

"... Yes Sir, but surely he has the same clearances I do... Yes Sir, but I think some of it is needed for him to ever figure... Yes Sir, it's your call... Of course... Yes Sir." He handed the phone back. "Well, forget I said anything." He stopped the video on the screen. "Good luck, the Major wants to see you for a minute before you leave."

Hanly looked panicked.

"Don't worry, I don't think I got you into any trouble."

She hastily dropped her tray on the empty table and held a metal fork in an unnatural grip by her side while David walked by, well outside her reach.

Aaron, healed from the broken bones, limped slightly to sit across from her, followed by Dana, with Chroma rounding out the chairs.

The lunch discussion started with classes and meandered through gossip and shop when Shadona timidly reached across to Aaron's tray and lightly tapped the closest corner.

The table got quiet when she whispered her first words, "I can escape from here."
B1.C11

"Care to explain this to me, Sergeant?" the Major said, pacing the hall in front of the empty room.

"Reviewing the video now, Sir."

The Major stepped into his face, "This is absolutely unacceptable, Sergeant! Where are my wards? This room is empty!"

"They can't have gotten far. We're tracking them down now, Sir!"

"Do you think we can just call the local sheriff? Maybe we can call 60 Minutes to help you find them!"

"I should be looking right now, Sir!"

"Then how can I still see you!" The Sergeant marched off as the Major inspected the empty room. Sensors covering the floor, alarm still active, but the sheets were tied like hammocks between the bunks. The inside doorknob had been removed, pin bent and forced. "Tamper-proof screws my ass."

These locks had been designed to keep people out, not in, as they were being used. The bedrooms were originally storage closets, and there was a world of difference between securely storing equipment, and people.

Video revealed that, once in the halls, they used his security number to simply walk out of the base.

He was screwed if he couldn't find them all, quick and quiet. This was a PR nightmare in the making, made worse because they couldn't call on any of the locals for assistance. They had to conduct a full-scale search without arousing suspicion.

"Frank," the Major called to the man standing in the hall, "check if the Apache is still at the airport. If it is, get me a pilot and we'll see if we can use its FLIR to round them up. Call everyone who's at home and get them here, now. And get me a headcount of everyone left."

"Yes Sir," Frank said, saluting before bolting down the halls.

"Chroma," the Major said, standing between the girl and the door, "They left you behind—"

"I twisted my ankle and volunteered to stay, instead of slowing them down," she said while Benita checked the ankle in question.

"Whose plan was it?"

She watched Benita pull tape out of the drawer.

"Where were they heading? Where's their rally point? What are the transportation objectives?"

Chroma gripped the edge of the table she sat on when Benita started wrapping.

"I don't have time for this," the Major said. "You were found less than a click from the southeast side, limping for the valley. But you had hours to reposition yourself in an attempt to misdirect." He slapped her bandaged ankle to hear her anguished scream. "I don't have time for this. I need their heading, and I need it now." He slapped her ankle again.

"What part of 'I don't know' needs translating for you?" she said, squirming off the table in a futile attempt to flee his reach.

He grabbed her by the arm and flung her back to the table. "You know! You can't possibly not know."

"Whatever I tell you, you'll think it's misdirect. And why wouldn't it be? Why would I tell you the truth, when a lie helps all my friends?"

He slapped her ankle before leaving the room.

Frank ran to his side in the hall, "The Apache is twenty minute out, Sir, but the FLIR isn't working. Yofi will be here in six, and Hanly is already scrounging parts in the shop."

"Tell Hanly to check the FLIR in the Apache that was delivered yesterday, it should still be in the parking lot. If they sabotaged the FLIR on the last one, it's probably safe to assume they damaged the ones they had easy access to in the shop." He turned for his office, "I have to make a call. You got the headcount done?"

"Forty seven missing. Half girls, half boys—"

The Major stopped in the halls, "Why not all of them? It's a smaller group that planned this, the rest are being used as fodder. Assume at least one member in each opened room. I assume the search of the grounds revealed that they split up into small groups and went off in every direction, correct?"

"Yes Sir."

"One eye in the sky isn't going to do it. I need a fleet of choppers— Or an eye much higher in the sky, with something a little more advanced than FLIR."

The CIA/NSA owed him, big time, for the last three years of analysis his team had provided. Time to collect. And time was ticking on acquiring a satellite.

The first seven were easily found trying to follow the roads to civilization, something taught in their survival classes. The rest steered clear of the roads and would be much harder to detect, especially after the light rain they had that night.

With intense cell phone coordination and the help of satellites, bloodhounds, and a second Apache on loan, the children were rounded up within two days, with no civilian interaction. They were so remote, after all, for this very reason. The difficulties of mountainous terrain couldn't be discounted either. If the pursuit had been limited to adults using flashlights and shoe leather, then the steep hills and thick underbrush would have enormously advantaged the smaller stature of the children.

But the chase wasn't limited to boots on the ground. Jeeps, ATVs, and helicopters put them over targets within minutes, and they were fully armed with tranquilizer darts and sleeping-gas grenades that they could drop from the air. FLIR, once they got it working, was an enormous asset, but it didn't compare to dozens of hours of satellite time. The Colonel covered it, some how, as a terrorism exercise, though he assured the Major that it could never be allowed to happen again.

The vast majority were found within the first twenty-seven hours, usually in groups of two or three. The last group managed to elude even the satellite by hiding uphill in a cramped and shallow cave. They even eluded two sets of bloodhounds by backtracking, crossing creeks, and sprinkling packets of pepper on their trail. Though it didn't last forever.

Bloodhounds had a famous reputation for a reason, and a third set eventually found them.

Dana, Aaron, David, and Shadona.

"Care to tell me what happened?" the Major asked the girl quietly rocking back and forth in the chair. "What about you, Dana, care to explain this to me?"

Dana stared at the silent girl, "Ask her. Bitch knows exactly what happened, and whose fault it was."

The Major watched the girl rock faster. Clearly she did know, but wasn't saying. "Aaron and David are dead. Someone is going to have to explain this, and all I have is the two of you." He turned his attention back to Dana and her black eye and bruised knuckles on her hands. "Well, speak up, Dana. Say something. We have two dead boys here. We've largely pieced together the escape. Rest assured, it'll never happen again. Aaron was a valuable transcriber and both were very useful in shop."

Dana looked like she might cry again, but didn't. She glared at Shadona instead.

"I'm waiting for an explanation. One of you hot-wired the car, but since you're Barely Seven, you wrecked it in the trees within eight miles of here. Then we tracked you up into the mountains where we lost the trail nine times and you eluded FLIR by hiding in a cave!" He kicked the side of the desk out of frustration. "You will both be punished severely for this! Your only chance for leniency is a full confession, and I want it now!"
B1.C12

Shadona scrubbed the bathroom floor with her brush, then looked over to Dana on the far side. They had scrubbed every inch of the base for the last month, yet Dana hardly said a single word to her the entire time. Shadona put down the brush and walked over.

She hesitated, before giving Dana a hug.

Dana immediately shoved her away.

Shadona sat, stared at the floor, then crawled over and hugged her again. Receiving a shove and a punch to the eye this time. Undeterred, Shadona righted herself, then proceeded to hug her again. And again. And again.

And again.

Dana cried, staring at the very beaten Shadona just a few inches away, struggling to sit on the bathroom floor. "I hate you," she said, still angry, fists clenched. "... I hate... you," she whispered, but her fist relaxed by her side.

Shadona wiped the blood from her nose, but only succeeded in smearing it across her cheek while she crawled back over and offered a hug that wasn't rejected this time. "I loved him too," Shadona whispered, then kissed the girl on the cheek.

Dana pushed her away, without a punch this time. "I loved him, not you," she yelled.

Shadona wiped her nose again. "He was the only one who ever stuck up for me, Dana. I opened the boys' door just to free him." She leaned closer, "David should have been long gone by the time we doubled back and got the car started. And I certainly never expected him to find a stone and hurl it into the windshield, right there in the—"

"You could have helped fight David off after the wreck, instead of—"

"I— I should have, but I—"

"You flaked out, like you always do! Except this time— this time it cost Aaron his life. Couldn't stop rocking long enough to hel—"

Shadona put her hands on her ears and started rocking again.

Dana stood over the girl and slapped her on the head, "Stop it, you queer little bitch!"

But Shadona couldn't stop, and stress only made things worse while Dana kicked her on the floor.

"Lives depend on this, Girl," the Major said. "I don't care what your problems are, you will analyze these intercepts, and you will do it now!"

But Shadona just sat and rocked, yelling only made it worse.

He slapped the girl across the face. Frustrated, he kicked his chair, rolling it into the wall where it dented the olive sheetrock. She had stymied him now for nearly two hours, a record for her. Everything in him wanted to pound the child into a crimson stain on the desk, but he refrained. Even the slap was as restrained as he could manage. He righted his chair, then sat. Glaring at the girl, he pounded his fist on the desk, then retrieved his budget files and started to work, doing his best to ignore her.

Another hour passed before she slowed enough to play the intercepts.

She sat at the terminal, fingers poised on the keys.

Programming was easy for her, like another language with far fewer words and simpler math-heavy sentences. Her terminal was connected to the network, and it was connected to the world. But everything beyond the local network remained closed to her, for now. A firewall was what the barrier was called, and she had yet to learn the magic words to say to let her pass through.

But the firewall wasn't what stopped her fingers from typing.

She stared at the screen as she read a file with her name.

"Project Shadona: (S H Hg O Na)"

It was a worthless formula of no economic value. Hg was mercury, the 80th element. 80. A D. Her name was symbolic of her value to them. She was an afterthought. A curious oddity. Nothing more.

She clicked on her code and watched the As Gs Ts and Ps that defined her existence stream by. She was horrified by the number of errors that leapt off the screen. The splices and chunks were crudely cut and pasted and read like a manuscript that abruptly changed from English to French, then German and Italian. Always changing mid sentence, often in the middle of a word, without even waiting for the end of a paragraph. She was terrified by the abomination that those letters defined.

They had no idea what they were doing, and it showed.

Her brain was damaged, intentionally, on the theory that one of her fellow experiments would be able to do exactly what she did a few times a week in the Major's office. Her deformed mind wasn't able to divine the solutions to all these errors; DNA, once written, was nearly impossible to fix. And the sheer number of errors made any hope of a normal life unlikely for her. But she found it almost impossible to turn away from her defective letters streaming by. Markers for Alzheimers, lung cancer, and MS brought tears to her eyes; she would reach thirty, thirty-five at most, but no more.

Her thoughts drifted to the Major and the budgets he often worked on in front of her. In fact, it seemed to consume most of his time. The repair shop and intercepts represented a huge portion of the base's funding.

Funding seemed like just the leverage she needed, but her impact in the shop was minimal. If she dropped out or sabotaged equipment, another would eagerly take her place. If she refused to analyze intercepts, lives could be lost, and her impact on funding may be minimal there as well. Transcription, now that more children were involved, accounted for 80% of those funds.

Another thought occurred to her. If funding slowed, rationing would surely be their first response. Food first, but soon—

She needed to think. She needed to find a way to manipulate the situation, without making things worse for everyone.

She blinked as her DNA flickered across the screen. A simple hack, change a single strand, fix just a few of the most egregious errors, and she could be someone else entirely. Live past thirty. Keep her mind, but lose the inevitable insanity. With the slightest of changes, she could have immortality.

Changes that could never be made, now that she was.

Aaron was one of the few nice guys there. Because of her, he was dead. Defects in her mind's design had paralyzed her with indecision when the stone busted through the windshield and bloodied Aaron behind the wheel. The crash seconds later only made things worse. When David attempted to steal the car from them, she sat frozen in her seat while Dana fought him off alone.

She stared at her damaged, dysfunctional code as a tear ran down her cheek.

She touched Escape, and the letters faded away.

She might not ever be normal. But she knew what normal looked like, and she could pretend.

Letters would never define her actions again.

She was growing tired of going to the office for analysis. Seeing the Major for intercepts had looked promising in the beginning, but had now become counterproductive. He was easily angered, extremely impatient, and over the years had dropped the pretense of saving her from the very punishment he had inflicted through orders to others.

Besides which programming may provide her another way out and free up more of her precious time for things she actually enjoyed.
B1.C13

The Major entered his office and stared at his terminal screen, expecting to endure the typical hour of rocking obstinance, followed by another hour of incessant chattering. Instead, he found himself mesmerized by a running program, generating a transcript file of the conversation and highlighting what it thought were deceptive or misused words, almost exactly what she had been doing, yet still lacking her keen observation for minute details and context.

He looked at his watch. She had been there for twenty minutes at best, and the program had already evaluated its first MP3 conversation. It even ranked it on a suspicion level, indexed key words, and completed one transcription.

When he approached the desk, she got up and headed for the door.

"Just a minute, Girl," he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and putting her back in the chair. "You owe me a better explanation than that."

She sat in the chair, but said nothing. The urge to rock screamed almost beyond her control... yet, she managed to sit still.

"Damned if you're not the most frust—" he stopped and stared at the screen as it started analyzing the next MP3. It was much slower than she was, probably slower than a typical analyst. Just a guess, but it looked like it took fifteen minutes to analyze a two-minute conversation. But software was software. It never had to sleep, it never got tired, and it was far less annoying. "Is this program running on the—" he paused again. Asking her questions was like pulling teeth. The program was obviously on the server. She had no disks and no other way to bring it into his office. He rested his hand on the child's shoulder as he squatted beside her. "Listen, Shadona, your talents are very appreciated and critical to this country's defense against terrorists. This will be a big help, thank you."

She stared at his hand on her shoulder until he broke the contact. She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and placed it on his desk before leaving for shop.

He opened it.

It was a list of materials, one hundred fifty feet of four-inch steam line, a twenty pound bottle of CO2, a bottle of liquid nitrogen, a spool of number ten bare copper... ending in a short list of exotic minerals, including a grain of plutonium.

The Major laughed when he reached the last item, the impudence of requesting pluton— The computer beeped, flashed a red warning message, then flagged an MP3 as warranting critical examination. He picked up the phone and checked the availability of the more exotic parts.

"So, what do you think, Professor," the Major said after the short tour of the servers.

"Well, your equipment is dated, mismatched, and obsolete. But the program definitely resides on your server. I isolated it early this morning, and," he swung his ponytail off his shoulder and tapped a hard drive laying on the desk, "I've got a copy of it right here. Was that all you needed?"

The Major smiled, "Not exactly. Burn me a private copy before you leave, for posterity, then I'd like you to meet with some friends of mine and oversee migrating this software into a modern server for us, ok?"

"Sure thing. But coming here in person is a bit overkill, don't you think? I mean, your system has a private, secure T1 line straight to the mainframe you want to send it to. We can do all this electronically in a few hours if you'd prefer."

"No. Sorry. Has to be done in person." He slid the hard drive containing the copy into a Ziploc bag and put it in his pocket. "You've worked with the NSA before, right?"

The Professor unwrapped a new hard drive and plugged it into the system. "Oh sure, but not in the last four years. Most of my work is freelance, like here with you."

"You any good at teaching kids?"

"College students, and they try my last nerve, most of the time."

"Tell me about it. Let me know when you're done and I'll have someone escort you out, ok?"

"Fine fine," the Professor said, typing on the keyboard as the new drive came to life.

"You think this'll work?" the Major said, reviewing the pamphlet on his desk.

"Well, believe it or not, it's been patented almost specifically for this application. Well, for prisoners actually," nurse Benita said, "but sure. You might want to get Hanly and Yofi to look over the engineering side of it, but it looks solid to me."

"Does the company still exist?"

"Yes Sir, they have a plant in China. It's half surgery, half dental, part invisible fence for pets, part LoJack for cars, part RFID for security-badge tracking, and part prisoner confinement with ankle bracelets. It's designed for home confinement as an alternative to prison," she pointed to an imbedded capsule, "and it comes complete with its own death sentence to prevent tampering." She pointed to the back page, "It requires adult teeth, molars specifically, and it looks like a normal filling. It attaches to the dental nerve and, according to the literature, can cause a level of pain that is nearly indescribable."

"I read something about that little feature that I don't quite follow." He flipped through it again, "Where is it getting its power from?"

"That's the genius part. It gets the power from the radio signal—"

"But now, wait. That's where it loses me. If it's powered by the signal, but only punishes when it doesn't receive the signal, then where is it getting the power to zap them without receiving the signal that powers it?

I mean, we have an invisible fence for our dog at home. And the damn thing goes right up to the fence and sits down where the buzzer buzzes, but not close enough to get shocked, and waits for the battery to die before he crosses the line. Before that, he used to run across it and just take the shock. We'd come home and he'd be locked outside of the yard, unable to cross back into—"

"Well, the difference is the dog collar uses power when it administers the shock, the genius of this dental implant is it only uses power to kill the pain of an exposed nerve. The dentist basically botches a perfectly good tooth into the worst toothache imaginable, then uses the device to kill the pain. When the device runs out of power, the ache is all that remains. The poison capsule prevents tampering. And each tooth has a unique code that has to be signaled to 'deactivate' the poison. With a hundred standard RFID receivers, we can track all their movements within the base. With a small transmitter, we can give them the illusion of complete freedom while locking them down to a few miles in radius. If someone escapes, dial down the transmitter and that mile leash turns into a few hundred feet."

He thought of the girl that just recently sat in his room. "What about hacking?"

She shrugged, "Not my area of expertise, but it was designed for white collar criminals. The transmitter," she flipped to the page for him, "broadcasts random noise 24/7 and buries the code inside that. It's supposedly uncrackable. It can't even be removed by a dentist without the right deactivation codes. Again, I'm not the person to discuss the technical aspects with, but the price is right, and the transmitter can be easily secured, I would think."

He looked at the price. Twenty dollars each, without the poison or 'installation'. Transmitters extra. "Very nice, thank you. How are you at dentistry?"

If it worked out as well as it looked on paper, he could put the transmitter on a satellite by the end of the month, pending Pentagon approval, of course.

"I was surprised to hear from you again," the Major said, meeting the Professor at the gate.

The Professor adjusted his tie, "Well, the program was a little more complicated than it first appeared. Apparently, it was designed to run on your system, and your system specifically. It took me a month to figure out what was going on, but apparently it hacked the video cards and used them as a kind of dual processors in a creative way that prevents it from migrating to other systems. It also uses about six dozen other programs scattered across your network that I didn't previously find. Well, not the entire programs, just modules in them. If I could find the source code, and maybe image your entire system, that would help things along."

"Sure, this is national security if anything is." He waved the professor past the guard as they walked toward the complex.

"I've been analyzing the thing sixteen hours a day," the professor said. "None of it has proper documentation, the nomenclature is non-existent, and it seems intentionally overly complicated. Variables are given names that appear identical like L one zero zero (l100) and one L O O (1lOO)." They stopped at the first door where the Major's palm and badge were scanned. "Originally, I thought that was just sloppy coding, but I'm convinced it's intentionally confusing now."

The Major left him and all his excuses in the server room.

"So, what's the verdict?" the Major asked the professor, end of the day.

"It's locked in there pretty good, sorry to say. Your system may be the only one on the planet that it will ever run—"

"Then get a list of parts and we'll cobble another one together by the end of—"

The Professor stood, tightened his tie, then wiped the sweat from his brow, "That's not possible, I'm afraid. Obsolete, in this case, means a good number of the key parts were custom made for this server. The code references modules in dozens of other programs and they reference dozens more, like a giant spider web, or probably more accurately, tiddlywinks. To properly repackage this might take a team of twenty programmers the next two years. And keep in mind this thing seems to get more complex with every visit."

The Major was stymied again. "How about this, then. Would it be easier to gut this thing, put it on a truck, and replace it with a modern server system, that way you and the NSA nerds can have this one to study and use for as long as you want? And we get a new system." He had already made firm contractual agreements on the software in question, and now had to find a way to deliver on it.

The professor stroked his ponytail like he was straightening a tie, "That might be best, since neither the NSA nor I live anywhere near here."

"Good then. I'll get you some help and we can get started dismantling it today." They had already expunged all the incriminating children data from the system long before the Professor had been called. Top-secret clearance only went so far, for such an obvious hippie.
B1.C14

"What's she building?" the Major asked while touring the shop.

"Well," Yofi said, "I don't rightly know. It's too big for the machine shop, so we had to put it outside under a tent around back."

Hanly put up his hands, "Don't look at me, Sir, I still haven't figured out how that damned engine works yet."

They proceeded outside in a light drizzle and ducked into the tent.

"You got cameras rolling in here, right?" the Major asked.

"As many as we thought we could get away with. But it's hard to figure out what she's doing, exactly. And she'll go days without touching it," Yofi said.

Hanly pointed to the steam pipe on the ground around the perimeter of the tent. "This thing is filled with water, insulated, and has what looks like nitrogen-cooled coils on it. But it goes to nothing, it's just a giant loop. And it looks like she just intends to boil water in it with no vents or nothing. It's even been put in its own little moat with sandbags piled on top of it. My guess is it'll just boil until it explodes, but what do I know." He pointed to the center where even more equipment and tanks of raw chemicals were concealed behind an array of pipes, tubes, wires, and homemade gizmos. "Lord only knows what's going on over there."

The Major shook his head as he opened his clipboard and looked down the list of requested parts. "Is everything on this page accounted for?"

Yofi and Hanly looked it over. "As far as I know," Yofi said, "it's all here, except the plutonium."

"Any idea what it does?" the Major asked, knowing it had blown a sizable hole in his shrinking budget.

Hanly said, "Explode," while Yofi said, "No idea."

"Is it complete?"

Yofi looked at Hanly, "I think she's just waiting on the plutonium."

The Major pulled his necklace out from under his shirt and pressed a cross to his lips. "God help me," he put a tiny lead box in Hanly's hand and said, "Turn it on."

When they went back to the shop, Hanly put his fingers in his ears while Yofi flipped a breaker. The tent was safely behind a hill of sandbags, but Hanly winced nonetheless. With no explosion, they turned to watch everything on a bank of monitors, safely inside.

When the loop heated to well over 600 degrees, the super-cooled coil came on and drew hundreds of amps from the shop. So much power, in fact, that they had to suspend shop activities while it was on. But other than to spin the meter like a prop on an airplane, it seemed to do... nothing.

"Anything change?" Hanly asked Yofi, relieving him at the end of the third day.

"Nope. It just sits there, eating power, doing God-knows-what."

Indicator lights blinked on as the wall of screens lit up with activity. The amp probe plunged to zero as chemical tubs boiled, valves opened on their own, and—

Boooommmmmm!!!

The screens blinked off as the building rumbled with the percussion, breakers tripped in the panels.

Hanly and Yofi struggled in the dim light of a single laptop until the breakers reset and panels flickered back on. All they could see inside the tent was a wall of dense smoke.

Hanly bolted for the door to the tent, but Yofi hooked him with an artificial arm, "May I be the voice of caution here. Whatever is out there for you to see will soon be in here on these screens. Do I even have to remind you that there was a grain of plutonium in the mix?"

Hanly continued to the door, but grabbed a plastic suit and a Geiger counter on his way out.

A fog of smoke loitered around the tent, but even so he could see that the tent remained intact. The explosion felt like a truck bomb going off, but couldn't have done any real damage.

Cautiously, he approached, constantly checking the persistently normal radiation readings.

Inside the tent the smoke was too thick to see anything. The fumes burned his eyes like teargas, but he proceeded to cut open the sides of the tent with his pocketknife until he couldn't take the stench anymore and retreated to a safe distance.

"I called and the XO will be here in an hour," Yofi said, joining Hanly outside, once the tent had aired out. "What are we looking at?"

Hanly looked over the twisted pile of wires and pipes, "Everything overheated. The only thing that wasn't destroyed was that damned buried steam pipe. The very thing I was betting would explode. There's a pile of parts over there, right where we figured all those chemicals would dump it."

"Parts to what?"

"Well," Hanly said, picking one up, "They look like interlocking plating for bulletproof vests or something like that. Did you notify the girl?"

Yofi tapped the plate with his artificial hand. "Only the XO can clear that, sort of why I called him."

They continued to inspect the mess.

When the Major pulled into the parking lot, he walked directly to the tent. "What happened here?" he asked, "Did you win the bet?"

"Well, Sir," Hanly said, a little frustrated, "No. It's the only piece of equipment that didn't melt after making those plates."

The Major picked one up, "Plates to what? For what?" He looked around at the rubble. "Don't tell me I spent a quarter million on plates!"

"Well, no Sir," Hanly said, "I think there's something fascinating going on here with this pipe. The big question is, why didn't it explode. And why did she just cool the coil, not the entire pipe. And why heat the pipe to over 600 degrees.

I think that pipe was being used as some sort of massive capacitor. It ate hundreds of amps for days on end. And I think what destroyed all this equipment was when it discharged in just a few seconds. Just a guess because our amp meters pegged off the chart almost immediately, but I'd say that that 150 feet of steam pipe discharged at about the full output of a nuclear power plant, for a few seconds, maybe even a minute. That sounds a little crazy, I know, but it's the only thing that makes sense here." He pointed to the ends of vaporized cables that used to connect the equipment, "This stuff don't melt for anything less."

Yofi bumped him with his artificial hand, "Six hundred degrees would make it supercritical, right? Like in a typical power plant. It would have the mass of a liquid, yet the friction resistance of a gas. Almost no friction, really, it could be moving as fast as you want. You thinking some sort of fluidic, hydrostatic flywheel? That's fucking impressive as hell."

The Major opened his cell phone, "Bring her here."

Shadona silently picked through the rubble and started carrying the mountain of plates back to the shop where she, and some hand picked girls, assembled the rest of the project over the following week.

The Major stared at the device standing in the corner of the shop, standing as casually as one might lean a broom against a ladder.

Hanly lifted the plating off the backpack to reveal an integrated engine, just like the one that stymied him for months. But it went beyond his rubber-ringed model. This one was even smaller, about the size of a 40-ounce beer, and was rated at around 30hp. Hydraulic lines ran inside the suit and a purely mechanical system of inflated bags amplified the pilot's movements into action, like power steering on steroids.

"It looks like a—" the Major started.

Yofi handed him a copy of one of the comic books he kept in the shop for the kids. A copy of Iron Man. "Is that worth a few hundred thousand?" he said. "Mr. Stark."
B1.C15

"The machinegun is easily replicated," Hanly reported as they stood in the field behind the base. "It runs off of compressed hydrogen that the suit makes from regular fuel. The gas is mixed with compressed air, also made by the suit, and ignited behind a bullet. From inside you can put as much or as little power behind each round as you need. Want to punch holes in a tank," he open fired on the armor plate hundreds of feet away. The gun ripped through the tranquil silence of the mountain as effortlessly as the bullets rubbled the plate and decimated the trees behind it. "Just squeeze past the second notch."

"It sounds like a pissed-off weed eater!" the Major tried to yell over the gun.

Hanly dialed it down, "But you can also fire bullets as soft as kids throwing rocks to clear a street of civilians." He unloaded on some cardboard cutouts where the rounds toppled, spun, pummeled and dented, but rarely penetrated. "And it lets you flip between the two effortlessly." The gun shredded plywood cutouts of AK-47-toting terrorists while simply dinging the cardboard women and children between them. "It can run at a full speed of about forty miles an hour, can jump to a second floor balcony, and yesterday we used it to push a fully loaded truck uphill." He took off the helmet and climbed out of it. "Yet, it's small enough to be used indoors and only adds two hundred thirty pounds to the user. And it runs on just about anything from oil to kerosene, gasoline to jet fuel."

The Major smiled, "It's a game changer."

"Yes Sir, XO," Hanly answered the Major, "we just have no idea how to build any of it, other than the gun."

The Major looked puzzled. "How hard can it possibly—"

"Well, the motor is still beyond me, and that's key to most of the systems. It's inherently hydraulic, and you can't just replace it with the motor out of a lawnmower. It has to be that small to work with this suit. To replace this conventionally, the engine would be hundreds of pounds by itself and bigger than a lawnmower, conventional hydraulics would double that. This armor is incredibly light. If we used traditional armor, it would lose all its agility and would be heavy enough to break through the floors of a traditional wooden house. But we can replicate some things right away." Hanly took off his shirt.

"What's that?"

"Well, it had us stumped too. Looks a little like a bra for a man, don't it?" Hanly indicated the cord with a plug. "We thought it recorded your vital signs or something. But it doesn't. It has a matrix of electrodes that stimulate... well, it feels like ants crawling on your skin. After a while, your brain starts recognizing that it's drawing a picture of what's behind you on your back, what's to your side just under your arms, and what's in front of you on your chest. Like eyes in the back of your head, or very low resolution night vision. And it's really good at picking out moving people, those ants feel warm. Playing a hunch, I had someone fire a live round toward the suit. The ant feels like it takes a bite, right where the bullet is coming from. How Bad-Ass is that, Sir? And that, like the gun, is something we can replicate today. With a lot of effort and none of the elegance, of course."

The Major looked upset. "That isn't good enough. This thing is a system, isn't it? The suit makes the hydrogen and compresses the air. How big does the gun get when you have to do all that, too? Can a soldier carry something that big into battle?"

"Well, Sir, No. Probably not. But I think you're missing the real advantage to a system like this. Fuel and ammunition determine how long a helicopter or a Hummer can loiter in an area. This way you can pack more fuel and more ammo into every firefight. Imagine a Warthog with four times the ammo and the ability to punch hard on tanks and soft on jeeps, and extra fuel to boot. That's the advantage here. Not with field infantry, unless you mount them on Hummers or something, or somehow figure out how to make them this small. This goes beyond caseless ammo. Cracking hydrogen out of fuel is chemistry 101, the rest of this gun is easy. We may not be able to replicate, exactly, the eyes in the shirt thing, but we can apply those principles too. The suit itself, on the other hand, is so interconnected that we would have to duplicate it rather precisely. And without a better grasp of that engine, it's a moot point, sorry to say. You know, this would be a lot easier if we could get some cooperation from—"

"Don't remind me. You have no idea how frustrating that one child can—" he stared Hanly in the eyes, "Believe it or not, it's easier to hire someone to reverse engineer it than it is to get her to cooperate, on anything."

After weeks of fruitless interrogation, they gave up and returned Shadona to her normal schedule. But it pained her too much to join the rest of the shop class in reverse engineering her own designs, so she didn't participate and was, instead, punished with extra instructional time with the automated teachers.

Even without her assistance, within three weeks, the highly skilled children under Yofi and Hanly had two working, though aesthetically displeasing, hydrogen-powered machine guns. They cut several corners by modifying existing Gatling guns and using off-the-shelf reload rounds and bottled hydrogen. But they worked... albeit with a few more jams, problems, and complications that the battle-tested counterparts lacked. Both were soon shipped off to the army testing grounds for further evaluation while they worked out the kinks on a portable hydrogen cracker capable of supplying the consumption levels the gun demanded. A task Hanly discovered was much easier said than done... safely.

"The tests are in, and the brass was impressed," the Major said when he met with his fledgling engineering team a few weeks later. "They had a few jams, just like you predicted they might. But what impressed them the most was the space and weight savings, just as you predicted, Hanly. The ability to pack more power behind each round was just icing on the cake. Said they could penetrate the same armor with the cheap rounds in your guns that they could using high-dollar, armor-piercing munitions. Said they had future modifications, some simplification, and they had to get over how ass ugly the thing was... but it sold." He shook both their hands, "Congratulations!"

Yofi smiled from ear to ear, best his deformity would allow, "Should we keep refining the hydrogen cracker or work on the— uh, what do you want to call it, shirt-with-eyes next?"

"Oh no, put both out of your minds for now. I passed those concepts along, let bigger budgets sweat the details on them. Besides, on the shirt neither of you are that kind of electronics engineers anyway, right?"

They both nodded. "For the record," Yofi said, "I'm not an engineer, just a mechanic."

"If it's all right with you, XO," Hanly said to the Major, "I'd like to take a break from the engine and try to work with that fluidic capacitor that's still under the tent. I think there's a world of applications just waiting for a device like that. Besides, it's about the only thing that survived the meltdown."

The Major looked uncomfortable. "XO..." he repeated, "It's going to take me a while to get used to that title."

Hanly patted him on the shoulder. "You've earned it, Sir. Might as well use it."

"You and Yofi ever find out where that grain of plutonium went?" the Major— uh, XO asked.
B1.C16

Shadona sat at her desk, the automated instructor rambling on the screen. She twisted the ring on her finger as she ignored the lesson. Those in charge were easily distracted by the shiny bobbles, while she kept the actual prize.

A ring.

Her ring.

And oh so much more.

She twisted it around her finger as she stared at the terminal. Software, hardware, and the illusion of all that lay between. She had tasted programming, just as she had tasted engineering. And she wanted more from each. Software was flexible and agile, limited only by the hardware it inhabited; and hardware, by its very nature, was the definition of inflexibly etched into stone.

In a single stroke, she broke the boundaries of both.

Computers controlled electrons with doped silicone. But silicone was as fragile as glass, power hungry, temperature sensitive, and had a long list of other vulnerabilities. Within the crushing squeeze of a magnetic field, what amounted to a fancy industrial laser-printer assembled carbon atoms around a single grain of plutonium with near perfect precision and diamond-like internal clarity. In a fraction of a second she managed to 'print' an optical computer chip, in the shape of a ring, flexible enough to expand as she continued to grow, with radiation providing an endless source of light. Its very carbon construction shielded her from the radiation.

Even Hanly's Geiger counter couldn't find it amidst the rubble.

Optics let it calculate at the speed of light, the spectrum acted like addresses in memory, and individual photons acted like both data and programming as they wound around the maze inside the ring, colliding and changing direction and energy with programmed efficiency.

What she twisted now was mostly empty, awaiting a true operating system; she had a tall task ahead of her indeed. But she was up for the challenge. Its vocabulary would be extremely limited, at first. Adding and subtracting only, but a lot could be done with only those two words. In fact, those two words were the essence of everything silicone did.

With the right equipment, it should take her a few months at most to build such an operating system from scratch.

She moved her hand as if conducting an orchestra while the monitor prattled on in the background. She felt the ring echo back in tiny tingles on her finger, similar to what she had perfected as ShirtEyes.

A side effect of using light was an inherent GPS-like function had to be built in. Since the speed of light was a constant, moving the ring in the direction of the light made the light travel a slight, but measurably longer distance. Which translated into taking a longer time to complete the same circle. Timing had to be synchronized with absolute precision if photons themselves were going to be used as data, and that timing gave her a direct way to interface with it. Compensating for movement translated directly into sensing movement.

She wiggled her finger three times directly over the H key, then spun around in her chair and staggered out into the room. Eyes closed, she waved her hand around, randomly, as its tingles guided her back along the exact path the ring had taken, right back to the same key.

Flawlessly.

Motion in time and space was her keyboard. Tingles were her screen. And its primitive memory had accurately recorded her every move. Her first test was complete, and it passed flawlessly.

In some ways, her ring was inferior to modern silicone, but its potential eclipsed everything in the building. Especially in her hands.

Besides, she was the only eight-year-old girl there that didn't have a ring, bracelet, or necklace. Nearly the same tan color as her skin, with luck, hers would go unnoticed for years.

In shop she stood while working on the Apache, and watched a man she had never met talk to Yofi near the door that led out to the tent.

Dana tapped her on the shoulder, "You done with the avionics yet?"

Shadona frowned and shook no.

"How much longer?"

Shadona shrugged, more interested in the conversation she could see, but not hear.

Dana inspected the work. "You're doing it again," she said, poking Shadona with a finger. "The wiring harness doesn't have to be this uniform. It's ok if the wires twist a little. You're making us fall behind schedule."

Chroma chimed in, "You make us fall behind and everyone on this bird might be in jeopardy of janitor duty or some other moron task." She shoved Shadona until she had her full attention, "And I'm not going back to grunge detail again! We don't have teacher's pet status. We can't goof off, flake out, and daydream all day like you do. Get yourself together, and stop acting like such a girl."

Shadona's eyes shied down as she picked up the tie wraps and got back to work. But she still kept watch on the obscure conversation. '... pipe... supercritical... gigawatt spike... MHD... capacitor... Mach 16... '

Electrically perfect, not visually perfect. Difficult, but doable. Once she set her mind to it.

Especially easy after her distractions walked outside.

She sat at the table, fish stick in hand, when Dana sat across from her. Soon to be followed by Chroma and two other girls.

"I heard they just got another hundred feet of steam pipes and are bending and welding it into a giant circle," Chroma said.

Shadona nibbled on the stick.

"My bet is they're trying to build another suit," Dana answered. "You really twisted their chain on that one. They seem almost obsessed—" She gestured at Chroma, "What's that other guy's—"

"Hanly," Chroma said, "Thinks he's an engineer. Has had a dozen boys working in the shop after Yofi leaves for the last two weeks—"

"That's their whole problem!" Dana said, "They're all about half a chromosome short."

Shadona faintly smiled before nibbling a bigger piece.

Chroma snickered, "Defective chromosome crew."

Shadona lay in bed, unable to sleep, waving her hand above her head in total darkness. She was nearly done manually inputting an optical interface that should allow her to use the easily controllable light from the Number Lock LED to input the rest of the massive set of code she needed to bring her ring to full potential.

Programming, she had learned, was more difficult than she thought. It took time to write each individual line. Her intercept analysis software borrowed modules, chunks, and blatantly plagiarized from everything she could find on the servers. The sheer size and complexity of such a program meant that the simple mechanics of entering each line, were it all original, would have taken her a decade just to type. So she borrowed and stole from others. It was clunky, slow, unwieldy, and inefficient. But it was quicker to cobble odd parts than to invent perfection from scrap. Programming her ring was proving no different.

Unlike companies, she didn't have a team of programmers to help her. She was alone and on her own.

She would have to convert, cobble, and import what she could find, and write as little original code as needed. It was risky, Windows was never tested to run on a plutonium-powered ring before.

Even using the blinks of an LED, it would still take weeks to upload.

Assuming she could ever complete the interface.

She waved her hand in darkness for another hour before exhausting herself to sleep.

"Listen, Shadona," Yofi said, preventing her from leaving at the end of shop class, "A friend of mine would like to see you. He'll be here in a few minutes."

She sat on the stool at the workbench and started sorting and aligning the nuts and bolts hastily dumped there by others.

"You know, you're one of my brightest students."

She paused, but didn't look up.

"No, that's a lie. You are by far my brightest student. I just wish I could take some credit for it, but you did it all on your own."

She glanced up at his eyes, briefly, before mixing what she had just sorted back into the random pile.

He awkwardly drug another stool beside her, pressed the pin in his knee, and sat. "Listen, you can talk to me, you know. I mean, I know you don't talk, but you can write more than just material lists." He looked at the suit standing beside the ladder, corner of the room. "Hanly has been studying your fluidic flywheel. It's a little outside of my scope, you'll never find one in a Warthog, but impressive nonetheless. Said it was capable of a gigawatt spike."

She moved two-dozen nuts in the shape of 6.3.

He smiled, best he could. "I wish I had a lot left to teach you, but I don't. I ran out in the first few minutes we met, I suspect. I fooled myself into thinking that I had somehow inspired you with that engine," He looked over at the suit again, "But that's clearly not the case."

She grabbed a leftover slice of pizza, held it for a second, and nibbled.

"You don't belong repairing other people's equipment. I can help you with that, but Hanly can do much more for you. I think you should meet him, get to know him. He can open doors I can't."

She took another bite and looked at the biometric locks on the doors. She suspected Yofi was talking about another kind of door.

"He thinks that that, uh, fluidic flywheel, for lack of a better word, could do a world of good with this country's antiquated electric grid. If it can just be adapted. Bringing 6.3 gigawatts onto the grid, even for just a few seconds, could be huge, he thinks.

Just listen to him, see what you think."

Hanly opened the door and walked straight to the table. "Good to see you, Yofi," he said, shaking hands. "This must be Shadona. You know, it took a lot of pleading just to get this meeting with you."

She sat quietly, munching the thin crust at the edge.

"I don't know why, but I expected thick glasses and unkempt hair," Hanly said after an awkward pause in the one-way conversation. "Listen, I'm not sure how much you know about the century-old grid, but, it's highly inefficient. The cheapest forms of power need an hour or more lead time before they can come on line." He turned to Yofi who seemed to be the only one interested in anything he was saying. "Is she even listening?"

Yofi nodded while Shadona sorted nuts again.

"Well," Hanly continued, "only the most expensive power, two or three times as expensive, comes on quickly. Within minutes, or even seconds some times. The Holy Grail of grid efficiency is a low cost way to store that abundant cheap power, with the ability to discharge it in the blink of an eye like the expensive kind. Something you did behind this building for a few thousand dollars."

She shrugged as she scooped another lump of parts to sort.

"I've been working on this for weeks now, and that steam-pipe system just doesn't scale, economically, to utility sizes."

She put a handful of quarter nuts back in the appropriate bin.

"Keeping it that hot has cost issues too."

She returned to sorting.

Hanly reached into his back pocket, "I was hoping you could help me with this." He unfolded the taped-back-together remains of a notebook she had compulsively written, then ripped up and thrown away years ago. "Here you've drawn something very similar—"

She grabbed the pages, ripped them again, and threw them on the floor.

"They've all been copied. It took me forever to get a look at—"

She flung the assorted hardware from the workbench across the floor and stormed to the door. Only to be stopped by a biometric lock that was just as good at keeping people in as it was at keeping people out. She kicked the door and jerked at the handle.

Hanly walked over. "It looks like your notes were designed for utility levels, just like what I was talking about. You've already solved this problem, haven't you?"

She kicked the door again, then slapped her hand against a palm reader that buzzed a familiar 'denied'.

"Listen, Shadona—"

She walked away, flipping on a deafening shopvac as she walked back to Yofi and the workbench.

Hanly turned off the vac and returned to the bench. "You used this supercritical steam method because it couldn't be easily scaled much bigger." He picked the pages off the floor and fixed them on the desk, "None of it was written in English. Half your measurements are metric, and they're all unmarked. You know it's only a little useful, and I'm missing several key pages." He quickly flipped through them so she could see what wasn't there. "I'm asking for your help."

She folded her arms and rested her head on the table.

Yofi put his hand on her shoulder, "Listen, Shadona, what can Hanly do to get you to change your mind? This really isn't much different than helping me with Apaches or TF-34s. Working with Hanly might not be nearly as boring for you. Might even learn something from him." He watched Hanly pace behind her as he fumbled to tape the pages back together. "He'll definitely learn something from you. Just tell me what it'll take."
B1.C17

Hanly stared at the tiny device. Fifty feet of garden hose, a few pieces of copper pipe, and a powerful electromagnet in one big loop. Without saying a word, she filled the hose with a solution of water and copper sulfate, ran a current from one pipe to the other, and hit it with a magnetic field. Inside the hose, the solution circulated like a jet pump and accelerated to over a hundred miles per hour almost instantly. Even with all the impurities and irregularities of a garden hose, they got eighty watts out of the hastily assembled device an hour after putting a hundred watts in.

He held the hose in his hand. It was so simple.

He looked over the crayon drawings again. Copper sulfate was incredibly cheap. So was water. The hose scaled to cheap concrete pipe with a super slick polymer liner. It didn't need to be superheated this way. It couldn't reach supersonic speeds and thus would have to be physically huge to compensate, but it was so inexpensive to make insanely big like this that it no longer required the water to move so dangerously fast.

The device in the tent had been designed for a specific purpose. A single massive spike. And if it had failed, the explosion would have been devastating, just as he predicted.

Some of the numbers scribbled on the page, now that he had a better perspective, made sense. Twelve feet in diameter, two miles long, 1.5 gigawatt hours. There was no way the XO was going to let her build a two-mile-long tunnel as an experiment. But a hundred fifty feet of pipe didn't garner a blink.

This new design was incredibly safe, but it had limitations too. In much the way hydroelectric dams didn't make much sense on creeks, the garden hose, though it proved the concept nicely, showed that this style didn't make sense on the small scale. Supercritical water only made sense to use if the fluid was circulating at sonic speeds, and only if the pipe was thick and the diameter small, something confined to a single building. It was good for a short, massive spike, or could run a few homes for a day, but that was its limit. The cold-water design could run a city for an hour, or a town for a few days, and could be built as big as you could afford.

He remembered being incredibly embarrassed when a child showed him up with scraps of pipe and a garden hose. His pride stinging, he asked the only backhanded question he could think of, trying to point out the flaw in an otherwise brilliant crayon design. "Oh yeah, what about all the heat buildup from friction?"

She casually gestured to a high-efficiency heat engine he had yet to figure out, then silently left the room, filled with his shame.

He had said it with anger and spite, and it still echoed in his ears weeks later. His ego needed to get at least one thing right. And he humiliated himself instead.

The plan was ambitious.

But the base was situated in a prime location to capitalize on just such a device.

They sat, relatively speaking, near a main distribution power line. Electrically, they were between a coal plant and three peaking stations. Strike a deal with the coal plant and together they could put the expensive peaking stations out of business overnight. The XO had even lined up some 'smart grid' 'green jobs' DOE money for the project, thanks to recent elections.

The tentative DOE deal meant they could keep all the profit and almost get the construction for free. This had the potential to solve all of the XO's funding needs in the way that rebuilding jet turbines in shop could never dream of doing.

The XO had already cleared the project to the planning stage. Hanly's task had surpassed the insanely complex, now that it all sat firmly on his shoulders. He had to turn crayon drawing he didn't fully understand into a working power plant, and it had taken him nearly five hours of badgering an eight-year-old to get copper sulfate in a garden hose.

It didn't help his ego that he was spending the next month designing what she probably could have drawn, in more detail, in a few hours on the back of a napkin. The details he needed were probably in crayon on the missing pages already, but he had no way of knowing. And the details he already managed to decipher were brilliant, elegant even, but like the suit, totally useless unless he understood everything else. Which he didn't. No one did.

The notes tempted him, like the answers to final exams just sitting on his desk.

They tormented him because he wasn't smart enough to follow them. Like the answers were all there, just out-of-order and only useful to someone smart enough not to need them to begin with.

Power plants were designed by teams of engineers with months or years on their hands. He was just one man with considerably less time, and some notes scribbled by a young girl.

"Jeff," the XO said, "It's been four, almost five years, Man, I thought I'd check in on you and see the pit where all my money is going."

Jeff smiled, spit some tobacco into his mug, then rushed over to shake his hand. "I know what this is really about," he led him into the insanely hot, dry room, "You think that Department of Ag hippy is growing pot plants in your high-dollar greenhouse! Don't worry, I don't think any could survive this heat." He pointed out the potatoes first. "Unbelievably, still exactly as predicted. I'm trying to build you a massive seed bank off of these, the third generation of desert tolerant potatoes. They're so dry, rubbery, and tough that bugs, at least local bugs, can't even penetrate the skins. You have to soak them over two nights, then boil them for at least three hours before you can eat them. But check this out, pluck them from the field, drop them into an industrial coffee grinder, add boiling water, soak for twenty minutes, then microwave for ten and you have instant mashed potatoes. Just like they came out of a box. Two more years on the corn, but already I'd say it'll take the heat just about anywhere in Africa. Don't have any seeds banked for it yet."

"Banked? Where are you banking them? Not in this heat I hope!"

"No Sir, in a freezer in my office."

"Excellent, let's get a lock on that, too."

"Hell, it's got one of them biometric locks on the door to the office already, figured that ought to be good enough. Overkill for seeds, really."

The XO wiped his forehead, "That office have AC?"

Jeff smiled, pinched some more tobacco, then said, "Follow me."

The XO looked at the tiny freezer, expecting a giant deep freeze, perhaps something suitable for a supermarket display. Instead it was the size of a large microwave oven. "You know," he wiped his brow again, "You're probably right. But let's get another freezer and keep half these eggs in that other basket, so to speak. Another building. This may sound stupid, but, how critical is keeping them frozen?"

Jeff opened a Coke and handed it to the XO. "It's not. An envelope on the shelf should last three years. Ten years if you vacuum seal them. Frozen may be taking it a step too far," he opened the freezer door. "These are vacuum sealed and frozen. I figured better safe than sorry."

He sipped before inspecting the contents closer. "What about the corn?"

"Well, most of the corn is still getting planted to evolve them to the next generation. You know, still have a few years left on—"

"Right. I, uh, forgot temporarily. Must have been the heat. You've been turning in the extra potatoes to the cook, right?"

"Oh yes Sir." Jeff got comfortable sitting on the desk. "Actually been, uh, working with him on some recipes, to be perfectly honest. None of the corn, of course, the rejects of them are just vacuum-sealed and stored in the filing cabinet behind you."

The XO headed for the door, but stopped. "There was something else I was going to ask about... "

Jeff smiled, "Termites. Been growing them inside too. Feeding them stalks and corn cobs, protecting them from pests. They love them dry, hard potatoes, once you cut away the skin. The queens are just now starting to kick it into high gear. Now, this won't be that impressive, but... " He pulled a little metal soup can out, turned a tiny valve, and lit a match. The gas burned with a yellow-blue flame about as big and as impressive as a common disposable lighter. "That there is termite poop. Well, the smell from it, anyway. It can be done. I think scale is everything, though. And this scale is too small to generate any accurate numbers."

"Good enough," he said, "just need to prove the concept. Got a new administration, and they love throwing away good money at bad hippy fuels."

Jeff opened a soda for himself. "It ain't hemp powered, but it sure qualifies as hippy fuel."

"I'm swamped with paperwork. Do you think you could fill in the grant forms for me, if I get them to you?"

"Sure, I'd love an excuse to stay in the AC and out of that hothouse."

"Look, Hanly," the XO said, flipping through the papers on his desk, "I can't get millions of dollars in grants for crayon scribblings and a vague outline. I have no control over the deadline to get the paperwork in. Put something together, fake it if you have to. It's hard, I get that. You've never designed a powerhouse before. Who has? What did you expect when you looked at that engine and hired in? We're all in uncharted territory.

I've got to wear a quartermaster's hat, CEO hat, PR manager, fundraiser, salesman— we're all in over our heads here. You've been here forever and you're no closer to figuring out that first—" He jumped to his feet behind the desk, "You worried about the wrong part blowing up, have no idea where the plutonium—" He pounded the desk but refrained from yelling. "Just do this for me. Just this one thing. It's by far the most important thing you've ever worked on, probably in your entire life.

Technically, we're a research company. And this, my friend, this is research. Ballpark it, hurry up, and get it back to me quick. Don't say you don't know, don't hedge with might, could, or maybe. Be decisive and convincing, even if you know you're probably wrong. We're looking for an impressive, big, expensive concept, and our friends in the DOE are itching to find any excuse to give us the funding," he sat, finger pressed into the report. "It's your job, as our only engineer, to make it look like something worth gambling taxpayer money on. Make it look like we have the talent to pull it off, and I'll have the funds to get you the talent to pull it off. Understand?"

"Yes Sir."

The XO returned the papers to Hanly, "One more time, make it count. Doesn't have to be impressive, it just has to look impressive, and look like an engineer did it, not an accountant. Dazzle them with bullshit if you have to."

"Yes Sir."
B1.C18

"This hike is to the top of the mountain," the Sergeant said, "You will all be expected to carry your own gear. The tracking devices around your wrists can not be removed without specialized tools and are made of high-grade stainless steel. Any attempt to tamper with them will trigger a signal and the release of a very unpleasant skunk smell that will make you very, very easy to find.

And yes, as this suggests, your every move will be tracked and graded.

Survival training is scheduled for nine days.

Check your gear, form a line, and follow me."

They piled out of the buses and marched up the path.

The mission, if there was one, was to evade capture by a team of boys with paint guns. The punishment for getting captured was confinement in an open-air pen near the base. 'Punishment' seemed almost identical to the radio-tracked virtual confinement in the open-air mountains. But the rewards were a week free from chores for every day they evaded.

They quickly broke up into small groups and headed out on their own.

One day's ration for each.

Dana slapped at Shadona's hand, "What are you doing? That's got to last nine days."

Shadona continued to unwrap the MRE. "I'd rather eat it now than have one of the boys take it from me later."

Dana pondered the valid point. If any boys stumbled across them, they surely would take the opportunity to pilfer. Not hungry at all, Dana opened hers and started to eat. One day's ration wasn't going to last a week anyway. Boys or no boys.

They had all completed a course on living off the land. It was about time they put it to use. They knew what was edible, and what to avoid. And they knew how to make snares for rabbits and small game.

But they didn't rest long. They put the calories to immediate use by hiking as far as it would take them, as fast as they could go.

That night, Shadona watched Dana sleep under the thin moonlight. Dana slept quickly, soundly... just one of many things Shadona was jealous of. She stared at Dana's hand, then looked at her own.

David destroyed the windshield of the stolen car by lobbing a stone from a blind corner. Even if he had managed to steal the car from them, it was wrecked and would have served him no good. The stone, therefore, was illogical. The wreck was illogical. The fight that followed was illogical. And the deaths of both boys was entirely pointless.

Yet David was committed, driven by his illogical goals.

People often seemed driven by thoughts that only made sense to them. She wondered how many of the thoughts emanating from her damaged brain would make sense to anyone else.

She stared at her hand again.

Dana wasn't the only one who loved Aaron and lost something special that tragic day.

She remembered the first time Aaron held her hand.

A simple thing. Touch. Contact. Such a simple thing as holding hands should not have completely overwhelmed her. Yet, it had.

She remembered getting dizzy when he held her hand that first time. She even felt a little dizzy right now.

Why should a touch have such an effect on her? The touch of the XO was completely different. Authoritative. Heavy. Oppressive perhaps. Instilling a little fear and apprehension, but Aaron's touch was different. Warm. Compassionate. Caring. Connection.

She remembered crying in that tender moment, and Aaron apologizing as he wiped her tear with his finger, then kissed her damp cheek.

Dana wasn't the only one to love him.

She looked at her hand again.

She missed him like she would miss an arm or a leg. She missed him like she missed the safe surroundings of her bed and the base. He, as much as anyone else, had inspired her to escape. To realize she wasn't free. To realize the lives they were living were anything but normal.

She was the odd girl in his group of friends. The misfit. Yet she never felt that way around him. "I want to take you out of here," he would whisper to her. Yet it was she, that took him.

She scanned the horizon, then watched Dana sleep some more.

She loved Aaron.

They loved Aaron.

Her heart seemed quite illogical in dealing with grief. Guilt had turned her affection for him toward Dana... It seemed so absurd, he clearly had loved Dana more, yet now, everything she had felt for him now fell on her. What should have been jealousy quickly turned to sympathy, then affection. It was as illogical as wrecking a car to steal it, or fighting over chicken strips and rolls. Yet it had happened, and it had happened to her, within her defective mind.

She stared at her hand again, and pondered.

When was a roll more than a roll?

When was a touch more than just a touch?

A friend more than a friend?

She waved her fingers in the air and tweaked her cobbled lines of code.

"We snared a rabbit last night?" Dana asked, looking at the strips drying in the tiny fire pit.

Shadona stared at the pile of skin and bones. It wasn't the first rabbit she had killed. Their training included killing animals. In truth, this rabbit had died of its own struggles against the snare. She had merely watched it struggle for twenty minutes or more, with each of its efforts drawing the noose tighter. A wooden club sat beside her the entire time, should she have the courage or the need to put it out of its misery. But, she didn't. Instead, she simply watched, half rooting for it to escape, but knowing it never would.

Dana picked at the meat, "It hasn't dried enou—"

"No smoke during the day." She thought of the rabbit's struggles. It had seen the snare, even sniffed it, but was a victim of its own compulsive nature. Its force of habit was just too strong. The force of her habits let Aaron die when he may well have been saved. She prayed that was the only casualty her uncontrollable habits would claim. But she knew there would be more. "We should move. Distance is our only advantage."

Dana grabbed her half, covered the pit, and collected her gear.

They hid high in the trees as a group of boys rummaged beneath them. The roar of their ATVs gave them away in plenty of time for the two to get up into the foliage, unseen.

"Damn it!" one said, kicking at the ground before spraying a nearby brush with paint pellets. "They couldn't have gotten far. How fresh you think that pit was?"

"No older than a night," another answered.

He pulled out a scope and scanned the horizon again, "Nothing!" He aimed it at his foot, then turned it off. "They've got to be here!"

"Hey, Will, over here! Over here!"

Will stuffed the scope into its case and ran to the bush. "Jackpot!"

Two more boys ran over and crowded the bush, each producing tweezers and something that looked like the honeycomb boards pulled out of hives for harvesting honey. But these trays were plastic, had thumb-sized compartments, and seemed to have a fine wire screen on the back and a rubber cover on the front. The boys madly tweezed something off the shrub, then shoved it through the rubber for the next twenty minutes while the girls watched silently, perhaps thirty yards away.

When the ATVs roared back to life, the boys gunned them down hill, back to the base.

The girls waited another twenty minutes, just to be sure the overly exuberant exit wasn't a ruse, before coming down the trees.

"What the hell were they collecting?" Dana said, looking at the picked-clean shrub.

Shadona shrugged. "Spiders? Spider webs? Insects? I don't know."

Dana looked around, "Why give up our trail for—"

"Unless it was worth more to them, than us." She waved her fingers over the shrub, then closed her hand to a fist and stood. "We should adjust our course. An IR scope complicates things."

Dana looked at the rabbit strips in her pouch, "I'm going to miss cooked food."

The hike continued.
B1.C19

The rain continued for a third consecutive night as the girls huddled, staring out at the falling wet from under the small sheet of plastic from their gear. Six by six was barely enough to keep them dry, but it did. Yet nothing protected them from the cold.

They were miserable, but somehow had managed to stay warm enough to keep from quitting.

The noise was unbearable; each drop that hit the plastic seemed to team together into a symphony of tiny drums just inches from their ears.

Shadona squeezed Dana's hand again. With a rhythm they had developed during that first evening of rain, she finished sharing her plan for escape. The Iron-Man suit was a ploy of hers, a bargaining chip she hoped to use to entice the XO into releasing them. Carrots and sticks was what the books called it. But the stick seemed elusive, for now, and the XO was sure to think it a harmless twig... unless it was used. And hers could be most lethal.

* * *

"Explain this to me," the XO said, staring at the screen.

"Well, Sir," Hanly said, clicking at some other icons on the screen. "Like I was saying, umm," he clicked his way to the page he was looking for, "I don't know exactly how, but I do know when. Look at the publication date. It's been published for over a year now, that means it's in the public domain. Any patents we might have come up with are rendered useless."

The XO's frustration was evident, and infectious. "How the hell did it get on the internet? We've got secure servers, firewalls and all that, right?"

Hanly dropped the mouse and stepped back from the screen. "I thought so too, but obviously not good enough. I know you're probably too far away from it to notice, but take another look. They're not identical. This is, yet isn't, the same engine. By that I mean that the engine she built in the shop has all these little complicated gizmos that made replicating it nearly impossible. This thing that's been published is streamlined. Simple. Almost too simple.

When I first stumbled across it, I thought she had somehow discovered it in some obscure corner of the web, like I just did. Hell, we have no way of knowing for sure that she didn't...

Other than to compare the dates, the time stamp on the video from shop class and the date it first appeared on the web... I don't know what else to say, Sir."

Years of research were ruined, millions in potential patents destroyed. Broken, as the law would say. "This can't be allowed to happen again."

"A software wall might not be enough, Sir. The only way that I know will work, for sure, is to mechanically limit the connectivity of the systems on base. Limit the web to secure office computers, it might mean two computers on every desk, one for inside Email, one for outside. Or some sort of manual switch. I don't know of any other way to prevent this from happening again."

"I want you to scour the web for that fluidic capacitor thing of yours before we get any deeper involved in it. Add internet searches to your monthly schedule. I don't need to remind you, we've got millions invested in tunneling this mountain and equipment alone; the last thing we need is a patent-busting torpedo to blindside us before we can finish construction and turn the damn thing on.

Lord only knows what kind of damage something like that suit could do if it landed in the wrong hands."

"About that, Sir, with the engine design unlocked, so to speak, we just took a giant step closer—"

"Focus on the power plant, for now. The funding is starting to come in and we'll be tooling up soon."

Hanly shuffled to the door, but paused, "You want me to work on unplugging us from the web? Beefing up the firewall—"

"No no, I've got a 'cyber expert' for that." He flipped through his Rolodex, "At least, that's what he calls himself."

Hanly opened the door and—

"Wait a second," the XO said. "They tossed the entire base while they were out on that field exercise. X-rayed walls and everything. We came up with another notebook." He pulled one out of his desk. "This is, of course, a copy. We put the original back in hopes that its discovery wouldn't be, uh, discovered. This one looks very specific and covers the construction of the suit. If you have time, get into it, but the power plant takes priority. And don't let it out of your custody for a second."

Hanly opened the notebook. The color copies of crayon and pencil lines mocked him on every page, but he nonetheless glanced through it with the attention and respect it deserved. "Thank you, Sir. I'll give it a read ton—"

"It's not allowed off the base. I need not tell you how sensitive this kind of information is."

"Yes Sir," Hanly said, rolling it up and tucking it under his arm as he left.

* * *

"Smear the little dykes!" Will yelled as three boys ripped the plastic off their hiding place, rain still falling by the buckets.

Dana woke and got to her feet first... not that it mattered. Both were sprayed, unmercifully, with automatic paint pellet rounds, a full third of which had been 'accidentally' punctured with needles so the paint could harden like a stone inside.

The girls ran, as best they could in the dark of the night, but the boys effortlessly chased wearing night vision.

"For David!" one yelled. Guns empty, the pummeling continued with fists and gun butts.

"Oh my fucking God!" one yelled, his bracelet sounding an ear-piercing alarm as a fine spray engulfed him and Shadona, her hand quickly grabbing the tracking bracelet on her next nearest assailant and 'tampered' with it until a cloud gagged him as well.

Night vision or not, the fumes alone rendered any kind of sight useless as a continuous stream of tears ran down their cheeks.

For the next few seconds the two girls had a level playing field, perhaps even a slight advantage with their eyes already acclimated to the dark. Dana voided the bracelet of her assailant, then kicked him in the shins before clocking him across the head with a lucky swing of her pack, full canteen rupturing on contact.

But their advantage was short lived; the stench, while shocking, was easily overcome. Unlike the sheer number of boys, outnumbered three to one.

"Explain this!" the Drill Sergeant yelled, inches from Will's ear.

"They resisted capture, Sir!"

"Ran and fell at night, Sir!" another answered.

"Wet ground, Sir!" a third shouted out.

"Unacceptable!" the Sergeant yelled, pacing the line of boys, opposite the badly bruised last two girls being checked over by nurse Benita. "A week will be deducted from your reward for bringing them in such a condition."

Dana looked at Shadona, staring at the ground as usual, when the punishment was announced, amounting to little more than a slap on the wrist.

The Sergeant continued to yell, then ordered a full day of pushups and running, while Benita wrapped then plastered Shadona's right arm. Hairline fracture, it was called.

"The boring equipment will be here by the end of the week," the XO said in the shop when he met with Hanly and Yofi. "Now, from here it gets... weird. The DOE modified your designs, slightly, scaled it up a bit, and added a layer of DOD to it." He unrolled the plans on the workbench, middle of the shop. "We're starting with this tunnel here, while another crew flattens the top of that mountain—"

"Look, XO," Hanly said, "I don't know anything about—"

"Don't worry," the XO said, "I'm not making you project manager or anything. Because this thing is sufficiently far away from the base, I've been cleared to use general contractors. We'll be outsourcing and subcontracting the hell out of this little venture. But I do want to keep you two in the loop, mostly because I haven't the faintest idea what I'm looking at." He looked them both in the eyes as he leafed through the hundreds of pages of drawings. "And when they're done, we get to turn it on and figure out how to operate it."

"I'm over my head here," Hanly confessed. "I mean, give me a few weeks of looking at this stuff and I might be up to speed. But I wouldn't be able to troubleshoot—"

Yofi put his artificial hand on the drawing, center of the power risers, "You should let her look at these. Probably the only one who really knows what she's looking—"

"Tempting as that sounds," the XO said, "she's not that likely to be helpful, trust me. We can do this on our own, right?" He looked at them, "Right? Look, I'm going to need both of your help on this. I've got the budget for fifteen more engineers, and I'd like you two to help pick them. There'll be a crew of hundreds building the thing all next year, but just over a dozen to run it. I'd like that dozen to at least have exposure to the construction side of this thing. Part of what's got you two spinning is we let her build that suit without your hands anywhere—"

"She stops the second—"

"I know," the XO said. "I've experienced—" he hesitated before disclosing, "She can analyze two dozen intercepts, simultaneously, in multiple languages, but only while I'm in the room. The second I get up to leave, she stops. And everything has to be just right in the room before she can start. Everything has to be exactly in place on the desk. Queerest thing I've ever seen.

I know exactly how she is to work with, Gentlemen. Believe me, I know." He glanced at the suit, standing in the corner. "Keep in mind that dozen will be tasked with cracking that suit next. Show Yofi the plans, when you two have time. These plans are just to get you two acquainted with it, like reading the repair manual for a prototype turbine."

Hanly pondered, hand on his chin. "We'll need someone with experience as grid managers, maintenance, etcetera."

"It'll take at least a year to upgrade the power lines feeding this place, so," the XO said, "we have some time to find the talent. I'll get you a list of their credentials, let you two pick them out. If it can be kept sufficiently compartmentalized, we may be able to expand to outside the military." He flipped to the back half of the plans, spreading it out again, "Here they're building a mock carrier deck on top of the mountain, figuring on adding an underground hangar." He turned to Yofi, "You've worked on a carrier before, right?"

"Nimitz class for four years. They're not thinking of replicating—"

"No, just the flavor of it. The hangar is a huge, acres and acres, open space with one end set up as a shop. But it'll have a cat and arresting cables, elevators, and a few other things you'll recognize. Flight simulators suggest a high number of potential pilots, and our silent backers in the DOD agreed to help aim us that way. Either way, the carrier deck will let us test, land, and fly out repaired craft." He smiled, "When it's complete, we'll use this complex for urban training." He grinned at the thought of it. Housing the children underground would guarantee an end to future escapes. He pointed at Yofi as he flipped to the appropriate pages, "Give special attention to these, if you could. Make sure the layout of the shop works for you, because we'll be relocating all of this equipment uphill, ok?"

Yofi briefly scanned the plans, "Looks very traditional, probably borrowed from a DOD assembly plant. I'll give it a closer look tomorrow, but I've got to get home by seven ton—"

"No problem, Yofi," the XO said, "just wanted to get the two of you together for a few minutes so you both could agree on where to keep these drawings. Right now, they're open for suggestions and these lines are easily redrawn. That won't be the case a year from now." The XO left the shop.

Hanly looked at Yofi, "He didn't say not to show it to her, did he?"

Yofi smiled, best he could, "No, not exactly."

"You know her better than I do. Maybe leave it out one day, see what happens—"

"She's just as likely to rip it up as she is to fix any errors, better be a copy we leave out." He pulled a CD from an envelope, "We've got a big plot printer. I can run off a copy tomorrow morning, before class."

Hanly smiled, "Print it during class."
B1.C20

With a fractured arm, Shadona was surprised to find she was still scheduled for shop. One handed, she was curious what Yofi thought she could do. But Yofi was one handed himself and managed to handle more than most gave him credit for.

Yofi handed out the morning assignments and got the class started on the latest shipment of damaged equipment.

"Well," he said, pulling the girl aside, "what are we to do with you?"

She glanced up at his eyes, then stared at the floor.

He snapped his fingers, "I've got to make a printout on the plotter, but they need to be manually cut and collated. Boring, and it'll probably take hours. The thing is an old HP," he looked her over, "Older than you anyway. You'll have to watch it closely for paper jams and ink blobs, too."

She continued to stare at the floor while he led her over to the printer in his office. He started the print, then left her alone in the room.

She recognized it immediately.

The scale and details of the drawings took her by surprise; she didn't expect them to attempt it all at once. They planned to hollow out a large portion of the mountain, building the biggest torus first near the base of the mountain and continue to bore up, building progressively smaller toruses as they approached the top. It reminded her of a pyramid of doughnut rings that they had to stack on a peg as one of her infant dexterity tests.

Simultaneously, another crew would flatten the top of the mountain and dig down to build another base resembling a conventional aircraft carrier, only much larger. Crew quarters were to be hundreds of feet underground, with only seven stairwells and four elevators for exits. Once complete, escape may become impossible.

The living quarters, though far more secure underground, were much more spacious that what they had now. Each room was, according to scale, over ten feet by ten feet, and only contained two people! Plus, each was equipped with its own shower, toilet, sink, and desks.

The scale was exactly what she had hoped for. Reluctantly, she needed to correct a few fatal errors to encourage the endeavor. Future 'toruses' seemed contingent on the successful operation of the first, and her calculations predicted she needed at least eighteen for what she had in mind.

Additionally, their MHD designs were 'on the cheap' and needed to be enhanced to handle the stress her plan would subject them to.

She stretched the drawing out on his desk, then selected a mechanical pencil from the assortment in his mug.

This had obviously been their plan and the reason she was assigned such a menial task. But she had to fix the errors now, while it was still modifiable. Otherwise, they would never do what she wanted.

"I don't understand the importance of these changes," Hanly said, looking over the new MHD designs. "Why beef them up so much? I mean, her coils are a hundred times bigger than I figured on. And she's calling for another foot of concrete in the walls. That'll have big cost issues."

Yofi shrugged, "You've got me. Maybe our math on how much stress those walls will be subjected to is off... by a lot. If she's right, we'd be looking at containment failure and a total disaster. If she's wrong, we doubled the price of the cheapest component for nothing. Maybe she figures it'll circulate faster than we think it will. I don't really know. But these are the changes she wrote down." He smiled, "Besides, when have you ever heard of a government job coming in on budget?"

Hanly looked over the chemistry of her proposed polymer liner. He had never seen chemistry like it before. It would have to be outsourced too, adding another complication. But putting in the liner would be the last thing they did before turning the unit on. They had months, if not a year to get a company to mix it for them. "I'd like to have a sample of this before we make swimming pools of it. What if it isn't any good?"

"I've never been able to get her to explain anything she does. But I've never known her to do something without a reason. I'd go with her numbers before I'd go with—"

"The XO isn't going to sign off on these kinds of cost overruns without a good excuse. She may have great reasons, but I'll have to sell them. A radical, experimental liner on this scale instead of using the tried and true... Sure, I might be able to sell him on the extra concrete under 'safety' and the beefed up coils under future experimental—"

"It's all experimental. Let's look on the web and see if there's some high-energy experiments that need spikes like that MHD redesign is geared for. Sell it that way. Look, the XO isn't an idiot either. There's a reason why we're staring at a glorified crayon drawing with a potential billion-dollar budget attached. If it comes down to it, tell him she penciled it in and we'll just face the consequences for showing it to her."

Hanly shook his head as he dug deeper into the corrections. "A billion-dollar budget, for a nine-year-old."

Yofi rested his hand on Hanly's shoulder, "Close, but I don't think they turn nine for another couple months."

The XO looked over the changes. Expensive, but it was other people's money. Hanly came up with some interesting selling points, but he could tell just by looking at the lines who had drawn them. Anyone else would have used a ruler to make straight lines, compasses or a punch card to do circle. All of which left tells on the paper, one side of the line would always be straighter than the other. Crisper.

Not hers. She freehanded it.

Besides, he was well accustomed to her style by now.

He picked up the phone and made a call. Hanly wasn't the only one who could bullshit his way through a sales pitch. Using Hanly's links to high-energy physics experiments as quick references, he lobbied for the increases.

After visiting Jeff on his way out, he headed for the airport.

The XO got off the plane in Dulles, DC, where he was picked up in a black SUV and driven to his meeting.

His government connections were excited, yet reserved about what he hoped would be an extremely lucrative contract.

"This, Gentlemen, is the work of years. A breed of potato that is naturally resistant to most bugs, so drought tolerant it can actually be grown in the deserts of Africa, and has nearly a full day's servings of vitamins and minerals. Of course, the mineral content is very dependent on the soil it's planted in." He handed out the samples from Jeff's last crop. "What you have there is the potato as it comes out of the ground. Go ahead and cut it in half."

The men around the table struggled with their pocketknives on its tough skin and wooden interior.

"Hold up, Gentlemen, before someone gets hurt. These tubers come out of the ground nearly dry to the bone, and can be stored, as is, for a year without spoiling. No root-cellar required, just keep it dry and away from water." He plugged in a blender and dropped a few in. When he turned it on, it cried bloody murder like he had dropped in a handful of gravel. Within a minute the wooden spuds had been bludgeoned into a powder that he poured into a pot of boiling water. "Now we wait twenty minutes," but instead, he served them each a bowl kept hot in his cooler.

Everyone tentatively took a bite, swished like they were tasting wine, then dug in with a full spoon. "Not bad," one said, "A bit bland," another said, "But nothing Tabasco sauce wouldn't cure," said a third. "You have our attention, what's your angle with this?"

Thanks to Jeff's coaching, he had rehearsed these talking points the most. "Well, they follow many tracks simultaneously.

First, lower production costs because you can grow them in drought areas of the US, or even around the world—"

"I would have a problem with that, Major Brigspan," one said. "What if this breed gets out? Cross pollinates with—"

"What, cactus? It'd be about the only thing alive out there. Listen," the XO continued, "this isn't genetically modified, there's no engineering to it at all. Exclusively done through a rigorous breeding program and hot—"

"I find it difficult to believe that there is no GM in it anywhere. You simply can't evolve a typical potato from what we have today to this within anyone's lifetime."

The XO smiled. Jeff had prepared him well for this specific question, and he handed out a color-photo book over a thousand pages long with nearly a hundred dollars in ink alone, containing each and every generation. "You will see the entire program, in detail, and how to replicate it within a decade for yourself. But let me get back to my presentation—"

"Sorry to interrupt again, but even if these are not GM products, I still have a problem with turning loose a food that is easily grown in Africa. A lot of farm subsidies given to American farmers depend on our charitable exports to places like Africa. If they become food subsistent, we're looking at a huge political backlash. The inability around the world to get reasonable irrigation and quality land to grow their own food is the cornerstone of our agricultural exports."

"Granted," the XO continued, "and I'm not recommending that we export this as a technology or give it away at all. I suggest we keep that political Ace tucked up our sleeve, but there's only so much profit in charity. Which brings me back to the long shelf life of this product. Turn it into powder and it's almost identical to instant potatoes that every Marine is used to eating. Maybe even a little better. Cheap animal feed, cheap land, cheap irrigation. Because of all those factors, these potatoes could produce ethanol for less than our current, heavily subsidized prices and thus—"

"I think you misunderstand subsidies entirely," one said.

"Subsidies," another took over, "have nothing to do with making things cheaper. They're exclusively about politicians buying votes. And I don't see this as a way to buy votes."

The XO was getting frustrated, but Jeff had warned him this was likely to be the mindset with this level of bureaucrat. "Vitamin extraction is also extremely cost effective for this tuber." He handed out the breakdown sheet from an independent lab. "We also have some earlier varieties that more closely resemble traditional potatoes, yet used 40% less water. We're on a final generation of corn that is just as drought tolerant." The men discussed it among themselves as the XO passed out samples from the batch he had made, right before their eyes.

"Look, this is a major accomplishment," one said, "and as a safeguard against unforeseen disasters, droughts, and a reemergence of another dust bowl, I can easily see the need to buy and bank a massive supply of seed of this variety, and corn as soon as it's ready, but politically, there's no way we can justify letting the world have access to something like this. It may even fall under national defense and have to be classified top secret and—"

"It's already classified top secret," the XO said. "Look," he stared down at the table, "I hate to discuss budget items, but this project has cost my company hundreds of thousands—"

The men smiled, "You don't have a clue how the Department of Agriculture works, do you?" one said. "This isn't the first time we've paid millions to have people NOT grow something," another took over. "Hell, that's 90% of what we're all about... paying farmers to not plant their fields," the third offered his hand to the XO, "We'd be happy to pay you to not grow this!"
B1.C21

An air raid siren pierced the evening, middle of shop class.

"Alright everyone," Yofi said. "You know the drill. Thirty seconds to power down the equipment."

Motors whirled down all around him as the children assembled into formation.

"Very good, very good," he said, checking behind them. "Lock down those plates," he said, pointing with his artificial hand.

They stood in the middle of the shop, well clear of all the heavy equipment, when the ground beneath them shook with an explosive rumble and a muffled bang echoed across the roof and down into the valley. The sounds of trees snapping like twigs in the landslide felt like fingernails on a mountain-sized chalkboard. Loose bolts and nuts vibrated off desks and shelves, but little else moved.

Most of the equipment weighed multiple tons, and everything was bolted down. Powering down the equipment was more about protecting it, than protecting them.

"Not yet," Yofi said to an overly anxious boy, "wait for the all clear."

They waited.

And waited.

And after another few minutes, a whistle blew and they silently went back to work.

The entire top of the mountain disappeared in a matter of weeks, shaved flat like a military buzz cut, thanks largely to the 'disposal' of surplus military ordnance. Cutting the road up the side of the mountain for the heavy equipment took slightly longer, but soon the explosions were over and the longer tasks of construction swung into high gear. Hundreds of workers crowded into the trailer-city on the mountaintop, and what little time the children had outside was over for the foreseeable future.

Nine years old.

She sat in her chair, automated lesson ended minutes ago. But still she sat, fingers waving in the air. Her hobbled programming was working flawlessly.

Flawless might not have been the right word, but what flaws it had were manageable, and for the most part, self-correcting. Terabytes of information flowed through its optical chip, intertwining with near ballet perfection in a digital dance at light speed.

When she saw the engine Hanly made, her design, she knew her ruse with the intercept analyzer had worked perfectly. Since she couldn't crack the firewall, she made her code so complex that the server itself would eventually have to be relocated, dissected, and connected to the web where it would upload the book, and a few other things. His sudden understanding of her engine was proof that her plan had worked and that the server had accessed the outside world.

She waved her fingers, paused, then listened as it tickled back.

Their dissection of the base server for her intercept analyzer also gave her a baseline on the intellect of her adversaries in the field. They couldn't dissect it without physically removing it, in total. They couldn't prevent its malicious code from uploading once outside. They couldn't find her book buried in its code before it deployed. And they couldn't write workarounds for her misappropriation of video-card processors.

Even with so much proof of her superiority over her digital adversaries, she knew putting plans on the server wasn't secure. Any program on it was discoverable as long as it was located on their system, their hardware.

Her ring was safe. Secure. She waved her fingers again.

It had taken everything she had to memorize the simple details it took to make the suit and the ring. Without writing any of the ring down, memorizing every piece and interaction had nearly rendered her a zombie for a month.

What she had in mind next would require her to memorize an encyclopedia worth of dry data without getting a single digit wrong. It wasn't humanly possible. She needed the ring, if for nothing more than a place to store notes. But her hope went beyond notes. The ring would do most of the work filling in the fine details of her broader strokes. And so far, it was proving itself up for the task.

With a clenched fist, she finished loading her next test project and would let the ring work out all the details on its own. A test it should have complete by the end of the week.

While still in a cast, she worked on small projects off to the side in the shop, often by herself and unsupervised. Unsupervised... she looked up into the ceiling and stared at the camera they tried to conceal. She was never really unsupervised.

She wove the wires into the sock sleeve, then connected them to the miniature IO board from the surplus parts bin. Linear motors were hard to come by, but not entirely difficult to make, especially with the equipment she had at her disposal. The intricate windings had taken a week, off and on, to fabricate from scratch.

Software. Code. Programming would play a huge roll in this new project. Programming alone would take her years to complete by hand. Even storing it securely on the ring, she would need a way to convert it back from photons to electrons.

Fortunately, that little bit of technology had already been built for her. To protect sensitive electronic equipment from surges, most processors insulated themselves with what was commonly called optical isolation. This amounted to an infrared diode built almost on top of an infrared (photon) receiver. With enough precision, she cracked the casing on just such a chip in such a subtle way as to allow it to interface directly with her ring without ever being noticed. To the surveillance camera it looked like she was casually resting her hand on the equipment, while her other hand kept up the distractions at the keyboard.

It took her a full month, but she finished it in time to have her cast removed.

Yofi stared at the device, sitting in the corner of the workbench, casually stuffed between two cardboard boxes of injector parts.

Naked aluminum looked oddly disturbing, especially in that ominous, movie-prop form. He tugged the Kevlar glove off its end, and stared. The intricate articulation looked functional, but hardly seemed possible.

He looked around the shop, empty of kids that had gone for the day. Expecting Hanly within the next few minutes, he still couldn't take his eyes off the tempting device.

He could wait no longer.

He unplugged it from the wall, took off his shirt, and cautiously strapped it on.

A wiring harness tethered the processor to a web of labeled sticky-tabbed sensors that he carefully applied to his good arm... but it didn't seem to work.

He closed his eyes and tried again— and felt it move!

He closed his good hand and felt the sensation of fingers touching his underarm, much like the special shirt did for the suit. He picked up a pencil and wrote his name on a sheet of paper, mirrored perfectly with his artificial hand. When a green light blinked, he unplugged the wiring harness and put on the Kevlar glove to protect the sensors in his new hand.

He ran his new fingers across the table and felt the threads of the bolt pressing — not against his fingers — but against the equally sensitive skin in his underarm. It would take some getting used to, but like the shirt in the suit, it was very intuitive and should quickly become second nature.

Thinking of the near comic book abilities of the suit, he gripped a coffee mug and squeezed as hard as he could.

Nothing.

But he couldn't crush a mug in his human hand either. He tested it on steel plates next.

Twenty-seven pounds seemed the limit that it could handle without stalling, but that was more than enough to pour a bottle of milk, read a book, or— he walked over to the nearest keyboard and started to type.

Typing.

Such a silly, pointless, girly thing when he was young. But with only one hand, hunt-and-peck had made typing and using a mouse a laborious chore. Just the sheer ease of using the Shift and Ctrl keys made typing a pleasure again.

A chore no more.

Fingers, articulate and delicate enough to press keys. And not just a key, but any key he was aiming at with the same swiftness and precision as his real hand.

After a few minutes, he was back to his old typing speed again.

Plates, setting the table, eating, getting dressed. The simple things he had lost so long ago were back at his fingertips.

A cold Kevlar finger touched his cheek, purely out of reflex. He stared at the damp spot, beading on the synthetic threads... when Hanly walked in.

When the rest of the class started on their repair projects, Yofi rested a hand on Shadona's shoulder, "Can I see you in my office, please."

She stared at her feet as they walked to the door.

A thousand words ran through his thoughts while playing with his new toy the night before, and seeing her that morning felt like that seemingly endless wait at the airport for a reunion with a long lost friend. But there, in the privacy of his office, he couldn't think of a single word. None of those thousands seemed to match the feelings in his heart, so he hugged her instead.

She felt as fragile as a piece of glass about to crumble in his arms, so he let go... and apologized. "I'm sorry," he said to the girl staring at her shoes. "I just," he pressed the pin in his knee and awkwardly knelt to be within her gaze, "Thank you, Shadona," he said. "Thank you."

She looked uncomfortable enough at the unprovoked embrace, but managed the faintest hints of a smile when she lightly touched the back of his Kevlar-covered new hand.

He couldn't help but hug her again.
B1.C22

Yofi closed the door and stood before the XO in the small office. "Thank you for seeing me," he said.

The XO gestured at the seat, "Please, sit down and tell me what's on your— You don't need something changed on the new shop layouts, do you?"

"No Sir," Yofi said sitting, then strummed his new fingers nervously across his knee. "I wanted to talk to you about, uh, I'm starting to have problems with this."

The XO looked up from the pile of papers on his desk, "Look, Yofi, you know you make your own schedule. You don't have to clear any of that with me. Some kid giving you problems, you have complete authority to kick them out. It's your shop, your call. They work around your schedule, not the other way around. Got dozens begging for a slot in shop."

"No, it isn't that, Sir—"

"Then what? Stuff coming up missing? Think they're plotting, suspicious about something?" He plopped his hand on the stack of papers, "I'm up to my neck in this DOE stuff. Just cut to the chase for me."

"I don't know if I can keep doing this." Yofi leaned forward, "When I started, I had convinced myself that I was teaching them something. That it was a class. But it isn't a class anymore. Probably never was. We're treating... this is child slave labor, and I'm not sure I can be a part of it anymore."

The XO pounded his fist against the stack, but relaxed after a few seconds. With the construction on the mountain still months behind schedule, the shop was their only activity still turning a profit. And a large one at that. "Are chores slave labor? They're all there on a strictly volunteer basis, I assure you. Just ask them."

"Each of them puts in fifty or sixty hours a week, and does a job that would normally garner top wages, anywhere in the world. There's some real talent there. It's just— I, I'm having problems with all of this, Sir."

The XO leaned back in his chair, "How do you want to remedy it? What are you proposing, giving them a salary? They're nine, nine and a half, that's just as illegal. Listen, Yofi, I like you. You've been incredibly valuable to all of this. I get your moral quagmire here, trust me, I do. But there's no easy solution.

You're 100% right, and if they were employees, I'd give them all raises.

You served, same as me. You've worked with incompetent people that got promoted, while hard working talent got left behind. The world isn't fair.

It just isn't.

I was given the six-cent solution when I got here. To put a round in the back of every head and cover the entire mess in dirt. None of this is ideal, Yofi. We're all making the best of a bad situation.

They're still sleeping dozens to a room, and I don't have the kind of budget that will change that any time soon." He shuffled some papers on the desk, "Our salaries, the funds that keep the lights on, little of it is taxpayer money anymore. Yeah, we get sizable DOE grants, but I have to account for every penny. Separate books. What your shop is doing is keeping them fed and the lights on, and there isn't a lot left over, even if I wanted to hand out raises, pensions, or college funds." He pulled out his wallet and slid across his pay-stub. "Just look at it for a minute. You'll see I make less than you do. My pay is the only one that hasn't risen since I got here, because it's just that tight."

Yofi slid it back.

"I get it, Yofi, I do.

Play music in the shop if you want to. I've budgeted for your pizzas, sodas, and those damned ultra-expensive Kevlar gloves. Bring me a request, a budget item, and I'll do my best to make it happen.

But I have far less guilt over working those children, than I would if I had spent that six cents."

Yofi paused, still in the chair.

"Hang in there for me, Yofi. Give me another year to get that power plant online. Year and a half if they keep falling behind. Get a real budget that isn't dependent on the sweat of children. You've seen the plans, no more dozens to a room."

It wasn't what he was hoping for, but he stood and walked to the door. "Yes, Sir."

He watched her stand at the workbench, her hand waving in the air, oblivious to all those busily working around her. She had spells of it before, but rarely lasting this long.

Yofi put his hand on the girl's shoulder and led her away from the bustle of the shop and into the quiet of his office.

"Shadona," he said without her notice. He stared at her face, eyes almost closed. She looked to be mumbling, perhaps even sleepwalking.

He grabbed her wrist and looked at his watch. Her pulse was normal.

"What goes on inside your head, little girl?"

She waved her hand, fingers moving to music only she could hear.

He looked at his arm, then thought of the suit, "You're building something, inside your head, aren't you.

That's where you keep all your prototypes. Experiments. Isn't it?

Nikola Tesla, one of my heroes when I was growing up, used to invent in his head, too. I read his autobiography, twice, and was always fascinated by how he invented. I tried to imagine what it took to have that kind of mind.

But I've never invented anything in my life.

He imagined in such detail that he even spent time mentally filing each tooth of every gear.

Edison would throw thousands of experiments at the wall and hope for something to stick." He thought of the giant experiment being carved into the nearest mountain. "You're definitely more Tesla, but even Tesla would never conceive of... " He stared at her eyes darting back and forth under her lids, "what are we going to do with you?"

Her fingers slowed, then stopped.

"What's on your mind, Shadona?"

She looked him in the eyes, probably the longest she had ever done in the years that he had known her. Dark, deep brown, almost black eyes that didn't shy away so fast this time. Her lips moved, ever so slightly, like she had something to say... but she stared at the floor instead.

"Just tell me, little girl, maybe I can help."

She glanced up again, but said nothing.

"I wish I could get you out of here, find you someplace where you belong."

Her hand reached out, as if she had something to say, but said more when she hugged him instead.
B1.C23

The base shuddered with an explosion as smoke filled the screens.

Hanly looked up, checked the data, then smiled when the results trickled in. He picked up the phone, "Yes Sir, I think we have it... Yes Sir, I'm venting the tent right now... Should have eyes on it in twenty... Yes Sir, I'll know more then, but all the numbers are identical to the original... Thank you, Sir." He hung up the phone.

He monitored the screens, then donned his radiation gear and proceeded to the tent.

Everything was burned and twisted, just as before. He checked the Geiger counter, just to be— It was ticking violently. He waved it around and quickly found the tiny grain in a smoldering pile. Covering it with a lead blanket, the levels dropped immediately as he surveyed the rest of the tent. Where the pile of plates were before, globs of goo sat now.

"What the hell went wrong?" he said inside the plastic suit, video taping the scene, before walking back to his corner of the shop.

The XO marched through the door with a smile as Hanly was still trying to figure out what happened.

"Sorry Sir," Hanly said, uploading the camera video, "It's a complete failure. I don't get it. I repeated the experiment precisely." He pulled out the notebook. "I even cross referenced it with what's on the video of the original. I just don't get it."

The XO's smile faded fast. "Do you have any idea how expensive this was?"

"Yes Sir, I do. And I don't know what to tell you, Sir."

"How fucking hard can this be, Hanly? You have her notebook. Hell, you have weeks of video from a dozen angles of every single thing they did! How in the hell is it even possible that you screwed this up!"

"I... I don't know, Sir. I just don't know."

"God damn it, Hanly, I can't afford this shit! This place is—" The XO pounded his fist on the table, "I needed this damn thing to work, Hanly. We needed another revenue stream, quick. Our funding is getting cut faster than I can dig up new sources. Even at this thing's price tag, it was worth the gamble because it could've been a huge moneymaker. Even if we outsourced most of it." He pounded the table again, "But we have to have something to outsource, don't we! I can't afford another failure from you, Hanly. I barely have the margins to scrounge enough material for you to take another stab at—"

"Without knowing what went wrong, I wouldn't— I've got hours and hours of video to review, Sir. And a notebook to read and read and read again."

"Are you sure you're smarter than a fifth-grader?"

"Not any more, Sir."

The XO stormed back to his office.

"Professor," the XO said over the phone in his office, "I'm glad I was able to get a hold of you. You're a very busy man, nowadays... " He leaned back in his chair while he clicked the mouse and changed the screen. "Congratulations on the patent, by the way," He smiled at the Professor's awkward silence, "It sounded incredibly familiar. Almost identical to what I showed you in our server room." He leaned forward in his chair and pressed his finger to the article on the screen. "Tell me, how did you ever come up with the idea to hack video processors and turn them into...

Now Professor, I would never dream of filing a law suit for patent infringement, especially over something that was, essentially unpatentable, since patenting it would be an obvious violation of NATIONAL SECURITY, and could even be defined as treason...

Now calm down, Professor, calm down. That's better. What profit would there be in sending you to jail? Besides, I don't have the time or energy to spend delivering hours and hours of sensitive video and testimony to some secret federal court... of course we have hours of video in the server room. I even have a hard drive, right here in my desk, with your fingerprints, literally, all over it...

Professor, calm down. I have something better than lawyers, a way that we can both profit from this little misunderstanding. I think we can settle this matter out of court, don't you? Everyone wins that way...

How would you like to meet the author of that multi-million dollar patent of yours... She's an intern here. And that lucrative patent was literally child's play to her." He smiled at the Professor's predictable reaction.

"Hanly," the XO said when the door to his office opened, "Did you figure out what went wrong yet? It's been what, a week?"

Hanly stood before the desk, "No Sir, not yet. Not anything specific. But I've been thinking about the engine on the—"

"You've already got the engine working, Hanly. Hell, anyone with an internet connection can get that engine working!"

"Yes Sir. But the internet version wasn't the one she made. The first one, even when you put it in my hands, was almost impossible to duplicate and make work. She added dozens of confusing subsystems to it that actually prevented it from operating. She booby-trapped it, in other words." He put the notebook on the XO's desk. "She booby-trapped it, Sir." He flipped it open and pointed to something circled. "Leonardo da Vinci wrote hundreds of notebooks. Most were in code, and some had vicious little intentional errors in them. Obvious to him, nearly impossible for anyone else to find, that rendered it into junk if built by anyone else. Booby-trapped. Like hidden little keys. Secret doors in castles. What if she did the same thing on a billion dollar scale?"

A shiver ran down his spine. "She wouldn't. Would she?"

"Thicker walls, a new polymer lining... probably not. That doesn't seem like either of those could be destructive. The chemicals used in that suit are rather volatile, in the car-bomb category. If she was designing a dangerous booby-trap, I would think she could easily have done better than smoke and wasted money. We could have had a nuclear disaster area, but instead, the grain simply didn't catalyze and the reaction never happened. Everything stayed inert and the plutonium was easily found, intact. The list of much worse possibilities was huge, but none of them happened. I think that, too, was intentional."

The XO rested his hand on the power plant drawings, rolled up in the corner by the desk, "Three hundred pages is an awful lot of ink to hide a couple errors in, Hanly."

"I understand the principles involved in that a lot better than I understand the suit. Think of the suit like a fancy cake recipe. If you're new to cooking, it's easy to confuse tablespoon and teaspoon or baking soda and baking powder and the cake will taste like dog food. With the suit, I'm clearly no cook.

But that power plant I understand a lot better. It's a hydraulic flywheel blended with a MHD motor/generator and I've been working with it, small scale, for months. power plant scale is new and probably has never been done anywhere on the planet before. But, I'm not lost in the kitchen with it.

Besides that, the DOE and DOD engineers thoroughly looked it over. They have a long history of experimental power plants, and marrying that to her MHD flywheels gives me a lot of confidence. Even so, I'm sure there are errors in it, but they're more likely to be human errors than booby-traps."

"I think I found some funding to offset your recent suit debacle, but it's very limited and a one-time settlement. Is there any way you can scale it down? Take it piece by piece?"

"Yes sir, I think I can. To a point. But I'm not following how she's using the magnetics and plutonium as a catalyst for the reaction, and I doubt anyone does. Physics changes in weird ways under the intense magnetic field she subjects it to. You start dealing with plasmas and stuff, and I'm just guessing that's where her reaction is taking place. It could very easily not be scalable down.

Let me explain. Fusion reactors are a fifty-year-long dream, and that physics is well understood. A hydrogen bomb that fuses a fistful of hydrogen is easy to make, but the explosion is impossible to contain. Crushing a pea-sized pellet of fuel, an explosion that is containable, has proved elusive for decades. It's taken lifetimes, and Teller, the father of the H-bomb, had a firm understanding of fusion physics.

I, on the other hand, am completely guessing when it comes to that suit."

"Pick some easier aspects of it, then. Try breaking it down— Since the engine is unlocked, start working the hydraulics and those weird airbags. Keep an eye open in those resumes for your physics shortcomings. Lets try to get as many birds as we can with each stone's throw."

"About that, I'll Email you the names of six that I found that would just be outstanding to—"

"When the staff starts building up to run and maintain the mountain, we're going to shift to heavily compartmentalized, DOD and DOE rules. Don't slip like Yofi did with blabbing about the kids."

"Yes Sir."

"I've got, maybe, enough funds to try this full scale one more time. Maybe. But if we do it again, it will have to work. 100% the next time. I'll take it piecemeal if I have to, but the funds are dry. Maybe when we get power plant funds we can throw some real money at it, but that won't be for a few years."

"Yes Sir."
B1.C24

"We've covered weapons training before," the Sergeant said as he walked down the line, "most of you are well qualified. Today will be hand combat. Mat it!"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!" they yelled in the cafeteria, breaking from formation and quickly stacking tables and chairs to the sides while mats were brought out.

"Brown belts on the brown mats, yellow belts over here, and black belts take center. Pair up!"

Shadona stood on the mat as the other girl eagerly took the opposing side.

"Begin!" the Sergeant said.

Bari bowed in unison with Shadona, then both took a fighting pose.

Bari smiled as she delivered two chops, followed by two kicks and another chop, unopposed.

Shadona was the easiest to defeat.

She did all the poses and exercises perfectly, but she rarely fought back, and even more rarely defended herself. Always the first one out in the competition.

Shadona sat safely on the sidelines and watched the combat continue, ice pressed to the lump forming on her side.

"Will, Steven, George," Yofi said, turning the corner from behind the massive automated mill, "do you like working in the shop?"

The three boys stood at attention, "Yes Sir!"

"There is no," he swatted George on the back of the head, "I repeat, no horseplay in the shop. Not now, not ever, not for any reason." He pressed his finger into Will's shoulder, "Why?"

"Horseplay around powered equipment is dangerous and leads to accidents, Sir."

"And?" Yofi said, pointing to Steven.

"Accidents lead to mistakes—"

"What's riding on this equipment?" Yofi asked the ringleader again.

"Soldiers' lives, our country, our reputation, our pride, and freedom around the world, Sir!" George said.

"Horseplay causes fatal distractions," Yofi said, pointing at each but talking loud enough for everyone to hear, "and if you can't keep horseplay out of my shop, then I'll keep you out of it. This was your first and last warning, got it?"

"Yes Sir," the boys said.

"Good! Now, I know you have no reason, other than horseplay, to be standing around an Apache that is not assigned to you."

"Yes Sir!" they said, quickly walking back to their assigned projects, since running was equally frowned upon.

Yofi picked up the icepack and returned it to the girl, still sitting on the floor. "You want to tell me how this started?" he asked, only loud enough for her to hear.

Shadona pressed the ice to her side while staring at his gloved hand.

"That's all right." He put a hand on her shoulder, then walked to the center of the shop. "Let me be clear," he said over the buzz of all the machines. "You can have fun here, you can talk, we take frequent breaks, listen to music, read comic books... you have a lot of freedom here. But make no mistake, this shop is nothing but serious. These repairs are deadly serious. None of this equipment are toys. And there will be no horseplay tolerated in this shop, for any reason, at any time." He said all that came to mind, for whatever good it would do.

She seemed to get picked on a lot, there was little he could do about that. But it wasn't going to happen in front of him again.

After the competition and Will was declared champion, the Drill Sergeant walked the mats. Inspecting. He called out the names of the bottom six students in his class.

Shadona stood at attention when her name was called.

"What do we have here," the Sergeant said as he paced around the bottom six, "A product of laziness?"

"No Sir, Drill Sergeant, Sir!" five of the six yelled back.

"Do you lack a warrior's heart?"

"No Sir, Drill Sergeant, Sir!" five of the six yelled back.

"Then it must be a lack of experience. And experience is something we can give you, in spades.

First, we'll get you beyond the fear of getting hurt, so you can stop holding back," the Sergeant said, gesturing for the class to come closer while he stepped away from the six. "Steel is forged in heat; the hotter, the better. Light the forge," he said, as the rest of the class eagerly pounced on the six in a mob-style free-for-all.

For the next thirty seconds, the kids in the center were 'helped' with their fear of getting hurt, by being assured of getting hurt.

The Sergeant blew his whistle and the mob dispersed. "The second part of a good forge is, after the metal is softened, it must be hammered into shape."

Lines formed in font of each of the weakest six. Every two minutes, the Sergeant blew the whistle and a fresh student from the line rotated in and the fight continued until the forging was complete.

Nurse Benita looked at the badly bruised girl sitting on the examination table. She turned on the light behind the film, "It's fractured," she said, looking at the ankle. "The rest are just contusions and sprains."

Shadona glanced at the picture on the wall as the nurse added water to the plaster and started mixing for a cast.

"I'm getting tired of seeing you in here," she said, working the sock over the injured foot, then wrapping it with strips. "At least you don't squirm."

Shadona paid a very high price for not fighting back that day.

"What are we doing here, Sir?" Yofi asked, entering the XO's office.

The XO shrugged at his desk. "I'm not following," he said, but didn't look up from the papers.

"What happens if she gets a concussion, or worse?" He sat in the chair, "What are we doing here? I've seen that girl in a cast, bruises all over her face, and just this week, a broken leg. That girl doesn't belong here— What's going on here is wrong, and someone should say or do something about it."

The XO looked up, "I've got a son about their age, he's had six stitches in his head because he thought he was a Power Ranger and jumped off the—"

"She got beaten up as a part of class! And she's not the only— Iron Man at age seven, engine at six, a power plant by the end of this year. What kind of brain damage would be acceptable to you— This is like using Einstein as a warm-up for Tyson, Coach. What are you losing with every blow to the head? How much are you willing to lose pounding this square peg into a round hole? What are you thinking?"

"Seems she bought a lot of sympathy for a bionic arm, built at taxpayer expense."

Yofi yanked off the arm and thudded it against the desk. "You're investing good money in damaging the goose that's laying your golden eggs. Wouldn't it make more fiscal sense to build the goose a nice house and a solid fence, instead of trying to teach her to growl so she can fit in with the rest of the wolves?"

"What do you think is going to happen here, Yofi, when children turn into adults? They've been drafted already. Period. Beyond getting the girl to defend herself, they will see combat someday. All of them will see—"

"I enlisted, and I did more for my country in a shop repairing War Birds than most Marines did with boots and rifles. You're misusing your best assets, and nobody knows what you'll end up with if you finally pound that peg in... other than a whole lot of broken eggs."

The XO stood, grabbed the arm like a bat, and... handed it back. "Yofi, we've had this conversation before. They may look like children, but they're not. You know that. Every day, they prove it. There isn't a child anywhere on this planet rebuilding jet engines, we've got dozens of them right here. Half of which are probably better at it than you ever were. Most have the equivalent of multiple Masters and PHDs. All are multilingual. Most are so fluent they could, and probably will, be used as spies or Special Forces.

Get this through your head. They are not children. They do not have parents. We're not here to make them into good citizens, taxpayers, loving parents, daycare workers, Senators, or barbers. We're here to make them into soldiers. Hell, technically they were born in international waters to prevent them from even having legal citizenship.

I get it, you care. You've become attached to some of them. You've had more personal contact with them than anyone else here. That's to be expected.

What's more, she may look like a goose, act like a goose, and may even lay the occasional golden egg, but make no mistake, she's a wolf. Just like the rest of them. They're all cut from the same cloth.

You've got a choice here, Yofi.

You've got them for eight, ten, sometimes twelve hours a day. You've had a few years to realize that when I say I don't care how you run your shop, so long as you get results, that's exactly what I mean. I've been hands off, haven't I?

What you do with that time is up to you, or who ever replaces you.

That's your choice. You get to choose who the biggest influence in their lives is. You, or the next guy.

I have no intentions of replacing you. Other than a few annoying conversations like this, you're a model employee and you run your department like the well-oiled machine it is." He sat behind his desk, then arranged his papers again. "Think she's a goose? Make the shop more of a nest, if you want.

But I'm giving that same freedom to my drill sergeants, too.

She's not a goose, she's a loaded gun.

They all are."
B1.C25

"Listen, Shadona," Yofi said in his office near the end of shop class, "I want to help you here, but my authority is limited. I have no control over what happens outside this shop."

She sat in the chair and stared at the floor.

"I would have figured that with a cast still on, they would have exempted you from combat training," He reached out to touch her nearly swollen-shut eye, but stopped, inches from her face. "Probably you did, too."

She looked him in the eyes, a faint frown on her face.

"He let you stay in shop as long as you wanted when you built that engine—"

She looked away.

"No, I'm not suggesting that you have to invent something. Your mind probably doesn't work that way. Probably even Edison's didn't, and that man cranked them out by the hundreds." He pulled up some drawings on the computer, then slid a piece of paper from the desk. "The military has been experimenting with UAVs for decades, but they're big and problematic. What's needed is a smaller unit anyone can use. A squad level UAV.

As inexpensive as a kid's toy to make, that would give them eyes in the air, mixed with a soldier's firepower." He put his crude drawing on her lap. "We rebuild helicopters and plane parts here all the time. They're too complex and big to make tiny, and little model engines are loud as hell and give themselves away too easily.

So, I was thinking about your tiny engine, making it smaller. It's as quiet as a refrigerator when you're standing next to it; put it fifty feet in the air and it's acoustically invisible. The hydraulics in your suit, what Hanly already figured out, would let us build a tiny automatic transmission too, perfect for a UAV.

Put sixty rounds of .223 on it and a few M203 grenades and you have the solution to snipers and ambushes. Give it some surveillance capabilities and keep the price tag down, and it'll save thousands of lives.

The Pentagon is focused on UAVs that can travel thousands of miles, but soldiers just need a silent angel on their shoulder. Twenty pounds at most.

I think we can give them one, without inventing anything new."

She wasn't looking him in the eyes anymore, but her tiny frown continued.

"I'm not asking you to do it for me, just help me with it. In a way, it's better if it comes together slowly, with several prototypes, a few promising missteps at a time. The way the rest of the world invents. Edison had a thousand failures before the lightbulb. I just need something that makes you more valuable to him in here, than out there.

It just has to look like it's coming from you."

Over the next year, Shadona helped miniaturize the motor and adapt conventional camera technology to the task at hand. Undoubtedly she could have done better on her own. Had she adapted the suit's gun and armor technology, she could have greatly improved its range, cut the weight in half, and made it nearly bulletproof. But it would have run the price through the roof.

Instead, they modified an M-16 and used off-the-shelf everything.

While the construction on the power plant's first torus finished sixty million dollars over budget, their first functioning UAV took to the air at under $4,000 in parts. Imperfect, with accuracy problems on successive shots due to recoil and a difficulty hovering for more than a few seconds at a time, it nonetheless worked.

Since bandwidth was a huge concern on the battlefield, it used a kind of line-of-sight optics to beam high-resolution real-time images and limited its use of the crowded radio frequencies to transmit just changes and updates... which coincidentally made it easy to highlight just the changes that were mostly moving people and vehicles... just the moving targets an eye in the sky needed to find. It worked perfectly in an urban setting, but was easily overwhelmed in fields of swaying grass or trees.

* * *

The XO entered the makeshift control room. "Hanly, your team ready?"

"Yes Sir," Hanly answered, "We've been testing it for the last week, and everything is in the green."

"Crank it up, then," the XO said, hovering over the shoulder of Hanly's operator at the main screen.

"Yes Sir." The mountain rumbled like a boulder rolled down the outside.

"What was that?"

"Perfectly normal, Sir," Hanly said. "We had concerns at first, too. Thought it was a fatal flaw in the design, until we figured out the cause. Think of a helicopter without a tail rotor. The fuselage will try to counter-spin against the main rotor without it. With just one coil, this mountain is feeling the effects of that counter torsion. When we get another unit up, we should be able to balance the two off of each other, spinning them in opposite directions. It's a million-ton flywheel, after all, whether it's a fluid or solid." Hanly hovered near the main board, "Signal the grid manager that we're ready to pull at one hundred megawatts for the next four hours, when he's ready."

"Yes Sir," the operator said, "they're requesting we draw sixty-three megawatts right now for the next hour."

"Sixty-three it is," Hanly said. "What's our flow rate looking like?"

"Only seventeen point six feet per second," the operator said, "but it's climbing steady."

Hanly looked at the XO, "Without another counter-flowing torus to balance the torsion, we have to ramp up and down slowly or risk real tremors. The lining in the next torus won't be ready for another week, and it'll take at least that long to finish the MHD coils and controls. Right now, we're buying surplus power to level out the random drops in demand in town as they come off their midday peak. Tomorrow, we'll sell it back at peak prices and, hopefully, pocket the difference."

The XO put his hand on Hanly's shoulder, "About time."

"While trials continue, we have to manually control how much we pull or feed back to the grid. As we get certified, that should get automated and free up personnel."

The XO smiled, "Certification. That'll be something to celebrate."

Hanly pointed to the display, "It reminds me of that old Super Man movie where they planned to steal a fortune by keeping the pennies rounded off from each bank transaction. Most power plants over-produce electricity to prevent brownouts, and they over-produce by hundreds of megawatts. We can bank those hundreds of over-produced, wasted megawatts and feed them back when needed. Most power plants can only produce 50-, 75-, 100-, and 500-megawatt increments. We can, in theory, react instantaneously and down to the kilowatt. We stand to make a fortune by keeping that rounded-off change."

"Well, Professor," the XO said in the parking lot of the airport, "you've had a few months to look over the code, what do you think?"

"It wasn't written by the same person. The code in the prosthetic is incredibly dense. A single line does a dozen— when I started writing code, we had these things called one-liner contests to see who could, in a single command line, do the most things.

An exercise in efficiency back when RAM was measured in Ks, but nobody writes efficiently anymore.

I remember I wrote a primitive database that filed and sorted items in a dozen categories, simultaneously.

One line.

There's no wasted code here. It's almost a one-liner, but it's so complex it's nearly indecipherable, which is why nobody programs like this anymore. Not a single module in the whole thing. It's not the same author. It would take a team years to plot out and follow what makes that prosthetic function like it does. Fortunately, you shouldn't have to. Just cut and paste it into another arm."

The XO looked pissed, "First you thought you could patent stolen property without getting caught, now you think a little song and dance is going to do it. What do you think was the first thing we did BEFORE calling you, Professor?

Copy the prosthetic, copy the code, and it only works with one person... the guy who uses the original. According to him, he put on a bunch of sensors and it learned from his good arm. Once it was initialized, it only works for him, nobody else.

Do you think we're stupid? Or do you just think you're that much smarter than the rest of the world?"

"I don't know what to tell you, then. Any initializing software must have auto-erased itself after customizing its code to work for one user. Without that original code, there's nothing to examine and nothing to—"

"Reverse-engineer it, that's what you claimed you could do. Said it would be child's play."

"What do you want me to say, Major?"

"I want you to come and teach at my base and—"

"Out of the question. I've been over this with you before. I've paid you off and I'm not relocating to backwater—"

"Telecommute then. Two hours, three times a week if you want. I've got a pool of talent the likes of which... " He reached into his bag and produced a DVD. "Take this home and look at it. It's a surveillance drone in need of some software upgrades. I've got a team of code writers, and one secretive shining star. I need people that can either reverse-engineer her code, or write it from scratch for themselves.

Now Professor, are you such a man? Can you, with a team, write that prosthetic code? Or this drone code?

If you can, your team will get nothing, no cut, not a single percentage, but you and my company will split the patent windfalls.

Are you ready to deal? Are you starting to see the dollar signs yet?

You get inside her head, figure out how she's writing such devilish code, master it or master her, and that first patent will look like pocket change."

The Professor slid the DVD into his briefcase. "Telecommute, you say?"

The XO smiled as a plane took off in the distance.

The room was filled with typing at every terminal as the instructor digitally handed out the new module assignments. This was the fourth week of classes, and what had started as a few hours every other day had quickly turned into four hours every day, and the assignments kept getting more challenging. But also entirely too familiar.

Shadona faintly smiled when she received the Email from the instructor, gingerly pushed her chair away from the terminal, and quietly left the room. She had better things to do with her time, anyway.

'Your performance is unacceptable. You've been dropped from the class,' was left on the screen.
B1.C26

The XO opened the bottle of champagne and started filling glasses, "We have a 'go' to complete the first six units, and a five year contract as a part of an even smarter DOE grid."

They raised glasses and clinked to the contract as the music started.

The XO raised his voice over the commotion, "I know that getting these units grid-certified has been one hell of a challenge, but thanks to the long hours you've all put in, we've done it! I know we're all looking forward to, two months from now, when we'll relocate to on top of the mountain, but it feels like I'm on top of the mountain right now!"

They cheered with raised glasses again.

"The Colorado Co-Op will be bringing an additional five hundred megawatt unit online this November, just for us. I think we'll be ready, don't you?"

They cheered and drank again.

The XO got Yofi off to the side, "Listen, your UAV project is taking a lot longer to—"

"You've been spoiled by a suit in a month and an engine in a day," Yofi said, then finished the champagne in his glass. "The real world doesn't work that fast. It takes dozens of prototypes to inch a design forward. Ninety wrong turns for every right. Besides, I haven't let any of it cut into the shop's normal production, and most of the parts we consume are scraps or on hand already."

"Noted. That's why I haven't shut you down. And you are showing results, just slower than I expected.

She's holding back, isn't she?"

Yofi paused while refilling his glass. Pouring with his artificial arm was second nature to him, again. "Could she do more? Sure. She's proven that she could do it all, by herself, if so inclined. But make no mistake, she's contributing. And unlike the suits, everything we're doing can be replicated."

The XO swigged, then walked over to a familiar face he hadn't seen in years. "Colonel, damn glad to see you, Sir. To what do we owe the honor?"

"Just came by to see the achievement of the century with my own eyes. You've done well for a glorified babysitter. Knew we picked the right man."

"Thank you, Sir."

"The DOE tried to explain it all to me, but I didn't see what the fuss was about. Still don't."

The XO smiled. "Best I've heard it explained, uh... ever see the old Christopher Reeves Superman movies?"

"Don't bother trying, Major. I really came down for another reason. There's been another round of budget cuts in DC. It's sink or swim time, I'm afraid. Don't know what to tell you, but your funding is almost gone. I fought for it, but the recession, jobs, reelection campaigns... normal funds are going everywhere else. Can't even get you funding through the DOE and DOD anymore."

"What about our smart grid green cont—"

"Don't worry, that's safe... for now. But it looks like all the other funds I used to be able to get to you are dried up. The department of Ag is walking away from your desert crops. I don't know what to tell you, Major, but this is it. Even your credit lines have been cut.

I'm sorry. I just couldn't tell you over the phone."

The XO looked over the room as the celebration continued, "I'm leveraged out the ass, Colonel. Without those credit lines I'm—"

"I know, Major. I know. I've looked at the books, too. I can keep them from calling your outstanding balances, but tapping more... you're on your own.

Know anyone who owns a bank?"

He swallowed the rest from his glass, "Had an Uncle that used to help me out."

"I'll keep fighting for you, Major, but with this new administration, all their budget cuts are coming from the military and intelligence services, first, second, and always. The politicians are trying to balance their spending spree on our backs, as usual. Shore up your relationship with the Colorado Co-Op, it's about to become the most important relationship of your life."

The XO poured another glass, "Thanks."

"Few words of warning. Keep your books straight, the IRS is going to be looking at you hard, don't let them catch you siphoning money from a DOE project and spending it on something else. And don't expect the DOE to— Read that contract carefully for an opt out. After receiving tens of millions in campaign contributions, surprise surprise, the administration has decided to favor the GE smart grid that puts bureaucrats in control of how much hot water people shower with and what temperature they set their thermostats at. Your design saves more energy and preserves peoples' freedom, and that kind of mindset might as well be illegal right now. The bureaucrats are looking hard for any excuse to opt out.

The Co-Op isn't; they're looking at the savings only, and are the closest thing to a bank you may see for the next four years. I hope to God you have a winner here."

"Me too, Colonel." He downed the glass of expensive champagne like it was a shot, "Me too."

* * *

It resembled a ski lift with enclosed cars and bench seats facing each other, forward and back. Only a hundred feet off the ground, it skimmed the treetops along the steep grade up the mountainside. Shadona stared out the window as the car slowly swung up the forty-degree incline.

The view was spectacular, a blue haze softened the jutting edges of the distant mountains and blended its majestic features into the tranquil valley below. It even gave her the sensation of flying as the car swayed back and forth in the wind. But she knew the view wasn't intended for her.

She stared forward and watched the mountain crawl closer, treetop by treetop.

The car decoupled from the cable and slid off to the side as the Drill Sergeant unlocked it from the outside, top of the mountain.

"Into formation, one two, one two!" he barked as the children complied. "As you may have already guessed, this is where the next phase of your training will take place. Training at this altitude, your endurance will improve exponentially. But it will take you months to acclimate to it. Dizziness, shortness of breath, these are the symptoms you may experience, and you will report them immediately.

As you can see," the Drill Sergeant gestured at a skeletal tower topped by radar, set to the side of an angled runway, "this is a practice carrier deck, the foremost symbol of power projection in the world. You are—" he stopped pacing in front of Shadona, poking her in the shoulder with a scolding finger, "Most of you are proficient in hand combat, you will now extend that expertise into the air. And this, your new home, is where you will acquire these new skills. Grab your gear and follow me." He marched them down the stairs and into the maze of underground rooms and chambers. "Construction, as you can see, was stopped prematurely. The next few months will be spent bringing this place up to specs." He opened the doors to a massive underground chamber. "This is the hangar deck. As you can see, it far exceeds the confines of the typical Nimitz-class," he gestured to blue outlines on the floor, "and ends in the full machine shop that most of you are already familiar with. All of the material to finish the rooms is already here." He gestured to the rows and rows of boxes, spools, buckets and crates that would have appeared as large as a mountain, had they not been centered in such a vast, empty place. "Drop your gear and I'll start handing out your assignments."

With very little training, over the next two weeks the children assembled and installed the desks, beds, showers, sinks, toilets and fixtures to the existing pipes, brackets, and wiring. As well as giving the green concrete a few coats of paint.

Shadona sat up, middle of the night. She assumed it was night. None of them had seen daylight since they moved into the mountain, so she couldn't be sure. She gestured with her fingers.

It tickled back 2:43am.

A pale nightlight lit the bathroom, barely bright enough to see shapes in the room.

She looked across the aisle to the only other child.

The beds, when folded down like they were now, were less than four feet apart. She reached out her hand, but didn't touch her sleeping neighbor. Her sleeping friend.

Two people, one room. Their own bath. Their own desks. Their own terminals.

She had never had so much, as this huge ten by ten room.

She smiled in the dim light as she briefly reveled in the fortune of such bounty. She no longer had to shower with a room full of other girls. Gone were the days of sleeping with dozens crowded into the same room. No bunk beds, just bunks. Dozens, down to two.

Her smile faded as she looked at the door. Solid steel and locked from the outside.

* * *

The XO looked at the boy, thrashing against the straps, shouting incoherently. "What's wrong now?" he asked.

"He's on something," nurse Benita said, "some sort of hallucinogen. Narcotic— I won't know for sure until I get the blood test—"

He waved his hand before the boy's eyes. "Where'd you get the shit, boy?"

"The devil will melt the walls of the castle, hair will grow like candy to the clouds." He jerked against the restraints. "I'll make you eat your eyes and choke on your tongue! Can you taste my pepper words? Can you?"

"Where could he have possibly found drugs?" the XO said.

"I don't know, Sir. I don't see how they could have smuggled it in. Perhaps we should lie detector everyone, but they're smart enough to probably make something for themselves."

He sniffed the air around the boy, then his sleeve. "Smells like smoke. A hint of tobacco? No, not tobacco. But it isn't pot either. They had to have brought it with them when we moved into the mountain. It has to be tiny, easily concealed." He snapped his fingers, but the boy's eyes didn't respond. "Keep me inform— Was he on anything from you?"

"Just Prozac. But I've never heard of this reaction. Even with overdoses—"

"What was his dose?"

"Minimal. Jason wasn't one of the ones I was worried about, to be honest."

Jason strained against the straps. "JAAAYYYYY, SSSOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!" he yelled, then collapsed to the bed. "My name unlocks the sky, like heaven's keys! Heaven's keys..."

"Keep him under observation for the next two days, nurse," the XO said. "See if you can get him to spill the beans. If it isn't too ironic, drug him if you think it'll get you to the bottom of this. I can't have whacked out kids roaming these halls or working with heavy equipment. Keep on top of this for me, please."

"Yes Sir."

"Last thing I need is for this to turn into an outbreak." He typed into the terminal in the medical office, "I've given you access to their tracking chips. If you can, track the little stoner's movements and find his stash, or connection."

"Yes Sir."

The tent exploded like a muffled car bomb as smoke filled the air.

Hanly and his team crowded around the monitors as the smoke dissipated and their vision cleared.

"Everything is tracking perfectly with the original experiment," someone said. "I think we have it!"

Hanly started to grin, but it faded fast. "Those don't look like the original plates."

Another engineer panned the camera and zoomed. "You're right, Sir."

Hanly pounded the desk, "What went wrong? Anyone? We've been working this problem for months, even did some successful small-scale tests. What the hell happened?"

"Don't know yet, Sir," another engineer said, bringing the Geiger counter. "We have a small radiation problem. Everyone going out needs to suit up."

Hanly shook his head as he headed out the door. The shop looked empty with all the heavy equipment moved to the top of the hill, leaving the sounds of his failure to echo across the vast, open room.

With everyone else moved into the mountain, his small team even felt abandoned.

He surveyed the damage inside the tent. The plutonium was exactly where it was found last time. The plates were viscous blobs, just like his failures before.

Lead tools scooped the pellet and placed it in a lead box. Before removing the bulky suit, he swept the tent with the counter again. Minutes after the all clear, his team crowded into the remains of the tent to argue over what went wrong.
B1.C27

The XO stood in front of the monitors, reviewing the video of yet another expensive failure. "You're ruining me," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

Hanly stared at the monitor, "Sorry, Sir. We— I thought I had it this time. The tests came back clean. All the tests came back clean. We— I still don't know what went wrong."

The XO sighed, crossing his arms. "Hanly, I was counting on this.

I needed this to work.

It cost a half million dollars every time we try this damned experiment. I've got to have—"

"The MHD flywheel is working, XO. We'll have the sixth torus turned on by the end of this week, another month and it'll be tested out and grid certified. I'm just as frustrated as you are, Sir. Believe me.

I don't know what to tell you.

Chemistry, physics, high intensity magnetic fields, and plutonium. I've got someone in every field, but not one person is an expert in all fields. I don't know how many more tries it'll take to crack this, if we ever will.

We've been on it twelve hours a day for months, and this is as close as we've ever gotten. And it's no closer than my first failed attempt.

I just don't know what to tell you, Sir."

The XO sighed. "What we make from the Co-Op barely pays the interest on our loans."

The XO stood before the heavy metal door, "Open it, Sergeant."

At the end of the hall, the Sergeant threw the levers that unlocked the door.

When it slid open, the XO stepped in. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and laid a notebook on the quiet girl's desk. "I need your help to make this work."

She paid him no mind as she continued to click back answers to her morning classes.

The XO grabbed the mouse from her hand and yanked it from the wall. "This is perhaps the most important thing you'll ever do. We need to make this work. And we need it working right now." He rested his hand on her shoulder, then leaned ever so slightly on the tiny child.

She timidly touched the screen, turned it off, then ran her fingers across the cover of the notebook... before sliding it off the desk and into the trash.

The XO yanked her out of the chair and pushed her, arm first, into the trash after it. "Pick it up!"

Dana looked over from the other desk. "Have you ever met before?" she said, turning away from her screen as well. "That's So not going to—"

"Shut up!" the XO yelled, yanking Shadona off the floor and dropping her hard onto the wooden chair. He dumped the trashcan out on her desk, "I don't have time for—"

"She gets beaten up on a daily basis," Dana disobeyed. "You're not getting anywhere."

"You trying for a week in solitary?" the XO said, staring at Dana.

Dana faced the monitor in total silence.

"How about you," the XO asked Shadona, "You want a week of solitary?"

She straightened the pencil and pad of paper at her desk, then obediently stood, ready to go.

Yofi opened the XO's door, then sat before the desk. "Sir, you might try using a carrot before reaching for a bigger stick."

"I'm not in the mood, Yofi," the XO said.

"What's it been, two weeks now? I've talked to Hanly, I know the financial bind you're in. You don't have two more weeks to throw at this, Sir. Do you?"

The XO pounded his fist out of frustration and stared at the monitor of a green girl, sitting in the dark, rocking back and forth uncontrollably. If she was going to break, it might well be as nurse Benita suggested. A complete psychotic breakdown. "Spit it out, Yofi, while you still work here."

"Give her what she wants—"

"Out of the question."

Yofi leaned closer. "She offered to give you the engine, if you turned her free. We had this argument before, remember? What happens if she holds out another few weeks. Or the next month. Or another after that. What happens if you drive her mad. It'll be months before the Co-Op brings that new 500MW unit online, and even then you might not find your funding solution.

You going to put a bullet in their heads then?

You prepared to do that?

What's the alternative when the money runs out, other than to set them all free?

So then, what's the difference between setting one free now, and a few hundred later?"

The XO looked at the monitor. She was on the edge of some kind of break, one way or the other. "I can't stand that hardheaded, obstinate kid. As much as I'd like to pound it out of her, I don't think I could. I don't think I could pull the trigger on her either."

"That doesn't leave many options, does it?" Yofi said, leaning back in the chair. "She's a good kid, Sir. Believe it or not, she's really a good kid. She's quiet, she doesn't act out. I'm not sure she has it in her to be a Marine. At least, not the kind you're picturing.

Not everyone is cut out for that life, Sir.

Square peg, round hole."

"I can't turn her loose on the world, Yofi. What happens if the next suit goes to the highest bidder? What happens if the next power plant goes to Iran? She's seen the plans to the entire fleet of planes in the US arsenal. Probably has them memorized. We're a hundred miles down a national security nightmare."

"Perhaps, Sir. But the engineers that built the stealth fleet aren't surrounded by the Secret Service. The world knows their names, nobody knows she exists. Hell, the History Channel did a special on the science behind building planes invisible to radar. I think you're making it out to be a bigger risk than it is."

"Where then? Foster care? Adoption? To who? I'd want, at a minimum, to do an FBI background check on them. They'd have to have—"

"I talked to my wife last night and—"

The XO leaned back in his chair. "You can't be serious."
B1.C28

"Elaine," Yofi said, "this is Shadona."

Shadona stared at her feet as she inched through the doorway, bag clutched tight to her chest.

"Say," Elaine said, giving the girl a giant hug, "it's so good to finally put a face with the name."

Shadona clung tight to the bag she had just nearly dropped, wavering slightly when released.

Elaine inched back, then looked at her husband, "You didn't tell me she was so cute. No wonder you spent so much time at work."

He smiled, best he could. "She's bright, too," he said, making room for the other girl. "And this is Dana." He closed the door behind her.

"Dana?" Elaine said, pausing before offering her the same hug.

"Nice to meet you, Ma'am," Dana said, standing at attention out of reflex.

"I wasn't expecting two girls," Elaine said, "we just have the one bed in the guestroom. I'll—"

"I'll get another tomorrow," Yofi said.

Shadona dropped her bag near the bookshelf, ran her fingers across the spines of everything she saw, then cautiously touched the faces in each picture. Her fingers hovered over the piano keys, but didn't touch. She ran her fingers across the wall leading to the kitchen, but stopped at the light switch.

Elaine picked up Shadona's bag, "Would you like to see your room now?"

"Sweet," Dana said, dragging Shadona by the hand as they followed Elaine down the hall.

The room was smaller than what they shared at the base, but the sunflower-yellow paint was warmer and more inviting than the drab gray they were used to. The carpet was soft and colorful instead of painted cold concrete. The furniture cheerful and well used. But Shadona walked past all that comfort to stand by the window and stare into the world outside.

For the first time in her life, they had a room with a view.

And a door that only locked from the inside.

Elaine poured two cups of coffee, then returned to the table, middle of the night.

"How old are they?" she asked, just the two of them up.

"Eleven, almost twelve," he said, stirring in a splash of milk.

"Dana easily looks mid-teens, but Shadona looks much younger. What should we do about school?"

"Well," Yofi said, "maybe. Eventually, yes. I figure in a year or two we'd enroll them and say they were home schooled. The deal I struck was they're ours until eighteen, then they're free to go on their own.

But they've both mastered college-level courses. Traditional education isn't their problem. I wouldn't worry about— What they really need is someone to... Think foster kids that haven't had a loving home life. That's what they need most." He grabbed the mug in his mechanical hand and felt the ceramic's warmth mirrored in his underarm as he rested his real hand on hers. "That's what your PHD is in, isn't it?"

She smiled as she leaned across the table to give him a kiss... but only had to lean half way.

"They're good kids, El. Take it easy for the first few months. Show them what fun is. Let them acclimate slowly, and I think they'll be fine."

"Who has the PHD in loving home life?"

He smiled, kissing her again.

"Good morning," Yofi said when Shadona came out of the guestroom.

She paused, middle of the hall, and ran her fingers through her hair.

"You hungry for breakfast?" Elaine asked, letting go of her husband's hand and walking to the refrigerator.

Shadona timidly touched the wall beside the bathroom and traced it to the kitchen where Yofi was seated at the bar.

She paused by the stool next to him.

"Please, sit anywhere. Think of this house as your house, too," he said.

She hesitated, but sat.

"Bacon, eggs, and toast sound alright?" Elaine asked.

Shadona silently nodded while she straightened the shakers, aligned the cereal boxes, and fiddled with the cord on the phone. She stared at the clock, then glanced at Yofi, still in sweats and a T-Shirt.

"I'm not going in today," he answered her look, then tapped a very familiar notebook. "Homework. Just have one final piece of business." He slid it away, "But it'll wait till later. When you're ready."

When the bacon started to sizzle, she turned to the kitchen and watched Elaine crack two eggs against the lip of the skillet.

"You two sleep alright?" he asked.

She nodded yes.

"The guestroom can be a little cold in the morning. I thought today we'd drive into town and get you two some new clothes, toothbrushes, stuff like that," he said, catching her attention again. "It's about an hour drive from here. Two hours, round trip. When you're up for it."

Dana emerged from the guestroom and detoured directly to the bathroom.

Shadona watched Elaine put a plate in front of her and one for Dana to her side. She picked up the fork, and paused.

"We've already eaten," Yofi said.

Shadona straightened the bacon and aligned the egg before starting to eat.

She sat at the table, pencil in hand, notebook open before her. Middle of the afternoon.

"Wait," Yofi said, putting his hand on hers. "I have to tell you something first. You know what my deal was with the XO, but you don't know what he hasn't told you. What probably none of you know.

They put a tracking device in your teeth. A tooth. One of your molars most likely. A type of RFID. It has a limited range, but—"

She dropped the pencil and put her finger in her mouth.

"Wait, just wait. I'm not trying to scare you, but you should know everything. If you fix the flaws in the suit, he'll eventually remove the tooth. I believe he's working in good faith. Just not with all his cards on the table.

I've seen its design, Shadona. I'm not sure I understand all of it, but it has a tamper proof feature that prevents it from being removed. A capsule or a cavity that can be filled with poison, attached to a blood vessel.

Now, I'm not sure what was put in that capsule, if anything, but I know it has one. And I think you have a right to know that, until he has proof that the fixes work, he won't consider removing it.

Obviously, he didn't want me to tell you about it. But I think it's only right that you know."

She picked up the pencil again. Hovering its tip over the page, "Do you trust him?" she whispered.

Shocked that she spoke, he paused for a moment. "I trust that they implanted the tooth. I trust that if the changes you make don't work, he'll track you down very quickly, stopping here first. I trust that that capsule is filled with something; whether it kills you or not, I don't know. I trust that it's very tamper proof. And I trust that if he'd ever keep a promise with you, it would be this one. But I doubt he plans on telling you about the tooth until the last minute. Maybe not even until you turn eighteen."

She opened the notebook.

"I believe him."

She penciled in the changes.
B1.C29

Shadona sat in the mall's food court and simply watched the people pass her by without notice. Without a care in the world to who she was or why she was sitting there. She reveled in being unnoticed in the crowd. She had assumed that everyone who looked at her could see her entire past, that they could tell she could never fit in. That she was a soulless zombie. Yet few even looked, and those who did only saw an average looking girl.

Elaine put the tray down before the quiet girl, "You've never had Chinese before?"

Shadona touched the edge of the tray with the tip of her finger, then looked up and smiled.

"She's had Chinese before," Dana said, handling her own tray, "She's never ordered food before, though." She waited for Elaine to sit before eating. "Never had a choice of what to eat before, but we've had all kinds of food. Remember that month when we ate locust, termites, worms, scorpions, and all sorts of bugs?"

"Ewwww!" Elaine said, making a face. "That's awful!"

"Fried, sautéed, broiled, baked, raw and even alive. Every culture has different foods they find acceptable. We've tried as many of them as we could, just to get us acclimated. Practiced one custom every week for a year. Even had dogs and cats before. Though I couldn't tell the difference, could you?" Dana said.

Shadona shook no while Elaine grimaced at the very idea.

"I'll stop."

"Thank you," Elaine said, nibbling her bean burrito.

"I just don't know how you can eat that," Dana teased. "Don't you know what's in it?"

Yofi plopped down on the bed in the department store, right beside his wife. "I think this is the best one we've seen so far," he said. "But it isn't up to me." He struggled to sit and looked around. "Where'd they go?"

Elaine sat up, "Dana's over there by the PosturePedics. I don't see the other one."

Yofi got to his feet, "Well, she probably hasn't gone far." He walked over to the PosturePedics. "Where's Shadona?" he ask Dana.

She pressed the mattress with her knuckles, "I like this one."

"Did you see where she went?"

Dana turned her back to the bed and fell backwards onto the pillow top, arms spread. "She's free, right? Then what's the diff?"

"You're both free, but El and I are responsible for your safety until you turn eighteen, just like all the other parents in this mall."

Dana propped up on her elbows, "But you're not our par—"

"I'm respons—" he dropped the shop-boss tone he so easily slipped into, "Please, just tell me which way."

She gestured to the electronics end of the store.

It should have been obvious which way she went. He practically tracked her every step as he passed down an aisle where every item was aligned on the middle shelf. At its end, two aisles over, he found another row bizarrely reordered. He paused down the fourth. Her disorder seemed to follow its own weird rules. She had to straighten the items she touched, but she somehow found a way to avoid touching everything, skipping most shelves altogether.

He found her in Electronics, standing before a large wall of TVs, each tuned to a different channel, all with their volume turned up.

She pressed her fingers to the reporter's lips as he babbled something about the latest explosion in the Middle East. When the picture changed, she moved to the next screen with another talking head.

"Shadona," he said, hand on her shoulder.

She moved her fingers across the next screen.

"Shadona," he repeated.

She touched her fingers across Yofi's lips, then stepped back and timidly looked down.

"You find a mattress you like?"

She touched his Kevlar glove, faintly smiled, then followed as they walked back to the bedding section, much to the relief of the store's employee that was stuck with readjusting a wall of TVs.

"We rebuild TF-34s," Dana said in the guestroom, "I think we can assemble a bed, Mr. Stosou." She grabbed the tools out of his hand and tore into the cardboard box, "Now, where did I see those instructions..."

Shadona giggled as she opened the plastic bag and the mattress expanded across the floor.

"I don't know why you insisted on this cheap foam one," Yofi said.

"Don't look at me," Dana said, "I'm not the one that's gonna sleep on it."

"So, Mrs. Stosou—" Dana said that morning after Yofi left for the base.

"Elaine, please," she said, turning on the TV as the girls entered the living room.

Dana shrugged, plopping on the couch, "How'd you and Yofi meet? Both serve in the same unit or something?"

"Well, as cliché as it sounds, we were highschool sweethearts."

"Before the accident?" Dana said. The conversation now had Shadona's attention.

"We'd been married for six years before the accident happened. Then it was another two years of rehab before he could even walk again." Elaine turned down the volume on the TV.

"How long in highschool?"

"Since the seventh grade, so, five years. First boy I ever kissed. When he enlisted, we agreed to put off kids until—" Elaine paused to clear her throat, "until his active service was up so I wouldn't be stuck raising children on my own. But, that didn't work out like we planned."

Dana turned her interest to the TV, but Shadona sat beside the woman and rested her hand on Elaine's knee. Briefly.

"Yofi talked a lot about you two and a few others he had in the shop. But I don't know anything about your life outside of fixing planes and—"

"So, you're not a mechanic?" Dana said when the commercial shifted back to the show. "Engineer? What in the world do you two have in common? What could you possibly talk about?"

"There's a lot more to life than work," Elaine said. "Or there should be. When he served on the carrier, he'd be away for months at a time, and that floating city at sea would consume his world. But when he's home, it's like he's solidly in my world. We watch movies. Even go dancing like we did before he lost his leg. Just not in well lit places. He's still self-conscience about the scars." She smiled, remembering. "Losing the leg didn't make him any better, but it didn't make him any worse either. Poor, rhythmically challenged guy. But he tries." She held Shadona's hand, still near her knee, "He tries.

We still eat out twice a month and— We've got to take you girls bowling next time we go. I think you'll have fun."

"Bowling?" Dana asked.

Shadona gestured, fingers up like she was holding a ball, then mimed hurling it down a lane.

"Oh," Dana said. "Where do you go dancing?"

"Well, the best place is Duke's, back in town I'm afraid. Long drive and it's more of a bar, no place for kids." Elaine smiled as she gestured to the coffee table, "That moves out of the way and this room's suddenly big enough. Then we just pop in a CD."

Shadona grabbed the edge of the table and dragged it off to the side as Dana inspected the CDs. Some she had listened to in the shop before, but most were new... to the two of them.

Yofi's car pulled into the driveway as the girls sat in the kitchen and continued to talk.

"Well," Yofi said, opening the door, "this was the last thing I was expecting." He looked them over again before kissing Elaine on the cheek. "Lipstick, eye shadow, even broke out the lashes... You girls planning on hitting the town tonight?"

Elaine just smiled, "They'd never know what hit 'em if we did."

"Tell 'em, girl friend!" Dana said, finishing her nails.

"Oh Lord, you haven't been watching Maury, have you?" Yofi said, getting a beer from the fridge.

"Hard day at work?" Dana asked as Yofi popped the top.

"Usual," he said, drinking a third in a hurried gulp before kissing Elaine on the cheek again, "But I like to leave work at work and home here." He sat on the stool and untied his steel-toed shoes, then put on some bunny-shaped slippers.

Dana laughed. "Those were yours?"

Yofi just smiled, "Sometimes I forget that I'm not in charge when I'm at home. It's a trick I learned from my Carrier days, keeps me from spouting off orders... and even if I do, who's going to take me seriously wearing these?" He stood and stamped his feet so hard that the bunny ears flapped, "Now, go clean your room!"

All three laughed at the spectacle.

"See," he said, returning to the stool, crossing his leg such that the ears continued to flap while he sipped from his beer.

"So," Dana said, "you ever find out what was causing that rumbling pop on the—"

"Put it out of your mind," Yofi said. "It's twenty miles and a lifetime away." He chugged the rest of the beer, "Hairline stress crack in one of the blades."

"You've got pretty lips," Elaine said, finishing Shadona's lipstick. "It's a shame to hide them looking down all the time. Think I'd kill for that complexion of yours." She brushed her thumb against the edge of Shadona's shy little smile. "You three can talk shop if you want."

"I think I'd rather talk about what you guys did all day; that story's got to be a whole lot more interesting than anything I did," Yofi said, putting the empty in the trash.

"Guys?" Dana said, peeking down her shirt. "Does beer make people blind?" she asked Elaine.

"Not since prohibition," Elaine said, still admiring the faint smile on the shyest girl she had ever met.

"Can I have a beer?" Dana asked.

"I'm not letting a preteen have a beer," Elaine said. "Yofi's damn lucky I let him drink one, and only one, when he comes home."

Yofi wiggled his toes inside the slipper as he stared sheepishly at the floor, "Yes Ma'am." He stood, opening the fridge, "Is it my turn to make dinner?"

"Depends," Elaine said, "on what you're planning."

"Well, I see potatoes, onions— Oh, score, a bell pepper's hiding behind the milk, and I'm betting we've still got some hamburger in the freezer. I'm thinking burgers and wedges with some broccoli on the side." When nobody complained, he started thawing things out.

The girls watched _The Bachelor_ that night with a mix of horror and fascination as women competed over a man that, minus the magic of edits, was clearly a shallow jerk.

The door to Yofi's bedroom opened, middle of the night.

Before he could get out of bed, the light flipped on with Dana standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "You have some paper?" she said, half asleep.

Yofi looked at the clock by the bed, "It's four in the morning, what do you need paper for?"

Dana flipped off the light. "I don't, but when Shadona runs out of what's in our room, she's going to start writing on the walls." She headed into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

Yofi turned on the light and grabbed his leg by the nightstand.

"I'll get it," Elaine said, "I have to go to the bathroom anyway." She slipped into her slippers and left the room. Standing in the guestroom doorway, she watched Shadona frantically scribble on the to-do list from the dresser. "You alright?"

She tore off the top sheet and carefully arranged it in the midst of dozens spread across the floor like a massive patchwork quilt, or jigsaw puzzle. She adjusted another, moved a third, touched her finger to six more, paused like she was counting on her fingers, then started writing again.

"What, uh, kind of paper do you want, Honey?"

"Any paper!" Dana yelled from the couch in the other room, "It just doesn't matter."

Elaine shuffled to the living room, "Computer paper?"

Dana fluffed the pillow, then adjusted her blanket, "Computer paper, toilet paper, newspaper, it doesn't matter. It's all gibberish!"

Elaine put her hand to her forehead, exasperated, "Then why—"

"Because if you don't, the crazy bitch'll write on everything."

"What's going— How much pa— How long is she going to—"

"Until she's done or passes out." Dana grabbed another pillow and covered her head.

Elaine pulled all the paper from the printer in the den and handed it to the girl scribbling on the floor. "Here."

But Shadona didn't notice. Only the tiny pad seemed to exist in her bizarre little world.

"Here," she said again, touching the girl with the stack. But Shadona remained oblivious, madly scribbling on the tiny sheets before her. Elaine sat on the bed, picked one from the pile, and studied it under the light. It looked liked circuitry, wiring, or perhaps a building plan, with layer after layer of words and numbers written over it. It didn't look like gibberish, even to her untrained eye. But it was impossible to follow.

Dana had no problem leaving Shadona alone in the room. But it felt wrong to Elaine, even at this hour of the morning. They had missed their chance for children, but even so, this felt like a baby with a fever. And she would have felt like a horribly bad mother if she simply went back to sleep.

Shadona worked her way to the cardboard back of the to-do pad before pausing, slightly confused, then switching to the much larger printer paper.

Elaine watched the troubled girl, unaware of the paper. Unaware of the ink caked to her palm, smudging every page. Unaware that anyone else was in the room. Unaware.

Unaware she was doing anything.

Unaware she was even awake.

And definitely unaware of how this behavior would terrify someone who desperately wanted to be a mother.

"So, what's wrong with her?" Elaine said in the kitchen, middle of the day.

Dana made no attempt to hide her second, almost empty beer. "You haven't figured it out yet? She's T-F-H. Totally fucked in the head, that's what."

Elaine opened the fridge and proceeded to pour the rest of the pack down the sink. "I think it could be serious, Dana—"

"Oh it is. She's seriously fucked—"

"Dana," she refrained from scolding, "please don't use that word. Especially when referring to someone. She obviously likes you a lot. Any light you could shed—"

"You're seeing the reason she gets picked on. She isn't miles, she's several states away from being normal."

Elaine started assembling sandwiches. "She do this a lot?"

"Space out? Yeah. She's by far the queerest—"

"Yofi said she was the brightest person he had ever met."

Dana added the empty bottle to the trash, then leaned against the fridge. "Maybe... But it's locked inside the thickest coo-coo-nut you'll ever see."

"I thought you two were friends?"

Dana laughed. "Oh, for serious? I'm sure she thinks so."

"I can see how someone your age would quickly get annoyed by that. But it seems harmless. Annoying, but harmless."

"You haven't had to clean up after her. Dispose of every scrap she scribbles on or she'll become obsessed again the second she sees it.

Bitch'll get stuck folding clothes. Fold, unfold, stare for a while, then fold them again." She pointed at the sink. "Watch her brush her teeth some time. She'll brush, rinse, floss, then brush again.

She'll sit and rock for hours, spaced."

Elaine handed one of the sandwiches to Dana. "My sister talked in her sleep and hummed to herself all the time, like she could never be quiet. To this day, I bet she still believes she doesn't do either.

But I still love her.

She's still my sister.

When I had to share a room with her, I hated her for it. I really did. Or, I thought I did. When she went to college, I spent two sleepless weeks in that silent room, missing her. Everybody has their little quirks, Dana. She's just got more than most. But that doesn't make her queer, weird, or fucked.

It just makes her different."

Dana chomped the last corner of the ham and mustard leaf sandwich. "Ain't nobody more different than her."
B1.C30

CornUV/(acre)

Acre density=L x W x levels / d2

Increased energy output = increased CO2

CO2 decrease requires increased energy output2

Obvious + (lie - e) = oblivious

Friend = stranger +- ((time2 / frustration) x Blue > (blue - yellow2))Loneliness

Friend = fiend + r

R equals...

R equals...

There's no R in zombie.

Her hand hurt for some reason.

She opened her eyes and stared at a blurry shirt pressed against her forehead. The shirt was warm and soft, comforting and— a hand was on her shoulder! The shirt took a breath!

"It's ok," Elaine whispered, hugging a softly crying, troubled child. "It's ok," she said, laying on the tiny, cheap little foam bed.

"... Can I see them," Yofi said that night after the girls had gone to bed.

"Dana said to destroy it, but I can't bring myself to," Elaine said. "Not after she spent the entire day feverishly writing it." She tossed a stuffed grocery bag between them in the bed.

He reached in and pulled a handful out. "They're on Post-Its—"

"Not all of them, just the beginning."

He dug deeper and came out with printer paper crowded with scribbles. "It's, umm, I... " He studied it more under better light, "It's difficult to say what this is, exactly. Arabic, some French, some German, but I have no idea for sure. I bet her thoughts look just like this. Crowded and garbled...

I can go to jail for saying this, but she's—" He leafed through another handful. "We have a wall of manuals filled with detailed specs for everything we rebuild. She's never looked at the same manual twice, yet she knows to a thousandth of an inch what every spec is. She knows the wiring harnesses for— This could easily be any mix of those specs, or something entirely new." He pulled more papers out of the bag. "There's a device she designed that has stood in the corner of the shop for years.

Worth millions, perhaps billions.

That's the definition of brilliance, isn't it?

A lifetime's achievement.

But it's the second in her lifetime. No, make that the third.

What do you call someone that designed and built something, in front of dozens of cameras, in full view of everyone, in such a way that nobody can repeat it, even after dozens of attempts?"

She sat a little closer. "Shadona Houdini Tesla?"

He laughed at the idea, but she had somehow pegged it perfectly. "She's— Sometimes around her it feels a little like watching the Wright brothers invent a Blackhawk as the world's first airplane.

Einstein died with equations scribbled across his blackboards." He straightened the papers, then put them back and rolled up the bag. "I wouldn't know what I was looking at with them either. To make sense of his notes you had to be an Einstein, or a Hawking.

Remember that night about six years ago when I didn't come home? She built an engine in front of me. Unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Left all the designs on the computers. We could build every part, even had hours of video of how she assembled it, and nobody could make any of the copies work. For six years." He handed her the bag, "I'm sure it's meaningful. It's probably brilliant. And like Einstein's blackboard, there's probably only a handful of people on the planet that could make sense of it. All of them much smarter than me.

Then again, it could all be gibberish.

The XO would throw a fit if I didn't turn this over to him." He stared at the grocery bag. "But whatever it is, it's hers. Not mine. Not his. Dana's probably right in all this, no doubt for selfish reasons. We're probably better off destroying it.

More importantly, she's probably better off that way, too."

Elaine put the bag by the trashcan, then climbed in bed. "Like those kids that can play a piano, but can't tie their shoes."

"Autistic and savant get used in the same sentence a lot." He put his arm around her as they snuggled in for sleep. "It's easy to forget there's a little girl in there, begging for someone to help her with her shoes, in a world that keeps pushing pianos on her."

"Dana drank all your beer," Elaine said, giving him a quick kiss, "So, don't bring any more home."

He looked at his bunny slippers beside the bed and turned out the light, "Yes, dear."

The ball thundered down the lane with an explosive crack as it piled over the helpless pins at its end. "Now that's how you do it," Yofi said, adjusting his score on the board.

Shadona walked up to the line, ball in hand, and hurled it down the lane, clearing six of ten with a muffled crack.

"Way to go," Yofi said, adjusting the girl's score. "See if you can pick up the spare."

She held the ball in hand, adjusted her stance, then hurled it at the pins.

"Oh, so close!" Elaine said when the girl missed.

"Let me show you how this game is played," Dana said, putting down her nachos & cheese and wiping her fingers on her jeans. Ball in hand, she ran to the line and attacked the pins with a thunderous crack. Nine out of ten. "That's what it's supposed to look like." She sipped from her soda before picking off the spare, attacked with equal enthusiasm.

Elaine put her arm around Shadona. "You're getting better every game. Put her out of your mind. You're doing just fine for a beginner." She took her turn and delivered a strike.

After playing seven straight games since lunch, the lanes were now nearly filled with people, and the sleepy little building was a thunderstorm of activity. Despite their best coaching, Shadona was still finishing dead last. Not that she seemed to mind.

In a way, it seemed to make her happy.

Elaine put her arm around the girl again and patted her on the back. "You're getting a lot better," she said as Shadona leaned into the hug, faintly smiling, a chronic four points behind.

After dinner Dana retired to the living room, where the large collection of movies was located, and rededicated herself to watching everything they had, while the rest stayed in the tiny kitchen around the table and continued the conversation.

"They started missing them at the base yet?" Elaine asked, filling Yofi's coffee cup.

Shadona dropped her spoon in the bowl.

"Oh, sorry Hon, didn't mean it like they were searching for you," Elaine said, topping off her coffee cup next. "Just meant it like how I would miss you two if you weren't here."

"I don't know about the kids," Yofi said, "but I miss them. Never had to check any of Shadona's work.

I put in for my vacation time. Got it moved up to next week. Got two weeks saved up and thought now would be as good a time as any to take it."

Shadona turned the bowl ninety degrees, then started eating again. 'Death by chocolate' was difficult to resist. Even if it was her third helping. She paused to faintly smile when Elaine casually held his hand at the table.

"Don't know what we'll do," Yofi said. "Last vacation I took was in a fancified government resort... Hummm, I think they called it rehab. I think we can do better and I'm open to suggestions."

"Hawaii," Elaine teased.

"Oh, sorry. Can't go further than a hundred miles from the base. Part of the agreement until the changes are confirmed." He looked at Shadona. "But I bet I can get a waiver from the XO. We should be able to hit a beach in California."

Shadona smiled. It would be the first beach she had ever seen, outside of pictures.

"The beach," Elaine whispered, "fun in the sun. Last time I had real sand under my feet... might have been our honeymoon." She looked at the calendar. "September... late in the season, might not do a lot of swimming, but I guess we might as well take advantage of Gore's global warming while we can."

Yofi rubbed his thumb across her fingers, "We spent enough getting it."

Elaine felt the need to explain, "We argued over Gore's movie when it came out. I said it was worth a Nobel, he said it was only worth an Oscar. Ironically, it won both."

Shadona spooned the last chunk of ice cream as she shyly smiled at the empty bowl.

"You have an opinion, don't you," Yofi said, joining in her smile.

But the most she would say was she liked Death by Chocolate, and even that was inferred when she got a fourth serving.

After getting up, Yofi kissed Elaine on the cheek, "I've got to go to work tomorrow, but you two can stay up if you want."

Elaine stayed, "You can tell me, Yofi's wrong about the physics, isn't he?"

Shadona smiled, but shook no before sinking her spoon into her last bowl of the night. She liked Elaine too much to tell her the science was a fraud. And even if CO2 was the problem, Gore's solutions would lead to more CO2, not less.

Elaine noticed the strange, subtle clank of the spoon. "That's an interesting ring. Can I see it?"

Shadona waved her fingers in the air, closed her hand into a loose fist, then handed it to her.

"It's lighter than it looks." She pinched it with her finger. "It isn't plastic, but it isn't metal either, is it? What is it?" She looked the shy girl in the eyes before rolling it over in her fingers, then holding it closer to her glasses. "It's as smooth as glass, no scratches or tool marks anywhere on it, yet shows no signs of ever being buffed or polished. Stiff... but expandable?" She looked up, surprised. "It isn't a complete loop, like it looks. Is it? They cross each other on an angle in the back, don't they? It looks so seamless. Can't even feel it. Very smart, so it can keep growing with you, right?" She flexed it gently. "At least two finger sizes. What are these two thin beads going all the way around it, thin as a hair on either side? Looks clear as glass, like diamond racing stripes instead of a typical stone." She twisted it under the dining room light. "It almost flickers like real diamonds. A luster, even. A whole spectrum of colors if I catch the light just right. I've never seen anything like it." She handed it back. "It matches you almost perfectly. Subtle, almost invisible, and utterly unique in every way."

Shadona slid it back on, then carved a chunk of fudge clinging to crumbs of frozen brownie.

"And very pretty, elegant even. You make it?"

Shadona nodded yes.

"So, your talents don't stop with engines, do they?"

She waved her fingers in the air again, then smiled as she enjoyed another spoonful.

"Do you feel very lonely not being surrounded by people your age? Sometimes I think we should enroll you in school as soon as possible, just so you can be around other kids. But Yofi made a good point, you'd probably feel like a college grad having to take kindergarten again. You might not even relate to kids your age.

You think I'm boring?"

She shook no.

"Dana is about what I expected from a preteen," Elaine said, resting her hand on Shadona's as casually as she had with Yofi. "Testing limits, rebellious. But you feel like a very old soul to me. I hope you like being here as much as we enjoy having you."

She stared at Elaine's hand and could feel the emotion behind the words she heard. "... I do," she whispered.
B1.C31

"Double check it," Hanly said, typing at the keys while the monitors rebooted.

"It's reading green," an engineer said. "The smoke is venting, radiation is zero."

"The loop reads dead, power at zero," another said.

"The plates are coming into focus."

They crowded around the screen as the room erupted in celebration.

Hanly stopped them at the door as he put on the cumbersome plastic. "We've been here before, People. Get into your radiation suits in case the detector is faulty again. And bring the hand Geiger."

Their new design had major changes. Some systems were new, others were completely removed, and now the plutonium was no longer consumed in the reaction, though exactly what it did was still a mystery. The color of the armor plates had darkened, and now had hints of blue.

In the tent Hanly verified the readings, then signaled it was clear to remove the suits. "Let's get those plates back to the shop and test them before we notify the XO. I want to be absolutely sure this time."

His team went to work like the professionals they were, but the excitement was difficult to hide.

"What are we looking at, Hanly?" the XO asked over the speakerphone from his new office in the mountain.

"Well Sir," Hanly smiled as he thumped the plate with his finger, back at the old shop. "Our preliminary tests rate these plates as just as strong and light as the originals. We're going to perform a destructive test on the backpack covers, just to make sure. Those results won't be back for a week or more. By then we expect to have a completed suit readied for field tests... minus a backpack cover, of course."

"The equipment still self-destructs?"

"Yes Sir, same as before. The parts are expensive, granted, but I think the price is acceptable considering the suit's capabilities. You're still looking at well under a million each.

The modifications leave a lot of the underlying science still shrouded in mystery, and I'm not entirely sure all of the equipment is necessary. But I'm at a loss to suggest what to change. The systems she removed were the ones we had speculated were critical.

I think the bottom line is it looks like we have a working, but not industrialized, solution to the problem. Something to outsource or manufacture locally, but nothing that can be mass-produced. But I'd like to do one more, just to be sure; if we have it in the budget."

"It isn't in the budget yet, but I'll go ahead and schedule an expo for next Friday on what you've got. My normal DOD contacts are tapped dry, but I've been working the phones and think I have a way around that. Even at a million each, they're an obvious military bargain. It's a logistic nightmare to deploy and supply a thousand tanks, but you could airdrop a thousand suits into combat in a matter of hours and tactically get nearly the same advantage, ideal for urban warfare. Just in case, see if you can make that armor in other shapes. Vests, for ex—" the XO said.

"Sir, we've looked at that already and you run into an expense issue with vests. We'd have superior armor, for sure, but at fifty times the going price. It's sure to have some applications in other forms that we just haven't thought of. Aerospace for example. We are looking into all of that, Sir, rest assured."

"What's your numbers on the MHD flywheels?"

"They're still under performing. Pairing them sounded easier in theory than it's proving in practice, but we've knocked the tremors down and are able to get consistent 250-megawatt spikes out of each pair. It's proving trickier to manage than we thought. But we're working out the bugs, one by one."

The XO leaned toward the speaker, then checked his notes. "Let me float an idea past you. Do you think a team of teens can handle the boring equipment? We've bought the damned thing, still have some bits and a ton of drilling we can do.

The numbers you sent me won't generate enough— We either need the twenty-four toruses in the original concept, or we need to get more out of the ones we have."

Hanly tapped at his keyboard. "You're right, Sir. We're split on the safe limits of each torus. Going by the design specs of the MHD coils, they should be able to handle a hundred times more power, easily, but until we get the math behind balancing the torsion worked out, we can't push the six we've got any harder without bringing the mountain down around us." He moused over an XL sheet and paused while it opened. "Higher circulating speeds store more power, but are exponentially harder to balance, and we just don't have the physics worked out yet.

When, uh... umm. Remember learning about the sound barrier? They had a hell of a time getting Yeager to break it in the late 40's. The XS-1 nearly tore itself apart every time he came close.

We're experiencing the same kind of wall here, but with a million tons of water. We probably need a fluid-dynamics expert, but I don't think there is such an expert on the entire planet."

Well, there was one.

* * *

"With a light mist," Yofi said, "sand can become as hard as a brick, perfect for driving a car across without sinking." He gestured at the tire tracks left after that morning's light sprinkle. "But add more water and it becomes as soft as soup."

Shadona gripped a handful and squeezed it between her fingers.

"Einstein pondered this very paradox when he was a kid," Yofi continued. "The mysterious strength of water's surface tension." He watched Dana run past them and straight for the surf, recklessly diving in, board in hand. "Bet sand makes you think of other things, though."

Shadona drove the umbrella into the sand between their blankets and the cooler. She would join Dana in the water a little later, when the sun was higher in the sky and it wasn't so cool. For now, she had other things on her mind.

She spent the next hour replicating the pyramids in Egypt, scaled down of course.

"Everyone else does castles, why pyramids?" Elaine asked Yofi that afternoon when both girls were in the surf.

He smiled, best he could. "Isn't it obvious?" He dug a Coke out of the cooler and winced at the cold-fingers feeling in his underarm, mirrored from the can. It still surprised him sometimes. "How many castles do you see surrounded by sand? But most pyramids are surrounded by sand."

They watched a young couple slowly approach down the beach. Their little boy started to point, but the mother grabbed the kid's arm as they hurried their pace.

Yofi waved politely with his mechanical hand.

"I wish people wouldn't do that," Elaine said after the couple was gone.

"If I was a kid, I'd probably point, too," Yofi said, running his finger across the scars crisscrossing his side. "Rather be alive and pointed at, than dead and missed." He looked out at the girls trying desperately to ride the anemic waves. "Hell with it, El, you feel like getting wet?"

She looked him in the eyes and tried to read his expression behind the sunglasses.

"We didn't come all this way to sit in the sand, did we? The water's a little chilly, but the girls have the right idea." He detached his leg, then loosened the straps holding on his arm. "Let's get wet, Hon."

She helped him up and gave him someone to lean on until he got into the surf. He may not have been able to swim like a fish, but he didn't sink like a stone either.

When Dana and Shadona emerged from the surf, Yofi watched as two boys approached along the shore. They were too far away to tell exactly what was being said, but it was easy enough to guess. It was what boys always tell pretty girls on every beach around the world.

Dana glanced his way, grabbed her board, and followed the boys while Shadona mimed volleyball, pointed, then did the same.

It probably wouldn't have mattered, but the net was within view from where Yofi sat. Barely.

Volleyball, of course, was an excellent excuse for boys to watch girls doing a lot of jumping while wearing next to nothing. Even sitting well outside earshot, he could hear what was being said.

'Where are you from?'

'How old are you?'

'What school do you go to?'

'Who are you here with?'

'Like to get something to eat?'

'Want a beer?'

'Want to see my room?'

And maybe, just maybe, they might ask for a name.

He watched the game intently and wasn't about to let anything inappropriate happen. Not to his girls.

He bit his tongue after the game and signaled the girls they had a two hour limit as he watched them walk up the boardwalk to the beachside burger joint, nearly out of sight. They needed some freedom. They needed to know they could go, within reason.

Besides, he had seen enough roughhousing in the shop to know they had an advanced understanding of most fighting styles and forms. They could take care of themselves, if they had to.

Well, at least Dana could. All he knew for sure about Shadona was she healed a little faster than most, and she got picked on a lot.

"You two have fun?" Yofi asked as the girls came in from the beach.

"Hell yeah!" Dana said while Shadona simply smiled.

Yofi got a beer from the fridge. "What'd you end up doing?" he said, sitting on the couch with Elaine.

Dana checked the fridge for another beer, but settled for a Pepsi instead. "We had some hamburgers, a frosty, and some kind of chocolate cheesecake. Got talked into walking the beach for a while, then we ended up playing another set against 'em." She bumped chests with Shadona and shouted, "Kicked their ass! Hooah!"

"You're back early," Elaine said, muting the TV.

"Yeah, wanted to shower and change," Dana said while Shadona left for the bedroom. "Still got sand, salt, and seaweed everywhere." She smiled, "They offered to let us shower at their place." She laughed, then grabbed a pear off the counter. "Like that was ever going to happen. Besides, you're much closer— And what'd they think, we were just going to walk around naked or wear skimpy bathing suits all day?"

"That's exactly what they thought," Yofi said.

Dana rolled her eyes as she bit into the pear, then wiped her chin.

"How old were they?" Elaine asked.

"Frances said he was sixteen, Brad said fifteen," Dana said between bites.

"They're too old for you two," Elaine said.

"Not hardly," Dana said, "they still struggle with algebra. Bet they were trying to impress us by sounding older than they are. Besides," she waved her pear like a wand over her curves, "it's nothing I can't handle."

Yofi held Elaine back with a hand on her knee. "They have a car?" Yofi asked.

"New Toyota, but I bet it's daddy's," Dana said, watching Shadona emerge from the bedroom with a handful of dry clothes, "I called dibs!"

"You can wait, can't you?" Yofi said.

Dana stormed too late to the bathroom and kicked the bottom of the closed door. "What part of dibs don't you understand!"

"Dana!" Yofi said. "Let it go. She'll be done before you can finish your pear." He waved her back to the couch. "It's not like she's going to use up all the hot water. Hotels use boilers, not tanks. You girls had fun, don't spoil it by getting mad over something as meaningless as who showers first."

Dana kicked the door again before returning to the living room. "Didn't know you could swim."

"I'm not going to the Olympics," he said, "but yeah. Life isn't over after you get injured."

Dana sat in the chair across from them. "So, you two take advantage of our absence for a quicky? Or did that get injured too?" She made a limp gesture with a finger.

Elaine was appalled, but Yofi was used to this kind of 'shop talk', just not from one of the girls. "A quicky is like a sloppy, half-ass repair job, the kind of thing you'd expect from a hormone-blinded teen, but not married adults, Dear. I thought I taught you kids better than that. Anything worth doing is worth doing right. And quality always takes time." He held Elaine's hand.

She slouched in the chair, then glanced at the TV behind her. "They invited us out tomorrow, an amusement park about ten minutes from here. Bumper cars, skeeball, rides, stuff like that." She turned back to the couch, "Might need some cash."

After Dana's last comment, Elaine was anxious to bite her head off, but Yofi answered first. "You sure that's the best way to ask if you can go out tomorrow? Lead with quicky talk, end with a demand for cash? You're smarter than that, I know you are. The question is, why are you trying so hard to insure we'll say no."

Dana turned back to the TV and read the closed captioning as it scrolled across the screen.

"They meet us first," he said, "right here. Maybe we'll say yes, maybe no. Skeeball sounds fun anyway, maybe we'll take you, even if they don't."

Dana stood and stared at the bathroom door. "I'm goin' for a swim." She headed outside.

"We're having dinner in an hour," he said, "be back by then." He waited for the door to close behind her before turning to Elaine. "You understand girls better than I do, but I'm— The only thing that makes sense here is the one she likes liked Shadona more, so she's trying to ruin this out of spite... it just doesn't make sense to me any other way."

"Sure Shadona's the troubled one? Dana's been pushing buttons since the first day. I wouldn't let either go. They're way too young, even as a group."

"Dana's probably used to being the alpha-female," he said, looking at his fluffy slippers. "At least between the two of them. But we ground them, you know Dana will just sneak out, dragging Shadona with her... unless we handcuff them every minute we're not around."

Shadona emerged from the bathroom, head wrapped in a towel. She turned to the bedroom, then stepped into the living room and looked around.

"Dana went for a swim," Yofi said. "Sit with us, we're having dinner in an hour, ten pounds of steamed crabs. Heard you two had a good time today."

She sat in the chair and faintly smiled while taking off the towel.

"Plan on seeing them again tomorrow?"

She couldn't hide her smile as she folded the towel.

"Way Dana tells it, they've got a rather fun day planned. Don't mind if we meet them first, do you?"

She looked at her feet and shook no while unfolding and folding the towel again.

"You don't have to go just because Dana wants to," Yofi said.

Looking up, she continued to smile. "I want to," she said softly.

"They're older than you two by more than just a few years, that seems a little much to us. But, I'm not sure you would relate with kids your own age either. Dana would lie to me, so, there's no point in asking her." He leaned forward, "Are you going just to play games, ride some rides, see the sights with people close to your own age. Or are you thinking of doing more?"

"Games," she whispered.

"We need to know where you are at all times, you only go to public places, you never leave sight of each other, you never miss a curfew, no fooling around, and I don't see the harm in allowing this. Remember, you don't have to do anything you don't want to, and we're always just a phone call away. El and I would be happy to go to the park with you, if you'd rather go with us. Would you rather go with us? It actually sounds fun."

She smiled and shyly shook no while folding the towel again.

"Well, ok then," he said, "but they better measure up."

When they knocked on the door, Yofi turned the knob and pulled. "Frances and Brad, I presume." He snapped a picture of them, the car, then tucked the camera in his pocket.

The off-balance boys looked shocked at his visible scars, but recovered quickly with a respectful, "Yes Sir."

"Come on in," Yofi said. "Have a seat. The girls will be ready in a few minutes." He opened the refrigerator and got out a beer, "Want one?" he offered, opening the top.

Frances reached out his hand, but Brad elbowed him as he announced, "Sorry Sir, but we're under age."

Yofi swigged from the beer to hide his smile. Frances came close to getting them tossed out the door before the girls even entered the room, but they passed his first test.

"What uh," Frances said, unable to help himself, "uh, car accident?"

Yofi stiffened to near military attention. "Piece of flack, Son. That's like a grenade for airplanes. You boys local?"

"Yes Sir," they said.

"Do a lot of surfing?"

"Some," Frances said.

"Mostly volleyball, Sir," Brad said. "We play on the same team in highschool."

Yofi looked at the bedroom and could hear the girls were almost ready. "Who's driving?"

"I am, Sir," Frances said.

Yofi held out his mechanical hand and rubbed its fingers together. "They don't go anywhere until I see a license, and it better not be a conditional, provisional, temporary or any other crap like that."

Frances fumbled in his pockets but produced the plastic card quickly.

Yofi stared at the picture, the lamination, and checked the hologram stamp. "They aren't back by ten and your parents will get a call, and this'll be the address I give the police. We understand each other?" He tapped the camera in his pocket. "Nine fifty nine, I'll already have the digits dialed."

"Yes Sir," they said.

Yofi rested his mechanical hand on Frances' shoulder, "They don't get so much as a goodnight kiss on the cheek, understand?"

The girls came out of the bedroom in unison, and much like he would have expected from any teenage girls, they did their best to hurry the boys out the door.

"Have a good time, kids," Yofi said, then turned to the girls, "If the boys get out of line, you have my permission to break a few arms and legs," he pointed to Shadona, "but show some restraint this time. Ok? I don't want to have to go into witness protection again." His delivery was so serious that the boys actually looked like they were rethinking the whole date.

Date...

He watched them leave on their date and jotted down Frances' name, address, and the plates from the car before he forgot, then looked at the worried expression on Elaine's face. "I can't tell you how much I want to shadow them from our car right now. But those Colorado plates stand out like popping a flare. Not that those boys would notice. They can take care of themselves, right El?"

Brad piled into the car beside Shadona, while Frances and Dana sat opposite them. The attendant locked down the safety bar and the ride started seconds later. The cars started to spin, counter spin, then floated up and down in the air as the Spider Ride shifted into high gear and the tossing and turning started in earnest.

When the ride was over minutes later, Dana and Frances ran to the Spider Ride line again. But Shadona headed for the shorter flying swings next, Brad in tow.

The swings seemed like a modified kids ride, but Shadona made it look just as fun by holding her arms out from her sides like wings, eyes closed as she faced into the breeze.

They rode the swings twice more, a small wooden roller coaster next, then took a ride on the modestly-sized Ferris wheel.

"So, you— You're not really in the witness program, are you?" Brad said while they sat, top of the wheel, looking out over the entire park as they waited for passengers to board at the bottom.

She smiled and shook no.

"You're adopted, aren't you."

She watched the line move under her feet.

"I didn't mean... It's just been bugging me for a while. You're Indian," he pressed his finger to his forehead where a dot would go, "right? Have an Indian girl in my sister's drama class that's so light skinned that she can play everything from white with a tan to Mexican to black, to Arab and even Chinese when she squints a little. Bollywood Indian. Just don't see either of your parents in you. Blue-eyed blond Dana maybe." He paused while she said nothing. "Don't mean nothing by it. Doesn't matter none. My brother's adopted, love him just the same.

I'm the one they had; he's the one they chose.

Your dad can be a little scary. At least he didn't give the cliché gun-cleaning bit." He rested his hand on her knee. "I've never seen a — what's it called — prosthetic like that. I mean, I've seen the little hook thing that can squeeze a little, and the motionless plastic ones that look real but don't move or nothing, but I've never seen one right out of a Terminator movie."

She pointed to a row of buildings at the edge of the park.

"That's the arcade. Bunch of video games, Skeeball, target shooting, those water clown balloon things and such. You like video games? After the park we can go over to my house. I've got a killer game system on a big screen. Plays the sound through surround on the stereo." He put his arms in the air, "You can even feel the explosions. It's totally sweet!" He rested his arm across her shoulders. "You don't talk much, do you."

She smiled, then looked down at the line moving dozens of feet beneath.

"You've got the cutest smile, you know."

When the ride jostled to life, he snuck a kiss that she didn't resist.

She smiled, still pressed to his lips, and slowly faced forward, making another kiss nearly impossible.

He lightly squeezed her shoulder, then kept his hands to himself while they slowly rotated to the ground and got out.

The arcade was a stark contrast to the peaceful quiet of the Ferris wheel. But that was because it offered a different brand of fun. She smiled as she walked straight for the duck shoot.

"My favorite too," Brad said, walking up to the counter and buying his—

She nudged him with her elbow, then pointed at the counter in front of her.

He dug deeper and paid for two.

Gun in hand, she rained a holy terror on metal ducks, and Brad was stuck with carrying around her prize, an oversized pinkish-blue elephant wearing a bright red hat with a black rim and a yellow tie, longer than its trunk.

They walked into the darker video game end and played doubles on a few of Brad's favorites. But unlike the duck shoot, her particular training didn't translate so easily there, until...

"Star Fighter?" Brad said as Shadona sat in the motorized mock cockpit. He looked at the price, "$2.50? No way! You're not that good at video ga—"

She elbowed him gently, then pointed at the slot for the change.

He fished in his pocket, "No way. You're not— No. Just no, we'll find something else."

She elbowed him again.

He pushed the coins into the slot.

She died horribly within the first minute, then elbowed him again.

"No way!" he said. "You've got money, you pay it. You can't even win anything on this thing."

She looked him in the eyes, blinked twice, and pointed at the slot.

He dug deeper into his pocket and watched, for two hours, as she played a near flawless game. He watched missiles, flack, and barricades leap into the air before her, and she would, at top speed, miss them by the slimmest pixel while blasting the competition like ducks on a giant metal pond. Dozens piled up behind her, taking pot shots, warning lights and buzzers never tired, but none seemed able to connect while she managed to pick them off, one by one, completely at her leisure.

Maneuvers she knew all too well.

"There you are," Dana said, leaning into the simulator as the nose pitched up on hydraulics. "We're going to Pizza Hut when you're done."

Brad looked at Frances and said, "She's broken the high—"

BOOOMMMM!!!! Wa Wa Wa... "GAME OVER"

Shadona had simply let go of the controls and exited, mid game.

"Where are you going?" Brad yelled in the noisy room. "You have to enter your name in the high score." He watched as she grabbed her stuffed prize and headed for the car with Dana.

Brad rode with Shadona in the back seat in stunned disbelief. "You played it for hours and didn't bother to enter your name in the high score," Brad yelled.

Shadona simply shrugged as she plucked dirt from the elephant's fur.

"I don't get it."

Dana turned around from the front seat, "It's just a game." She pointed at Shadona, "You had fun for a couple hours, right?"

Shadona nodded.

Dana turned to Brad, "What else could she have gotten from it, other than fun? Let it go so we can eat in peace."
B1.C32

"The army field-tested the hell out of the suit we sent them," the XO said, sitting behind his desk in his new mountain office. "Impressed is an understatement. Not only is it nearly invisible to infrared, the armor is practically bulletproof. Only the 50 caliber with armor-piercing rounds managed to penetrate it. And even then it took a hundred hits before a few lucky ones got through. They're thrilled at its ability to breach block walls instead of entering buildings through the doors, and the high-power gun... " He smiled just remembering the sheer joy of seeing it shred an armored Hummer like it was cardboard. "Well, you know how fun that toy is.

We need to make two dozen for more testing and training. How soon can you accommodate that?"

"Figure one unit a month. Maybe two if we reorganized for it now," Hanly said sitting on one of the plush office chairs, "but no faster than that. If the equipment survived the manufacturing process, we could crank 'em out like an assembly line, probably one every other day. The cost of making the plates would fall to raw material, energy, and time. They'd be cheaper than the average new car.

I bet there's an easy, non-self-destructive way to mass-produce these things, but it'll take years or decades to come up with it."

"Our profit margin this way is good enough for now, Hanly." The XO checked the screen, then typed for a few seconds. "Hell, they didn't blink at paying full price to use one as target practice for machine guns. I'll say two years. They know we're not a production facility." He looked up and smiled. "You know, they speculate that it'll take repeated hits from an RPG, perhaps even IEDs. They found out by mistake during a practice run. Inside a mockup town at Quantico, an overzealous recruit plowed through a wall and fell on his face from the third floor. Got up like he fell on a stack of mattresses instead. Something to do with how the airbags, well, double as airbags. They figure because it's so light the explosion will just toss it without actually doing significant damage. Game changer, buddy, game changer. Even at our sky-high prototype prices."

"It's solved technology, XO, but it's still every bit as frustrating to work with, Sir. We're just following instructions without actually knowing what we're doing. I'd love to better understand the underlying physics behind making those plates, but we're still left scratching our heads. It's frustrating, Sir, and it's incredibly expensive to experiment with."

The XO looked over the XL sheet on his screen. "Do your best with it, Hanly," he said, then pointed him toward the door. "Filling the production order takes priority over figuring out the physics."

Hanly saluted as he stood, "Yes Sir." He paused at the door, "Uh, Sir. All the good equipment was relocated to the mountain. What's left at the other base is mostly empty buildings, which is perfect for performing the experiment, but inconvenient for build—"

"Right now, we can't afford two of everything. We were profoundly lucky to get the equipment we did for a song. That's not likely to happen again. We'd have to buy it at full—"

"Understood, Sir. If we're going to build the equipment for dozens up here, move and reassemble them down there, then— It would just make more sense to relocate the entire operation to the mountain, Sir. Especially if we're going into a production phase."

The XO looked up from the screen. "I see what you're getting at. When Yofi gets back from vacation, we'll work something out. Have his kids build the machine in the hangar, send the pieces up the elevator, and put your tent off beside the tower. How's that?"

"That'll help, Sir. My team is spread thin, grid managing is still proving difficult to automate, adding suits to that... we just don't have the manpower. Now, if it wasn't self-destructive... "

* * *

"I know you want to stay longer," Yofi said to the girls. "Hell, I want to stay longer, but our lease is up tomorrow. Longer is not in the cards."

Dana kicked the edge of the couch and stared at the sand and surf beyond the porch doors. "Totally unfair!"

"Hey," Yofi said, "Unfair to you!? We had to save for ten years, that's almost your entire life, just to be able to afford this! El and I haven't had a vacation in—" He stopped before it was an official rant. He watched his mechanical hand react, instinctively, and mentally forced it to loosen the fist. "Dana, you knew when we left Colorado that we'd be coming back. Now El and I don't mind having the two of you with us, but complaining about it won't change anything. They don't let us stay here for free, and tomorrow morning, whether we want to or not, we're getting evicted and some other family will be staying here."

"It's not fair," Dana said.

"You can spend the day pouting over something you know can't be changed," Elaine said, "or you can get your stuff packed and at the ready, and we can still have fun for the rest of the day. The choice is yours."

The two girls had gone out almost every day they had been there, with Brad and Frances becoming a normal fixture at the door. Now this world was going to end, and they would likely never see the boys again. "It's not fair," Dana repeated, but Shadona went to their bedroom and readied her bag.

"It's called a midnight movie for a reason," Dana complained. "You can't watch a midnight movie and be home by ten. We'll be back in time to ride home, promise. It's not like we can't sleep in the car during the f—" She was obviously pissed, but hadn't resorted to profanity yet. "We can either go tonight and sleep in the car on the ride back, or I can get a good night's sleep here, and complain the entire ride back."

Everything in him screamed to ground her for a month for the veil threat, but easily unnoticed just beyond the belligerent preteen was another girl, the same age, quietly sitting on the edge of the chair, staring at her feet, rocking just a little as she dabbed her finger to her cheek. He would ground Dana back in Colorado; for now, he was prepared to let her win for another child's sake. "Checkout is at ten. That means you need to be here, at this door, by zero eight hundred at the latest to help us pack the car."

"Eight," she said, "got it."

"But I expect you two back here immediately after the movie is over."

When the doorbell rang the two piled out, quickly as they could.

Slime dripped off its chin like syrupy drool as it pounced from the ceiling and plunged its jagged teeth into the neck of a scantily clad woman. The theater screamed in unison as Shadona winced, hand in the popcorn. She covered her eyes with her shirt as the anguished screams continued for another minute or more before she simply got up and left.

"There you are," Brad said, sitting beside her on the bench in the theater lobby. "I thought you had just went to the bathroom."

She shook her head no.

"What's wrong?"

She looked at the floor as he rested his hand on her knee. "It's too bloody for me," she softly said.

"Oh. Well, it was rated R. Sometimes it's actually for a reason, I guess." He put his arm around her. "You want to see something else?" He looked at the board of shows playing, solid horror the rest of the night. "We can go do something else if you want— Oh, damn, Frances has the keys." He looked at his watch. "We've got an hour to kill. You still got your ticket stub?"

She pulled it from her pocket.

"I'll see if we can get our money back, maybe go across the street to that all-night café." He took the stubs to the box office, then they crossed the street.

When she pointed to a sticky bun and an espresso, he ordered for her and added a coke and a chocolate muffin that were equally overpriced. Yet still a bargain compared to food at the theater.

"What'd you think of the first feature?" he asked as they sat in the booth near the window.

"I liked the car chases," she said softly, "but the spy thing bothered me."

"Really?" he said, taking a fork to the top of his muffin.

"None of the bad guys seem to be able to shoot. They missed with a M24, a M40A3 and a Dragunov, yet Jason seems to be able to hit his marks with a Glock that mechanically isn't accurate at even half the range. Six times he fired more bullets than the gun can hold, and twenty-two times they chambered guns that already had a round chambered, yet no shell ejected. Who in their right mind runs down the middle of the road to escape a killer in a car? And all the explosions were consistent with gasoline, not plastic."

He laughed. "That all? That's Hollywood for yah, standard Bourne knockoff flick. No offense to your Pops, but I buy the premise, don't you?" He leaned closer, as if to divulge words rarely spoken in public. "A secret military branch brainwashing orphans into spies and assassins. I mean, it's cliché of course, but it just has that ring of plausibility to it. A government that injected blacks with syphilis, interned Japanese-Americans by the thousands, and staged Pearl Harbor and the Moon-landing could easily do that to orphans, don't you think?"

She sat quietly, dragging little pieces through the thick icing that dripped off the sides, nibbling away at her bun.

"I didn't say something wrong again, did I? I mean, not all the military is like that. I'm sure your Pops isn't."

She sipped from the small cup. "I like that he gets free in the end," she said, looking out the window at the brightly lit streets. "It's just horribly sad how many people had to die to get it."

"Well, that's Hollywood for yah. It ain't a movie without a lot of skin or an obscene body count." He pointed his fork at her bun. "Mind if I have a taste?"

She looked around Brad's room while Dana and Frances jammed on the Play Station in the den. A 27-inch TV on his dresser sat beside a DVD player and a Wave Radio. Dirty clothes were tossed beside his private bathroom in total disregard for the hamper. Bookshelves were full of graphic novels, cliff notes, and a cheater's guide to Warcraft. Buried weights sat by the window, rarely used. "You said you had a laptop," she said.

"Yeah, a new Dell." He pulled it off the shelf. "The graphics card's a joke. The few games that load look blurry and have that ghosty trail thing happening. Only good for Email and homework."

She pushed aside a collection of empty soda cans and pretzel bags and opened it on his desk. While it booted, she straightened a paperclip and jammed it in the CD tray.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

When the tray opened, she removed the CD and jammed the clip deeper inside the tray with the same skill as someone picking a lock. "I'm not allowed to have Internet access at home," she said.

"No wonder!"

"I just need to borrow yours for—"

"Borrow doesn't mean destroy!"

But she was undeterred by the panic in his voice. She opened Word, hit Alt + F11, then typed away.

"What are you doing now? This isn't Email— What the hell is that? That's code. You a hacker? You were arrested for hacking, weren't you!"

But she kept typing, pausing for a few seconds every now and then to wave her fingers in the air, then back to typing again. She jiggled the clip jammed into the tray, and when the CD-ROM came to life, she held her ring finger over the laser pickup.

The screen filled with files, installation notices, and obscure message boxes popping up and closing on their own. "What the hell is that?" he said, hovering over her shoulder. "Where's it getting all this from? There's no CD in the tray."

But she didn't answer.

Connecting...

Network detected...

Authenticating...

HF16A03E102

She typed "DAE12F"

When the screen flickered and the Caps Lock LED went berserk, she covered the blinking light with her ring finger. "What the hell's that?" he said. But it quickly faded, and the screen returned to normal.

She removed the paperclip, turned off the Dell, and walked out of the room.

He caught her before she made it to the den. "Wait a minute," he said.

She looked at his hand on her elbow.

"Not so fast. You don't just pull off a spy scene from the movies and casually walk away."

"I live in another state, Brad. We'll probably never—" She looked at his shocked, open mouth, "Maybe I'm a spy, like in the movie we just watched. Maybe I've involved you in a plot to overthrow the government and take over the world. Maybe you just helped me get my freedom, like the kind girl he met in the café on the silver screen. Or maybe I know just enough VB to put on a dazzling show, for a guy I barely know, so he'll remember me for the rest of his life. Instead of being just that quiet girl he met one year, and never thought of again."
B1.C33

Yofi looked over the plans in the new shop, end of his first day back. "It isn't what I'm used to doing, but sure, we can fabricate this. It doesn't look that complicated, XO. But it'll cut into our repair schedule."

"You mean you don't have any kids that are good enough that you can just assign them this project?" the XO said.

"That's not the issue, Sir. You can't have kids operating heavy equipment unsupervised. And even if you could, you'd have to supervise them for at least the first few units until they got the hang of it. There's a clear safety issue here."

"Fuck all that, Yofi. We have to make this work, I'm running out of time and patience. Hanly's got his hands full with a setback balancing those toruses. I've got to get the next two suits out of here by the end of the month."

"I can put in the overtime, if you need me to. But I can't, and I won't work twelve-year-olds unsupervised, and our docket for repairs is going to have these machines occupied almost full-time. I don't know what to tell you, Sir. There's only so many hours in a day. And as nice and fancy as those machines are, they can still only fabricate one piece at a time."

The XO pounded his fist into the table. "She's fucked us again and I'm—"

"Now wait a second, Sir. She did exactly what you asked of—"

"We both know she's got a design that isn't self-destructive, where we wouldn't have to go through all this bullshit, and she's just sitting on it!"

"We don't know anything of the sort. It's just an assump—"

"She's got us dancing at the end of her strings, and I'm sick and fucking tired of—"

"Respectfully, Sir, your financial problems aren't her fault. Now, I can go from eights to twelves, maybe even fourteens for a while, roll in on the weekends and maybe burn the candle on both ends long enough to get this done for you. But I can't ask twelve-year-olds to work that hard and that long with me. I'll have to add shifts for—"

"They're not in a damned union, Yofi. They're young, they can handle it."

"How many fatigue-related mistakes can your budget tolerate? It just takes one error on these complicated self-destructive designs to render weeks' worth of work into wasted effort. They have to be perfect or they don't work at all, but they destroy themselves 100% of the time. Zero mistakes, that takes time. It takes attention to detail. It just does, it can't be rushed. Two seven-hour shifts is the best I can offer you, unless you want to bring someone else in. You solve Hanly's balancing problem and you'll free him up to work nights. You'll double the productivity of the shop that way. Or hire another flight mechanic to do the repairs during the day and I'll work on this at night. Two flight mechanics wouldn't be that bad of an idea anyway. You could double the repairs that roll through here. Right now, repairs are still your bread and butter, right?"

"I can't afford to hire anyone else. And our repair docket is as full as I can make it without a full-scale war breaking out somewhere."

"Take one of Hanly's crew and introduce them to the kids, or put Hanly on nights and promote one of his team to solving your balancing problem. I don't see where you have many other choices."

He had another choice.

Elaine watched from the kitchen window as a black SUV pulled into the driveway. "Who the hell is that?" she said.

Shadona looked, then turned pale as an all-too-familiar man got out and walked to the door.

"I'll go see what he wants," Elaine said when the bell rang.

Shadona grabbed her hand. "Don't answer it," she said.

"Don't worry, I recognize him. He was at last year's Christmas dinner."

Shadona ran to her room.

"Hello Mrs. Stosou," the XO said. "Can I have a few moments of your time?"

"Has something happened to Yofi?" she asked, letting him inside.

"Oh no Ma'am, he's fine. Put that out of your mind. I just need a few minutes with the girl."

"Which one?" she asked.

"Shadona, if you would be so kind."

Elaine headed for the bedroom, but found it empty. Window opened just a crack, storm window askew. "Huh, they were right here a minute ago."

The XO pulled out his phone. "Restrict the transmitter to inside the mountain," he said, then closed the phone and handed her his card. "Give me a call when they come back, and whatever you do, don't take them to a dentist. Do you understand me?"

"Why would I take them to a dentist?" she asked, looking at a business card that had no company name, no address, no contact name, nothing but a typed phone number and an extension. "What's this about?"

"They're about to have a seriously bad toothache, but it has nothing to do with teeth, which is why I need you to not take them to a dentist. He'll only make it worse and waste valuable time. It's most likely— Look, our nurse caught something on their last physical and they need to be checked out. I didn't really follow it, sinus cavity, aneurysm, or something to do with blood clots. I don't want to frighten you, but taking them to a doctor or a dentist will only waste valuable time, and if the clot dislodges, it might be fatal."

She looked over the card again. "That doesn't make a lick of—"

"It has something to do with changing elevation or something, I'm not medically trained—"

"Then why send you? Why not send someone who is medically trained on a medical mission?"

With his lie obviously failing, he decided to take another approach. "How much has your husband told you?"

She knew better than to say anything that would get him in trouble. "Yofi served with their parents, and when they died they came to stay here with us until they turn eighteen like any other children. I don't know anything about any medical conditions. They seemed perfectly healthy to me."

"Tell her what I told you about the tooth. Tell her that I can fix it, but that she has to talk to me. Call that number." He got back into the SUV and drove away.

She dialed Yofi's cell. "A man from work dropped by today... just now... he asked to see the girls, and they ran away... yes, but I'm concerned... ok... ok... ok... " She opened the window in the girls' bedroom, "ok... I'll do no such thing, I'm staying up and I'll see you when you get home."

She waited by the window, but they didn't come home.

Apaches flew overhead the rest of the day, just circling and circling in weird patterns.

Bzzzz... Bzzzz... The XO's phone vibrated against the desk as he paced in the small room.

Bzzzz... Bzzzz...

"We had an agreement," he said, slamming the notebook on the desk. "Your changes don't work!"

She flipped through the book, then pushed it back to him, stood, and walked to the door.

"You don't go anywhere until I have a way to affordably mass-produce these." He grabbed her by the shoulder and tossed the seventy-five pound girl back into her chair. "A non-self-destructive method."

She drew a picture of a tooth in the margins.

"You'll get—"

Bzzzz... Bzzzz...

"For the love of God!" he yelled, picking up the phone, "What the hell do you want... No, you can't... Because I said so... Then quit, I don't give a fuck!" he said, folding the phone and slamming it on the desk.

Bzzzz... bzzzz...

He opened it again. "I'm tired of having this same conversation with you, Yofi... You can take that carrot and stick, turn them sideways, and shove them both up your ass! I've got a budget that has to be balanced, and I don't have time to play semantics with either of you!" he closed it again and slammed it against the desk.

Bzzzz... bzzzz...

He reached for the phone, but Shadona grabbed it first, opened it, then hid under the desk and whispered into it before the XO yanked it out of her hands and smashed it on the floor.

He ripped her out from under the desk and slammed her back into the chair. "You'd be better served using your words talking to me. You're not leaving until I have those industrialized plans."

Knock knock knock.

The XO opened the door. "Sergeant, I thought I told you nobody was to interrupt me."

"The only bigger mistake than what you're making right now," Yofi said outside, "was the one IBM made with a young Bill Gates."

"Are you somehow unclear on what fired means!" The XO stepped outside and the door closed behind them.

"What the hell did you think you were doing going to my home," Yofi said.

"I want this man barred from the base, Sergeant!"

The sergeant grabbed Yofi by the elbow.

"I know the way out," Yofi said, standing his ground. "That girl trusted you. Maybe she didn't give you what you wanted, but she gave you what you asked for. If you had come to me and let me ask her instead of taking this bullheaded tactic, maybe she would have done it for me. But you just destroyed any chance of that now.

She talks to me. She talks to El. She hadn't said a word to anyone in twelve years, but she's talking to us. And you've just destroyed that, too. The second she started coming out of her shell, you bash her over the head with another heavy stick. That girl in there isn't responsible for balancing your budget. She smiles around us. Have you ever seen her smile? Have you seen any of them smile?

If you had come to me and let me do this, I might have gotten it for you in a few days. But this way I guarantee you'll spend weeks or months and get nothing.

Guarantee it.

What you're doing here is ruining any chance you ever had at a cooperative relationship with that girl.

She's a good kid, XO.

Scratch that, she's a great kid.

It's no accident that there's a car bomb's worth of material being used in that design. Keep leaning on her with a heavy hand and you're likely to have a front row seat to a radioactive crater.

Don't fuck this up if you don't have to... "

She couldn't hear most of Yofi's words, but the tone of the argument carried, especially how the XO yelled.

After a few minutes, the door opened and, to her great surprise, Yofi stepped in. Her eyes welled up, but she didn't cry. She just sat in the chair as he knelt beside her. "He's in a hard spot here. Desperate is probably a better word."

When he put his hand on her shoulder, the tears she held back started to flow.

"Don't cry. I was there when he made the agreement, Shadona. You've honored your end of this. More than he has, anyway."

She ran her fingers across the drawing of a tooth in the margin.

"He's going to want proof the changes work, first. But don't worry about that right now. Let's just get you two home, where you belong."

She hugged him and continued to cry.

"... That's madness," Elaine said when Yofi finished filling her in, sitting in bed that night. "It's against international laws, let alone a dozen in this country alone."

"I know it is, El. I know. But the laws weren't around when it started— I'm not going to defend or excuse it, El. It is what it—"

"You need to get away from there, fast. We should just pack them in the car and disappear. This isn't right any way you look at it."

"What happens to those kids left up there? What happens if they get someone worse than me?"

She got out of bed and paced, then sat on the foot, hands on her knees, "We whistle blow. We take Dana and Shadona and we run, we get into hiding and we go to the press. Blanket the airwaves and we do the—"

"Let me stop you for a second. I want you to think, really think about all the implications that'll trickle down from that. We're talking one hell of a black eye for this country. China will have a blank check for civil rights violations for a hundred years over this. I get it, trust me, I do. But those kids will be labeled Frankensteins, and we both know they're not. You think I get looks on beaches, they'll have that noose hanging around them the rest of their lives.

Yeah, the media would have a feeding frenzy, but what then? What happens when it fades to the back pages? And we can't take them further than a hundred miles from that base without getting outside radio range and putting those girls through a world of pain."

She stood and paced some more. "Radio, right? Why can't you just rig something?"

"It isn't that simple. It isn't just a signal like with a dog collar, it's a code. A rotating, changing, military-level encrypted code. That's way beyond me."

She paced by the bed. "Why not just do some sort of internet radio thing with it? Stream it or something. Put a receiver here, and we'll take a—"

"It's designed to prevent that. When we were on the beach, they bounced the signal off a satellite. To reach here, they just use a transmitter on the tower. But even if streaming worked, they can shut them off with a switch and restrict the signal to inside the base, and that's exactly what they would do if we showed up missing, went into hiding, or hit the press.

Besides all that, there's a deeper issue. The XO didn't invent this idea, he just inherited it, same as me. Same as everyone there. But if this hits the media you can bet the buck will stop with us. We'll be scapegoated and painted as if it was our idea from the beginning. As the squeaky wheel, they'll look to aim as much blame as they can at me.

Good thought though, El. It'd almost be worth going to jail, if I thought it'd free them."

She plopped on the foot of the bed. "I don't want to lose them."

"I'm not going to let that happen."
B1.C34

She looked at the printer on the desk, emptied of paper. But that wasn't all that was missing. A monitor, keyboard, and mouse were there, but the tower was gone. Shadona sat at the desk in the den and thought about a boy with a Dell a world away. She had gambled that showing off in front of him would be worth the risk. The ring had written some vicious code that was unpacking, replicating, infecting, mutating and spreading as she sat.

It should remain dormant so long as she remained away from the base. A kind of dead-man switch she once thought unnecessary, until that day the XO stood in the door, it was a fantastic long shot. She had regretted using it, since its tactics were unforeseeable, uncontrollable. Unknowable, and virtual. But now, now she had a different view. Should he come for her again, millions of boxes, like that missing from the desk, would slowly escalate the pressure from outside until she was free. Truly free.

The code in Yofi's prosthetic was written by the ring, not her. Yet it had proven itself brilliantly. It mirrored sensations into his underarm, something she hadn't told it to do. But it tempered those reflections. Scalding was merely hot and pulsating. Freezing stopped at quivering cool. Neither of which she had thought of. The self-customizing neural interface was beyond her current skills. Dedicating several years to the task, maybe she could have come up with such nuances, but not in weeks or months.

She didn't know the nuances of what the uploaded code would do, nor what it was ultimately capable of. But as with the general characteristics of the prosthetic, she knew what would stop it cold. As long as she was free, the code was powerless. More than that she didn't need to know.

She ran her fingers across keys that went nowhere.

"I'm sorry, Hon," Elaine said. "They made us give up all our computers to have you here."

She pushed the keys away.

"Yofi's not going to let them take you back there."

She frowned. "They think I know too much. If I stay silent and prove them wrong, they'll say I broke my promise, and I can't stay. If I prove them right, they'll say I'm too big of a risk, and I can't stay." She folded her arms on the desk and rested her head.

"You can stay," Elaine said, arm on the child. "We'll find a way."

* * *

"You've had two weeks, Yofi," the XO said, "and you haven't brought me anything useful."

Yofi stood by his desk in the shop, end of his day. "Take out her tooth. Give her a sign that you can be trusted. Take the first step and she'll work the problem for you. Have a little faith. She's stubborn, not rebellious.

What do you have to lose? Why fight her so hard?

She understands more of your dilemma than you give her credit for."

"It's the only leverage I have." He looked out the Plexiglas windows and into the immense, mostly empty hangar. "We'll make this month's bills with sixty-seven dollars left over. I can give you another three weeks, but I have to have the new designs by—"

"That's not how her mind works. I honestly believe she doesn't know how to industrialize it. But that doesn't mean she can't figure it out, Sir. Maybe not in weeks. Probably not to anyone's timetable. But eventually. Take away the threat hanging over her— Hell, you've seen her under pressure. She doesn't take it well. She rocks back and forth, paralyzed. Mentally, that's the state of mind you've got her in. You demand she think brilliant thoughts while you tighten the screws, I doubt Einstein could give you brilliance under those conditions."

"I'm not sure we can remove the tooth, we've never done it before," the XO said. "But I'll look into it. Meantime, keep her focused on the problem at hand."

"I'm better off trying to get her to just have fun again—"

"We weren't running a daycare when you hired on, and we're not running one now, Yofi."

Yofi walked to the office door, scanned his badge, then touched the pad, "I'm headed home. Tell Hanly to keep going with the old drawings." He pointed to a pile of parts sitting outside the other Plexiglas-enclosed office beside his, 'Hanly' printed on the door. "The mill was free for two hours today, so I had Kyle run off some parts for him. I left a note."

Yofi took the elevator up to the ski lift, then rode the scenic way down to the parkinglot.

When he pulled into the driveway and turned the engine off, he heard the piano playing over the quiet still of the winter air. Every note sounded spot on, not a beat out of place. Filled with passion, the keys were struck with the kind of emotion that bends the human heart to a shared, resonating chord, free to sing out to the world. Was there anything that girl couldn't do?

He opened the door to find it was Elaine playing, Shadona quietly sitting to her side.

When Elaine reached the end of the page, Shadona picked up the keys from there. She wasn't horrible, far from it. But she wasn't grand either. Average. Mediocre. Normal. She played the piano normally.

He smiled as he kissed his wife on the cheek. It was nice to know she could be normal at something.

They kept playing while he went to the kitchen, put on his slippers, and started dinner.

Shadona sat at the desk in the den, pencil in hand, paper before her.

"Listen," Yofi said, "it's up to you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I think he'll eventually relent and remove the tooth first. But there's no way to know for sure.

In a way, he's desperate. And the actions of desperate people aren't easy to predict."

She pressed the pencil to paper and started to draw.

Hanly looked at the three pages on his desk.

He recognized the lines all too well.

Three more systems had been plucked from the interlocking web of confusion and convolution. But what remained wasn't any more decipherable. The changes amounted to a savings of several days in fabrication time, as well as tens of thousands in costs. Yet the equipment still wasn't reusable.

The XO wasn't very impressed. But it was a gesture.

It didn't go unnoticed.

It bought time.

And as expected, the changes worked.

Hanly entered the control room and walked over to the main console. "Are we any closer to balancing the loads?"

"No Sir," the engineer said.

Hanly looked over the data as it scrolled across several screens. "The hardware is right, it's the software that's off. It's the math that's killing us." He looked at the board again. "The Co-op has a new 500-megawatt unit they brought online just because of us, in the hopes that we would have this figured out by now. And we don't have it figured out. We're shaking and quaking every time we adjust loads. We can't keep going like this. It's like a bad transmission job, it'll idle fine, but rev it up and it feels like it'll shake the mountain apart.

I'm tired of just idling, Gentlemen. I'd like to hit the gas on this thing, just once. See what's really under the hood. But instead, we're building even more Corvettes and asking them to idle, too."

"Sir," the engineer said, "we all know what the problem is, just nobody has an answer to it."

Hanly looked over the boards again. "I'm sorry I can't spend more time on this, Guys. I feel like I'm letting all of you down, but the suits are taking priority. That doesn't mean this isn't important, too. Burn me a CD of everything to date and I'll look at it at home." An engineer handed him a CD, and Hanly reluctantly left the room.
B1.C35

Shadona sat in the dental chair for the second time in her life. Yofi stood in the room as the nurse covered her face with the mask.

Ten... nine... eight... seven... si... six... four.

She woke with a sore jaw, a little dizzy, and slightly confused. She looked inside her mouth and counted the same number of teeth. "Can I see it?" she said.

The nurse showed her the bloody dental screw wrapped in gauze. "Stay still, you'll be dizzy for a while."

Shadona slid out of the chair anyway. She stumbled over to where there was more light and looked in her mouth again.

"We removed it," the nurse continued, "then filled the tooth and capped it. It's basically the same as a root canal. You'll be in pain for about a week, but that should go away."

Standing beside Yofi, the XO looked as impatient as always. "We'd like your help balancing the toruses—"

"All ma-b-th," she mumbled with a slight drool. "You need a su-bp-er-com-puter or at least a cluster to solve it." She staggered, but caught herself on the table. "All software. Millions of lines of co-bd-e. Couldn't type it all if I wanted too. Take years."

The XO didn't look convinced.

Yofi put his arm around the girl. "Come on, let's get you home," the handicapped man said as he steadied the girl out the door.

Shadona sat at the piano and played her heart out. She had progressed faster than most, but had plateaued. And though the notes were right and her timing was good, there was something missing from all of her pieces.

But it didn't seem to matter to her. Elaine played by her side, most of the time, and she always seemed to be having fun. Music spoke to her, just not through her.

By the end of the next month, she produced three more corrections that saved them tens of thousands in costs and increased production to three a month. Yet the process was still self-destructive and the XO was as unhappy as ever.

Shadona sat at the kitchen table, hours after Yofi had left for work.

Elaine returned from the utility room with a basket of clothes from the dryer, when she noticed two packed bags by the door. "What's that for?" she asked, setting the basket on the table.

"I need to find out something," Shadona said. "We need to take a trip."

Elaine reached for the phone, "Sure, just let me call—"

Dana pushed a piece of paper to the center of the table, "We left a note."

Elaine paused while she read it. "You think that's true? That's not the Yofi I kn—"

"It said maybe," Dana said, pointing to the qualifying words.

"There's only one way to know for sure," Shadona said. "We have to go, and it has to be a surprise. Nobody can know where."

Elaine pulled some clothes out of the basket, put them in a plastic bag, grabbed her purse, and headed for the car. "If you need this to feel comfortable here, then I'm happy to go," she said.

The train made it as far as Texas before the pain in their jaws exploded exponentially past migraine level.

Shadona had her answer. They had been hustled. The implant had been neither removed nor deactivated. Merely a little creative drilling and capping to change the tooth's appearance.

The only question left was if Yofi was in on it.

Yofi pounded the table. "I can't believe he would do that!" He pounded the table again, hanging his head low, "I can't believe I didn't see this coming." He looked at Shadona, sitting at the piano in the other room, staring at her feet. "God, I'm so... You must hate me right now."

She twisted her toe as she pressed it into the carpet, like anyone else would grind out a cigarette.

"To hell with the house, we'll just make a run for—" He shook his head again. "No, that won't work." He looked over at the piano. "There has to be something else I can do. Stall for time someh—"

"What would be the point of that?" Shadona asked.

"I could really go for a beer," Dana said from the couch.

"I could go for some ice cream," Shadona said.

Elaine reached for the phone. "Fuck 'em all," she said, "I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let this happen."

But Yofi took the phone from her. "We'll probably end up in jail, El—"

"I'm not going to let this happen," she said with tears in her voice. "I'm not."

"I don't know how we'd go about proving any of it anyway, El," he said, sitting on the stool by the phone. "Calling the press is a lot easier said than done. X-ray the tooth, but you still can't extract it without the code, and I'm not sure that the X-rays wouldn't look like any other dental screw. Extract it using the wrong code and we risk killing them, and the only dentist within range of the transmitter is at the base.

Dump them on an ER? They're no better equipped. If we knew what the poison was, we could give them the antidote and it becomes a simple dental procedure anyone could do. But that poison could be anything. Likely something without an antidote for that very reason.

We can't take them to the media without putting them in excruciating pain. It might take weeks, maybe even a month to get this story before the cameras. And the story itself stretches credibility. We could get on Coast-to-Coast AM, maybe even tonight, but we'd sound like just another alien abduction conspiracy theory. For it to work, we'd need credibility, and I just don't see how that's going to happen." He looked at Shadona by the piano. "A legal case can be made that freeing her is a violation of national security. A ton of bricks would fall on any reporter brave enough to pen such a story. I can't think of a single one that's that brave. Hell, CNN just reports what the president tells them to say nowadays, your Maury does more in-depth reporting than they do.

Oh El, I wish it was as easy as a phone call, I would have done that years ago."

The room grew silent as everyone slowly realized how few options remained.

* * *

Yofi smiled as the XO walked across the shop, toward his office. He stood and met him half way, as he had done a hundred times before.

"Yofi, I'm glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to go over your estimates—"

Yofi delivered his best left, followed by a far less satisfying mechanical right cross, staggering the XO back and landing him on the floor. "You lying, no good son of a bitch!" He pointed with his flesh finger, "I hope you live long enough to realize just how big of a mistake you made."

"I guess you know you're fired!" the XO yelled from the ground.

"I guess you know I quit!" Yofi said as he walked away.

The XO stumbled to his feet and grabbed the nearest object suitable for bludgeoning a man to death. In this case, a two foot length of stainless pipe. Yofi would be easy to run down, the man still limped on half a leg after all.

But the XO flung the pipe, clattering across the concrete floor instead. What would have been the point in beating up a handicapped man. Yofi didn't need this job. He qualified for full disability, working actually went against his pension. Besides, the XO was about to deliver a blow far worse than what any pipe could deliver.

He dialed his phone and had the transmitter shut down, weeks earlier than planned.

"Ok recruits," the man said, coming out of Yofi's old office. "I'm your new instructor, and we're going to start getting you certified to work on my favorite piece of military equipment. It redefines state-of-the-art and is the cutting edge of the spear. A plane that I personally spent years helping design and develop. The F-22 Raptor. For this week only, I'd like to introduce you to two of my fellow engineers on the Raptor project."

The kids followed the three men as they walked out the end of the shop and into the hangar proper.

He held out his hand and gestured to one of three identical planes parked under the high-bay lights. "Can anyone tell me what this is?" he asked rhetorically.

Shadona raised her hand.

"Yes, you over there."

The room grew quiet as Shadona lowered her hand and, for the first time in front of them, spoke. "It's an archaic, obsolete platform," the twelve-year-old said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
B1.C36

"Professor," the XO said, still suffering with a black eye and a sore chin, "Good to see you in person this time."

"I detest being here," the professor said. "I can't stand backwater redneck Colorado. I'd rather telecommute like we were, but I have to be here in person to configure these desktops into a cluster. We need the extra computational power to solve your fluid dynamics problem, now don't we." The professor typed at the keyboard and verified the network settings. "This is your last favor with me," he said. "Your little blackmail ends here with this."

"Now Professor," he said, "that drone software your team completed that identifies enemy movements, marries line of site with minimal RF controls, and solves the military's massive bandwidth problems all at the same time... that's worth a fortune, and I know you've got two more patents pending on it. How many does that make since we met?"

The professor walked over to the next desktop in the room, plugged in his custom-made box, then started uploading software and adjusting settings.

"Be honest, you've never made more in your life than you've made with me in backwater USA." The XO smiled at their awkward relationship. "Land is cheap here. You should find yourself a place nearby. Hell, we've nearly completed our checkout to certify the airstrip. That'd put you minutes away from anywhere in the world. If things go as planned, we'll always have a few planes and helicopters at our disposal."

"Crammed into a military jet or bounced around in the bare-metal back of a Blackhawk? No thank you. Not my style."

He smiled, "I think we can do better than that, if you can fix our code. Besides, when your patents come through, you should be able to buy a stylish bird of your own. It isn't like we don't have a topnotch maintenance facility."

"I'm no pilot—"

"I'll have pilots soon. Can't have a private airport without pilots. If I had your funds, and didn't have a business to run, I'd pick a spot and build a McMansion a few minutes drive from here. Those trendy San Francisco clubs you favor so much are just a hop away by air. I'd think about it, if I were you."

The professor paused to answer some text boxes that popped up on the screen.

"Remember, Professor, the fluid dynamics software falls under DOE as national security. It's outside our patent-sharing agreement."

The professor dismissed the implied allegation with a wave of his hand.

"What kind of timetable are we looking at?"

"If everything goes as planned, weeks. If not, then substantially longer. It should be a matter of using the data you've already accumulated from your months of stumbling around in the dark and extrapolating a model from that. Your data files are huge, but less than ideal. It's a staggering volume of numbers to crunch. But the math itself shouldn't be that difficult—"

"That wasn't what I was told. I was told that it would take teams of programmers years, millions of lines of code, that the math was intense and—"

The Professor stood, flipping his ponytail off his shoulder. "I'm well aware of the problem. But just like with weather prediction models, we don't need to know any of the underlying physics. No model is capable of accurately calculating what effects Mrs. Jones' choice to water her lawn will have on cloud formations, but nor do they have to. We simply study decades of data and compile statistics. Then use those statistical trends to project as if statistics were formulas.

Much like your problem, the physics behind weather forecasting is so complex it will likely never be solved. But raw statistics alone can tell you if it's going to rain this weekend, without knowing any of the physics behind it. Statistics is an easy problem to solve, and it gets easier to solve the more data points you have to throw at it. We'll have to keep this cluster available for frequent updates over the years as we fine tune the database.

But you're right in a useless, unimportant way. It would take teams of experts decades to generate an accurate, unified formula, probably a lifetime achievement and a Nobel Prize or two. It'll take me and this cluster weeks to crunch the numbers, generate a detailed chart, and adapt that chart into a simulation of a formula. The results of both should be the same.

That's the best I can do.

Hell, that's the best anyone can do. But the great thing about the grid is you don't have to be exact. Plus or minus 10% is as accurate as you need to be."

He had his doubts. The professor's opinion of his own brilliance was never in short supply, but his results constantly were. The consequences of failure were huge. If the good professor couldn't deliver, he needed to have a plan B ready to go. Time was critical, and he had nothing left to spare. The savings on the suits were not sufficient, and reimbursements for their expenses were lagging at twice the usual bureaucratic rate, worsening his crunch on cash.

The XO opened the door in the medical wing, then looked over the nurse's report. "Sodium pentothal didn't work?" he said.

"Sorry Sir."

"She out?"

The nurse studied the monitor beside the bed. "Should be."

He looked at the interrogator. "You're experienced in this, right?"

"Yes Sir. Used it successfully on dozens of terrorists. Always had good results."

The XO looked at the report again. "Nothing? You can't have gotten nothing. There has to have been something."

"Well," the interrogator said, producing a tape from his pocket, "it took an hour to get her to say a single word. We maxxed out the dosage and she talked, but not in any language I'm even remotely familiar with. Or maybe she mumbled gibberish, I won't know for sure until it's run past some linguists."

The XO couldn't hide his disappointment when he turned to the nurse. "Try an adult dos—"

"That's when she blacked out," the nurse said, hands on her hips. "I told you that this was a long—"

"Don't lecture me," the XO said, "I had my fill of lectures with Yofi, thank you." He turned to the interrogator, "Make me a digital copy of that tape. We may be able to translate it in house."

"Sure. I'll have it for you in a few hours." He handed the XO the question sheet. "I'm used to questioning terrorists and Mexican smugglers; industrial espionage is new for me, and I'm not exactly sure I even understood the questions I was asking. Fairly deep off the physics end of the pool for me. Felt like I was giving an oral exam for Hawking at Cambridge. But if her answers weren't gibberish, the readouts say she was telling the truth. For what that's worth."

He hoped it was worth something.

Dana looked at the girl in her room, their room, unceremoniously dumped on the bed, band-aid on her arm. There was a time, not too long ago, when she wouldn't have noticed. She wouldn't have cared.

Dana stared at the troubled girl that was once a simple annoyance. Odd. Damaged. Fucked in the head.

She put her hand on Shadona's bare arm with the rolled up sleeve. Her skin was cold, clammy.

Dana stared at the door, locked from the outside.

The illusion of freedom was so powerful and compelling with Yofi. For months they had thought they were free, believed as only children could. Nearly two weeks on the beach. Hanging out with new-found friends. Volleyball. Everything about the way she saw the world had changed. Even the way she viewed life.

It wouldn't have happened without that troubled girl.

She spread a blanket over her friend.

What was happening to them wasn't normal.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

And even Dana realized it, this time.

Hanly rolled out the power plant plans on the desk and stared. The penciled changes had been implemented. All but one.

Officially the corrections were his, but he knew better. Yet none of his team had seen this version before. He called them over and gathered them around. "Listen," he said, "We've been busting our collective asses on the suits, but now production for the most part is being outsourced," by kids on a night shift, "so I'd like us to shift gears again. We'll have the twenty-fourth torus complete in months, and I'd like any input you may have on what this thing running down the central shaft does."

They crowded in closer. "I don't get it, Sir, don't you know?" one said, "I mean, it is your design, right?"

"It's a little like the suits. I inherited it, flaws and all."

"Then it's a flaw, why worry about it. It doesn't seem relevant."

Hanly highlighted the section with his finger. "Need I remind you that the suit drawings work. Granted, they seem specifically designed to make it as difficult as possible to mass-produce, but I think these power plant designs are different. And now that we're nearly finished constructing the toruses, we need to figure out what this section does before we can get the funds to build it."

"Why build it?" one of the engineers said. "The toruses function without it already. I don't see—"

"That's why we have to figure out what this might have done. It was included for a reason. Now, in the suit designs, its inclusion would likely be to prevent mass-production. That doesn't seem to be the case here, and we need to figure it out before we spend what little budget we have on adding it back in..."

They studied it for the next week, with lots of discussions and theories, but no consensus... other than it was expensive and seemed designed to directly link all the toruses simultaneously, or independently, throughout the base and out the top of the mountain, and that it could handle unprecedentedly huge surges of electricity. The interconnection seemed eminently practical and it was eventually decided it should be implemented as an efficient means to use one torus to electrically spin up another, allowing for maintenance on the tunnels and equipment without losing all the stored energy. The complex construction proposed out the mountain's top still left them confused, though.
B1.C37

"Well, Jeff," the XO said inside a special chamber near the bottom of the mountain, "how's our termite experiment coming?"

Jeff just smiled, "Let me give you the tour." They walked through two double doors, down a short corridor, and out into one of the worst smelling chambers imaginable. A vaulted ceiling stretched out sixty feet over a floor covered with a honeycomb of four-inch circles. Jeff attached a hook to one and winched a ten-foot pipe from the floor. "The top half is filled with scrap corn stalks, bark, twigs and such from local farms. It's mulched and packed in like a block of cement. The termites chew their way through it, depositing their waste over here," he pointed out a lower section, "and the bottom few inches sits in water." He moved the tube to a section off to the side, then disconnected the top half. "The queen and her eggs naturally stay low, in this bottom section. Workers and warriors infest the top." He sat the top half vertically on a tank of water, clipped a hose to its top, then flipped a switch. "The vacuum gently pulls air through the hose and down the tunnels, any termites that exit the bottom are drowned in the water." He flipped another switch. "The smoke encourages them to commit suicide faster." The clear bucket of water quickly clouded with white ants, none of which could swim. "I do this every so many weeks until their food is gone," he pointed to a scale, "usually you can tell by weight." He skimmed the termites from the bucket, hosed out the pipe, then packed it with more concrete-looking fibrous pulp. "Now comes the hard part, getting the queen to relocate the nest so we can collect all their waste. We do that by placing an empty chamber above the bottom half, then slowly fill the bottom with water, simulating a flood. And over the next two days, the workers will move all the eggs into their new home. We lower the new home back into the cluster like it was a food— uh, fuel rod, and it's good for another month. The waste left in their old home is flushed out with water and the cycle is started again. They're incredibly efficient, and I've already generated a ton, a literal ton, of dehydrated termites this year alone. Put simply, this lets you easily double the food per acre of any farm. It's the end of hunger around the—"

"Fascinating," the XO said, "but I'm more interested in the fuel aspects—"

"Right to the icing on the cake, then. The waste gets flushed, much like human waste, into a modified septic tank where methane gets pumped off, compressed, and liquefied as natural gas. We make just a little less fuel per acre on agricultural waste than ethanol can with sugarcane. Play with the process chemistry a little and you've got methanol. It's caustic to run in the average car, but a conversion kit should cost under a thousand. Probably under a hundred since you own the same machine shop that built all this. Tanks, hoses, everything that comes in contact with it has to be modified. Hanly is already working on a blend for jet fuel."

The XO patted him on the shoulder, "Excellent!"

Jeff opened a paper bag, held it to his nose, and took a deep whiff before handing it over. "Look at this. It's the richest, most fertile soil I've ever seen. That's the waste coming out of the digester. Just a few months ago, this was twigs and stalks. It comes in at pennies a pound, and leaves at about a dollar a pound. I've got an organic chicken farm two counties over testing our termite meal. They weren't willing to pay anything this year without knowing what effects it'll have on the growth of their birds, but it's looking promising. And giving it away seemed to work well for crack dealers." Jeff paused for one of his famous golden grins. "Count on that being another market next year. We're already selling the fuel and soil. Might even turn a profit next year, not counting what this room set you back."

"A small fortune," the XO said, rolling up the bag and handing it back without a courtesy sniff, "but not as much as you might think. Tell the farm we'd take chickens in trade, too. Line it up with the chef if you want."

"You know, they sell Worm Pee for ten dollars a two-liter bottle. When I crack how to trick termites into making new queens like we do with bees, we could leapfrog into full capacity in a single year." Jeff smiled wide enough to show the chaw of tobacco stuffed in his cheek. "That'd be a twenty-fold increase. And this room is damn near automated. Just got to tweak the charts."

"Great," the XO said, heading for the door. "Is there anything you can do about the smell!"

Jeff joined him outside. "Actually, I was talking with Hanly about that very thing. He had a suggestion that, when the budget permits, we buy a natural gas generator. Said he would figure out the size. That stench is hydrogen and methane, basically trillions of tiny farts and CO2 that, right now, is just being vented outside. He suggested that we generate electricity and heat water instead of all the expense of selling and bottling the natural gas. Seeing how you're a research power company and all, just dump it on the grid and use the hot water domestically. Instead of venting this room, increase the efficiency by getting the 'fresh air' for the generator from here.

Hanly said it'll play hell with calculating the engine size because of the higher concentration of CO2, but it's the easiest way to utilize the free hydrogen and methane. Said they might even custom make the engine in the shop. Had a design off the internet he wanted to try."

"Even better," the XO said before leaving to the more secure parts of the base. Jeff still lacked any real clearance; Hanly was his only authorized contact, besides the chef.

Like most of the children, Shadona had done the bulk of her hours behind a simulator. With a non-functioning catapult and an incomplete arresting system, they fueled a modified T-34C and prepared for a long takeoff utilizing the full length of the mountaintop.

With nothing but a net to prevent the propeller-driven plane from plunging over the end of the runway and tumbling down the mountain to an explosive death, it took a determined fearlessness to fly this two-decades-old second-hand plane. But Shadona didn't blink as she sat tandem beside the instructor and throttled it to a textbook takeoff.

They circled level for several miles until the instructor believed she had a 'feel' for the plane, before she thrashed it into a steep climb, pitched over, then dove for the valley below.

As nearly the smallest child, her seat had been slightly modified and shoved all the way forward to make early training possible. It would have to be removed and exchanged later the next day when the bigger boys would take their turn. But for now, it was hers, and it gave her the feel of flying alone, aloof, and at one with the sky. Closer to the plane than anything she had felt before. As at home as she had felt with an elephant in her arms and a window in her room. But that window only saw a yard, this window opened to the world.

The instructor barked out orders, and like an extension of her will, the T-34C complied, effortlessly.

After an hour in the air and nearly two hundred miles under her belt, she aligned with the runway and put it down without a single hop.

It was her first time in the air, not counting dangling by a wire, suspended over trees. And she was hooked. She craved more.

She would have more.

Much more.

Standard ethos demanded a slow progression from one trainer to another until the aptitude of each pilot presented itself. Not all pilots were suited to the split-second reactions demanded of supersonic flight and fighter jets. Some would show an aptitude for helicopters, while others would be a better fit for slow-moving troop transports and refuelers. The base wanted to place as many of them as universal pilots as possible and would, to that end, put additional hours into training even the marginal candidates; something they wouldn't get in an army with millions of volunteers to place and the normal constraints on trainers and time.

She knew from the beginning that, even if she struggled, eventually she would find herself seated behind all of the most powerful planes in the world.

But she wasn't willing to wait. She wanted on the accelerated course.

She wanted it now, even though her feet barely reached the pedals.

She took off her helmet as she caught her breath, instructor prattling on about checklist this and regulations that.

She ignored him as she stood on the top of the mountain and stared at the mock carrier deck. A small block building sat tucked near the tower, out of the way and to the side, clearly designed for fabricating the suits. The fan-driven vents and the sandbags were a dead giveaway. But what was missing was the other buildings she had penciled in for her power plant design.

They were behind schedule, far behind the estimations she made when she thought she was free. Engineers were disappointingly unreliable, and apparently none too bright, leaving out key equipment like that.

The instructor handed her a piece of paper, pointed her to the elevator back down into the base, and grabbed his next volunteer as the plane was being refueled.

Yofi was a big fan of carrots over sticks. Perhaps she would do better using carrots, too. It bought her the illusion of freedom once. Perhaps a bigger carrot could garner the real thing.

* * *

Yofi walked to the mailbox and stood, leafing through the bills before tucking the morning paper under his arm and walking back inside.

"Hon," he said, "you got a letter from your sister."

Elaine came from the guestroom, stuffed elephant in hand.

"Hon," he frowned at the sad look on her face, "we should turn their room back into a—"

"Why would she have left it behind?" she asked.

"I don't know, El." He put the mail on the table and leaned against the stool. "Maybe it was too difficult to take with her. Maybe she thought the other kids would make fun of her for it." He looked at the slippers he hadn't taken off for days. "Maybe it's her slippers, Hon."

Elaine hugged it gently. "It hardly seems fair. It doesn't feel like it was real." She joined him at the table and opened the letter.

"Try not to think about it, El. We did the best we could. We did what was right. Sometimes that just isn't enough." He poured a cup of coffee and opened the paper. "El..."

She was engrossed in her letter.

"El, what did you do?"

Hmmm?

Yofi folded the paper and pointed to a specific article, A 14, middle of the page. Two paragraphs.

She picked it up and read aloud. "An unnamed source in the Pentagon has lent credibility to the rumors of a secret base where lab-grown children are being raised. This reporter was informed, under condition of anonymity, that this black project was conducted in direct violation of UN resolutions banning just such derivations on human cloning. The children, now numbering only a few hundred, are believed to be held at a secret location, possibly exploited as slave labor, but definitely being trained as soldiers.

It is this reporter's belief that though these accusations sound fictional and as yet can not be substantiated with physical proof, that nonetheless, the seriousness of the charges warrant continued investigations. Investigations that this reporter will continue until the truth, or the children, are set free." Elaine looked up from the page. "I didn't say anything to anybody. Did you?"
B1.C38

Hanly unlocked his office door, stepped insi— A scrap of paper crinkled under his foot.

\--The note--

Why spend months climbing the mountain, then stop before planting the flag?

He stared, transfixed by the obscure note shoved under his door. Handwritten. Almost a taunt.

But it wasn't a taunt.

Faith in a twelve-year-old girl seemed absurd. His team of engineers found no compelling reason to, in her words, plant the flag. Not one of them.

He pulled out the drawings again.

His only conversation with her was engraved in his mind as bright as yesterday. Hours of obstinance ended in a child intimidating him, intellectually, with a garden hose and scraps of pipe. He wanted so badly for her to be wrong about something — anything — just to feel better about himself. But he wasn't about to put that petty need for vindication before the needs of his country. He poured himself into the drawings again, never more sure there was something he was missing.

His life had been consumed by her drawings for the last five years. Yet there was only so much of it he understood. Little of it, actually. Too little of it, for someone of his prestigious education. He had such a minimal understanding of a technology she made look effortless.

Materials pumped in as gasses and liquids were mixed and infused with massive amounts of raw power in a small chamber, and within seconds, literal seconds, as if by magic it turns into armor plates before dozens of cameras and hundreds of sensors, like a room full of physicists watching spellbound as a magician saws a woman in half. And it does the same show a few times a month, month after month, and he and his entire team remained as clueless as they were for the first show, done right under their noses.

This power plant was undoubtedly the same.

But it wasn't the same.

The sixteenth torus was already online, with eight left to go. But even at only 60% complete and still unbalanced, they had nearly put one peaking station out of business, now scheduled for decommissioning two years from today. At 80% they would be a serious threat to the other two peaking stations within a hundred miles.

He thought about the hours he spent asking, only to get a garden hose for an answer. This time, she came to him. How foolish would he be to push her away out of ego?

But he wanted more than just a note. He needed more than that to go to the XO with. He needed details to sell it. He needed to know what it did, and none of his team could tell him.

He copied a portion of the drawings onto the shop chalkboard with the word 'why' and a relevant piece circled.

The next day, the word why had been replaced with an equation, E2. E was universal for energy, squared was shorthand for exponentially more power. He was very dubious of the claim; those two letters, if literal, suggested tapping more power than the world had ever seen in any one place.

That was worth any price, if it could be believed. Worth far more, if it could be achieved.

"Get off the mill," Will said, pushing Shadona to the side. When he hit stop, the machine powered down, heads retracted, bits dropped back into their trays, and the green light lit above the Plexiglas door. He reached in, unbolted her piece, and dumped it to the concrete floor with a clatter.

She stood there while he loaded his blank, then uploaded the instruction set. As soon as the light turned red and the head started shaving metal off the blank, she slapped the stop button and the whole process ground to a halt again.

He shoved her, "Back off, bitch. You ain't teacher's pet no more." He glanced the horizon, then punched the much smaller girl in the stomach.

She doubled over and fell backwards onto the floor.

"Get used to it," he said, turning the mill back on.

She sat on the floor and stared up. Part of her wanted to kick him in the shins... but that couldn't end well. He was nearly a foot taller, clearly stronger, and was far from alone in this room. Besides, even should she land a decisive blow, ultimately it wouldn't change anything. She would be in the same place tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

And the rest of her life.

She sat on the floor, looking over at the closed office doors just a few steps away. Hanly on one, Yofi no longer on the other. Hanly worked nights building the suits, something she had no interest in doing. She wanted to be around the planes. She liked having access to hundreds of different planes, each with unique problems to solve. But planes meant dayshift, and dayshift meant Will.

With no real options, she left the piece on the floor and went back to her turbine, mounted to a pallet.

Shop had lost most of its allure.

Gone was the music, the food, the comic books, the fun. But it was still better than the alternatives. She hated garbage collection, painting, cleaning bathrooms and kitchens, laundry and all the other menial tasks that were doled out as punishment to the bottom ten percent in any class.

Shop was still deemed a privilege.

Those few that worked here were automatically exempt from such chores, even if their grades were marginal. Under Yofi, it might well have been impossible for her to get kicked from shop. Under the new guy, those rules didn't apply. Her work was meticulous, but she wasn't fast. And without shop she would be subject to chores because of her low scores in hand combat and the automated classes that she too often ignored.

Chores could easily cost her time behind the stick, and that was a price she didn't wish to pay.

That morning she stared at the monitor in disbelief. How naive did they think she was? Personally crafted problems were being woven into her studies in an attempt to get her to solve specific physics problems that related directly to their version of Her power plant. The other half related, or they thought related, to the suit. To a less observant student, these slanted questions would probably have gone unnoticed. Yet even if the subject hadn't tipped her off, to a linguist of her level the wording was a dead giveaway. Like finding a paragraph of Poe in a work of Shakespeare.

Leaving them blank would continue to destroy her average and ensure she would be saddled with chores. But even though the problems were easily solved and wouldn't get them any closer to understanding either project, she refused out of principle.

She pressed a finger against her molar. "I'm sorry, Dana," she said.

Dana looked up from her monitor, but didn't stop typing. "For what?"

She typed a unique obscenity for each of the inappropriate questions. "I'm," she pushed the keyboard away, "I'm just sorry. I'm sorry we ended up here. Again."

Dana stopped typing and turned in her chair to face her. "I wonder if Frances and Brad have thought about us."

She twisted the ring on her finger, "Never forget us. It was nice to feel sand between my toes. To hear waves crashing against the shore. To learn to play from Elaine. To hear tears in a boy's voice when he tells you goodbye." She looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry you have to room with someone so fucked in the head."

Dana reached to hug her friend from behind, but kept her hands to herself instead, offer unnoticed. Unheard. "Don't say that word," she said.
B1.C39

"How's the new software doing?" the XO said, standing in the control room.

Hanly typed at the terminal, "It's an improvement. We're about 60% automated right now. The software can handle rapid load swings as much as 250MW in under a minute, completely automated and never generating a rumble over a Richter of two. But anything faster or larger we have to handle manually, and it always feels like riding a tiger."

"Well," the XO said, "there is a reason why we picked a mountain that's nearly solid stone. Crank it up if—"

"We should, in theory, be able to handle swings larger than a nuke at the drop of a pin, and balance it without so much as a ripple. But that's theory. In practice, we keep thumping against a wall."

"Well," the XO said, inspecting the impressive looking displays, "one thing at a time. If you can keep this thing together, we'll turn our first profit next month. Not bad for rounding off the change."

"Yes Sir," Hanly said. "With a better understanding of the statistical needs of the software, we've upgraded our instrumentation and we should get much better data to work with. We've scheduled another update in two months. Hopefully, that'll get some more of the rumble out of the system."

The XO sat on the edge of the table. "Nightshift is cranking out three suits a month, thanks to you. We've had a rocky start, Hanly, I've yelled at you more than I probably should have. But I'm damn glad you stuck it out. We're turning a corner, here."

Hanly clicked the keys, "Thank you, Sir."

"How's our project with Jeff coming?"

"The generator? It's on a back burner, but I've drawn up the parts list. Take a few months, I figure. We'll have the generator built before Jeff figures out how to clone queens and go into full production." He looked up from the keyboard, "Fascinating little project he's got. Makes gallons of methanol every day. Already converted the trainer to run on a methanol mix."

"Excellent," the XO said.

Shadona stood in the kitchen and stared at the massive grease trap. Her clear complexion had been gone for weeks, but she said nothing as she pushed her hand inside and removed another fistful.

It was disgusting, but she had no alternative.

Her grades couldn't be saved. Not without answering their customized questions.

She wiped her hand across the lip of the bucket, then plunged it in for another fistful. She thought of Yofi and Elaine and wondered how they were doing. She tried to picture them in her mind, but all she seemed to remember was how they so casually held hands at the table.

Brad was getting harder to remember, too. Brownish red hair, dark blue eyes, eight inches taller... all superficial features. His freckled face eluded her. Odd that she would have trouble remembering them. She remembered everything else in her life in infinite detail.

Perhaps this forgetfulness was for the better.

She was alone in the kitchen, and it would take her hours to clean it by herself, just as it had for the last two months.

Dropped from shop. Her production wasn't high enough.

Hand combat was every bit as brutal as she remembered. As one of the smallest girls, she got pounded mercilessly. Even defending herself, she still received more than her share of bruises. Her arms felt like lead and she winced with every inadvertent touch, but the chores were hers, and hers alone.

She hated the place she found herself. Trapped by a tooth. Trapped by her own brilliance and a suit they coveted too much. Trapped by their greed.

She remembered a show she watched at Yofi's about catching monkeys. It was as simple as placing nuts in a glass jar. The monkey would see the easy meal, reach its hand inside, then discover that as long as it held the nut, its hand was too big to fit out the opening. Every time, they could walk up to the monkey and capture it, simply because it wasn't smart enough to let go of the easy meal it could hold, but never have.

Some monkeys eventually escaped the trap of the jar, but no nuts ever did.

She crawled under the sink and closed the door.

Sitting in the darkness, she allowed herself a guilty moment.

She cried.

Dana opened the door and headed straight for the shower after her long day in shop. But she stopped, middle of the room, at a bed folded down.

She stared at the bare arm with a band-aid, sixth day in a row.

Grease-soaked clothes staining the sheets on her bed. They didn't care where or how they dumped her.

Dana stared at the girl, out cold for hours.

The nightshift, saddled with the repetitive building of an army of suits, hated her. The shop instructor took her slight against Raptors personally. The XO piled on the punishment in an obvious effort to break her.

Dana stared at her bruised, thin arms. Shadona was the last person there that could afford to lose any weight. Yet she was as small now as she was last year.

Her first failed attempt to escape ended in tragedy. Her latest hadn't ended any better. But Dana was at a loss to suggest anything better. She held her friend's greasy hand as the door locked with a mechanical thunk.

The lights would turn out soon.

She let go, stripped, and showered while she still could.

The XO checked his Email. The tape analysis was in. He opened the attachment and gave it a quick skim.

"Nothing," he said, slapping the desk in disgust. He clicked to the end summary. 'Patient exhibits an ever increasing resistance to our full suite of drugs. It's doubtful anything useful will come from continued efforts. Even when the patient does talk, it's rarely in a known language.'

He moused over her name and opened her personnel file, tunneling through to interrogation training.

As a part of training a few years ago, they had all been extensively interrogated with a variety of common battlefield tactics. A week free of chores was their reward for every day they resisted.

Dealt five cards as the 'secret' they needed to keep, the interrogator would offer treats and favors for each card revealed.

Shadona had yet to say a word at the time, and as such had lasted three days longer than anyone else. It was assumed that her 'resistance' was because she physically couldn't talk. But she was more talkative today and just as stubborn.

He thought back to the girl he so easily bribed with candy. It seemed like only months ago. But it was years. She caught him in a lie and was never fooled again. His modified questions were answered with profanity, even at the price of privileges.

Her stubborn resistance only proved she had something to conceal. Nobody would resist this hard over principles. He needed to know what she was holding back, and thanks to the Professor's software upgrade, they now had more time to find it. He was ready to plunge deeper to get what he wanted.

The board righted as cold water trickled down her shirt.

"What does the device atop the mountain do?" the interrogator read off the list.

She coughed under the wet cloth, but each breath she struggled to take sogged her lungs again.

"It's simple," he said, "just tell us what it does. You know what it does, you designed it."

She had been there for hours and had yet to say a word.

The board reclined again as water poured across her face.

She intentionally inhaled—

"... And I'm telling you you're done," the nurse said.

"That's not what my orders say," the interrogator said.

"This was your third strike," she said. "You're not any closer to getting her to talk, but she's getting much closer to drowning. One of you doesn't know how to play this game, Sergeant. How are you going to explain her dying on you? Huh? The girl's ten, twenty pounds underweight already. Not exactly the picture of health to begin with.

I'm calling an end to this."

"That's not your—"

"The hell it's not. I'm the top medical officer in this building. There's a reason I'm here in this room, you Dumb Ass... "

Shadona passed out again.

"Back of the line, pizza face," the boy said, shoving her to the ground, tray spilling across the floor.

Laughter rippled in pockets across the cafeteria as Shadona remained sprawled, too weak to quickly stand. She rubbed her arm and stared at her silverware scattered across the—

Whack!!

Whack! Whack!

The crowd gasped in silence as Dana pounded the back of his head with a stack of empty trays. A growing few cheered her on before adults could separate the two.

Shadona scrubbed the stainless sink, the smell of bleach burning her eyes and dripping her nose. But she scrubbed on. "You shouldn't have," she said.

Dana dipped her hand into the grease trap and slapped a sticky glob down into the bucket. "I should have long ago."
B1.C40

Hanly bent over and picked up the papers shoved under his office door.

A list of parts, a few diagrams, and a location circled on the building's riser plans.

The parts looked hauntingly familiar, but the scale was huge. He pulled out his chair, turned on the desk lamp, and poured over the pages again. It borrowed heavily from the suit diagrams and was probably equally infused with ruses that kept its true functions from ever being discovered.

After an hour of quiet contemplation, he picked up the phone and made the call.

The XO looked over the hand-drawn pages. "Any idea what it is?"

Hanly shook his head, then pulled the suit diagrams out of his locked desk. "It's similar, but it's streamlined, and huge." He pointed to the circled unused room. "I'm guessing she planned this all along. She added this chamber to the original drawings years ago. It sits in the nexus of the ultra-high-voltage lines that tap all the toruses. My guess is this thing is designed to draw an order of magnitude more power than what makes those suits, and those suits eat the full output of a typical nuke, for a few seconds."

"Yeah, but, any idea what it is?"

"No Sir. Could be anything. There was no way of guessing the suit from," he thumbed through the suit drawings, "this. She makes machines that make something else. After months of building the suits, the machine looks more like a disposable, single-use 3D printer than anything else. My guess is this new design could make anything up to thirty feet in diameter."

"Can you give me a price tag?"

Hanly tapped a few keys on his laptop. "I'd say we're looking at four thousand hours in labor, ten million or so in parts, plus the grain of plutonium, and I have no idea how much power it'll pull, but that could be in the millions, too. It's a big-ticket item."

"Can we make the parts on the cheap?"

"Some, but it'll triple the man hours, and it may not hold up long enough. She's very specific in the parts, and we have to assume she knows exactly what our equipment is capable of, and what it isn't."

"Ten million. That's a hell of a leap of faith on a—"

"What's the current total on the power plant? Have we hit two billion yet?"

The XO shrugged. "Vaulted over it. Well, the timing is good. We received another order for twenty-four more suits. We might have it in the budget, but I'd hate— You just know it'll self-destruct like—"

"Without a doubt, Sir. That much is certain. Whatever it makes, there'll only be one of them. And it'll cost another ten mill for another. You're also going to run into another problem with manpower and time on the equipment. I can't spare anything without cutting into suit production. Dayshift can't spare anything without cutting into repairs. We could go third shift, but who'd run it?"

That put the XO back in his chair. He had assumed that her sudden capitulation had meant he had finally broken her. But there was only one person to run that third shift. And the new drawing, like previous ones, might well have included several devastating flaws. He felt faint. "Check the pages carefully," he said standing up, headed for Hanly's office door. "She probably left you a list of names." He walked across the massive underground hangar, past huge machines, tables, bins of steel parts and into the slots reserved for over a hundred war birds. Today it had just two Apaches, a WartHog, six Hummers getting up-armored, and two training T-34Cs. Within the next month he was scheduled to receive a mix of a dozen retired F-16s, 14s, and other overused planes. Charity for training, but he'd take it.

He paused before their only Raptor and looked over the massive emptiness beyond. "Ten million dollars," he said, his voice echoing, even at a whisper. Ten million would destroy his budget, but it was recoverable. It wouldn't end him.

He stared at six suits standing on a pallet, ready to ship. She may do science like a magician, but it wasn't rabbits she was pulling out of the hat.

He shook his head and stared at the floor. He was actually running the numbers, calculating the odds. He reached into his pocket and unfolded the list of materials.

He was going to make this happen.

She stood outside what had been Yofi's office for years, drawings in hand, surrounded by fifteen other girls... and two guards that tried to look inconspicuous while hanging out by the planes.

She handed out assignments, then got to work herself.

Hanly opened his door to find another sheet of paper on the floor.

Another list. A CD player, fifteen CDs, alphabetical by artist names, an order of pizzas, including toppings, brand name sodas, KitKats, and Kevlar gloves, complete with sizes.

Hanly balked, knowing exactly what the XO would say. Laughing, he balled it up and aimed at the— With second thoughts, he smoothed it out across his pant legs. As far as budget items went, this was nothing. Especially considering the multimillion dollar price tag attached. Hell, the XO gave him a credit card for just such expenses.

He'd still have to explain it, but that'd be next month. By his estimates, she might even have it complete by then. Not that it mattered much. What was the worst the XO could do? The credit card was in the company's name.

Hanly stood on the edge of the runway, looking out onto the valley below. His team, years behind schedule and millions over budget, had finished the last torus and even completed her device, sitting in a small block room behind him.

The wind gusted into his face with such force his clothes felt like they could be ripped from his body at any second. He covered his eyes with his arm until it died to a calm breeze again.

Six years ago, he was handed a tiny little engine that changed his world. He walked away from the edge and crossed the several acres to the control tower. Beside it, smoke poured from the vents of a modest blockhouse where another suit had just been made. They managed to average four a month now.

But suits weren't why he was standing on the top of the mountain.

He looked at the device, sitting off to the side, shrouded in a tiny block shed of its own. It directly tied all the toruses together and was insulated like nothing he'd ever seen. He had thought he would understand it better once he could see it in real life, off the page. But it wasn't any clearer. It wasn't any more obvious.

He wasn't a dumb man, he reminded himself. Top of his class in college, credentials and certificates out the ass.

But he felt dumb around her. As his team completed their final checks on the equipment, he would find himself eye to eye with the girl again. Humbled before her. Because it was one thing to build her technology, and quite another to use it.

They were scheduled to turn it on next Thursday.

The suspense was killing him.
B1.C41

Thursday came and left without Shadona paying it any notice.

Hanly toured the chamber, deep inside the mountain. "This is it, Sir," he said, pointing out the equipment lining the perimeter of the room. "Eleven Million and change."

The XO pointed to a giant ring bolted to the ceiling, a good thirty feet in the air. "What's that?"

Hanly pulled out the drawings, "Well, that's a super conducting ring, a different kind of torus we think. It should produce the same self-sustaining magnetic field the smaller ones do in making the suits. Now, my experience with suit construction is that it self-destructs in a very unique way. You might even think of it like the implosion of a plutonium bomb where it has to be squeezed just right, or all you have is a fizzle and a toxic mess. The implosion in this case produces a plasma, and the plasma in turn perpetuates the field. That field lasts a few seconds with the suits and is one hell of a trick in and of itself. One we haven't yet mastered.

Now, in that pocket between the ring and the hard ceiling is where all the raw materials gets piped in, the bulk of which comes from a small chamber next door. Sixty eight-inch steam pipes connect it, suggesting a heavy flow rate. It's my understanding that that smaller chamber is where the eight tons of dry ice is going.

Just a guess, but I suspect she plans to flash vaporize it. If that's the case, it'll go off like a bomb unless the room is built exactly right. But buried deep in the mountain, like it is, we should be perfectly safe, even if the worst happens."

He stared up at the ring, mouth open. "Is it complete?"

"Should be, Sir. But, I can't say for sure."

"Well, what are we waiting for? Turn it on."

He flipped the giant disconnect mounted to the wall and the equipment started to hum. "This is about as far as we can go." He walked over to what looked like a giant window frame, devoid of glass. "This here, best we can figure, is a kind of optical keyboard." He gestured at all the equipment, green lights clicking on, red lights blinking off. "All of this, I think, is like a big 3D molecular printer, that big-ass ring is like the injector head, and that keyboard is where she puts in the code for whatever she's planning on printing. Just like any printer you buy at the store, it's useless without a picture and the software to drive it. And I don't have a clue how to enter anything," he waved his hands at the frame, "with that."

The XO pushed the chair away from the frame. "She's made herself a part of the machine, then. If it's just a fancy keyboard, why can't we tap it? Spies do that kind of stuff all the time."

"We'll certainly try to, Sir, but I doubt she overlooked that little aspect, do you?

Listen, as neat as whatever pops out of this ends up being, it's a distraction."

The XO stopped staring at the ring on the ceiling long enough to give Hanly his full attention.

"See, it's been built here because this is the best place to tap all twenty-four toruses. Now, I've done the math. The tiny torus we use for the suits is capable of one nuke for a few seconds. At present, the most we can get out of all twenty-four of these toruses is a peak of a little over twice that, maybe three times that. But that's it. The toruses can't give you a bigger spike than that, they just lasts longer.

That's nowhere near enough power for what this room is obviously designed to swallow.

She's going to have to show us something.

She's going to have to fix our balancing problem before she can tap the levels of power this room clearly calls for." Hanly smiled. "Maybe that device on the top of the mountain is key to that. Doubt it, but what do I know. I do know she has to solve our problem first. What all this crap is or does, I could care less. It's a distraction."

The XO stared up at the ring in the ceiling again. "I can't get over the feeling that I've seen that thing somewhere before."

Shadona's team had been finished with the device for weeks, and though she still refused to answer the trick questions, her grades had nonetheless risen to passing, keeping her from being punished with chores.

In fact, her team of girls had yet to be disbanded. They still met in the shop as the third shift. With their main project done, they simply picked one of the waiting damaged planes and started with repairs.

Pizza, music, and the KitKats continued.

"Shadona," Hanly said, coming in early so that he overlapped with the end of her third shift in the shop, "I'd like to see you in my office."

She continued ratcheting down the injector manifold she was working on.

He paused beside her. "Please," he said.

She ratcheted without stop.

"Ok," he said, getting a stool and sitting beside her. "We're ready to turn it on. Everything has been checked out. We're ready."

She paused. "Are you?" she quietly said.

"Ok then, you tell me."

She finished the last bolt, torqued them, then marked them with a paint marker to verify that they had been tightened correctly before taking off her gloves. "What's the weather like outside?"

"We're talking weather now?" He stood, ready to put the stool back. "Ok, fine. I'll play. It was sunny today—"

"Why would I play?" she said, folding the gloves before shoving them into her back pocket.

"Fine. Today's supposed to be sunny, not a cloud in the sky."

"Tomorrow?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Then you're not ready."

The next day, Hanly came in early, paper under his arm. He opened it to the weather section and plopped it down before her.

She glanced at it and said, "Not this week."

In the mysterious device at the top of the mountain, a metal arm pulled a frozen football-shaped lump of pressed ceramic dust out of the vat of liquid nitrogen and loaded it into the tube. Weeks of 'not this week' had landed them in the middle of a thunderstorm that had just pounded the west coast and showed no interest in slowing as it slogged through the mountains.

He watched as a Christmas tree of lights on his board twinkled from red to green and a torus punted the frozen football straight up into the sky.

Displays in the control room were filled with camera angles covering everything they thought might be of interest. But not a single one showed them anything even remotely—

Boooommmmm!!!!!

The phones rang off the hooks as a shock wave shook the mountain and the entire electrical system plunged into darkness. Random bulbs exploded in fixtures like paparazzi covering a half-naked star, stumbling drunk from her car. Everything failed in a flash.

"Get those lights on!" Hanly yelled in pitch black. He opened his cell phone— Dead. He pressed the backlight on his watch— Dead. Flashlight— Dead."What the hell just happened?"

"We've got no power on anything!" a voice cried out.

"Go low-tech. Smokers, let's see some lighters!" Hanly yelled.

The sound of flicking flints filled the room.

"Burn some trash if you have to. Concrete walls, no fire hazard. But lets try not to die from the smoke."

They fumbled in the dark for a few minutes before the backup system came on. Half of which had also failed.

Hanly crowded over the only working desktop in the control room. "We're being fed from the Co-Op right now. All toruses tripped offline," he read the display aloud. "Click on that," he pointed. "That can't be right, can it? Manually double check that flow rate," he said, tapping one of his team on the shoulder and pointing toward the door. "That circulating speed is way over our best estimates. Pull up its temperature and counter-balancing torus."

Those numbers were all wrong.

"See if you can get some other terminals on," Hanly said, pointing each member in another direction, "Alex, get to the server room."

"Yes Sir," Alex said, lighting some rolled-up paper before heading out the door.

The phone rang.

"Control room," someone answered in the dark. "... Yes Sir, he's here... One minute. Hanly, it's the XO."

Hanly picked up the phone. "Yes Sir... I'm not surprised that power is out throughout the mountain... Something went wrong, Sir, we'll know more in a few hours... Yes Sir, computers are down here too. We're working the problem... No Sir, I don't have any ideas right now... No Sir, my cell is down, too... Yes Sir, some building landlines seem unaffected." Hanly hung up the phone. "Everyone, check your watches please. Anyone have one that works?"

"I do, Sir," someone answered.

"Let's see it, please," Hanly said, making his way through the darkness toward the voice. "Metal case. Everyone else have a cheap plastic case like me?"

"Yes Sir," they said.

"I think we just survived a massive EMP pulse. Random computers should survive. Start checking fuses, breakers, someone get on an outside line and tell the Co-Op we expect to be down for a few days. And please, remind them that we are still classified as experimental. Let's do our best to talk them out of saddling us with heavy fines."

The doors remained locked from the outside since the explosion over two hours ago.

Shadona sat with Dana in their pitch-black room. Even the nightlight was out. Shouts from the other children echoed down the halls, without answer.

"Your teeth hurt," Dana asked.

"Yeah," Shadona answered, waving her fingers in the air. "When he came for us at Yofi's, it only took twenty-two minutes. Perhaps he used a lockdown signal then. Either way, it isn't a constant signal, it must be intermittent. Or it's very error tolerant and takes repeated misses to trigger the reaction." She winced. "A short signal over long gaps would make it a very difficult code to crack, but perhaps that can be an advantage, too. I was hoping a pulse would deactivate the damn things. Should have hurt instantly. Since it didn't, the chips must be hardened. Wouldn't be hard to do with something that small."

They listened to the anguished yells in the halls.

Shadona winced as the throbbing escalated to another level. "Wonder what they'll do now?"
B1.C42

The nurse entered the room, checked the IVs, checked pulses against her watch, then left to check on the next two. The dorms were full of children, all with IVs in their arms, all in chemical comas.

"We can't keep them in comas forever," nurse Benita said, end of her shift as she walked the halls. "They're losing weight and—"

"Up the calories," the XO said, marching with her toward Hanly's office.

"They're losing muscle mass—"

He stopped in the hall. "There's no other option. The transmitter is fried. Dead. Can't deactivate the chips without it. Can't fix it. Had to order another one. Special order. Only one manufacturer on the whole damned planet! It'll get here when it gets here. Period. Just keep them alive until then, Nurse. That's all I ask." He marched away.

"You've had three weeks, Hanly," the XO said in the shop, "sabotage, or accident?"

Hanly dropped what he was working on at the plasma-cutter bench, "Let's talk in the office."

The XO closed the door behind him. "Shop's shut down, repairs are piled up. And it's costing us a fortune in penalties to keep these toruses down. Sabotage or accident?"

"Accident, I think," Hanly said. "The pulse destroyed a third of all hard drives on the base, leaving quality info sketchy, magnetized all the utensils in the kitchen," he plopped open the paper, "blew out every TV in the valley, and killed one man with a pacemaker. We've tracked it down to one of the coils in the last three toruses we finished. It wasn't grounded correctly. We've bypassed systems, idled the damaged torus, and we'll be ready to put the remaining toruses back onto the grid by Tuesday."

"Good," the XO said. "How'd the grounding get left out?"

"Well," Hanly shuffled the papers, "I know what you're thinking, Sir, but she didn't delete it or change it in any way." He pointed it out on the modified plans. "It was our mistake, if anyone made it."

"But she didn't correct it either, did—"

"I understand the urge to blame someone for this disaster. Maybe she did see it and just said nothing. Don't know. Don't care—"

"I care! This disaster is costing a fortune that we simply don't—"

"Calm down, Sir," Hanly said. "Let me show you something." He turned the monitor so the XO could see. "For twenty-six dollars in frozen ceramics, this base caught a lightning bolt. Those toruses that survived— Sir, I don't think you get the big picture.

The math is wrong. It's all wrong."

"What did she get wrong n—"

"No Sir, not her math. The world's math. The power that's sitting in those toruses is a thousand times greater than ever should have been in a lighting bolt. By anyone's math. Yet, these coils and her design was built around catching a bolt that lasted longer than any bolt in history and was stronger than anything ever recorded, and she sized them almost perfectly.

We're not rounding pennies anymore, Sir.

Now, this system was battered and it'll take weeks to get it back into first-class shape. And we still have hundreds of questions that need answers. For example, some of our toruses have flow rates that shouldn't be possible. We think that the lightning gave it a static charge, if you will, that lets millions of tons of fluid levitate off of her special lining. Almost friction free.

Now, these toruses are far too big and expensive to just experiment with. But eventually we'll figure out how to tap them without disturbing that delicate static field."

"What do you mean?" the XO said.

"In part, that's what damaged the torus. The lining is wrecked right now. Shredded. You could feel pieces bouncing around inside it, a little like sitting on a dryer filled with gravel. It took three days to bring it to a stop. Might take a month to reline it. Here," Hanly opened an XL sheet on the screen, "If our new estimates are right, and we can figure out how to maintain that static levitation trick, the capacity of each torus rises to over one gigawatt hour. Figure over thirty for the entire plant. If we can charge them from a passing storm, that's between one and three million dollars worth of electricity, each storm. Bonus. Total profit, almost no expense." Hanly pulled up a NOA page, "We get an average of two dozen storms in this valley every year."

The XO looked over the numbers on the screen. "You're impossible to stay mad at, Hanly." He adjusted the monitor again. "You have a free man to look at that transmitter again? See if we can get it back up?"

"I looked, Sir, personally. But the encoding chip is gone. Transmitting isn't a problem, the message is. Soon as we get the new board, we should be able to plug it in and turn it on. After entering your activation codes, of course."

"Should be here soon," the XO said, heading for the door. "Bought two this time."

Shadona rolled to her side and heaved over the edge of the bed. "Hullluuuhhh!!" she said, heaving twice more. But nothing came out. She felt sick to her aching, empty stomach, room spinning, head pounding, mouth parched. "Houghllll!" she said again.

She ran her fingers down her face. She felt puffy, but her fingers said she wasn't swollen. Band-aid on her arm, dressed in a paper gown, her leg was wet from when they removed a catheter.

Dizzy, she remembered it all. Weeks of screaming in pain, trapped inside a body that couldn't move. Paralyzed.

She tried to get out of bed, but crashed to the concrete instead.

She lay there several minutes, in pain, before crawling to the bathroom and showering off, bedsores stinging in the hot, soapy spray.

The heavy metal door made a clunk as it unlocked and rolled open. "Shadona, front and center," the Sergeant yelled.

She leaned against the shower wall, reached her hand past the curtain, and made a single-finger gesture.

"Front and center!"

"Back off, Sarge," Dana yelled from her bed, "It's been a rough morning."

"One two, one two. Let's go," he said, barging into the room.

Dana pummeled him with her pillow, but was as weak and ineffective as Shadona's protest was.

The Sergeant grabbed clothes from her desk, a towel from the hook, then turned off the water. "Get dry, get dressed, and get going. Now!" he said, dumping the clothes on the sink. "You have thirty seconds!" He walked out of the tiny room.

She sat in the chair in Hanly's office, middle of the shop.

"Why is your hair wet?" he asked.

She looked incredulous before slouching in the chair, shampoo bubbles soaking into the backrest.

"Never mind," he said. He pointed out the troubled ground, "A coil exploded, destroying the lining of one of the toruses." He stood from behind his desk and moved to sit beside her. "How is it that the lightning didn't rip this mountain apart? The torsion alone should have been like an earthquake."

She faced the ceiling, eyes closed.

He tapped her on the arm. "I'm not the enemy here.

Fine." He turned the monitor and clicked a few icons. "You'll probably be interested in the data we collected, before the surge crashed the computers."

She opened her eyes long enough to watch several screens flicker by... but not much longer.

"From my estimates, you need at least eighteen toruses at near full power to run that device you've got bolted to the ceiling. We can't charge them off the grid, and you know it. And I know you know it because there's no other reason for you to have pushed for this lightning catching thing—"

"Harvester," she mumbled.

"Harvester. Fine. I don't care what it's called. If you ever want to turn that thing in the chamber on, I have to be able to charge these toruses. But I can't do that without you. I need your help."

She leaned forward, eyes sleepy, but open. "I'm hungry, tired, wet, and dirty. I have bedsores. I'm dizzy and nauseous, but by all means, your needs come—"

He picked up the phone, "What do you want from the cafeteria? I'll have it sent up." He opened the filing cabinet and tossed her a sleeve of Snickers bars. "Got bedsores, I'll call the nurse next. I'm not your enemy here."

She ripped open the wrapper and devoured one, on the spot.

"Yes, this is Hanly in the shop... yes, I know what time it is. I need a pepperoni and hamburger pizza with green peppers, extra cheese, and mushrooms. And when it comes out of the oven, sprinkle on some raw onions and cucumber slices... thank you. A ten inch will be fine." He hung up the phone. "You want the nurse next?" He flopped a paper from his desk to her lap. "I've got six days to get this thing ready, or we'll miss the next storm. You obviously planned on—"

"I need a tooth pulled," she said.

"Fine, we've got a dent— You mean the tooth? I can't do that. Don't know how."

She wiped melted chocolate from the corner of her lips, "You have access to its drawings?"

"Sorry, uh, only saw the pamphlet. More like a sales brochure than technical drawings. And I'm not that kind of engineer anyway."

She stared him in the eyes. "Yofi said you had seen them, too."

He looked away, briefly, "Yes, well, that was a long time ago. I don't have them— I'll talk to the XO, but there's only so much I can do with that, kid. He's the only one with the codes for it."

She could tell he was lying... but he might also be useful.

"Pizza will be ready in fifteen."
B1.C43

When the Christmas tree lights flickered green, the frozen football was loaded into the tube and Hanly, reluctantly, pressed the button.

Booommmmm!!!!

He turned to the monitors, cameras focused on the outside this time. The bolt filled the screen and looked nearly a foot wide as it strobed for a full ten seconds. The mountain rumbled, but far less than anything being fried with a bolt should tremble.

Data poured across the screens as the toruses shifted gears, tasting true power for only the second time in their short lives. The bolt faded, embers glowed red, then green, as they smeared to the side with the wind, like chalk being erased from a scratched board. After a few minutes, no trace of the bolt remained, and red lights started turning green on his board again.

He pressed the button and another bold bolt stretched up and bled the cloud dry.

Each time the football went up, he understood it all a little better.

Pressed clumps of frozen dust left a super-conducting comet tail that electrically connected their toruses directly to the clouds. Instead of burning its way to ground, expending most of the bolt's energy in the process, simple frozen threads of dust painted a superhighway that lasted only a few seconds before falling to the earth as harmless dirt. Delivering lightning at an intensity that had never been seen before. Air, as any power line would attest, is a very good insulator, even in the rain. A little frozen dust changed all that.

Lightning would vaporize any ordinary coil, especially at these levels. Yet her brilliance protected theirs. The coils in her system, when grounded correctly, used isolated grid power to generate the intense magnetic fields around the fluid. The lightning blast was channeled through the liquid within that field, where all its energy was converted, instantly, into raw motion, stored as speed and momentum. The massive static charge itself protecting the walls from what should have been an overwhelming force of friction.

Each problem that had stumbled and humbled others was turned to an advantage by her design.

They fired football after football into the clouds without a single incident. Not a single bulb blew. Not a single light flickered. The base barely rumbled at all.

Power levels continued to rise. It seemed endless.

It seemed so simple.

Like an idea that could be accurately captured by a child with crayons.

Tons of dry ice sat in the chamber next to her experiment... waiting, while she double checked everything. Hanly watched the monitors from the control room as she walked from item to item, instrument to instrument, cable to cable. She had never double-checked anything in front of him before.

But this wasn't like the suit. The stakes were huge, and the margin for error was zero.

She entered the main chamber, walked under the ring as it dripped fog into the room, and took her place inside the phone-booth-sized Plexiglas cage off to the side. Closing the door behind her, she pointed up to the camera.

She waited while Hanly signaled the Co-Op that they were going offline for scheduled maintenance. When confirmation came back, he transferred the controls to her.

She knew she was being watched and recorded with every means at their disposal. But it would do them no good. She placed both hands inside the empty window frame and pretended to conduct an orchestra for the benefit of all those cameras. She made it as elegant, long, and complicated as possible.

The window was an overly complex looking, yet utterly simple interface for her ring, and her ring had been working on this program for years. It would have to work flawlessly today. It tickled back that its upload was complete.

She casually held one hand inside the window, then pointed to the camera again.

A simple light indicated that she had a go. Since the bulk of the processing would take place inside the ring, all she had to do was keep her hand still while—

Booommmmm!!!!!!!

The room exploded with a violent flash so bright she felt a warmth greater than the summer sun on her skin, even through her clothes. Debris pelted the Plexiglas like angry hail on a metal roof as the ground shook under her feet, but her hand didn't waiver.

Thud!!!

The impact knocked her to the ground, bounced her up off the glass, then unceremoniously deposited her like dirty laundry back on the floor.

Blinded by the light, all she could do was wait for her blurred vision to return. If the thud was what she thought it was, she had kept her ring in the window long enough. But she wouldn't know for sure until the room cleared of smoke.

Her booth should be perfectly safe. Solid steel construction, wire caged, double Plexiglas. But all the same, the smell of smoke had infiltrated her tiny room; she was still blinded and on the floor. None of which she had anticipated. She was, for the first time, worried.

Blinking wildly, she coughed and tucked her nose inside her shirt while struggling to stand. The process should have produced no smoke, yet the room was filled— The self-destructive equipment, on the other hand, was chocked full of insulated wires, transistors, tubes, and plastic pieces and parts, and a byproduct of her process was pure oxygen that obviously enhanced the flames. The air outside the booth was assuredly as toxic as it was foul.

She pressed her hand against the glass. Warm, but in no danger of melting. Remnants of the melted ring dripped from the ceiling like stalactites in a cave. Except these were glowing a dim red, providing the only source of light in the room.

Even so, she could tell it was a success by the basic shape alone. She slapped the vent button and massive fans crammed the chamber with outside air... but she had minutes yet before she dared to leave the booth.

The doors flung open as men burst through the smoke, two of which broke open her booth and yanked her outside... handing her off to two more that deposited her back into her room.

"What the hell is it?" the XO asked inside the chamber.

"We don't know for sure, Sir," one of Hanly's engineers said, "but it looks like a small airplane."

"I can see that." He stared up at the scorched ceiling where the ring had been bolted. "How the hell did she pull this Houdini act off?" He looked around the room filled with puzzled engineers. "Anyone?"

All paused, but none answered.

"Find out!"

They all went back to their individual investigations.

"Not you," the XO said, grabbing Hanly by the arm and ushering him to the side. "Any ideas?"

"Well Sir, uh, no." He pointed up. "Hundreds of feet of solid rock," He pointed down, "Even more. We've measured the room. We'll have to jackhammer the walls and two hundred feet of halls just to get it out, it'll take us almost a month of demolition to get it outside and up to the hangar. A month working 24/7. I think we can rule out slight of hand or illusion." He touched the wing. "Black, smooth as glass. I'd bet my paycheck that it's as tough as that suit. Tougher maybe. And it looks like it's all one piece. No signs of a way in. No sign of landing gear. Seamless so far. Absolutely seamless," Hanly faced him, "and very distracting. More important than this paperweight is she managed to draw down every torus we have in under a minute. We did the math. For those few seconds, we out produced the continent, and came close to out producing the planet. Now, the Richter was a 3.9, but still, that's damn impressive. And she managed to keep the static charge.

I'm not really a plane guy, so, personally, I don't care if it just sits here forever.

What I do care about is how she tapped those toruses. We've got tons of data that needs to be pored over that's far more important than wasting time jackhammering out a plane, no matter how shiny and slick it is."

The XO stared at the plane. "If she did with airplanes what she did—"

"Need I remind you, that loop of steam pipe turned out to be far more important."

The XO ran his fingers across the leading edge of the plane. "I'll get someone else to dig it out. But for the next few days, I want your team investigating this, because you have the most experience with suit construction."

Hanly watched his team in dust-masks digging through the charred remains in the room. "Yes Sir."

She stared at the door, Dana locked in the same room. "Maybe I made it worse," Shadona whispered from her desk.

"Maybe," Dana said, "But we got pizza and music for months. Almost felt like working for Yofi, for a while."

Shadona finished scribbling on the pad. "It was nice to work on my own project, instead of someone else's all the time."

"Maybe they'll let us keep repairing birds on our own. I don't care much for Elhander. Nobody really does."

Shadona smiled as she pushed the pad to the back of the desk, then arranged her pencils and pens. "I'm glad they got the catapult certified last month. There's nothing more exhilarating than being launched off the side of a mountain... unless it's catching the wire."

Dana moved to sit on the edge of Shadona's desk. "Well, you'll have to grow another inch and pack on ten pounds before they'll let you sit in an F-16, and you have to master that before the Raptor."

Shadona just smiled. "I think I can do better than Raptors."
B1.C44

Elhander walked around the latest addition to the hangar. "It's either a tiny plane," he said, "or a big drone. I don't see any way in or out, no cockpit. No way for a pilot to fly it."

"You're the Raptor expert. You tell me which it is," the XO said.

"It's not a Raptor, I'd have to say big drone. But I'd have to get inside it to tell you— Might be a mockup. Doubt it would even fly. There's no engines, no turbines and nothing to mount them to." He gestured at the openings in the wings, "These cavities aren't big enough for any... " He leaned inside the culvert-like opening. "I take that back. It looks like there's an array of injector nozzles and some fixed fins. But nothing that could ever result in flight." He climbed back out. "No tail, no control surfaces. I predict that it'll never recover from the first flat spin it gets in. I'm not even sure which is the front or back, other than this end of the teardrop is sharper. It's incomplete. No landing gear. I'm guessing it's just an empty shell."

"Hanly x-rayed it weeks ago," the XO said. "Couldn't see into it."

"Well, we can drill some discrete hole here and—"

"No, don't do that. Damned thing cost millions. Last thing we need is a bunch of holes drilled into gas tanks, rip fuel lines, or God knows what."

He rapped his knuckles against the fuselage, "It sounds solid." He walked away, tilted his head, and squinted. "A hollow liftbody, perhaps a cross between a box kite and a delta wing. Teardrop shaped. Strap a big enough engine to it and it might fly." He went back to Yofi's old office, "But my money is with Hanly on giant paperweight."

Shadona dipped the plunger into the bucket of water, then jabbed it hard on the underside of the wing. Dana dipped another and passed it under to her friend. Shadona wrestled the plungers like she was trying to unclog two stubborn sinks— When a plate slid forward, jostled to the left, then swung free, exposing the mounts and a pocket for landing gear.

With dozens of plungers and hours of time, she slowly went around unlocking the secret hatches covering the plane.

Over the next two months her team of girls, on a shift of their own, custom manufactured all the standard metal parts every plane required, starting with the landing gear. But still no cockpit.

Shadona paused to inspect the soldered connections on the lithium battery pack, then continued on her way to selecting a fresh slice of the pizza that had just been delivered.

Chroma plopped down on a stool as she grabbed a slice as well. "The boys are pissed because they don't get pizza when they work shop," she said.

Shadona quietly munched a corner.

"Elhander doesn't think it'll fly," Elizrae said, sitting down. "He thinks the seat we've been working on is just a prop." She poked Shadona with her finger. "You better not have had me working on a prop for the last month, or those boys won't be the only ones pissed at you."

"Eat your slice," Dana said, joining them. "You haven't had it so good, even if it is a prop." Turning to Shadona, "It isn't a prop, is it?"

Shadona continued to quietly eat.

"Batteries should take twenty-four to charge," Dana said, cheese dripping from her chin.

Shadona wiped the corner of her mouth on the back of her hand, "Good."

Shadona pressed her fingers to the underside, slightly rear of the back third of the fuselage, and a hole opened with a smooth electric whirl. Muffled sounds of something moving inside stopped seconds after it began, and another electric whirl opened a second hole, aligned perfectly with the first.

She climbed in, then reached her hands out the hole as the seat was finagled in, followed by the needed ratchets, bolts, and wiring harnesses.

After twenty minutes, systems started to come to life.

Flaps broke from their seamless edges and extended themselves like the wings of any other hatchling, emerging from an egg. But these flaps were aligned like the fingers of a hand, and only over the front and back of the covert-like engines. Tiny black crumbs dusted the floor in chunks no bigger than M&Ms while the fingers continued to flick debris from their edges before nestling back into their near seamless line, feathers on a bird. Nozzles inside the engines twisted and flexed on their own, like the ballet hidden under the pond at a Vegas water show, but capable of a far more intricate dance.

Systems settled to absolute quiet as Shadona emerged, feet first, through the tiny hole under the plane. "I think we're ready for fuel."

"Out of the question," Elhander said. "We have test pilots for a reason. Aircraft have to go through extensive ground testing before they're ever allowed to—" he put his hands on his hips, "Out of the question on every level."

The XO stared him down as they stood in the plane's presence, "Then you test it out—"

"I can't, and I won't. That piece of junk has no schematics, no drawing, no diagrams, no hint of function or purpose. You won't let us tear it down, even if we knew how. It's out of the question. You wind tunnel, you computer model, you study and dissect for months or years, but you don't see if something can fly by just chunking it off the side of a mountain! And I'll be—"

"I want that bird in the air. Do whatever you have to do to make yourself feel comfortable with it, do whatever tests you feel are necessary without damaging it," the XO pressed his finger into Elhander's chest, "But it's getting fueled and cleared at the end of twenty days."

"Impossible. We can't even give it a proper wind tunnel test in twenty da—"

"Twenty days. Learn everything you can about it, everything, but it's going in the air. If it runs like a racehorse, I expect you to tell me how. If it crashes like a brick, I want you to tell me why." He pressed his point with his finger, "Twenty days."

A skid with two TF-34s was bolted down off to the side of the flight deck, a mere forty feet from the tiny plane, equally bolted down. Fuel surged into them as they roared to life. Smoke streamed with the jet-wash, licking over the wings to be captured by cameras from dozens of angles as it wandered over every surface while winches struggled to jostle the plane into new positions.

When the engines died down, Elhander emerged from the control tower and walked the acres across the deck.

"Well," the XO said, just a few steps behind, "what's the verdict?"

Elhander looked flustered. "It won't fly. It's totally unstable, about the same as that irritating, uncooperative, slow-witted girl. You know that it's got a keypad in the cockpit that flashes a code at you, then you have a few seconds to type an answer, and if the answer isn't right, none of the systems come on. And it's a different code and a different answer every time. We're locked out. There's only so much we can learn while being locked out of all the flight systems. It's been weeks and I still don't know if it's fly-by-wire or hydraulic. It's got to have a computer, but damned if I know where. And it's got fiber-optic cables everywhere doing God-knows-what."

"Did you manage to hide some cameras in there?"

Elhander shrugged, "Are you not listening, the codes change. Anything we capture is wo—"

The XO stared at the tiny plane, "How do you see out of it?"

"You don't. It's pitch black in that little hole. No windows, no instruments, no radar. Nothing. Just a chair with a stick and some pedals, a keypad and a small box mounted under the seat. Crash and burn, Buddy. I don't see nothing else."

The XO looked it over; dirt blown from the runway had dulled its flat-black finish. He put his hand on Elhander's shoulder and said, "Fuel it."

Fire belched from the left side, then the right was engulfed in flames as it purged impurities in never-used-before lines. Flames puddled to the ground and trickled out the vents in demonic licks of a plane seconds from being dragged to a fiery hell.

A crew grabbed hoses and rushed toward the plane— When the flames suddenly got sucked inside as the engines gasped to life.

From a standstill, in a single fluid motion without a hint of hesitation, the nose vented down as the engines slammed into reverse. The nose hopped twenty feet in the air before the engines flipped forward and the plane blasted like a rocket out of a bottle. Twisting tornadoes of sand and dirt were all that was left in its wake, spinning in the middle of acres of unused runway.

Ba-Ba-BOOOMMMMMM!!!!

It slipped into sonic and winked from view faster than most could even look up.

The XO pressed field glasses to the window of the control tower, unable to pick up a hint. "Radar have the heading?"

"Radar didn't see it at all, Sir."
B1.C45

The XO watched the video of a child, barely fourteen, flying a ten, perhaps twenty million dollar plane that took off without a runway, slipped effortlessly into sonic, and never once appeared on radar. Over the last few days they pieced together her path from civil noise complaints as she crossed down into Texas, turned over the gulf, violated Brazil's air space with impunity, buzzed within twenty feet of a carrier steaming from Hawaii, then blazed across California to belly-flop from the sky and land with a feather's touch on the elevator pad. Estimates of her approach speed, since radar couldn't see it at all, pegged it at two hundred miles per hour or faster, a mere hundred feet over the deck. It looked like a kamikaze attack.

The most vulnerable time for an airplane was takeoffs and landings, and this let it scream in and out faster than a man can take aim and fire.

He played the video of the takeoff again. Time stamps showed a mere two seconds had passed from standstill to sonic boom. Two seconds. Math dictated that it was a scant thousand feet away when the barrier was shattered, and it could land just as fast. Two seconds of vulnerability was virtual invulnerability in the real world.

The cameras inside hadn't escaped her detection. She sneezed on her finger and smudged each and every lens.

Even so, they gathered an impressive amount of information.

The round-walled interior glowed softly when she entered. After typing the answer code, the walls morphed into a personal IMAX with no projector. From the pilot's perspective, the plane turned invisible, and it was just her and the chair ripping through the sky. Like a video game on steroids, or an amusement park ride.

Though an exact speed couldn't be determined, all estimates, going only by complaints and UFO sightings along her path, put her easily into the supersonic range, likely hypersonic. Hypersonic was an elite domain reserved for those capable of Mach 5 or more. Something Raptors were decades away from, if ever.

He looked at the report that had crossed the Colonel's desk and was casually forwarded to him. A report from a carrier just two days from Hawaii. Under clear skies, broad daylight, perfect visibility, a plane had caused an international incident at 1423 hours. Six satellites were retasked, the Navy was put on high alert, and deck cameras were uploaded to the Pentagon, CIA, and countless other agencies as they scrambled to identify it. All over a plane parked in his hangar, Slot D168.

He couldn't help but smile as he answered the Email, and attached a video of his own.

'It's ours,' was all he wrote to the Colonel.

Shadona sat in his office, but this time she didn't stare at the floor while he berated and lectured her for nearly an hour. "I've solved world hunger and the energy crisis," she said when he finally gave pause, "twice now. What more is my freedom worth? Take out the tooth. Do the right thing. Honor our agreement and set me free. When I know I'm safe, I'll Email you the answers. I'll give you the keys that own the air." She leaned forward in the chair.

"Give me the answers first—"

"We tried that before, remember?"

He pounded the desk as he lurched toward the tiny girl. "This isn't your power plant. It isn't your suit, your engine, or your plane! They're the sole property of this country, and it all falls under national defense. You will relinquish the access codes—"

"Take out the tooth."

"You will relinquish the—"

"Honor your promise. Honor your word."

"It's high treason to withhold national security secrets from—"

She sat back in her chair and quoted something she had seen at Yofi's on The History Channel. "Give me liberty, or give me death."

He smacked her instead. "I am so tired of this shit with you, getting you to cooperate is like—"

"Pulling teeth," she said, rubbing her cheek.

He smacked her again.

She fell out of the chair and crawled out of his reach, "Ask Hanly how many decades it'll take his team to industrialize—"

"I've had it with you." He moved from behind the desk. "This isn't a game!"

"It's my life. My ideas. My plane. Mine! Doubt me, try to fly it on your own. A hundred Hanlys and a thousand Elhanders couldn't—"

It wasn't the back of his hand this time.

Elhander sat inside the plane. A code popped up, and he typed random digits back. After fruitlessly playing with it for hours every day, he suddenly got a response. The egg-shaped walls disappeared, and the world took its place.

He stared at his feet and the ground over a yard beyond the pedals. Every grain of dirt was visible, in razor-sharp detail. The tires were the only parts of the plane he could see. He turned around in the seat and saw everything around him. He pressed his eye as close as he could to the screen, yet even when his nose touched he couldn't see a single pixel. The illusion of 3D was perfection, even that close, as if the plane had turned invisible.

He looked at the small block building beside the control tower— And watched people walking around inside! They were faint silhouettes, much like every object in the room. A spot on the ground faintly glowed blue.

He looked up at the radar tower. Though the disk continued to rotate, there was nothing special about it. But to its side, an insignificant-looking antenna pulsated a light green. He watched a ghostly figure ride up the elevator through dozens of feet of rock, walk behind walls and down halls, then emerge from the door by the tower. The pocket glowed green as Elhander watched Hanly answer the phone.

It was stunning.

He touched the pedals and stats appeared to hang in the air as unobtrusive as closed caption scrolls on a TV. Fuel measured in pounds, power levels of the battery, temperatures and pressures along surfaces scrolled by while altitude and GPS remained fixed on an artificial horizon. He played with the stick, but control surfaces didn't budge. He throttled it without a response, same with all his attempts to ignite the engines.

But it hardly mattered.

The technology on display was inspiring all on its own. The aerodynamic advantage of removing the classic bubbled cockpit was a quantum leap forward, often coming by sacrificing visibility. Yet her graphics clearly gave any pilot a superior situational awareness over everyone else in the air. Putting the pilot near the center of the craft would give them incredible survivability, should something like it ever see combat. He stared at the dimmed sun and watched a bird cross in front of it, something eyes alone could never see. Add speed, stealth, vertical takeoffs and landings, and what everyone assumed was bulletproof skin, and you had, he hated to admit, something that rendered Raptors obsolete. All it was lacking was guns.

Thousands of miles on a single tank of gas was equally profound in its implications. Miles per gallon, even at their most conservative estimates, put it at better than the most efficient compact car, and most scooters.

He couldn't argue the point anymore.

Raptors had taken a team of over a hundred engineers more than a decade to assemble. She did this in a year with a small team of girls. And it was better in every way that mattered.

And he had kicked her out of his shop because she seemed stupid and didn't work fast enough.

He scribbled some notes on his pad, took a few dozen pictures, then exited the plane.

"Elhander," Hanly said, closing his phone, "you planning to fly somewhere?"

"I'm certified, but not on this."

Hanly put the phone in its pouch on his hip. "If you're not, guess nobody is. Listen, I'm going to be testing up here and just wanted to give everyone a heads up."

"Testing what?"

Hanly couldn't avoid the sly smile, "Figured out how that bird flies without engines?"

"Sorry, that's classi—"

"Classified, I know. So's what we're testing. I can tell you it sounds like a cannon going off and is far more dangerous, so I've had flights canceled and I'm clearing the decks." He pulled his phone from the holster. "You want to keep working, and I'll have someone tow that bird to the elevator and you can take it to the hangar."

"That'd be fine."

Hanly made the call while Elhander crawled back in.

Elhander's clearance was limited to the shop, hangar, control tower, and flight deck. But as he rode the elevator down, the vastness of the base was revealed to him. He saw the dorms, cafeteria, kitchen, medical, a small city of hundreds of rooms opened to him. Points on the walls glowed a faint green, drawing his attention while the elevator inched lower. As he strained to focus, he noticed that they were all cameras, trying their best to remain concealed. He watched a box glow bright as someone walked past it in the hall. Something in their jaw glowed back.

He never realized that the base was covered with so many cameras.

He had never seen security on this scale, even prisons drew the line somewhere. He watched a taxi couple to the front wheel and tow him, plane and all, to its assigned slot.

He adjusted the seat and inspected the box mounted underneath— When the screen fell black and the door swished closed.

He opened his phone— No signal. He switched to walkie-talkie— No signal.

He used the backlight on the phone to find his way around, searching frantically for anything to open the hatch.

She ran her fingers across its skin. The same imbedded optics that let the plane see were updating her through tickles in the ring, simultaneously. "Never liked the man anyway," she said. "You get him out."

"I will," the XO said, then waved to Hanly as they brought over the shop's chopsaw.

She smiled. "Go ahead," she said, stepping aside. "Destroy it."

Hanly adjusted his goggles, dropped his face shield, and climbed under the ship, but waited for the XO's signal.

"Last chance," the XO said.

The diamond-dusted disk revved as sparks shot across the floor and an ear-piercing scream made fingernails on a chalkboard sound as soothing as a violin. After six minutes of grinding, Hanly stopped. "Just scratching the surface, Sir. I'm not getting anywhere."

"Try a blowtorch or a plasma cutter," Shadona said, "cook him out."

"A man's life is on the line!" the XO barked, inches from her face.

"Oh, it's far more than that," she whispered.

"How many hours has he been in there," the XO asked.

"At least five, Sir," Hanly said. "The skin might be thinner, but it's harder than suit armor." He looked at the damaged disk, "Harder than diamonds."

"Got a howitzer handy?" Shadona said.

Hanly put the chopsaw down, "Do we even know he's still alive? How much air is in there anyway?"

The XO gestured to one of the guards, "Get a stethoscope from medical." He turned to the girl, "You think this is a game?"

"If it is, Elhander's the only loser."

The XO smacked her.

Hanly stepped closer, "This isn't getting us anywhere, Sir. The interior is obviously tiny. He would be dead in minutes unless it had its own source of air." He looked at Shadona, "It's obviously got a pressurized cabin, right? Pressurized means it's got its own air."

Hand still on her cheek, "If he's dumb enough to lock himself inside, he's dumb enough to turn off the air." She looked the XO in the eyes, "How much is Elhander's life worth, to you?"
B1.C46

Yofi filled his coffee cup, added a shot of milk, then filled another and added just sugar. Yawning before slathering cream cheese on two bagels, he headed for the living room. "Here you are, Hon," he said, sitting beside her on the couch.

She turned the TV off. "I don't know why I still watch that stuff," she said, snuggling back to his arm. "I wish you hadn't gotten fired."

"I quit the way millions dream of, Hon, no regrets at all." He sunk his teeth into the bagel, then sipped from his favorite mug.

"Quit, fired, I just wish I knew how those girls were doing. I can't imagine either of them serving." She ran her hand across his knee. "Any more than I can imagine you pulling a trigger on someone."

"You can serve without having to kill, El. They're not all Rambo. I don't know if I could ever pull a trigger," he made a mechanical fist, "on anything other than a chin."

"You ever punch someone before?"

"Nope. He was my first." He put his human arm around her as they snuggled closer on the couch. "If you don't count training."

She aimed the remote at the CD player and selected random songs from Sade.

"Did you hear something," she said, muting the stereo.

"No, I didn't hear—" He turned toward the door. "That sounded like a car door."

Someone knocked at the front door.

Yofi got to his feet in time to hear a car pull out of the driveway. He opened the door and hugged the first little girl he saw standing there. "My God," he said, "Oh, my God." She didn't feel like she would crumble this time. "Come in, come in! El is going to want to see you two."

Elaine lifted the girl off her feet as she spun her around. "Oh I missed you," she said. "Both of you."

"How?" Yofi said. "Why? Uh, how?"

But Shadona walked to the kitchen, pulled a card out of her pocket, and dialed the phone. "Tap the underside with your fingertips, just three fingers as the corners of a triangle, then tap the same spot with your palm and the door will open," she said, then hung up the phone. "I don't know how long we can stay," she smiled faintly as she walked back into the living room, "but we can stay until that day comes. If you'll have us."

* * *

Hanly finished his latest check and verified that all personnel were clear from the mountaintop before his team prepped another football for launch. They only had experience during low visibility storms and needed more dry runs to verify that their understanding of its working principles were firm.

Like all her designs, it was simple and elegant at its core, yet scientifically befuddling and elusive to even the most stringent investigation. They needed to watch it work without the distraction of a lightning bolt. They needed to study it further before they could start harvesting storms on a regular basis. They needed to understand its systems better than they did. And to do that, they needed to experiment.

He adjusted the cameras inside the tiny building, affixed new voltage and amp probes, and verified the transmitter was relaying all the data back to their computers.

When they cleared the top, the torus punted the football.

"How's the data," Hanly asked, standing over their shoulders in the control room.

"Radar is tracking it nicely," one said. "We've got good conductivity, and we're reading about a million volts right now on a cloudless sky."

"A million?" Hanly said, checking the time on his watch. "Earlier today it was barely at ten thousand."

"Well, what do you want me to tell you? It's reading a million now."

Hanly studied the screen, then crowded his assistant out of the way as he took over the terminal. "I want to... " He clicked back through previous screens and compared the readings. "I want to prep another football."

"Already prepped, Sir."

He jumped to the main board, verified that the Co-Op knew they were down for the day, closed the circuits to the toruses, crossed his fingers, and punted the football.

Booommmm!!!!

Power surged into the equipment as virtual gauges fluctuated on his wall of screens. He marked down the readings, waited five minutes, and fired another into the clear blue, cloudless sky.

Boooommmm!!!!

His knees were trembling as he realized the implications, but he dare not jump the gun again. They needed more data. They needed weeks of additional study. They needed to pour over decades of weather data to rule out atmospheric anomalies. But if the numbers held true, they could do better than harvest a few random storms.

They could capture lightning, at will.

This changed everything.

The XO stood in the lab and looked Hegel in the eyes, "You said your team had something to show me?"

"Yes Sir," Hegel said, "We've been working on that non-lethal ordnance you requested two years—"

"I know what I requested, Captain, I was in the room at the time."

"Yes Sir. You know we had the rubber bullets that expanded into a sticky foam—"

"Please don't waste my time on more crap like that. The best it could do was ruin someone's wardrobe. It couldn't even stick someone to the ground if you were lucky enough to hit them in the feet. Your pepper and ether pellets showed promise, but to put someone down you had to hit them repeatedly in the upper chest or in the face, and ten percent of the rounds broke in your own barrel, making them hazardous to the user!

Listen, I'll say it again, think Tazer with a two hundred foot range. We want something that will immediately immobilize and chambers like a regular round. Preferably something that hurts like hell. I want to be able to cap off three or four rounds into some terrorist's ass, make him wish he was dead, but keep him alive for questioning. I want to follow up with lethal rounds right behind it, in case he has friends. Don't want to switch guns or mags in the middle of a firefight. One gun, one clip, two options."

"Understood, Sir. And I think my team has your answer. Let me show you." He walked the XO to a desk full of ammo. "Right now, it's only available for shotguns. But my boys say you have a top-notch machine shop in the building that can bring them down to .45 or even 9mm."

The XO gave the boys a stern look for divulging such info. "Go on, let's see it."

Hegel chambered a slug, aimed it at a visibly frightened goat tied at the end of the room, and fired.

The goat screamed, fell to the floor, and twitched for over a minute in obvious agony.

"Impressive," the XO said, watching the goat slowly gather its bearings, unable to stand. "How?"

"Well, it's based on a Tazer, like you asked. But the problem with Tazers, as you know, is getting the power, the zap, to the target as fast and neatly as a bullet. The key was to use the gun's own rifling as the power source, with the shotgun of course, we had to add wings to it. The outer jacket of the projectile spins while the core doesn't. The core has the coils, the outer jacket has the magnets. Put some contact glue from our earlier experiments on the tip and you have it. It travels like a bullet, packs the kinetic wallop of a rubber round, and keeps zapping them for a few minutes, if it sticks. The cost is high, maybe two dollars a round in material, figure three or four a round even if it can be automated. And as long as you hit a person, the rounds are recyclable. Bounce it off of a wall... " He shrugged, "not so much." The goat wobbled to its feet, then slammed back to the ground.

"As long as it sticks?"

"Nine out of ten stick. And ten out of ten that don't stick, still deliver enough of a jolt to put it down, just doesn't keep it down as long. It's crackling all the way in. Besides, I don't know anyone who doesn't double tap anyway, do you?"

The XO smiled. "I'm going to put you in touch with our engineer. Not exactly a machinist, but Hanly has been known to work some magic for me before." He held a shell in his hand. "Maybe we can make some of it out of plastic. Injectable molds, stuff like that." He turned to the smiling boys in the room. "Good job, Men. I'll make sure you get rewarded for this. Your country thanks you."

They stood at attention and gave a respectful salute.
B1.C47

Yofi poured two cups of coffee, then carried them to the table as they continued their late night conversation.

Shadona sipped, then leaned away from the table. "Why won't hijacking a satellite work?"

He shrugged, "Not the way I understand it. No." He strummed his mechanical fingers across the table. "As I understand it, the tooth's sensitive to a fraction of a second delay. El thought of the same thing, doing something like streaming music over the internet. When we were at the beach, they had to adjust the broadcast to compensate for the delay. And they had to have advanced notice if you went outside the normal tower radius."

"But the signal from space was strong enough to— Internet? You have your computer back?"

"Sure," he said, looking over to the den.

Shadona ran over, opened Word, hit Alt+F11, and started typing code. When she logged on, an IM chat box popped up.

'F6144DE7' it asked.

'2AFDE21780 034EDD12 4EAD A' she typed back.

The screen went blank as the machine logged off.

"What was all that about?" Yofi asked.

She smiled when she looked up at his handsome, if not disfigured face, "I might have a friend that wants to help as much as you." She turned it off and went back to the kitchen while everyone else slept.

He looked skeptical. "Brad and Frances?"

She smiled instead.

"Hacking and hijacking satellites is easier said than done. Hostile governments employ thousands of hackers to try to do just that, with little success. And the rare times that they are successful, they've never kept the satellite for long. The companies control the uplinks, the physical buildings, and can decouple them, physically, from the grid any time they need to regain control. It's far easier to deny access to a satellite than it is to take one over." Out of reflex, his mechanical hand pressed to his brow, "You know any reporters?"

She looked clueless until he handed her the clippings.

She hadn't anticipated the press.

* * *

"This it?" the Colonel said.

"This is it," the XO said, standing on top of the mountain beside the tiny, black plane.

"No cockpit? I hate all instrumentation," the Colonel said, adjusting his flight suit.

The XO looked at Elhander, "You'll like this version. Listen, the thing is highly experimental—"

"That's why you called the crash-test-dummy version of rent-a-pilot," the Colonel said, inspecting the elegant lines of the wings before sticking his head inside the engines. "Never seen anything like this before." He rapped his knuckles against the skin. "That ain't aluminum." He rapped again. "It ain't composite or titanium either. Almost no give, like the side of a tank. What is it?"

The XO put his hands in his pockets, "Expensive."

"I like to know a little something about the plane that I'm entrusting my life to," the Colonel said, looking underneath and running his hand across the deep scratches left by a chopsaw. "What happened here?"

"Had a little glitch," Elhander said. "The hatch jammed and we almost had to cut it open."

The Colonel climbed in. "It's cramped as hell," he said, belting himself in. "Could you find a smaller seat?"

The XO laughed, "You were the shortest pilot we could find... " but he couldn't help himself, "on such short notice."

"I see the eject—"

"Don't touch it!" the XO yelled inside the hole.

"Wasn't going to. Why all the panic?"

"You don't see any parachute, do you? My understanding is that that bubble you're in gets ejected by blowing the plane apart around it." He looked inside, "We can't verify that it works without destroying the plane, so please, only touch it if your life depends on it."

"Hooha," the Colonel said.

Elhander glared at the XO, shocked. When he was trapped for most of a day, he had pulled the handle repeatedly, and nothing happened.

The XO dialed the phone. "Read me the numbers on the pad please," he said, squatting by the hatch.

"B115D"

"B115D," the XO said into the phone. "AE1," he yelled back into the plane.

The Colonel entered the numbers. "Holy shit."

The XO squatted near the hatch. "We have two cameras in there with you, recording everything. Anything you experience that's out of the ordinary, just say something and the mikes will pick it up. Vibrations, colors, smells, anything that you think is off, say so right then. As soon as this hatch closes you'll lose radio communication. It can't transmit, has something to do with the skin. But you will be able to hear us. Don't try anything fancy, just get a feel for it, ok? You've got about a 6,000-mile range and you're totally invisible to radar. So if you go down outside of the flight plan, nobody will find you. Any questions?"

The Colonel looked at the display. "No Sir, I think I've got it. Uh, how fast you want to push it?"

The XO smiled. "Try not to break the sound barrier over the states, but once you clear California, you can use your own discretion. We've been warned not to exceed 6Gs in any maneuver. Far as I know, that's your only limitation." The XO and Elhander jogged across the few acres to the control tower and radioed his all clear.

The engines easily lit in unison as the Colonel taxied down the runway for a clean, conventional takeoff.

They wouldn't see him for another two hours.

* * *

Yofi stared at the phone Shadona so casually put in her pocket. "AE1" he asked as he adjusted Elaine's score on the board. "You want to explain that?"

Ball in hand, Shadona walked to the line and hurled it down the lane where it picked off half of her needed split. "It's my carrot."

Yofi laughed. "If it's none of my business, just say so. But you can't blame me for being a little curious about a twenty-second phone call where your end of the entire conversation is AE1. Internet friend?"

She seemed horrified at the idea.

Dana attacked the pins with her usual vigor, "It's the access code for her plane." She leaned beside Yofi as she waited for her ball to return. "Not a bad hustle, if you ask—"

"Since when do planes have access codes?"

Dana paused to pick up her ball. "Since we built one."

Yofi watched Dana pick up the spare, but that wasn't what had him so dismayed. "Wait a second. You two haven't been back there but for a year and some change."

Dana casually walked back to her nachos, "Yeah, that's right."

Yofi pursued it further, "I think I'm missing—" Elaine thundered her ball down the lane.

"Look," Dana said, catching the cheese before it dripped on the floor, "It shines like this. Want to joyride, have to get the number from her. And it's never the same number twice."

He looked at Shadona, still a little shy. "A plane in under two years?"

Dana jumped to her feet, offended. "Hey, don't think she did it all herself. A dozen of us helped for what, three, four months?"

Yofi laughed, "Well, that changes everything." He adjusted Elaine's score, then grabbed a ball with his mechanical hand and feathered it to a wobbly strike. When his mechanical fingers straightened his hair, he realized just how much he had changed over those same short months. He didn't notice the feelings in his armpit anymore; his mind saw fingertips. His mind felt hair. It was all second nature now. He smiled at that shy little girl. Sometimes he wanted to lock her in a room and talk her ears off until she opened up and confided in him. He had so much to learn when their conversations went both ways. But seeing joy on her face meant so much more.

Seeing her talk meant more.

Elaine put her arm around Shadona and pulled the smiling little girl in for a hug. When he looked at the score, she wasn't last any more.
B1.C48

The Colonel circled the tower, then lined up for a traditional landing. When it rolled to a stop, the hatch opened in the belly of the plane, and a shorter-than-average pilot walked across the runway to his debriefing in the control tower.

"Well," the XO asked.

"I don't know what I've been doing for the last eighteen years, but it hasn't been flying." He pressed his finger into the table. "That was flying. Never had such a field of view in my life. And talk about responsive." He paused while Elhander joined them at the table. "I never opened it up, but—" he tried to suppress his grin, "I've flown the Blackbird, U-2, everything in the stealth fleet, and a few that don't exist. The Blackbird felt like a Corvette with a pedal that would never end. I had your bird up to Mach 5 at twenty thousand, and it felt like it was still in first gear. It's the first plane that ever intimidated me." He looked at Elhander, the only one he knew was an engineer. "The avionics package is breathtaking, beyond high def. When you approach something, like a plane, a radar tower, a boat, it pings. A different sound for everything, and I'd swear it comes from the screen, right behind the object as it comes into view. Makes IMAX feel like shadow puppets on a paper bag. The autopilot—"

Elhander lifted his hand, "Autopilot?"

"Sorry Sir. Didn't mean to offend. It felt more like a copilot. I've had hay fever since I was a kid. Meds for it cause drowsiness, so, I sneezed. Well, that should have ruffled some feathers on any bird, but I felt the autopilot kick in and smooth it out. Felt hints of it with the takeoff and landing, too. Getting it to feedback into the stick must have taken years to perfect. It's subtle as a thousand dollar call girl." He addressed Elhander directly, "It felt like you could override it with just a little extra effort on the stick. Like the stick has a worn groove, a place it naturally wants to follow, and with just a little effort you can bump it out, like riding in ruts on a dirt road. Takes me back to learning on a tandem T-34C when the instructor nudged the stick for a wobbly trainee. Feels like it could land itself."

"That's what we're paying you for," the XO said. "What kind of responsiveness are we looking at? It didn't wind tunnel well."

The Colonel leaned back, palms slapping the table. "Could have fooled me. Most of the stealth fleet looks unstable in a tunnel. Hell, you would think I'd be used to fly-by-wire by now. Fly-by-computers, I mean. Only thing that bugs me on that bird is not being able to see the wings." He leaned toward Elhander and pointed, "It feels like the kind of power you get out of rockets, not Ram Jets. And I've seen dozens of Ram Jets before, not one of them could cold start on the ground like that. At about 300 knots you can barely feel the engines shift, then again at around Mach 1. Lady's footing it down the runway, it doesn't feel powerful at all. A little sluggish—" He slapped his hand on the table and looked down with a shake. "Sluggish ain't the word I'm looking for. More like a powerful turboprop. Over 300, it feels like a typical jet. Over Mach 1 it feels like an Atlas rocket." He leaned back and shrugged.

"Think that's a problem?" the XO asked.

"Well, I don't know how fast it can transition without stalling, but I now know why you had me take it slow."

The XO hit the remote and the monitor on the wall blinked on. He played a clip of the plane's only other takeoff and landing. "Fast transitions shouldn't be a problem, those clips were in real time. We're looking to write the book on this plane after all the bugs are worked out. We need to know its ticks, assets and shortcomings. A flight manual for training purposes. We don't expect you to even try those maneuvers, at least not in the beginning. We want you to take your time and not exceed 6Gs—"

"That clip's well over six. Hell, it's easily over ten!"

"We know. The pilot in that footage is the one that warned us that no pilot is ready for that plane in excess of 6Gs."

The Colonel looked insulted. "Six is noth—"

"You're getting big checks to take it easy. Go over Mach 5 all you want, but for now, nothing over 6Gs."

The Colonel tossed up his hands, "Your play, Coach. Don't worry. Say it's unstable over six, I'll keep it under." He stared at the screen. "Just seems a shame—"

Elhander stood up. "May seem odd to you, but observations like the copilot and shifting gears at 300 knots is more important to us right now. Any more such observations would be incredibly helpful. Even the littlest details are important at this stage of testing. Especially any notes on the autopilot."

The Colonel indulged him with a barrage of elaborations from the rest of his list.

* * *

Shadona stood outside and stared at the mountain that seemed to always loom over her shoulder. Just easing into dusk with a clear sky full of stars, a bright blue bolt was drawn ten miles into the heavens. It resembled an umbrella pulled inside out by the wind, as the end of a near perfect line fanned into millions of thin filaments, tens of miles above the ground.

She had only guessed what they now unwittingly confirmed. She wondered if they were bright enough to realize the implications, too. If she knew Hanly at all, he probably didn't get it yet, but eventually he would.

She walked back inside.

"You got an Email," Yofi said.

"What?"

"3DA," he said, "Whatever that means. I assume it was for you."

"It means," she looked at his mechanical arm, "it means I have to find my own way."

"Dana just popped a bucket of corn on the stove, thought we'd watch a couple movies we just got in the mail."

She looked up with a smile.

He couldn't help but give the girl a hug. "We'll find a way." He lightly patted her back, "Enjoy the now. Most of the time, that's all there is. When that piece of flack blew, I spent a year depressed, even suicidal about all I had lost. Painful surgeries, one after another, plays hell with your will to live, you know." He looked her in those deep brown eyes. "Don't see me moping around anymore, do you? Sure, I may never have everything I once did. But I'm still alive. I didn't lose El. Even have a brilliant little girl, when I thought we never could. It doesn't rain every day, you know. Always take time to enjoy the sunny days when they come." He led her to the living room, "Besides, these are supposed to be really good. Four stars and up. Got another season of that Stargate series you liked. We'll watch it after everyone else turns in. Just you and me, what do you say? Midnight marathon."

Yofi turned off the TV as they sat on the couch, another in a long series of late nights. "You spoil me, you know," he said. "El humors me by watching Modern Marvels, Junkyard Wars, and the nerd stuff I just can't help making her sit through. I can tell she's... Well, she just puts up with a lot from me from time to time." He watched Shadona yawn, Dana and Elaine had turned in hours ago. "Ok, you might be bored too, but at least— I just get excited when they run a program on fusion, or like tonight's marathon on experimental planes." He leaned toward her on the couch, "Just imagine the excitement of the first manned Mach 5 flight. Neil Armstrong and the X-15, how lucky can one man be? Sure, I don't know how they count it as an airplane when it's more like a rocket with superfluous wings and it gets dropped off a bomber. Hell, take out the chair and you'd call that a missile. And it could be argued that at fifty miles up, it's really in space. But still.

Makes working on turbines seem—"

She slouched back into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up, tucked under her chin. "I broke Mach 6."

"No I... I mean... " He leaned toward the shy little girl, now looking down. "But, uh, how high— at what altitude?"

She suppressed a yawn, looked up, and smiled, "Twenty feet... off the deck of a carrier."

He muffled his laughter, but he knew she was serious. "Can't be done. You'd melt the wings off. Aluminum turns to pudding a little over Mach 2, titanium will get you a little past three or four, but that's about it. That's why all the speed records are on the edge of the atmosphere, flirting with space. At least ten miles up."

"The hotter the forge," she whispered, "the stronger the steel."

Looking at the little girl trying to hide behind a simple nightshirt, it was easy to discount everything she said. But he wanted to know, "Not steel."

"Not a forge, but it's as hot as the sun." She hid her eyes behind her knees as she yawned quietly. "Wish I could have shown you."

He wanted to probe deeper, but it was clear she had stayed up for him. Much as Elaine had all those years before her. She was half asleep now. "I'd have loved to have helped you build it. But right now, let's get you to bed so you can get some sleep."

"I'm not sleepy," she said, eyes closed, forehead on knees.

As much as he wanted to carry her into her room, he didn't trust one of his arms with such a precious cargo. He nudged her off the couch and walked with her to her room. "Goodnight," he said, quiet enough to keep from waking Dana.

He had another room and another girl to get to.
B1.C49

"You've got to stop burning the midnight oil," Elaine said, her fingers tracing one of the scars across his chest.

"I'm not twenty anymore, but I can still hold my own."

She gave him a morning kiss as she reached past and unplugged his recharged arm. "Not everything is about you; she needs sleep, too. You're as bad as a teenage boy, come a courtin' every day and at all hours of the night. She's barely a teen, remember? You keep staying up, she will too. Try a little more Dad and a little less enabler." She smiled as she helped him with the straps and his arm. When it came to life, he ran its finger through her curly red hair. "I thought we might see a petting farm with the girls today. Pick up some groceries on the way back." She handed him a computer printout. "MapQuested it already. Just twenty minutes out of the way. Said they had Alpacas and Emus. Lived here all this time and never knew they were here."

His mind thought about stock-car pit crews or air shows when it came to the girls, but he knew they'd enjoy a farm, too. "I never would have thought of that." He kissed her as he easily sat with mechanical help, then strapped on his leg by himself.

Elaine came in from the mailbox, sorting the letters from the junk. She opened a thick envelope and leafed through the pictures on her way to the dinner table. "Oh, I really like this one," she said, showing it off to Yofi first.

"Yuck," Dana said, cringing at the sight as she added four Tootsie rolls to the pot. "Why would anyone like getting licked on the face by food?" then to Yofi, "Call."

Elaine looked at the picture again, "I think it's cute." She looked at Shadona, wearing the same smile she had when the young alpaca cleaned out the food in her hands and continued licking what it could from the corners of her endless giggles. She pulled another from the pack, "And this Emus' egg just looks enormous in her hands."

Shadona looked at the first picture, then ran her fingers across the same cheek. "Must be fun to farm alpaca. Their fur is so soft, like raising a herd of pillows. Those big eyes, so curious about everything. I bet they're easy to train." She touched the face in the picture. "Remember how cute they looked all sleeping together on that pile of hay, those long necks stretched out across each other—"

"Taste just like chicken," Dana said.

"They don't eat them," Shadona said, not looking at her cards. "They just use the fur for—"

"That's the fluffy storefront," Dana pressed. "They butcher the old ones into sausage and burgers around back with—"

"Not funny, Dana," Elaine said, sitting down at the table, "I'm sure someone sometime eats alpacas, but the ones we saw were all grown for the wool. They sounded like they'd even give them away as pets if the wool market suddenly collapsed." She picked up her cards. "None of those little angles is ever ending up as a happy meal." She looked at the plates of candy in front of everyone. But Dana's efforts had worked. Shadona folded her cards in favor of looking through the pictures instead. Elaine raised with seven caramel chews, mostly out of spite. Unfortunately, even though raising might have improved her odds of winning, it did nothing to improve her Jack high.

The remaining three stayed in the game while Shadona stared at the pictures, "Can you imagine looking after pets for a living?" She ran her finger across the friendly faces again. "Never thought there could be such a thing," she whispered.

Sitting on the couch, Shadona looked through the stack of pictures she had drawn. Technically, they were perfect. The shading was great, the perspective was flawless, she even managed to capture lifelike fur and the curiosity in the alpaca's eye, yet it was missing something. Lacking. And she could tell.

She looked at the piano as the preacher continued his Sunday morning lecture. Souls came up a lot. She could make the right sounds come from the piano, hitting the right notes came as easy as walking, but no matter how hard she tried, it never felt like music.

She was lacking something profound.

She listened to the sermon. Souls.

Soulless.

Zombies.

Could children born in the ultimate act of blasphemy ever have souls?

If the preacher on TV was to be believed, the answer was a resounding no.

She put her hand to her chest. She couldn't feel a soul.

Could a loving God that so easily forgives repenting murderers, thieves, and adulterers have no compassion for creatures like her? Was her creation that different from a child of a violent rape?

She looked at her drawings, each technically perfect, but still lacking something. She watched the sermon intently.

What if she had no soul to save?

Elaine sat beside her on the couch. "I like the guy on five better," Elaine said. "Little less hell and damnation, and a little more hopeful redemption."

Fighting back tears, Shadona looked her in the eyes, "Do I have a soul?"

"Of course you do, what makes you think you don't?"

Shadona showed her the drawings.

"I don't understand? They're—"

"Missing something," she said, "like the difference between a reproduction, and the original that hangs in the museum."

Elaine pulled her in for a hug as she muted the TV. "First, they're better than anything I could draw," she said, briefly distracted when Yofi walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to start on breakfast. "And second, but no less important, that has nothing to do with souls. If art was the measure of souls, out of the billions of people alive today, those with souls would number just a few thousand, according to even the most generous New York art critic."

"You two hungry?" Yofi yelled as he foraged items from the fridge.

"Jimmy Dean me," Dana answered, rubbing her eyes as she walked down the hall.

"Why don't you help Yofi this morning," Elaine said, then turned back to Shadona. "You've got a soul, Child. Don't let any preacher tell you otherwise." She turned to channel five. "Could use a little uplifting, right about now."

"... charity starts at home," the preacher said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It starts with your children, your family, your neighbors, your communities, and it spreads like the Holy Word around the world. Community by community, neighbor by neighbor, child by child..." the crowd offered up endless Amens.

Elaine patted her on the back as the kitchen came alive with sizzling sounds. "And third," she said only loud enough for Shadona to hear, "even if art revealed the presence of a soul, there are too many kinds of art to count. And you, my dear, are the finest work of art I know. All by yourself." She held Shadona's hand, finger tapping her easily overlooked ring, "There's a lot of art in that, too."

* * *

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" the Colonel said, franticly working the stick. "Something broke lose! The stick is out of sync with— Copilot is tugging wrong! Repeat, copilot is tugging wrong!"

He let go of the stick and gripped the ejection handle as he rolled like a BB in a rattle inside a plane tumbling out of cont— The plane recovered with a harsh jerk as the Gs slipped back under six and everything snapped back into place. He grabbed the stick and returned to his scheduled test maneuvers, with more respect for the limitations this time.

"... I don't know another way to describe what happened," the Colonel said in the debriefing. "You have all my data. Pull the flight recorder if you need more. It was handling flawlessly, then as soon as I took it over six, it skidded out from under me. I tried to correct, but lost it instead. Grabbed the eject and stared at the altimeter. Soon as it dipped below ten thousand, I was going to pull it and—"

"We've heard all that already, go over how it lost control again," Elhander repeated.

"The screen showed one thing, but reality was clearly another—"

"Define that more clearly for me, again. Be precise."

He shrugged, hands up, "It felt like any other plane when it goes sideways, but looked like it was going straight. When I pulled up, it slipped sideways again, but the view was of nothing but ground. Everything in me screamed that it was accelerating, thrashing side to side like a dragster fighting to keep it in the lane, but the display read losing speed. I haven't got any better way of describing it. It's just something you'd have to experience, and even then, it's hard to describe." He paused as he tried to reflect, "One minute it was a cutting edge plane, the next, it was a cross between a video game and an amusement park ride." The Colonel jumped from the chair and walked around the table, "It's the damnedest thing I've ever flown. Fast, agile, responsive. Nothing can touch it, and that includes planes I can't ever talk about. It does at the treetops what others can only dream of at high altitude. You figure out how to put guns on it and you'll own the sky. And you'll own it with just a handful of these planes. But try to maneuver at over 6Gs and you'll plant every pilot I know. That's one hell of a flaw."

Elhander played the video of Shadona again, "It's a flaw with a solution." He gestured to the chair again. "Sit please, your pacing is making me nervous. Calm down and reflect for a few minutes. Gather your thoughts. Then describe it to me again. We'll figure this out."

The Colonel pressed play again. "Why not just ask your other pilot? Get some collaboration going on here." He stood and pointed at the screen, "Anyone capable of doing that should be a bigger household name than Armstrong, and someone I need to meet."

* * *

"That's not our deal," Shadona said over the phone. "I give you the codes to work the plane, that's it. I never promised to teach you anything or help you tear apart my plane... If it isn't mine, then you don't need my help or my codes... No. That wasn't our deal... Turn it off, then. I guarantee you'll never get another access code from me ever again. I've never broken a promise with you, Sir. Can you say the same... I warned you about high G maneuvers, the rest is on you... There's nothing wrong with my plane... fine, don't heed my warnings. The resulting crash is on you... of course the plane can handle it, your pilot is the one that can't... No traditionally taught pilot can handle it. I'm the only one that can, and I'm done with this conversation," she said, closing the lid on the phone.
B1.C50

Two generals stood in the tower as the XO and a staff of a dozen sailors pointed off in the distance. Field glasses came up as a staff member scrutinized a state-of-the-art military radar that still saw nothing as a black plane screamed just a hundred feet overhead, disappearing in the blink of an eye, only to return moments later along a normal approach to catch a wire on the deck.

The general touched the edge of wings that weren't even warm as a shorter-than-normal Colonel emerged from the hatch on its belly and offered a respectful salute.

"Fantastic," the General said, looking over its seamless skin. "But it's a bit small, isn't it?"

"Respectfully, Sir," the Colonel said, "you haven't seen the half of it yet." He gestured under the plane and waited as a Three Star General eagerly crawled on his knees, stuck his head inside the hole, and said what everyone says, "Holy Shit."

A few dozen sailors crowded the plane as the Generals walked with the XO down the carrier deck while it steamed a giant circle in the Pacific. "You have my attention," the Three Star said.

"Thank you, Sir," the XO said, "but what I really need is your resources. And funding, of course. They're highly experimental and very expensive to build. We'd like to build another, but it would take me years to scrounge up that kind of funding on my own. I was hoping to crank another out within a year."

The General smiled, "You may have come to the right place."

The XO shook the General's offered hand, "Has only a few flaws that we know of, but nothing that you can't work around." He smiled, "You can tell the President it makes up for its price tag with great gas mileage."

The General snorted. "Really? How good?"

"On average," the XO said, "better than a sub-compact. But if you keep your foot out of it, better than a scooter."

"Be serious. What's the range?"

The XO shrugged, "Tiny tank, no mid-air refueling, but it's gone 6,000 miles before." He gestured to a private part of the deck, "Let's talk numbers."

"I'd like to have one of my men take it for a romp first, if you don't mind."

"Why of course, General, that's why I'm here. I just need to make a call first."

* * *

Elaine pulled a dress off the rack and held it up to Shadona's chest. "I think you'll look spectacular in this." She tugged at the sleeves of Shadona's tight shirt. "You've grow an inch in the last month alone." She watched Dana pout off to search another section of the store. "Besides, nothing fits you since you got boobs." The embarrassed look on Shadona's face was priceless. It seemed like forever since she had seen the painfully shy side of this child. She pulled her in for a hug, and welcomed her to the club.

Shadona reluctantly changed in the booth.

"Oh, she looks adorable," Elaine remarked, "Doesn't she?" she turned to Yofi.

"Hmmm... Oh yes, she does." He looked at the visibly uncomfortable girl. "First dress, isn't it?"

Shadona nodded, looking at her feet.

Yofi leaned in and whispered, "She's used to uniforms, simple pants and boots. That's all she's worn all her life. Remember how hard it was to get her into that first bathing suit?"

"Adorable," Elaine said, ignoring him, "We've got to find some matching shoes."

Her phone rang. This time it was a simple text. She clicked out a fast answer and hung up.

Elaine ignored the phone. It rang three or four times a week, rarely on weekends, and never more than a minute. Inconvenient, but a fraction of the distraction a phone was in the hands of any other teen. Recently it had shifted to texts. "We'll get you some regular clothes, too," she said, "But we're definitely getting you that dress."

Dana returned with a pile of clothes, most with price tags over two hundred, not to mention a fistful of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. "Can we hurry up, Duckling?" she said, "I'd like to get back in time for—"

"We're not buying all of this," Elaine said, picking through Dana's stash. "Yofi and I are on a fixed inc—"

"If she's getting some, I'm getting some!"

"You didn't outgrow all your clothes in the last two months, Dana," Yofi said, adding a kind of stern determination that he never could have pulled off at home... in slippers. "We're not getting checks from the base. This is coming out of our life savings and my disability—"

"You ain't disabled," Dana said, plucking his mechanical hand with her finger.

"Call it anything you want, Dana," he said, "it's still a fixed income. Our house may be paid for, but food and electricity didn't suddenly become free."

"Send the bill to the XO," Dana said.

"Stop it," Elaine said. "We're buying these two dresses and a week's worth of clothes for Shadona. If there's anything leftover, we might get something from this pile of yours that you so _graciously_ brought over. But that's only if you stop arguing right now." She pointed at Dana. "One more word, just one, and it all goes back." She gestured to Yofi, "And don't think he has any say in the matter."

Yofi nodded as Dana started to protest, but quietly stomped the floor instead.

They were keeping the receipts and submitting them to the XO every month. But as yet, they had received no reimbursements. The XO wasn't one to let a good grudge go so easily. He was still bruised, just not on his chin.

With fake IDs the girls could have passed for eighteen. Well, Dana easily could, Shadona was marginal. But since faking IDs were out of the question, they Googled around and found a club that catered to teens, didn't serve alcohol, and was still within the range of the base. It even happened to be close enough to a theater where the adults could bide their time without embarrassing the teens too much.

Dana, of course, took to the dance floor with vigor on their first visit, dancing with anyone who asked and a few who didn't. Shadona remained a wallflower for their next two trips, not that she didn't get her share of invitations to the floor.

Yofi sat in the corner with Elaine that Friday night, their movie over a half hour ago. They came to pick up the girls, but couldn't help sitting and watching.

Both girls were having fun. Shadona wasn't a full figured blond like Dana, but she was cute nonetheless and it was clear that the girls had no problem fitting in. Nor did they have any trouble keeping up with the latest dance moves.

Yofi sipped his soda as they waited for the thumping base to end and the girls to notice them.

Yofi stood at the mailbox and opened the letter addressed to Captain Stosou from a familiar PO box. It had taken nearly forever, but he received a reimbursement check, and a printed message. 'Pilot lost over the Pacific. Have rebuilt the equipment as much as possible. Deliver the girls by the end of the month, or the transmitter will be cut. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.'

He stared at the house, unsure how to tell them. Unsure how to tell Elaine. As he read the letter between the lines, it seemed likely that, as soon as another plane could be assembled, the girls would be his again. But without such spelled out, he couldn't be sure.

He looked at the postmark. Six days ago. Shadona's last phone call was six days ago... yet he was troubled by the letter. Addressing it to Captain implied it was an order. He skimmed it again. It implied that the pilot had just recently been lost, yet it should have taken months to rebuild— No, they would have rebuilt what they could almost immediately. The date on the check didn't look right either. He had never known them to cut a check this fast, but it could have been expedited. Still suspicious, every way he read it.

He listened to the piano play through the quiet mountain air. This was her letter, and there was no way he was going to hide it from her, or drop it on her at the last minute. She should be warned, and plenty in advance.

He shoved it into his pocket. He would wait until tonight, though. After her fun.
B1.C51

She stood in the chamber, scorch marks lingering on the ceiling above another mounted Stargate-style ring. She pressed the foot-pedal while working the controls, and the basket lifted her into the air. When the ring came into range, she let go of the button and inspected the connections. "These are all wrong," she said. "It has to be redone. Can't be fixed on the ceiling." She lowered the basket to the ground with a hydraulic hiss and a chain's rusty clanking, then stared Hanly in the eyes. "Half of this needs to be rebuilt. It'll take a dozen more than a few weeks to fix this."

Hanly quietly listened as she slapped Post-It notes on nearly everything. "How's Yofi?" he asked when they were alone in the room.

"Like you care," she said.

"Wait a second," he said. "I'm legally barred from having any contact with him outside the base. You should know that. He had heart problems last I heard."

She stared him in the eyes. If he was lying, he was getting better at it. Heart problems was news to her. Yofi had looked fine, all things considered. But bowling was as active as she had ever seen him. And he was only good for one slow dance before sitting out the next three.

"I worked with him for years without knowing. Piece of flack near his heart, I was told." He jotted down notes in his pad, then walked over to the optical interface that looked like an empty window in a phone booth. "Can you check this again? It was about the only thing that survived the explosion, would be nice to reuse it."

She climbed out of the lift, but didn't join him. "Can't be tested without the rest of the equipment in place. What happened to the HB-1?"

"HB-1?"

"My plane."

He tucked his notes under his arm, "Oh. Crashed is all I know." He gestured at the ring, bolted to the ceiling, "This is as much as I get to see. I'm no pilot, I have none of those specialized skills." He looked down the jackhammered halls as the XO approached.

"I fix this, we go back to the way it was?" she said when he entered the chamber.

The XO smiled, "You have my word." This was the first time he had seen her in person since Yofi dropped her off at the gate. She was no longer the runt of her class. Several inches taller and dozens of pounds gained, she looked much less like the little kid he remembered. "What happens at 6Gs?"

She looked at him like he had just asked what color green was. "Pilots die."

He put his hands in his pockets. "You didn't."

"I'm the best pilot you'll ever see. And that plane was built for me, and me alone."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Shadona said as Belson folded his clothes at Dana's desk.

"Coed now, everyone got reassigned. Has been for months—"

"Over my dead body," she said, but the heavy metal door closed behind her with a metallic clunk.

"Relax," he said, stacking his pants in a neat pile. "Don't mean what you—"

Still filthy from a long day of rebuilding equipment, she grabbed a pencil off her desk as she stared him in the eyes, "You're not in any of the shop shifts or—"

"Had me working with Hegel for the last few years while you spoiled jet jocks—"

"Spoiled? Had us working ten hours a day some—"

"Wah Wah," he said, "My eyes kept me out of the cockpit while you high-flyers and shop shifts got out of all the dirty work around here. Mopping, toilets, KP and worse fell to us. Hegel's project was my last way out, and he's as clueless as they come."

She gestured to her stained clothes, "Dirty work? You completely blind?" She tried the door, but it didn't budge.

"Hey, I had a room to myself before you came here. I ain't exactly ecstatic about—"

"You're not the only one." She pushed past him and selected clothes from her stack. The locking of the door meant she had thirty minutes until lights out, and unless she wanted to sleep in filth, she had to take a shower. With little choice, she closed the curtain, turned on the water, and undressed. Whatever was going to happen would happen, either now or when she tried to sleep. Little point in continuing to argue. She tucked the pencil behind her ear, just in case.

The next morning, the lights blinked on.

"Hey," he said, "Shadona right?"

She shielded her eyes from the light with her arm.

"My room, I'm going to the head first."

"It was my room long before it—"

"Don't care!" he said, walking to the toilet.

"Close the curtain and turn on the fan!"

Curtain closed, the fan came on, and after a few awkward minutes, he emerged, adjusting his briefs. "Listen, we're going to be sharing the—"

"Not for long," she said sitting up, pencil still in hand, but casually concealed from view.

"Fine, find another room, if you can. They're all taken. Ain't like they made more while you were out on assignment."

Assignment? "What do you know about my assignment?"

"You and the lesbo—"

"She's not a lesbo—"

"Whatever," he said, pulling on his pants in front of her. "Something to do with setting up a DOD something or another. Nobody really knows. Girls had some wild rumor about making planes or something, but you know how they lie."

She smacked him on the back of the head.

"See! Told you you knew." He adjusted his shirt, then pointed a scolding finger. "The first one's free. The next one will cost you. I might not be in the top five in hand combat, but I'm not in the bottom five like you."

"I'm not spending another night here," she said, fully dressed from last night.

"Suit yourself. But this ain't a hotel, and there ain't no vacant rooms. I'd bring the hostility down a notch in case you're," he leaned in to whisper the last part, "wrong."

The XO walked into Hegel's shop, "I need a word with Belson, out in the hall."

Belson put down his tools and stepped outside for a few minutes, stepped back inside, gathered his things, and was reassigned.

Belson and three other boys were lowering the ring from the ceiling when Shadona got back down into her chamber after practicing maneuvers in her first F-16.

"What are they doing here?" she asked Chroma.

"They were here during the original fab months ago," Chroma said, disconnecting the associated equipment on the ground. "Somebody has to do the heavy lifting, might as well be some stupid boys."

Another operated one of her suits on the ground like it was a mini-forklift, manhandling her delicate equipment.

Upset, she fumed silently for a minute, but decided it wasn't worth the protest. Her entire old team of girls had been reassembled, and so long as the boys didn't get in the way, things might end up going faster, and she and Dana could leave that much sooner.

She had to pick her fights carefully. The XO needed her if he wanted to replace the crashed plane. But he could be far more difficult to work with than he currently was. She remembered a scene in Schindler's List where a woman prisoner engineer protested the Nazi construction design, was right, had her suggestions implemented, and was shot anyway. Being right could only get her so far.

So long as the boys stayed out of the way, she saw no harm.

She watched as the boy in the suit followed orders from one of the girls working on the equipment.

She walked to her tool cart, put on her gloves, and went to work. She could put up with this for a few weeks.

Belson sat in his chair beside Dana's old desk, untying his boots. "I'm glad they let Hegel's class help you guys out. Keeps me from being eligible for grunge work." He plopped one off and loosened the laces on the other.

"I'm showering first," she said, kicking her boots off under her desk as she grabbed a ready pile of clothes from her chair.

"How you figure? This is my room and—"

"It's my project you're getting out of Hegel's to work on," she said, turning on the water and closing the curtain behind her.

The door locked behind them seconds later.

"What's all that stuff do?" Belson said after his shower and after the lights were out.

She adjusted her blanket, then jostled her pillow. "It keeps you out of Hegel's, unless I don't get any sleep tonight." She would rather have Dana, but she could work with this, too.
B1.C52

"Love having high scores in using the suit," Belson said. "I'm sure it's a far cry from being a jet jock, but it ain't peeling potatoes either." He sat beside his desk, end of the day, and didn't even try to beat her to the shower this time. "It's a wicked piece of tech, if you ask me."

"Didn't ask," she said, closing the curtain behind her.

"Dude, you been to the mockup town near where the old base was? All sorts of sea boxes set up as buildings and such, rearrange them with a crane and a forklift so we can practice urban warfare. I totally dominate in the suits." He leaned back and leisurely removed a boot as she started the water. He talked louder to compensate. "My marksmanship isn't as good as some, but unlike in the air, they let you wear corrective lenses in the suits. Really compensates for my shortcomings." He looked at her bed, still folded up and out of the way. "Some say I have a sixth sense for those suits. Maybe it's just an extremely sensitive back."

The trickle of water flowing down the drain was her only response.

"Wicked awesome, if you ask me. Still debate whether it's driver or pilot for the things. Drive cars, pilot planes, but what do you do in a suit? Other than look, smashing." He loosened his pants and unbuttoned his shirt as he faced the curtain that separated them. "Almost didn't recognize you when you came off assignment. Not sure I ever heard you talk before. Wasn't really sure you could talk, to be honest." He took the simple step that separated him from her illusion of privacy. Curtain within reach, he smiled as he ran his fingers across it, but left it undisturbed before sitting again. He leafed through the scant items on her desk. None of them even hinted at her personality or individuality. Pencils, pens, aligned pads and notes. Clothes, stacked and organized to military precision, same as his. He ran his fingers across her undies, then sat again, waiting his turn. "We may not have rebuilt jets or assembled suits, but we did manage to invent those Tazer rounds in Hegel's class." He stared at the curtain again. If she showered any slower, he would have to shower in the dark. "I'll start missing group showers if you take much longer!"

"Almost done," she said, rinsing off. The curtain flung open soon after, and she emerged dressed in more comfortable sweats as she walked past him, lowered her bed from the wall over her desk, and climbed in for sleep.

"About time," he said, peeling clothes as he rushed his turn.

Belson and two others in suits carefully positioned the giant ring onto the three lifts as they prepared to winch it back to the ceiling.

Shadona just watched, as did the rest of the girls, while work was suspended within the fall zone in the center of the chamber.

The boys inched it in unison over the next twenty minutes as the girls used the opportunity to take a break and snack on recently delivered burgers.

Bolted in, they busied themselves with reconnecting the equipment and started certifying the key components of the device over the following days.

The wings swept forward as she slowly banked the F-14 and plunged it down into the valley to get a casual look at Yofi's house before tapping the afterburners and thrusting its nose into the sky. Within the few weeks of her return, she had checked out on nearly every craft they had in the hangar. Except one.

The Raptor retained a long waiting list, dominated by those that had stayed on the base and played by the rules. She was like an outsider and could tell the 'assignment' had given the two a sense of undeserved prestige among the rest that kept them from easily fitting back in. Even the girls of her old team seemed reserved and measured around her.

As the wings swept back, she pushed the nose over and dove into a barrel roll, darting below the radar and into the valley of this mostly uninhabited mountain range. As she leveled out, fuel leaning toward fumes, she aimed at the base and called in for a landing. Air rushed from her G-suit and blood throbbed to her legs as she dropped her gear and lined up with the wire on the mock carrier deck.

One side of her wanted to spend the rest of her life as she had just spent the last hour. She couldn't see herself doing anything else. Landing on real carriers was the world to her.

Radar confirmed her aim was true, and within seconds she was slammed into the harness as tons of plane was snatched to a halt around her. She powered it down as she loosened the straps and looked out over the wing. She would miss this.

But she missed a life with Yofi more.

She wasn't free here.

She could fly for hundreds of miles, but couldn't take that ride out the gate.

She couldn't leave her room any time she wanted. Couldn't go and do as she pleased.

That meant more to her now than it ever did.

She opened the canopy and exited the plane.

Yofi's wasn't free either, but the illusion was much better.

She sat at the cafeteria table and waited for Dana to show, first thing that morning. She straightened her tray, aligned the peas, and smoothed the lump of grits as butter melted on top, otherwise untouched.

Belson sat beside her, "You left early, didn't have—"

"Don't you have someone else to bug?"

He leaned back, grabbed his toast, and crunched out a corner. "Hey, I'm just trying to keep out of—"

"Then move on," she said.

He pointed his toast at her, "You can be very difficult for absolutely no reason. I don't know what your problem is, but I'm just trying to be nice. Thought if everyone saw you sitting with me they'd think you weren't some stuck up snob with a huge stick up her ass." He grabbed his tray, "Didn't know that was the image you were trying for."

She touched his tray and he settled down. "I'm not. But I'm not here to make friends, either. I don't intend to stay here much longer, Belson. A matter of weeks. After this project is complete, Dana and I—"

He grinned, looking around, secretively, "Another assignment?"

She nodded.

"Off base again, I bet." He leaned in, "Must be exciting."

She smiled, perhaps even for the first time in front of him.

He inched closer. "Listen, when we solved that little problem for the XO, we all got a bonus. For me, it was a room of my own. In a way, you coming back is like him going back on his word and—"

"Get used to that."

"We only rarely had classes together, you and I. I barely remember you in assembly classes when we were toddlers. Only remember because it was the first time I saw the XO, and he came in just to walk you out, not ream you out." He looked at her as the clanks and wet clops of any typical cafeteria filled the room. "That was the first and last I really saw of you. I was in shop for a few weeks before the crip washed me out. Tried out for pilots, even made it into programming, only to wash out there, too. Every now and then we had hand combat together, marched together, or did firing range at the same time. But nothing that—"

"What was your project in Hegel?"

"Tazer rounds that chamber like regular rounds—"

"Capacitors, batteries, or piezoelectric?"

"Mechanical. Capacitors have to be charged, and that complicates ammo storage. Batteries have a short shelf life. Piezo just gives you a single jolt as it bounces off." He inched closer as he rested his arm across the back of her chair. "We built a coil into its center, aerodynamically stabilized it, then used the rifling to spin a magnetic sleeve around it. Slap some electrodes and a glue tip on it and zap! Make the core out of plastic, even mold it around the heavy magnet as a single piece."

"Interesting."

Dana sat beside her while Chroma rounded out the small table. "Eat it before it gets cold," Dana said, snapping Shadona out of her distraction.

"Easy!" Shadona said, smacking the helmet of the boy in the suit. "You're crushing the frame."

"Sorry," came through the speaker.

She looked around and waved Belson over. "Take over for him," she said.

Belson took his time as he strutted over in his suit. Unlike the others, he was in no hurry to finish. As such, he was calm and deliberate with everything he did. He knew the time and effort invested in each computerized box, each panel, and every other piece of gear. Rushing could spoil such an investment. Besides, excluding the ring, no component weighed more than six hundred pounds and could have been manhandled by as few as six people without the aid of the suits. The suits, however, made the work easy and kept from needlessly exhausting dozens of workers every day. Carelessly damaging the equipment could only result in weeks of backbreaking labor for the few boys allowed in the room.

Shadona opened the curtain wearing sweats and rubbing a towel on her shoulder-length hair. "I was watching," she said. "You are good with the suits."

He stood, tucking his chair under his desk. "Thank you." He grabbed a stack of clothes and went behind the curtain. "Most people get lost in them. Crash through your first brick wall and you get it in your head that all the suit is good for is brute force. But it isn't." He opened the curtain a crack so he didn't have to shout. "It's got brute force in spades, but it's got loads of finesse, too. Jason always had problems breaking pencils when trying to write within a suit. I—"

"How many here have had practice in the suits?" she said, hanging her towel to dry before slipping into bed.

"Everyone gets a try. Hanly's second shift cranks them out four a month sometimes. At first, they shipped them out as fast as they built them. But since you've been out on assignment, they shifted to just shipping them out when we get a pallet of eight, so they sit around for months sometimes. Might as well use them, right?" He turned up the water and started to lather. "Sweet! A tank of gas lasts forever, alcohol for indoors. Even let us live-fire them sometimes. You know, have to be tested before they can be shipped. Even lets you sprint up the side of a mountain faster than you can repel down a rope. Heard Yofi retired when he and Hanly invented the thing."

She tried not to laugh, "That what you heard?"

"Well, some girls said they invented it, but—"

"Why do you think neither Hanly or Elhander are overseeing what we're building? Hanly stops by every now and then, but he's never given anyone any instructions, has he? One or two of his little minions are always hanging around, but mostly just observing. Why do you think that is?"

The shower stopped as water continued to drain. "What are you saying?" He stuck his head out from the curtain, lather dripping on the concrete floor. "No way." The curtain barely hid him anymore. "No F-ing way!"
B1.C53

Belson emerged from the XO's office, walked down the empty corridors, through the maze of doors and elevators to the inner chamber where Shadona's project was days from being finished.

"You're here early," Shadona said, already at work testing out the modified gear.

"Well, you have to come early to get the best seats." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before getting out his tools, "Can't watch the magician pull the next rabbit out of the hat if you're not sitting in the room."

"It's not a rabbit."

He pocketed his tools, then squatted beside Shadona as she tightened the wiring lugs feeding the gear from under the floor. "Never thought you had to jackhammer the halls to get rabbits out." He looked inside the tight cabinet as she torqued the feeders, marking each with a green paint-pen. "Need a hand here, or should I just pick up—"

"I've got this."

He stood, gave the girl stretched out on the floor a lingering look, then went to work.

Hanly entered the chamber, walked to Belson, then was pointed her way. He squatted by her cabinet, notebook in hand, "You going to be ready by Friday?"

"You going to have the power by then?"

He nodded, "Don't have to wait for the weather anymore. Don't have any of the physics behind it worked out, but—"

"You wasting my time chatting about the weather?"

"Have to special order the dry ice. Takes days to arrive, and doesn't keep forever."

She slid out from under the cabinet, "Order it."

He made a note. "Same amount in all consumables?"

"Six extra pounds of barium and another four hundred in dry ice, in case we miss the Friday window."

He looked around the mostly empty room, footsteps echoing down the halls as the rest of her team was quickly approaching. "This gear is different than what was built before. You've changed the design ag—"

"Four hundred extra pounds will do it," she said, crawling under the next cabinet.

The XO climbed into the extended-range Blackhawk, buckled himself in, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The helicopter lifted off and chopped through the windy mountain air, quickly leaving the base miles behind.

He landed several hours away at another military base that didn't officially exist.

"Captain Dysath," he said, shaking hands before climbing in the passenger side of an electric golf cart and scooting away. "You have something to show me?"

"Yes Sir. One of the easiest assignments I've ever had," the captain said, taking a sharp right as they sped around the base and out into an open desert field, coming to a stop before a large fuel tank. "As you requested, we've filled it with about sixty gallons of methanol, using just the stuff you provided. This tank is reinforced, military standards, almost Abrams Tank specs—"

"Keep in mind, it's designed with every trick in the book to keep it from exploding, even if pierced with bullets."

"Yes Sir. Blowouts, self-sealing, flame-retardants, it's got it all. Now, to simulate a crash at Mach 2, we've placed these rockets on the sled and it'll impact that concrete wall at the end of the track a few seconds after they fire." He pressed the pedal and the cart sprinted the distance to the wall. "Now, I've included this hot, metal pad to accurately simulate a hot jet engine. I can't promise it'll even ignite the fuel, but it will accurately represent a crash." He pressed the pedal and they sped to a safe distance.

After a siren blasted, followed by two more, the rockets fired with a whoosh and the crash occurred seconds later. A delayed fireball feebly meandered into the sky as a handful of burning droplets showered in an arc away from the crash. But as far as explosions went, it was very tame and unimpressive. More a quick fire than explosion, it was little bigger than when he burned leaves and brush from his front yard last year. "I'm not sure it's big enough. You got it on video, right? One, two, three, and six miles away?"

"Yes Sir, as requested. When you asked for the videos, I went ahead and made several optional packages for you. Now, these aren't using your methanol, but they should be chemically identical." He flipped another switch, then pressed a plunger and a fireball that would make Hollywood proud ripped the serenity of the distance. "That'll be easily visible at six miles, and it uses the same sixty gallons." He fired off another, but tamer version. "This should be visible at three, with hints at six."

"You trying for extra-credit?" the XO said. "I have to admit, I like the last two, but I need to simulate, accurately, in every detail, a plane crash."

"Well, I have to point out that, if you just tell us what kind of airplane, we can simply order up a glider version of it, tank and everything, flares as the engines, and we can replicate the crash with absolute—"

"Wish it was that easy," the XO said. "It's a prototype. Nothing on the shelf that's even remotely like it."

"Well, these are your options." He handed over a folder stuffed with real-life crash photos as examples. "Hollywood can give you a better visual, but nothing more accurate than the first one you saw. And in all reality, it was probably overkill, too. People think these things explode all the time, but they usually don't."

"Put it on a DVD and I'll watch them at the office, tell you which one I want. How long would it take to stage this in the mountains?"

"Depends on the terrain, and a valley crash is much easier than a peak. Rolling something downhill is easier; we could stage it up high and launch your final product as a rocket-propelled glider. But if you're going for realism, I'd use something like a modified cruise missile."

"Cruise missile?" the XO said. "Never thought of that."

"That'd be the easiest to stage anywhere you can drive a tractor trailer to. Keep it circling the area with a standard stealth engine, map a path avoiding roads and homes, then light a rocket to duplicate your sonic impact and you have it. Could have one modified in a week or two. It's pricey, but accurate," Dysath said. "You know I have top secret clearance. You don't have to cloak and dagger all of this. Already signed the nondisclosure, you can read me in."

"Careful, Captain, or I'll take you up on that. Go ahead and get the cruise missile ready, I'll Email you on what warhead to put on it, but plan on using the first explosion. Lean it a little toward forest fire, if you can. Modify the jet to run on methanol, too. You think we can do this in one take?"

"Absolutely, Sir. Not a problem."

Shadona stood in the Plexiglas booth, her arms tired from conducting a facade for the last hour. She pointed toward the camera, then pressed the button.

Richter, 2.9.
B1.C54

Belson placed his gloved hands on the edge of the wing as the suit effortlessly leveled the airframe before he and three others carried it down the hall, out the service corridor, and outside the mountain where it was strapped to a sled and winched hundreds of feet up the side of the mountain, like any other cargo delivery.

"Sucks," he said as she showered behind the curtain.

"What?"

"I've got to report to Hegel's tomorrow, that's what. Shit, I was having fun, too. This just sucks. Can't you do something?"

"Like what," she said. "We've got landing gear, seats, and a battery to make. Nothing for suits to do. Don't need any more help. Already have a highly trained group that's—"

"It's totally unfair," he said, sliding the curtain to the side. "I've worked just as—"

She slapped him across the face as she concealed herself with the curtain again, "The hell do you think you're doing!" She tried desperately to rinse the shampoo from her eyes.

"Bitch! I just got caught up in the moment." He rubbed the wet side of his face as he smiled, confident she couldn't see his grin. "Didn't mean nothing by it." He sat on his chair and stared at her faint silhouette animating the thin plastic that separated them. He rested his clean clothes on his lap as he fondly pondered everything he had just seen.

She emerged, dressed in sweats and blinking a lot, hair in a towel. "Next time I'll hurt you," she said, squeezing past him to drop down her bed.

He hovered behind her. "First, I'm out of your weight class, a black belt in judo and karate, and I'd utterly destroy you. Second, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."

She turned to find him inches from her shoulder.

"And third, I've liked you for years, and I'm embarrassed as hell over this. It's just weird to talk to someone and not see them. Just got caught up in the— I'm sorry. I really am." He moved the edge of the towel away from her red eyes. "Stings. As good as I am in the suit, I'm a fumbling klutz sometimes, too." He hung his head low as he shuffled to the shower. "And fourth, when I said 'bitch' I wasn't referring to you, I was referring to that painful slap. Where the hell'd you get an arm like that?" He rubbed his chin before closing the curtain. "Felt like a brick."

Shadona stood in front of the HB-2 and stared, shaking her wrist by her side.

"What's wrong?" Dana said, standing beside her.

Shadona just stared.

"Hey," Dana said, grabbing the shaking hand. 'What's got you, Girl?' she squeezed.

'Hand feels weird, must have slept on it wrong. Why I'm so tired,' she squeezed back.

"Week or two?"

Shadona shrugged. "About that. This one's a little different. A little heavier. Upgrade."

Dana dipped a plunger, "Still opens the same, right?"

They went to work while the other girls manufactured parts.

Shadona stared at the loose bundle of dandelions and bluebells on her desk. It was a gesture. The three ants she had to crush could be excused as oversights. She moved them aside, picked up her notebook, and leafed through it. The last sixty blank pages looked wrong, but she couldn't tell why. Perhaps from a different ream, but that was something she should have noticed before today. She sniffed the flowery spine, then tossed it back, alone in the room. "Must be slipping," she whispered before taking an early shower.

Hanly looked over another list of material recently shoved under his door. Handwriting he well recognized. He didn't even consult the XO, he just placed the order.

Belson and three others fabricated the extra cabinet and most of the components as Hanly's order started coming in. A key component, however, came out of the cockpit when the girls finally got it open.

A solid state, super-conducting ring about the diameter of a dinner plate, two inches thick.

The XO stared at the device, just a little larger than a filing cabinet, with high-voltage connections suitable for a million-horse motor just waiting to be wired. "What the hell does it do?"

Hanly shrugged. "Listen, XO, I don't design them, don't have a clue. I never have a clue. She ordered the parts, requested the people she wanted on it, I just made it happen."

"You what?"

"Look, Sir, I don't really have time for all of this. The suit construction is running on its own now, thank God. But this extra stuff of hers, I simply don't have the time or energy to double check and scrutinize it. And let's face it, unless you hire Hawking, nobody's capable of following it anyway.

You either go with it or you don't, it's a leap of faith either way. I can't keep working seven twelves indefinitely. Since she came back I've been putting in fourteen-hour days and still falling behind. I just can't take it anymore.

I'll work your power plant, but that's it." Hanly tucked his notebook under his arm. "It'll take me decades to figure out the physics behind it and the reason for half this stuff. You might not get this, but harvesting lightning is groundbreaking and flies in the face of conventional physics. It desperately needs a thorough understanding that I just can't do with all these distractions. Besides which, I'm not any good at building planes and don't really know what I'm looking at.

That Harvester is a lifetime achievement for anyone. Hire someone else to deal with this other crap, Sir. I can't keep doing both. We need to understand the physics behind this power plant before something catastrophic goes wrong over something simple like a loose ground and we kill more than just some geezer with a pacemaker."

"I've already got someone in mind, Hanly. Don't lose it on me just yet," the XO said, patting the baggy-eyed Hanly on the back, "A simple 'I don't know' would have done."

"I don't know isn't even close, Sir. Don't have a clue. Worse, don't care anymore. Put it in a room and turn it on. Breadmakers probably pop out of its ass, for all I know."

"We need to get you a vacation, Hanly."

Hanly checked his watch, on hour fifteen already. "I could use a raise, too."

The Raptor inverted, barrel rolled, then stood on its tail as she balanced it, hovering vertically in the air like a pencil on the end of her finger, at five thousand feet for a full minute. She rolled it over, banked, then chased the valley toward the base and caught the second cable on the mock carrier deck.

Yofi's car was still in the yard, the fixings for a barbeque out back. Yofi's hamburgers were to die for, but grilled they easily qualified as one of the deadly sins.

The canopy opened with a hiss as she climbed down and crossed the deck.

"Is it fueled yet?" she asked Elhander while he paced around the HB-2.

"It's fueled. But you're not cleared—"

"I'm not cleared? Where the—"

The XO walked out from behind it, "No, you're not cleared—"

She held her helmet by the ear as she stared him defiantly in the eyes, wind whipping her hair across her face. "The hell you say. I'm the only one on the planet that's capable of flying it. I'm the only one who knows ever inch and every—"

"That's exactly why you're not going to fly it," the XO said as Elhander walked back to the tower. "We can't afford an accident with the only person on the planet, as you say, that can make the damn thing."

"Then you've got a very serious problem," she said.

"No, actually I don't," the XO said, smiling. "You were going to give me the codes over the phone anyway. You stand six codes away from going back to your life. Our deal was always framed around someone else flying this plane. That includes its maiden flight."

She was pissed. She had so been looking forward to taking it for a spin. No other plane could touch the sheer thrill of the joyride it offered. Nothing else even came close. But the bastard was right. Her deal was predicated on others flying her plane.

"Code please."

She ran her hand slowly across the wing. "You got a pilot in there already?"

"No," he said. "But he's flying in. Be here in twenty. I thought I'd type it in."

"What's the numbers?" she said.

He crawled under and squeezed in. "FF154A"

Hmm. "EFDA1 GH344A FF54E GG51A72"

"You're kidding," he yelled down the hatch. "It's never been that long before."

The plane hummed to life. The plates that shaped the vents, fore and aft of the engines, flexed like someone strumming their fingers across a table.

"This isn't the way it looked before. What happened to all the—"

"Your pilots have a nasty habit of crashing," she said, crawling under and looking up into the hole. "Emulating a Raptor should keep them alive a little longer, no matter how stupid and incompetent they are."

He looked out the sides and saw wingtips; looking forward he saw a nose and an instrument cluster that wasn't really there. He crawled out, "Listen, you'll have to unlock all the features before I'll—"

"Don't worry. It no turn fast, but it go, faster than fast. Even with the training wheels on."

She paced by the window in the control tower and watched someone else taxi her plane down the runway. She helplessly stared at a radar screen that showed absolutely nothing. A Raptor launched immediately after to shadow it as they performed the entire roster of checkout maneuvers done with any other plane.

It was the most painful thing she had yet endured.
B1.C55

"Turn it on," the XO said, staring at the device Hanly had installed near the termite farm at the base of the mountain.

"Ok," Hanly said, twisting the natural gas valve feeding it before radioing the control room to energize the circuits. The device hummed loudly as the keys in his pocket tugged toward the device. "Kill it!" he yelled into his radio without effect. "OUT!"

Outside the room, Hanly called in on a landline, emptied his pockets of metal, then went back into the tiny room after the humming stopped. "What's that stuff?" the XO asked, pointing at a miniscule puddle on the floor.

Hanly checked the flow gauge, then called into the control room. "It just drew a ton of power, Sir." He sniffed the air. "Does this smell right to you? Extra ozone. I think I'm getting a little buzzed."

They moved outside again. "Pump some outside air into the room, turn it back on, and let it run for a few minutes. See what happens," the XO said before going on about his business.

"Sir, seriously, you need to get someone else to babysit these projects."

The XO stopped, middle of the hall, "Last one, I promise. I'm already vetting someone, just haven't convinced him to go full-time yet."

Hanly set a shot glass down on the XO's desk. "Don't know exactly what it is, but I figure it'll cost about two grand in electricity alone to make a gallon of it."

"Electricity's free, right?" the XO said, picking up the glass and giving it a swirl. "What is it? What's it good for? Do we want gallons of it?"

"Got me, Sir. Why are we doing—" Hanly slapped his hands on the desk in frustration, "What's wrong with just asking her?"

"I'd like to have a general idea what it is before we go into production or—"

"I am so tired of bouncing from one project to another," Hanly said, hands wiping his face.

"Man up and figure it out. Does it burn?"

"Not that I can tell."

"What's it made of?"

"Don't have a clue."

"How's it related to that plane?"

"Don't know that it is. Ask her, Sir." He grabbed the glass, pushed away from the desk, and turned for the door. "I'm so tired of playing this same stupid game. I'll ask her. No big deal, Sir. Worst she'll do is sit there and say nothing. But it beats the hell out of chasing my tail for weeks, ending up asking her anyway."

"What is it?" Hanly asked, hour fourteen of his day, but the first chance he had to see her.

She drizzled the liquid on the table where it mounded like nano-sand. She jarred the table hard and it collapsed like a castle into the surf, leaving a thin film-like puddle. She rubbed her finger against the film, then wiped her hand on her pants. "Fuel."

He stared, dazed by a day that had lasted entirely too long. "It doesn't burn."

"Efficient fuel."

He sighed, pinched his eyes, then rubbed his brow. "How much?"

She jotted something on his pad and returned to the turbine assigned to her.

He looked at the pad.

_40 gallons -_ N60

2 gallons - potassium carbonate

10 gallons - jet-grade methanol

The XO looked at Hanly's emailed report.

Fuel. She called it N60. Without the proper equipment, Hanly could neither confirm nor deny that it was nitrogen. He had no idea how she planned on using it as a fuel, but clearly she did. The device that made N60 was incredibly simple, yet impossible to reproduce without the key component that was fabricated simultaneously with the plane. Included was camera footage of the part in question being removed from the HB-2.

The report ended with a digital signature and a statement that Hanly was devoting himself, full-time, to the harvester, and nothing else.

"It's been tested, five flights so far," Shadona said, standing at the end of the flight deck, helmet in hand, dressed in her flight suit. "My turn."

"Negative," the XO said. "Hasn't been tested with the new fuel."

"Can't be avoided. It can't take off on N60, has to transition to it, at speed, and has to be done manually."

He stared as she stuffed her hair into her helmet. "We'll test it on the ground."

"Can't change the laws of physics to suit you, Sir. Can't be ground tested. Period," she said, walking toward the plane.

A Blackhawk cleared the distant mountains, heading toward the base, as she crawled under the plane and disappeared into the hatch. The Blackhawk was two miles away when the nose of the HB-2 hopped up and the plane shot like a rocket into the sky with its signature train-like double boom.

The XO opened his phone and dialed a number. "In the air," he said to the general's aid. "West bound... Got it? No, thank you, Sir."

Over the months of well-planned and choreographed test flights with its predecessor, military satellites had gradually developed a technique for tracking her plane. Still invisible to radar, it wasn't literally invisible. It could be seen with human and digital eyes, if they knew where to look. But trying to observe something moving many times faster than a bullet had its own set of complications, even when it was the size of a small plane. Some satellites couldn't physically reorient fast enough to keep it in frame. Military intelligence compared it to tracking a hummingbird in your neighbor's yard with binoculars; difficult enough if it flies a straight line, but any sharp turn lets it virtually vanish in the blink of an eye. Fortunately, there was more to the spectrum than radio and visible light. The leading edge had some physics-defying way of staying cool, rendering the skin 'invisible' even to thermal, but it heated the air it ripped though all the same. That left a barely detectable trail in its wake, if they knew to look for it. But it required coordinating and retasking multiple satellites at a huge expense, and even then they could only see where it had just recently been, with only general estimations of its elevation.

It also required advance warning. Fortunately, a flight had already been scheduled today.

His phone rang a few minutes later. The plane had climbed to an estimated height of 26 miles, when it disappeared from thermal, completely. Still rapidly accelerating, estimates had it exceeding Mach 6 when it vanished. Not enough air to heat.

The General was very interested and had placed the call, personally.

While still in frame under digital eyes, it pulled maneuvers that sustained a minimum of 15Gs, but could have been as high as 26. Equally impressive.

This was a major upgrade.

The HB-2 screamed in, this time parallel with the deck as if she intended to catch the wire at 600 miles an hour. It abruptly nosed vertical only a dozen feet off the ground; standing on its tail, it blasted a wall of air across the top of the mountain like a Middle East sandstorm. When the dust settled, her plane rested square on the elevator, Shadona walking casually toward the tower through her own cover of dusty fog.

The XO got a call later that night, the General again. A CIA spy satellite unwittingly picked up a fast moving glimmer crossing its field of view. Sun glistening off her glassy wings. Over China. In a flight that lasted less than two hours. Its range was substantially more than 6,000 miles.
B1.C56

Yofi opened the door and hugged the first girl he saw.

Shadona pressed her ear to his chest and listened as she hugged him back.

"It felt like years," he said.

She looked up, teary eyed, "I was worried about you."

"Me?" he said, "Why for?"

She pressed her hand against his heart. "You never said."

He looked at Elaine, equally confused. "Said what, about what?"

She stepped back. "You have shrapnel near your heart, right?"

"Oh that," he said with a dismissive wave of a mechanical hand. "Been there for years, got more metal in me than in this fancy arm. Can't go bicycling or run a marathon," he rapped his knuckles against his plastic leg, "But it wasn't that tiny piece that keeps me from doing that crap. Always was a rather lazy guy."

"Hanly said it was life threatening," she said.

He ushered them around back where the two had been enjoying the fall weather. "I don't remember ever saying anything about it to Hanly. Suppose the XO must have told him, he looked at my medical when I hired on. But it's nothing that worrying about can fix. Can't take it out or they would have by now." He sat down in his favorite folding chair under the same umbrella they used at the beach. "If it ever dislodges, they say it'll be over quick. Couldn't save me even if I was already on the table when it happened. Might get to say a couple words, but that'd be it." He opened a beer, took off his slippers, and dunked both feet into a tiny toddler pool in front of their chairs, surrounded by a small load of sand. A redneck backyard beach. "Can't be on the donor list because the ticker's still good, just living in a dangerous neighborhood." He sipped from the beer. "Can't imagine why he'd say anything to you about it, though."

She took off her shoes and sat in the sand, feet in the water, too. When her phone rang, she typed back a short message. A few minutes later, it rang again; frustrated, she typed another short message.

Dana came out the back door and handed Yofi a pair of binoculars before pointing at the distant mountain top, just in time for him to catch a glimpse of something no nation would ever see coming.

* * *

Dysath looked at the notebook, a mere sixty photocopied pages. "It looks brilliant," he said, "I'd love to build something like this. It's the kind of R&D that you only dream of."

The XO looked over the modified cruise missile, already mounted and ready to launch from the back of a covered mulch trailer. "How short of a notice can this be deployed?"

"As little as an hour, but I'd prefer twenty-four. Plus travel time, whatever that works out to be. Whisper quiet cruising, until the rockets fire. Even got that sound effect you were looking for. Could launch a few hundred miles away, if needed." Dysath thumbed through the drawings again. "I can't speak for the company, but I'd love to get started on something like this. It's right down my alley. You still in the bidding stage?"

The XO smiled, "In a way, sure. You know anyone here that'd be as enthusiastic about this as you?"

He thumbed through it again, "Two or three, maybe more."

"They'd have to be vetted before I can offer any contracts. Would even have to vet them before disclosing the nature of the project." He leaned in closer. "You be willing to relocate?"

Dysath shrugged. "Can't spell military without mobile."

"What do you think about Colorado?"

"Close to nowhere, far from everywhere. About the same as here, just not as hot in the summers and colder in the winters. Why?"

"Your file said you did a lot of reverse engineering of Chinese and Russian designs. Even did some work on Canadian and Israeli technology," the XO probed deeper.

"Israel is an ally, Sir," he said, adding a casual wink. "Can neither confirm nor deny such an illegal rumor. And Canada doesn't have any technology worth stealing, still use square tires on their cars from what I've seen on TV."

"I've got some high tech that needs reverse engineering."

"I'd say you do." Dysath leafed through the pages again, "Care to tell me who? Some of these systems look German, a dash of British, and a fair amount of flare from the old—" He looked the XO in the eyes as he closed the book, "Better off not knowing its colorful origins, right?"

The XO answered with the same casual wink.

* * *

All through the winter she got two calls a day, usually within minutes of each other. Sometimes as many as six, about one every hour. It seemed the replacement pilot must have been dyslexic or had extremely fat fingers because he almost always flubbed the first try. On occasion, she'd even gotten twenty calls spaced out over ten hours. But more often than not, the second coding was because they insisted on flying dangerously, without the safeguards of a Raptor emulation.

Annoying, but it still offered her a greater freedom than she ever had at the base. They even got a chance to spend the coldest month in Colorado on the warmest beach in Miami, with excellent cell service and what she assumed was a strong satellite signal too. The XO even reimbursed Yofi the entire cost of the trip, plus a generous per diem.

As they were driving to town for bowling night in early March, she received a call. Reading the message, she texted back an answer. A few minutes later, it rang again. "It's like their pilot has no typing skills whatsoever," Shadona said, sitting behind Yofi as Elaine drove the old Buick down the windy valley road. "Oh, I love this song," she said.

Yofi turned it up as the girls sang along.

SssshhhhheeeeeeeeeCaaaaBooooommmmmm!!!

The ground beneath the car rumbled ever so slightly from a distant impact as a small forest fire erupted nearly six miles away. The fire itself couldn't be seen from the road, but the smoke was trapped in the dense valley air and glowed from the flames licking below. Elaine turned down the radio as a smoky fog skimmed across the road ahead, reflecting in the headlights.

Shadona rolled down the window and listened to the distinctive rumbling echoes, reminiscent of a train... or a bottled tornado.

Her plane.

Feeling a little guilty, she put her hand on Yofi's shoulder. But she knew she sent the right numbers. She didn't much feel like bowling any more, knowing the implications of what they had just witnessed. But at the same time, there was nothing she could do. No point in ruining the day. No value in moping around. The milk was spilt. That didn't mean you throw away the sandwich. "No reason to spoil your day, too," she said.

They were closer to the alley than home anyway. Elaine picked up speed as the Buick shifted gears and quickly cleared the clinging smoke.

* * *

"All planes wear out," Elhander said. "That's the entire premise behind the maintenance shop. What we have here is a classic serviceability problem."

She stared at the floor as they continued to berate her. Outwardly, she blamed the pilots for their own fates. Her plane was without flaws, mechanical failure simply wasn't an option. It might not even be possible, as she understood the laws of physics. But as confident as she was, she couldn't help feel responsible for their deaths. She knew something about the plane that nobody else did. She knew its secrets. She knew how it handled the high Gs. She openly taunted them with its capabilities, knowing that any test pilot they hired wouldn't be able to resist trying to copy her maneuvers. And she knew why they crashed, believing they had lost control when, in fact, they hadn't. She knew why their instincts failed them at the worst possible moment. She could have warned them, and repeatedly chose not to. Instead, she verbally blamed the obvious poor typing skills exemplified by frequent double calls, and Elhander's equally obvious orders to dismantle, dissect, and discover every function of every part he could get his grubby fingers around.

Running out of ranting steam, the XO rested his hand on her shoulder as he calmed his tone and demeanor, "It's a major achievement. Perhaps we're being too hard on someone who's barely fifteen. The engines have to be serviceable, it's an obvious flaw to have them otherwise. The consequences of combat alone dictate that. Lives were lost, but test pilots know the risks every time they get behind the stick." He pulled out a chair and sat, facing her, then placed two family photos on the table, complete with smiling kids and pets. "They knew, if that's any comfort."

She didn't want to care. But she did. She just refused to show it. "I didn't kill them, stupidity and arrogance did."

"Well," the XO said, "if that helps you sleep at night. It's vital that—"

"Where's the black box?" she said.

"The what?" Elhander said.

"The black box. It would have survived the crash, even at full speed. The first was over the Pacific and would have sunk. This was in the woods—"

"It all burned up," the XO said.

She glared him in the eyes. "Nothing burns that hot. It survived the impact and should have been found in the escape capsule with the body of—"

Elhander stepped in, "You mean the box under the seat?"

"That's right," she said. "Where is it? It was designed to survive reentry. That crash was under a few thousand feet."

Elhander held his fingers like a square, "It's this big. There's no way it contains a black box, and even if it did, there's no way it survived. And even then, it's simply not possible to—"

"National guard cordoned off the area," the XO said, "long before we could get to it. Everything and anything that survived was shipped to a warehouse." He motioned at Elhander, "Leave, please."

"But Sir, I'm the head of—"

"Leave," the XO said, and Elhander reluctantly obeyed. "We needed your plane for high resolution reconnaissance over North Korea, Pakistan, and Iran. Things are heating up and we needed something that could get below the cloud cover, avoid radar, and go undetected. We mounted cameras inside your— It doesn't matter. Every piece that could be found was labeled national security, and neither you nor I have the clearance to ever see them again. It was a CIA pilot, not the military that crashed them."

"All the more reason to check the site for the—"

"We wouldn't be allowed within a mile of it." He put his hand on her shoulder again. "You and I have had a rocky decade, but this is of the highest priority. Those kinds of pictures save far more than the two lives they cost. They were preventing two wars."

"If you really want to prevent a war, take out the tooth."

"Your country needs you," he said, staring her in the eyes. "I've seen the look on your face, climbing out of the seat of any of my birds. I've seen your simulation scores. If you weren't born here, you'd be beating down my door. We just don't have the time to let you figure that out on your own anymore."
B1.C57

Dysath stood in his lab, surrounded by his small vetted team as they prepped the device for testing. Sixty pages, hundred thousand in material alone, months of effort and time, and it was all coming down to this moment. They wired it up, crossed their fingers, and threw the switch.

bbbbbbiiiiizzzzzZZZAAAPPP!!!!! Fizzzzzzzzz... .

Bulbs flashed in the ceiling before the room plunged into darkness and everything was swaddled in an eerie silence.

"What the hell happened?" Dysath said, the smell of burnt electronics and vaporized copper filling the air. All their work over winter, gone.

"Breaker tripped," an assistant said, flashlight in hand.

When the lights flickered on, the situation only looked worse. Those sixty pages that had looked so straightforward, so convincingly simple, had just exploded in his face. In the most humiliating way.

* * *

"You twisted Elhander's panties, but good," Belson said, taking off his boots while he waited his turn. "Raptor engineer my ass! Drooled over your toy like it was melting ice cream every day you were away on assignment. Turbine and Scram Jet design specialist, can't even figure out how it idles! Ha!" He glanced at her showering silhouette; when she lathered her hair, he perused her desk. Finding nothing of interest, he walked over to the curtain and pondered his next words. "Love to know how you did it." He leaned against the wall, tempted to fling it open again, but refrained. "Calls it Houdini science!"

Dripping water was her only answer.

"You've got to be thrilled," he said. "Rumor is they're expecting a shipment of retired birds, even got some Migs, a Mirage, Sabre, Sukhoi, Ajeet, and a Marut coming for you Jet Jocks to practice air combat with. Don't know if it's true, but Jason said they got a whole pallet of gun cameras. It's got to be for something, right?"

She rinsed and continued to wash.

"I don't much see how a big-ass ring on the ceiling equals a plane, but hell if anyone else can figure anything better. Is it true it's a hypersonic VTOL like they say? I mean, everybody's seen it in the hangar, but just a handful have seen it in the air. Dave was working the tower when it took off. Said it looked like a rabbit sitting up, then leapt straight into the clouds. Passed sixty feet from the radar and it still didn't see nothing. Jimmy said the same thing when he was part of the fire crew, but everybody else who's seen it says it takes off and lands real slow, like any other plane, and there's nothing special about it at all, other than invisible to radar."

The water stopped flowing, but the drain trickled on as she toweled dry and got dressed for bed.

"Hey," he said when the curtain opened, "Look, I know you're pissed off about coming back from assignment early and everything, but don't take it out on me. It wasn't my fault."

She sighed as he blocked the way to her bed.

"I liked having you here. I didn't think I would, but I actually missed you while you were gone." He stepped to the side twice more as she tried to squeeze past him, blocked each time. "Sorry. I'll," he looked embarrassed, "I'll stand still." He pressed his back against the wall to leave her the most possible room to pass. "Don't be mad, but I'm just glad to have you back," he said, shedding his clothes as he took his turn behind the curtain.

"Hey," Belson said, poking her with his finger before the lights had a chance to come on. "Hey," he said again, early that morning.

"What?"

"Just thought I'd warn you, some of the Jet Jocks have it in for you. Pissed is a mild way of putting it. You jumped line last time you were here. Got certified on a Raptor faster than any of them ever—"

She covered her face with her arm, "So?"

"So, I'm... I, I don't know. Just, when you go stomping around, watch for toes under your feet, that's all. Elhander isn't very popular, can't think of a single person who'd bother to piss on him if he caught fire, but when you have people like him openly red at you, it lowers the bar for everyone else, if you know what I mean."

She didn't. Elhander's opinion mattered little to her. He had no real power where she was concerned.

She stood before Hanly's door, list in hand. But Hanly's office in the shop had tape over his name.

Elhander walked up behind her, "What are you doing here so early?"

"Where's Hanly?"

"I don't have that kind of clear—"

She pushed the list into her pocket. "Who's in his office now?"

Elhander pointed to the name written on the tape and pronounced it slowly, as if she was retarded. "E-man-u-el, one of his—"

"When will he be here?"

Elhander unlocked his door. "Get to the point."

"Hanly is who I worked with on the HB-2—"

"HB-2?" Elhander said, dumping yesterday's filter into the trash before filling the basket with fresh coffee and starting a pot. "Oh, deathtrap number two. I'll be taking over that project since I'm the lead aero—"

She pushed her way into his office, "The hell you—"

"Your plane falls squarely under my department and is of vital—"

"I know you're an expert on crashing them, but unless you think you can build one, you better get Hanly on the phone."

"We're not playing games here, Girl. Your secret little cliques and coded keypads have got to go. Your childish games are responsible for two deaths already, and I'm—"

She crowded him near the filing cabinet where the coffee was brewing. "Then call the XO, because I'm not building a plane with you, for you, or around you. If he wants it at all, I'm going to be dealing with Hanly, just like—"

Elhander poked his finger into her shoulder, "Hanly doesn't care for your attitude any more than I do. You're the reason he moved his office out of the shop. Nobody around here likes you, and this spoiled brat shit has got to stop. We're all business here, we discuss, collaborate, disclose, and share around here, and all row the boat in the same direction at the same time. This is a serious business rebuilding state-of-the-art fighters and—"

"It's all obsolete child's play, just like the precious Raptor you wasted half your life on. Get Hanly on the phone, I don't want to be around you any longer than I have to."

"You've watched too many movies. Nobody's interested in— Hey! Put my phone down." He grabbed it away and slammed it on the desk. "A little respect would go a long way." He gestured to the framed papers decorating his wall, "I have two masters, a PHD in—"

"Who doesn't," she said, pulling the phone off his desk and dialing, "Hanly, please."

Elhander unplugged the phone, "Listen here, Hanly is not an aeronautic engineer. He's barely qualified to ride in planes, much less—"

"How many hypersonic jets have you built? This'll be my third," she said, just as the XO entered the small office.

"What the hell, Elhander?" the XO said.

"Do you want another plane, or not?" Shadona said, directed at the XO.

"Listen you," the XO put his hands in his pockets and did his best to calm down, but his frustration was evident, even behind his forced smile. "Hanly is not available. His current assignments don't allow him enough time to deal with—"

"What's more important to you, another plane, or what he's working on?" she said, sitting behind Elhander's desk while she watched the expressions on their faces.

"Get out of the chair," the XO said. "You don't have an office here—"

"Don't want one. I can work with Hanly, he doesn't get in the way or slow me down." She stood and glared at Elhander. "But I won't work with him."

The coffee belched behind them, "Now just a—" Elhander yelled.

"How long this takes is entirely up to you," the XO said, pouring himself a cup, "How hard or easy this is, is totally up to you." He poured in the powdered creamer, "But Elhander is in charge of this project, he is the head of this department, and you don't get to go on any more," he leaned against the cabinet as he stirred, looking at her, "assignments, until it's done. If that takes a few months or a few years is entirely up to you. I suggest you work it out, but Elhander is in charge."

She shrugged, facing them. "He was on a team of a hundred that built a Raptor in two decades, an HB should take what," She pulled the nearest diploma off his wall, polished a smudge on the glass, then dropped it in the trash on top of the grinds, "a few hundred years." She stopped, half out the door, "Or, you can get Hanly on the phone, let me do it my way, and I can be out of your hair and back on assignment in a couple months." She stared at the XO. "Which war do you want to prevent?"
B1.C58

"You can't just blow off shop if it's scheduled," Belson said, looking over her shoulder at her calendar.

"What're they going to do?" she said, climbing back into bed.

"I wouldn't." He leaned against her bed while he tucked in his shirt, brushed his shoulders, then checked the cuffs on his pants. "Listen, as much as I'd like to have you stick around longer between assignments, this isn't..." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Six people have died since we found out about the tooth, you know. It can't be taken out, simple as that. I remember when you broke out those dorms years ago. I was one of those left behind, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

You're not the only one inspired, you're not as alone as you think.

They can't keep us here forever. They just can't." He tried to give her a comforting pat on the back, "We're trained as pilots, soldiers, snipers, and mechanics. Even trained some as top notch cooks on the side. Multilingual and everything. We'll be deployed, somewhere, sometime. They'll have to, eventually. Too big of an investment to just sit on a shelf, collecting dust. Probably around eighteen, maybe a little sooner. Maybe a little later. Either way, that's just a few years from now.

To be deployed, they'll have to take out the tooth.

A plus B equals C. I'd hate to see you pull that many years of grunge detail over something as silly as skipping, especially when you don't have to. Skip, even on a piece of shit like Elhander, and you will."

She sat up in bed. "I hate this place," she whispered.

"Who doesn't?" He checked the time, then pulled up a chair, but didn't sit. "You're not the only one looking for a way out. You're just... just, just get dressed. Go through the motions, just a little longer." He put his hand on hers, "And, if you get a chance, do a fella a favor. Get him out of Hegel and let him play around in a suit for a few more hours. Time passes faster that way."

* * *

Hanly left his Harvester office and headed toward the XO's, folding a note and shoving it into his pocket as he went. He swiped his badge at the elevator, entered his floor into the keypad, then waited as the cables propelled the car, deep inside the mountain. He opened his mouth and panted until his ears finally popped.

When the car stopped a few seconds later, he swiped his badge again and pressed his hand to the panel.

Ding! The doors opened, and he walked down the hall and knocked on the XO's door.

"Hanly," the XO said when he came in. "Everything with the Harvester going well, I assume." He checked the dozens of notes stuck to his monitor, then glanced over the calendar on the wall. "I didn't forget a meeting again, did I?"

"No Sir," he said, sitting, note in hand. "Listen, I'm not going to try to tell you your business or anything, and I really didn't plan to get involved in any way with this nonsense ever—"

The XO surrendered up his hands, "Back up and slow down. I obviously haven't had enough coffee this morning, because I don't have a clue what we're talking about yet."

Hanly slid the note across the desk. "I got this from Emanuel. It's from Shadona. I take it she's back at the base again and you're planning on building another—"

"Absolutely we are." He leaned forward, fingers on the note. "A thousand million apiece, Hanly. One billion each is what they go for. Opening bid. Damn right we'll make as many as we can." He opened the note. "Nothing here she didn't already say in person." He balled it and tossed it.

"Sir, I talked this over with Emanuel and he's willing to put in the overtime for—"

"It's Elhander's baby, Hanly. He's the head of aeronautics and the head of the shop. It's his department if it's any—"

"Your call, Sir." Hanly stared at the trash, crumpled note within. "Note made it very clear that you'll make substantially fewer with Elhander than you will with Emanuel." He stood, heading out the door, "What's a few billion here or there, right?"

The XO caught him before the door. "I never cleared Emanuel for—"

"Cleared or not, Emanuel kept the notes on the last plane, what'd she call it, HP-2 or something. He's been overseeing the suits and is familiar enough with the power systems of the Harvester to safely tie her gear in when the time comes. Like Elhander, he's also the head of the machine shop, second shift. He might even be more qualified than me to deal with her crap, whatever his official clearance and position is. Besides, she doesn't want or need a supervisor, she needs someone to get material for her and stay out of the way. He can do that without a wall full of ego getting in his way." He twisted the handle and pulled, "She might not know his name, but she's worked with him before. According to the note, she's obviously worked with Elhander, too. But it's your billions, Sir, and your call." He wiggled his jaw on the way to the elevator. His ears were sure to pop again before he got back down to his floor.

"Hi," he said, offering his hand, "I'm Emanuel." He produced a notebook from under his arm as he met her at the heavy hangar doors and started walking with her toward the shop. "I've already ordered all the material off the list for the HB-2, adding what you shoved under the door. That much tungsten will take another week. Any additional material, just let me know. Knowing all the re-engineering that went on between the HB-1 and 2, we didn't try to pre-build anything this time. I'll be heading up both second and third shifts, so any spare time on the shop equipment can be dedicated to parts fabrication for your project, if you want. That should speed things up quite a bit, just requires a little extra planning."

She stopped walking, middle of the hangar, and watched Elhander scribble notes at his desk before turning out his office lights and leaving for the day. She looked Emanuel in the eyes. Receding curly black hair, brown eyes. Early-forties. He looked very familiar to her. "Thank you," she said, shaking his hand when she knew Elhander could see. The hangar doors opened behind them, and she watched as a group of girls she knew all too well filed in.

"I went over the files and notes for the last two," he said as they continued to the shop, "and I'll try to be up to speed as soon as possible, but it might take me a few days. Anything I leave out, just let me know." He flipped through some printed pages, "We've got the materials for these three cabinets on hand already, assuming no changes. We can start there, unless you'd prefer—"

"That'll be fine, thank you, Emanuel. A fresh copy of the drawings for the HB-2 would be a good place to start. I can pencil in the changes on it."

"I'll get right on it," he said, opening his office door, guards loitering on the edge of view. "Uh, if you'd prefer, I think we had them all converted to CAD, if that'd be easier to—"

"Pencil will be fine."

Emanuel unlocked the office safe, logged onto the terminal, then unlocked the filing cabinet. "Couldn't get all of your old team from the HB-2," he said, printing out a list. "Elizrae wasn't available, but I should be able to schedule anyone else—"

"Why isn't she available?" Shadona said, looking over the list.

He dropped the notebook on his desk and clicked at the terminal. "Doesn't say."

She pulled a folder from his notebook, Shadona in magic marker across the tab. She opened it on his desk and found several CDs inside, scaled down prints, and photocopies of all her handwritten notes, including Post-Its and pictures of where they were found. She grabbed the list with her music and dietary requests, added a few new artists, and left it on the top of his desk.

"I'll get right on it," he said as she left his office.

They stood in the halls, one of the few blind spots in the system. RFID knew where they were, but being devoid of cameras, it was safe to talk. Even so, their conversation barely rose above hushes.

"What happened to Elizrae?" Shadona said.

Chroma looked at the floor. "Grades."

"I don't understand."

Chroma picked at a flake in the paint along the wall. "We... they... I... Coed is harder on some, than others."

Shadona put her arm around her old friend. "Tell me," she said.

Chroma kicked at the base of the wall, fingers still working on the flake. "Elston and Janet were first. Maybe they were real, maybe they weren't. But Elston had the grades, she didn't. Guys after that, they just assumed if they had the grades, they could..." The flake dislodged and fell to the floor. "Girls just got reassigned. Nobody ever asked them. Never asked you, did they? Tells you all you need to know about it, doesn't it?"

"What happened to Elizrae?" she whispered.

With the toe of her boot, she ground the flake into dust on the floor. "Grades fell faster. Stopped talking to everyone. Got three months of grunge duty. Found naked, cigarette burns, bag over her head... nobody investigated. Never even asked anyone." She looked Shadona in the eyes. "Only know because," she looked down again, "because the boys were passing around pictures of her." She looked up. "They taped it on the mirror in the girl's bathroom."
B1.C59

She looked at the flight roster, her name crossed off every list. "Bogus!" she said, adding her name back to each. She may lack the hours behind the stick that the other names possessed, but she was far from lacking the skills.

"Elhander's just going to line you out again," Belson said.

"What's he got to do with—"

Belson pointed to the department letterhead. "Hanly's not the head of that anymore, broke up the department. Flight instructors falls under aeronautics now. Has oversight of the deck maintenance and the tower, too." He patted her on the back, "Got a long reach for a raging fag, huh?" He continued past the lists and over to the suits.

She stood in front of a Sukhoi that was just waiting to be modified with gun cameras. She read the punch list taped to its nose. Half the systems needed an overhaul and had yet to be checked out. She badly wanted to work on such a craft, but instead was stuck building the HB-3 from scratch. "Bogus," she said again, running her fingers over the fuselage, bullet holes riveted and patched. It had character and a story to tell. A story she wanted to hear, but was needed elsewhere. Grounded, her airtime would shift to hand combat, where Elhander probably assumed others would dole out a suitable amount of punishment for her transgressions in his office. She touched the patch and knew she belonged in the air.

Belson climbed into the suit, powered it up, then preceded to the shop where he manhandled the heavy pieces into place and unloaded the material shipments.

"You don't want to go first this time?" Belson said, just making it inside before the door powered closed.

Shadona sat, holding her side. "Go ahead."

"Cool," he said, shedding clothes as he jumped at the opportunity. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"... nothing." She leaned back in the chair, favoring one side.

He tossed his shirt into the dirty bin, "Let's see it." He squatted beside her. "Come on, let's see how bad it is. It isn't like I haven't seen you naked once."

She lifted her shirt just enough to reveal the dark bruise along her ribs. "It's not that bad."

He looked at the way she leaned in the chair. "Goes around back, doesn't it? Got you a couple times from behind, didn't they? Looks like sticks. Staff combat?"

"Batons."

He grabbed her shirt. When she didn't resist, he lifted it. "Jet jocks I bet. If you want, I'll check to see if you broke anything." When she sat quietly, he carefully pressed the bruises. "Nothing broken. But it's going to hurt like hell for weeks." The door locked with a clunk. "Let's get this off you while we still have lights. I'll shower in the dark. Done it before." He pulled it over her head before she even had a chance to react. He grabbed her pants and—

"I don't need your help," she said, pushing his hands off while still in a sports bra, for now.

He rummaged through her clothes, selecting the loosest fits. "You can't sleep in what you got on, not going to launder mattress fittings until next week, so you've got to get cleaned up tonight."

"I, can sleep in the chair."

"Don't be silly," he said, putting her clean clothes on the sink, turning on the shower, and moving her towel. "Want me to help you, I will."

She watched as he adjusted the temperature for her.

"It'll hurt, I know. Got to be done, though. Better now than in the dark." He reached for her pants.

"I've got it," she said, standing on her own.

It took her twenty minutes longer than it should.

The lights flickered out before she was done.

"Got some tape," he said, "if you want me to—"

"Hurts too bad," she said, catching her breath, hand on the back of her chair keeping her upright.

He returned the roll to his desk. "Your call." He stepped behind her, both hands on her hips, and lifted her to bed as effortlessly as if he was still wearing a suit. Before she could say anything, he had stuffed a pillow in her arms, a sheet over her shoulders, and was already getting wet in the dark.

She woke, side and back throbbing and damp, lights yet to turn on.

In the pale nightlight, Belson wrung out her towel over the sink, then walked back to her bed. Shirt still hiked up to her chest, he delicately applied the cold compress.

She winced, then fell back to sleep.

"Easy," he said, pulling the towel off her side as the lights blinked on. "Day after is always the worst." He tossed the wet towel to the back of her chair.

She sat, straightened her shirt, then promptly fell on the floor trying to climb down.

"I would have helped you, didn't even have to ask," he said, offering a hand. "You're about as light as a feather, anyway. Want a hand, or not?"

Sprawled out as an embarrassed lump on the floor, she nodded.

He grabbed her under the arms and put her on her feet. "I'm not hard to get along with, Shadona." He straightened her shirt while she found her balance. "Just keep me out of Hegel," he ran his fingers through her long hair, fixing the tangles, "that's all I ask."

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled in return.

It wasn't Elhander's spite keeping her out of a G-suit anymore.

Emanuel walked into the chamber where the ring was being assembled and squatted next to Shadona while she was leaned inside one of the new cabinets. "I got second shift to fabricate two of those— are you alright?" he said.

She winced while tightening the lugs. "Fine."

He glanced at his notebook. "I had to leave out a section of— You're not alright. Has there been some sort of accident I should be made—"

She slid out and read over his notes, "That's fine, I'll be in the shop when I'm done here." She crawled back inside with another noticeable wince.

When she reached, he glimpsed the bruises. "Come on," he said, "let's get you to medical, have you checked over."

"Nothing broken," she said, torquing another lug.

He looked around the almost empty room. "You need someone off the team, just say the word. It doesn't have to come from you. Can even blame it on Elhander if you want," he quietly said.

"Hand combat class," she whispered when the wrench finally clicked at forty-eight foot-pounds.

He flipped through his notes. "I have priority over them," he said. "Come to shop if you don't want to go to combat." He made a note in the book. "Can't have it interfering with production. It won't be a problem to pull you from there." He flipped to another page. "Thought you had flight instead of hand combat anyway?"

She dropped the wrench and climbed out again. "Elhander scrubbed me from the list."

"Can he do that?" He checked his notes again. "Oh, I see. That was under Hanly's department— I can't pull that for you. Sorry. I'm second and third shifts, it's nothing to get you out of anything during the hours I'm here. I'm in the shop or here the whole time." He pulled out his phone. "Let's get you some ice pads or a topical for it, ok? Get you a shot or something for the pain." He dialed the nurse as he walked her down the hall to be checked out.

* * *

"... I happen to agree with Hanly on this one, Sir," Emanuel said, looking up from his desk near the end of his double shift. "I think he was right last time, and I don't see why those same principles don't still apply. It's a huge investment of capital and time. The equipment is beyond complex and confusing, and that leaves virtually no room for human error. Can't afford the distractions, Sir. I have to insist that she be exempt from classes where she's subject to being pummeled on a regular basis."

The XO stared out Emanuel's window as Elhander walked across the hangar, start of his shift. He rubbed his stubbly chin, "You're right, of course. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, I'll have a talk with the Sergeant. How bad is she?"

"Dinged up, Sir. Nothing serious. Didn't even want to see the nurse, but I didn't see any reason not to have her checked out anyway." He powered down the terminal, locked his desk, put his paperwork in the safe, then checked his pockets before scribbling a note. "Tough kid. Had a third — or was it fourth cousin that played hockey for three years. Took six high-sticks to the head one game, seemed fine. Just walked it off. Didn't wake up the next morning. Blood clot came loose, stroked out in his sleep. If he had taken a couple aspirin, might still be alive today." He stuck the note to his monitor as he headed out the door. "He was just a hockey player, didn't have a billion dollars riding on his shoulders. One in a million chance takes on a whole different meaning when the stakes are this high, doesn't it?"

"... uh huh," the XO said, Elhander still over an acre away.

"Reminds me, might want to have a word with Elhander. Flies in the face of my one in a million hockey story, but flying obviously means a lot to her. I'd let her behind the stick every now and then, after she's healed. Think of it like anyone else blowing off some steam by having a beer."

"... uh huh," he said as they left Emanuel's office.
B1.C60

"Relax," Belson said, hand on her shoulder. "Believe it or not, I'm pretty good at this. Nothing to be nervous about, it isn't like you've never spent the night in my room before. Just relax."

Sitting backwards in the chair, she rested her chin on a folded towel padding the wooden backrest.

"There you go," he said, pushing his thumbs near her shoulder blades as he firmly dug into the muscle. He worked his way across her back, then slowly up her neck as she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and finally relaxed... before falling asleep.

He licked his fingertip as he stood beside her bed, early that morning. Battered and bruised, she would have been entirely too easy to subdue, should such thoughts dominate his mind.

Face down, partially on a pillow, even in this faint light, she was far cuter than he ever remembered. He closed his eyes and relived a shower still fresh in his mind.

Apprehensive when she was first assigned to his room, he had no doubts about the assignment now. He actually liked this girl. She wasn't the shy little thing of his past. Bold and a little reckless. It was an attractive combination on her.

He rested his hand on her fingers, inches from her lips. She was the only one to break out dozens. One of the very few to go on assignment for months at a time.

And each time she returned, she seemed even sharper. Bolder. More assertive, more lethal behind the stick, and more distant from that shy little girl most still saw her as. More than one rumor attributed a dozen high-value drone kills to her skills alone. But piloting drones wouldn't explain the tan lines he had seen. Besides, most were convinced that the simulations that dozens practiced for hours every day weren't simulations at all. A drone assignment need not take place away from the base, since its very premise was based on piloting remotely at extreme distances.

He lifted her shirt enough to see the bruises again. He owed them.

He kissed the darkest one, fixed her shirt, then continued to the bathroom.

She stood by her desk, her dirty clothes duffle was missing. She had only one day's clothes left and had planned to— "Where's my duffle?" she said as Belson entered their room, end of another long day.

"Oh, I turned it in when I took mine down. Should be done tomorrow morning." He squeezed past her on his way to the bathroom, hand on her shoulder as he passed.

"Why'd you—"

"Still having problems with your right side, right?" he said, taking off his boots. "Planned on carrying it down the halls, bouncing off your bruised back, did you? Figured you wouldn't mind."

"I don't mind," she said, gathering the only clothes remaining. "You're already out of Hegel's class. I can't do more than that, if that's what you're thinking."

"I have to have a reason?" He pushed his boots against the wall, untucked his shirt, then pulled it over his head. "I like you," he said, "I think you're a kind person who acts tougher than she is to keep others from taking advantage of her." He loosened his pants and was soon in his underwear. "And I think it's an act of cowardice to try to win air supremacy with cheap shots on the ground." He opened the curtain for her, then took his seat by his desk. "And I think it's the least I could do, after getting to know you."

"What are these?" the XO said, standing in Emanuel's office, end of his second shift.

"As builts," Emanuel said, folding the pages before placing them in the locked part of his desk. "This is what, week two?" He checked the calendar on the wall, "No, it's week three. Time moves weird when you're working double shifts." He logged off his terminal and closed the safe. "Elhander burned his bridge with her. Same as you and, to a lesser extent, Hanly. You all tried to be her boss from day one. Hanly's advice was to be her employee instead." He pinched his eyes before pouring the last cup of cold, stale coffee into his travel mug. "Assistant was the word he used, I think. Anyway, it hardly involves any acting on my part. It's her device, her show, not like anyone really knows what's going on. But she isn't trying to mislead me, like she did Hanly. Consequently, I have very accurate as builts and will, if things continue like they are, be able to build another device almost immediately after this one is finished." He swigged the cold stuff, opened his eyes wide, and added six spoonfuls of sugar. "I've reviewed the data on the window interface since I got this project, and it looks like it's the key, as much as anything is key in this project.

It's the only piece of equipment that seems reusable each time, and it's connected to the rest of the equipment in a similar way, each time, primarily with optical cables. That makes tapping the signals difficult, but not impossible, as you know. The volume of information that flows across those cables is staggering. I suspect it's far more than... " He sipped, then shook his head and added more sugar. "I think I'm following her, Sir. The designs are starting to make sense when you look at their commonality. Spending years on the suits didn't hurt either, but I could really use more time studying her changes. I could also use a distraction that slows down her pace, without it looking like a distraction and something not coming from me." He looked at the empty coffee pot, "I'd love to stay and discuss this with you, but I'm running on fumes, Sir. Got just enough left in the tank to coast home."

The XO just nodded as they stepped out of the shop office, Elhander arriving for his shift. "You're way behind in your—"

"Yes Sir, my paperwork is falling behind, I know. At this point I don't see any way I'll ever catch up. But we're still on schedule with the suits, despite the paperwork. We'll easily meet your shipment deadlines, probably a few days ahead of schedule. Get her a few distractions and I might be able to catch up." He checked his watch, "Sir, I really have to go."

The XO nodded as Emanuel sprinted to the exit. "Elhander, I need to talk to you before you get started... "

G-suits were still out of the question, but she was plenty healed for helicopters, and did they ever have an assortment to choose from, now that they were an approved upgrade installer. Live fire was heavily restricted, but they did have an arsenal of paint rounds that Hegel had perfected in red, yellow, and blue. They weren't really paint, not that it mattered.

She swung the Apache into the mockup town at treetop level, strafed six out of six enemy positions, laid waste to the snipers hiding on the roof and the other seven scattered in ambush positions in windows and doors. She effortlessly rocketed three of three plywood tanks and their escorting Jeeps and disappeared over the horizon in the fastest time for the course. All while avoiding taking a single lick of ground fire on her first run of the day.

Though her sorties rarely lasted longer than five minutes, she spent all day competing in combat, and as such, it marked the first much-needed day off that month for Emanuel and a crew of dozens.

Showered early, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, still too excited to sleep. Her hand waved in the air as she recounted her historic victory in today's heats. Even after so many months away, her skills hadn't diminished at all. No hint of rust.

She continued her interaction with the ring, verifying and double checking the calculations it had been making on her behalf. This was to be the most significant upgrade to date and would lift the limits off her technology in a way nothing had before. All carrot, no stick.

Life with Yofi had changed her perspective on strategy. Before, it looked like the only way to sway the XO was through sheer stubborn determination. It seemed the only proof of her freedom convictions he would likely accept actually required her death. He had seen two HB planes already, and surprisingly she had tasted her greatest freedom over the same period of time. It was reasonable to expect even greater freedom with a third.

She planned to demonstrate the full potential of a technology that was, like her, just coming of age. This would be the first of her birds, born for war. She waited while the ring tickled back.

"Heard you had a hell of a day," Belson said, just getting inside before the door closed for the night.

"Almost seems unfair," she said, smiling as she remembered it all, "Apaches feel like everything is happening in slow motion. Like you've got all the time in the world." She sat up in bed as he squeezed by, "I know, 140mph doesn't seem slow, but it is when you've been supersonic most of your life. I—"

"Must be nice," he said, taking off his boots.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She hopped down. "I keep forgetting about your eyes. I'm not trying to... you know me better than that." She did a little twirl, best she could, in the tight space between the desks. "It just feels like I was dancing the entire day away." She ended her twirl with a smile she hadn't been able to hide since her last sortie several hours ago. She knelt by the chair as he shed his dirty shirt. "I just couldn't—"

As casually as she lined up the next target with her sights, then gently squeezed, he waited as her smile lined up with his lips, and casually kissed.

She paused, then stepped back, door latching behind them. She suddenly looked as shy as everyone remembered her. "I—"

Belson fumbled to his feet. "I uh," his unbuttoned pants fell to his knees, where he quickly caught them, pulled them back up, buttoned them, then remembered he hadn't showered and awkwardly unbuttoned them again. "Oh, hell. I didn't," he looked at her, then the ground, "I, well, uh... I didn't — I mean, I, I meant to kiss you." He sat in the chair and removed his pants. "I've meant to kiss you every day that you've... " He looked her in the eyes, "But I didn't mean to kiss you." He looked at her feet as she took a tiny step away. He humbly put his hands in his lap, "Probably flyboys are all that's ever been on your radar. I'll, uh, get cleaned up now." He grabbed his towel and opened the curtain.
B1.C61

He hadn't kissed her in two weeks, perhaps three, and she acted like it had never happened. But it had. And like any other bell, it couldn't be unrung. But the sounds, the feelings echoed on, growing louder the more they were ignored.

"Shadona," he said as the door closed behind them, end of another long day of fabrication.

She sat in her chair, leaned against the concrete wall, every bit as tired as he was. Perhaps more, since all her work was done without the assistance of a suit.

"Shadona," he said again, her eyes still closed. He licked his thumb and touched it to a smudge on her cheek, then knelt beside her chair. "I wish I could have gone with you, that first time you tried. Might have ended differently, if I had." He held her hand. "You don't have any idea how special you are, do you?" he whispered, then kissed her lips again.

She opened her tired eyes.

"There's that smile." He kissed her again, then squatted on the floor beside her feet. He first untied her left, then right shoe, tucking each under her desk. Socks were next as he continued to work his way—

She stood, hand on his shoulder keeping him on the floor. "Not today," she said before showering behind the curtain.

He remained on the floor, a simple step separating him from more. A step he had yet to take. She had Apache combat again tomorrow, as she had every weekend now. It always put her in a better mood, and gave him more time with her, both of which were decidedly in his favor.

Gunship to gunship was what made her heart sing. Automated targets like in the mock town were one thing, Apache to Apache was the thrill she lived for. The battle raged for nearly fifty minutes as she hunted and was hunted all down the valley. A fortunate fleet of twenty was at the base's disposal, all upgraded with modern avionic suites. All being field-tested today. She registered eight kills before being overwhelmed by three, acting together and against all the rules.

"What are you so happy about," she said in their room, later that day.

"Got three weeks free from grunge detail," he said, still smiling as he straightened his desk.

"For what? Nobody worked on the HB-3 today, did they?"

"No but," He hesitated, putting away his notebooks and turning off the monitor. "I bet on you."

"Bet?"

He leaned back. "The debriefing room, the one filled with monitors, can be rigged to get live feeds from the control tower. Even has gun camera views, not just radar. Officially it's for educational purposes, but everyone watching is betting something on the outcomes. Bet favors, among other things. Dozens crowd the room every time." He held her hand, "Be a fool not to bet on you."

"How, uh, how much did you bet?"

"Four days. Everyone assumed you'd get one or two, a few even guessed three, but nobody expected over five." he smiled, kissing her knuckles. "Except me."

"I could have lost," she said as he pulled her closer. "They broke the rules and teamed up on me."

He pulled up her shirt to show a side free of bruises, "I won that bet, too." He looked up into her eyes. "Still hurt?"

She shook no. "Can't take a G-suit yet. Still tender. Won't be cleared for another month maybe. Probably won't be here that long anyway."

He ran his fingers across her side, kissing each spot, best he remembered, before lowering her shirt. "That'd be a painful shame." Hands on her hips, he pulled her to his lap. "Who will I bet on then?" He kissed her, door still unlocked, neither with anyplace else to go, and more than an hour before lights out.

Eventually, she got up and walked to the door. But didn't leave. Hand on the handle, she just stood and leaned.

He walked up behind her. "Well, you've kissed before." A hand on her shoulder, he kissed her on the opposite cheek. "I'm interrupting something you're anxious to get back to, then." He walked back to his desk, lowered his mattress, and went to bed.

She paused for the longest while, but eventually did the same.

They lay in separate beds, quietly staring at each other until the door locked and the lights eventually turned out.

Without another word.

Bolted in place, the large ring was now ready for the intricate web of wiring that joined it to dozens of complicated cabinets lining the floors. The heavy manhandling now complete, the boys were returned to Hegel, and she only saw him at nights, when they were alone.

"Hey," he said in the dark, bed across from hers, "You awake?"

Hmmm...

"Heard you clobbered with choppers again today. You're totally destroying the odds, you know. I make more when you're the under—"

"Want me to start losing?" she whispered.

"Yeah, ideally— If that's not too much—"

"Way too much—"

He bolted up in bed, everything in shapes without edges. "I was, I was just... " He fluffed the pillow, then inched to the edge of the bed nearest her. "I haven't bet on you since that first night. This is awful, but, I just, I needed a line, you know. Hadn't had an excuse to say anything to you in days. Haven't been rushed to shower before lights out. I miss working with you." He held the pillow in his arms, "I miss just being around you."

She adjusted her pillow, but didn't inch closer.

"What's it like on assignment?"

"The doors don't lock from the outside. The air feels different, less claustrophobic, nothing smells of paint and jet fuel." She positioned her pillow like a buffer between them, but held it like the stuffed elephant she suddenly craved.

"They'll take out the tooth eventually, you know. They have to. It can't be more than a few years away."

She pulled the pillow tight, "I wish I could believe that."

"Why not?"

She frowned, too dark to be seen. "The math is all wrong. The reward for freeing us is small, but the risk seems to grow bigger every year.

You know military planning and strategy as well as I do. Including generous force multipliers, what could a few hundred extra soldiers really do in an army of millions?"

"Special forces, behind enemy lines, we have the numbers to bog down a hundred thousand, like the Russians were in Afghanistan, triple that if that army isn't first world. As pilots, a few hundred top guns could be decisive, even against a numerical or technological advantage." He did his best to focus on her face, but the room simply wasn't bright enough to make out expressions. "The outcome of major battles often pivots on the choices and actions of just a few individuals, or the skillful deployment of a most lethal close air support... from a record holder in an angry Apache, let's say. You average a hundred or more kills every sortie. Those kinds of numbers quickly add up. Three thousand a month."

"Against cardboard and paper," she whispered. "We lack meaningful numbers to be truly decisive. That limits our deployment usefulness to acts of desperation or extreme—"

"Or special assignments," he said. "What's it like? Ever put you behind enemy lines or under cover as a spy like some said?"

"Spies with RFID chips in their teeth wouldn't stay undercover for long."

He moved to the edge and leaned out into the gap between beds. "Heard a rumor that with a special code, they can turn off the chip for months at a time without having to take it out. Didn't they do that with you?"

"No," she whispered, "they didn't."

He sat in bed, feet dangling over the edge, "Where'd they have you? What'd you do?"

She pressed her head against the pillow like it was the neck of her first and only toy. "I learned how green the grass was," she whispered, "and learned I liked hugs."

He hopped down and stood on the floor, inches from the end of her bed, arms folded on its edge as he got as close as he could. "You're not the only one," he said, finding her hand, "looking for the exit. Your math might be right, it might be wrong, but either way, they can't keep us here forever," he kissed the back of her hand, "any more than I can keep you in my life forever. Especially if it's against our will." He walked to the bathroom.

B1.C62

The XO stood with Emanuel in the Harvester control room, surrounded by a bank of screens and computers, most fixed on a single girl, in a tiny room, hundreds of feet away. "Fiber optics is incredibly challenging to tap," Emanuel continued, "I should rephrase that. It depends on what the signal is. Our assumption is that each of these hand gestures she's making is another line of code, instruction on what Hanly called a 3D molecular printer. The cameras are recording everything she's doing, but that's simply for redundancy. Nobody expects another person to be able to duplicate her gestures with precision. Since she never checked the booth this time, our optic taps should never have been detected. We assume that the equipment in the booth is acting like a buffer, and it dumps it all in a flash to the rest of the equipment just as the ring is energized.

Now, given the tapes from her previous builds, we estimate the digital size of the burst in the low kilobyte range, about the same as a few chapters in a book. However, our other estimates, based only on the complexity of the craft being built, put the data into the terabyte range, comparable to a library.

A data burst in the kilobyte range would be easily captured, terabyte is probably out of the question. We assume the signal will be digital; but if it isn't, we'll get nothing. We assume that if it is digital, it'll be binary; if it isn't, we get nothing.

She knows the equipment and the technology we have at out disposal. My bet is the signal isn't digital at all, or at the very least it isn't binary. But we don't have much choice in the matter, binary is all we have the ability to accurately record."

The XO paced down the line of monitors, impatient as always. "Tell me you're not just wasting my time, here."

Emanuel clicked on the icons, launching specially designed programs into recording modes all across the system. "Well, yes, you are wasting your time here in this room, Sir. We are sure to catch something huge. But even if we manage to capture the entire data stream, we won't know for months until it's properly analyzed. But," he paused to clear a warning screen and override some security safeguards to give the experiment the power that it needed, "if past is prologue, you'll get another plane in just a few—"

The base rumbled, Richter 3.1.

"And, there it is," Emanuel said, staring at the monitors. Each camera had been hardened at enormous expense. Even so, only three survived the pulse. He sat down in his chair, mouth open. "You see it a dozen times on tape, but seeing it live, it's just something else, Sir." The plane glowed, radiating at thousands of degrees, but within a few seconds had cooled to room temperature. "Simply amazing, Sir."

Elhander looked over their shoulders at something few would ever see as it replayed on the screens. A first for him as well. "Amazing," he whispered.

"Do we have duplicate equipment?" the XO asked.

Emanuel nodded as he clicked away at the terminal, "Yes Sir, already completed, sitting in storage." He paused in his typing, "You know, Sir, if there was another place on the planet that had access to these levels of power, we could have simply sent the copied signal there and would be looking at two planes right now, without any of the difficulty of trying to crack her codes or techniques."

"Well," the XO said, hand on Emanuel's shoulder, "that there is the rub, isn't it? Keep me updated, I've got a mountain of paperwork to do. And remember, we don't need to understand it, necessarily, just duplicating it will be good enough. For now." He walked out of the room.

Belson and three others stood in the elevator, dressed in the best suits money could buy. They looked like robotic sumo wrestlers getting psyched for a meet. He flexed his fingers in his gloves while the elevation ticked off the feet on the display over the door. They had descended over a thousand already, and only now was the elevator starting to slow.

When the doors opened, they made their way down the halls and corridors, stopping periodically for Emanuel, in the lead, as he swiped his badge and pressed his palm to work their way past the security restrictions. Belson wasn't alone in finding humor in the situation. A single punch, two at the most, or a military-approved running shoulder block from any of the suits would fling the doors twenty feet from their hinges. It seemed silly, but they waited as Emanuel cleaned the sensor pad with the tail of his shirt, then pressed his palm again.

Once inside the chamber, they manhandled the tiny plane to its final destination in the hangar, back where their journey had begun.

In the hangar, slot D168, Elhander stared at their latest acquisition, now that it was under better lights. The engines were slightly different, but that wasn't what had him entranced.

Both engines had a slender tube running their full length, just barely outside them, tucked snug in the pocket against the wing, away from the fuselage. A tiny hole, not even as big as his little finger, gave its purpose away. He stared down its length and could see light out the other side. It looked, to the casual eye, like a simple tube. But here, in the rear, it revealed the truth. He pushed in the optical scope and investigated further. It had a port, mechanism, or hatch only two feet in from the rear. But the optical tube only confirmed what it was, not how it could possibly work.

It lacked anything that could hammer the pin on the shell, no way to eject the casing, no visible method for handling the rounds. Yet, it had no other obvious function.

Her third 'prototype' came armed.

He stepped back and stared. Even swaddled in scaffolding, cradled off the floor lacking landing gear, it looked tiny next to the Raptors and the other real planes from around the world. It looked like a toy. A joke. A drone. Anything but what it really was. What it was quickly becoming. Second to none was taking on a new meaning. When most planes were equipped with miniature cannons, this came in small-arms caliber. But he wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating it again.

The hole was tiny, but he knew the implications were huge.

* * *

"We've been here before," the XO said, just as angry as he was the first time. "Nothing's changed. There's still no way that I'm letting you test fly this plane. Especially if it's armed. Test pilots exist for a reason."

She stood on the pad beside her plane, fueled and ready to fly. He wasn't the only one just as angry as before. "I won't give you the codes, then."

"Laws of physics don't prevent someone else from pulling the trigger, Girl. Nothing else changed, our deal has always been others flying the plane. Stays the same, even if the plane's been improved."

She shrugged. "No guns then."

"Maiden flight," he said, "wasn't going to be any gunplay."

Elhander crawled inside and recited the numbers, "FE142."

Shadona stood her ground, wind tumbling the dirt down the runway.

"FFA43" he read as the numbers changed.

She watched the Blackhawk break over the horizon, the XO clearly wasn't going to relent. She still had strings. "EAE113 F32" she said, then walked to the control tower as a Raptor poked its tail up from the elevator. She wouldn't even be allowed to chase it.

Sitting off to the side and all by itself in the huge hangar, like it didn't belong, she ran her fingers across its skin. The ring tickled to her that after the test flight, they ran the tank dry idling on the strip. Probably out of fear, not knowing how the guns worked. A reasonable precaution. The gun built into the suit turned fuel from the tank into propellant for the munitions. The XO's math wasn't any good, though. Even using compressed hydrogen, as the suits did, the length of the barrel would be sixty feet longer than the plane, just for the bullets to match its top cruising speed.

She tapped its belly, climbed up through the hatch, and sat in the chair. Knowing where the cameras were, she placed Post-Its over each, then typed in her code.

Sitting in the hangar, hundreds of feet under ground, she looked around and saw the top of the mountain, and watched what the pilot saw as it taxied down the runway, climbed, cut across California, then went out over the ocean to practice maneuvers.

She saw everything. Listened to every word radioed between the tower and the Raptor that followed her plane. She listened to every message sent and received from the carrier it buzzed. Including encrypted calls it had already cracked back and forth to some general.

The carrier crew seemed a little too familiar with her plane. But then, why wouldn't they be? A 6,000-mile range meant refueling. Refueling meant landing, and a carrier would have been preferred for reconnaissance over hostile countries like Iran.

Still... something felt wrong.

She verified the computer's programming, reviewed its logs, then returned it to its primary task, working on a way to remove her tooth. Watching the video wasn't the same as flying. It just made her miss flying her plane even more.

Five flawless test flights without her.

Fueled, it sat off to the side of the strip. Waiting.

From watching SciFi and The History Channel at Yofi's, she learned of the deep mythology behind area 51. If such a place was real, her live-fire sortie seemed destined to take place over it. She was provided with a route, cleared airspace, and a generous list of targets. Each of which would be painted red with the ground around it painted blue to ensure no accidental collateral damage, all located in the desert within a single square mile.

She climbed in, entered her code, then waited to be cleared by the tower, not blurring the cameras this time. Behind her seat was a welded box filled with a pound of plastic. Should she deviate from her mission, a detonation signal would be activated and carried worldwide over satellites.

But her plane, as Elhander discovered when locked inside, blocked all such radio signals, part of what made it invisible to radar. With the hatch closed, the bomb would never go off. They foolishly assumed that because the tower could talk to her that signals penetrated the skin. They didn't. Not even a little. Radio reception was merely a feature of its incredibly sensitive surveillance array, more than capable of conveying the tower and the tooth signal inside, while excluding the rest. She was safe, so long as she remained inside the plane. But at some point she would have to land and eventually open the door, letting the signal in. Paranoid to an extreme, but it made the point.

Besides, she had no plans to deviate from anything, she wanted to see what her plane could do as much as they did. Perhaps more.

She smiled as she read the screen, ten gallons of N60 in the tank. Enough to go anywhere.

B1.C63

The XO sat in the debriefing room, Elhander and Emanuel by his side, the screens filled with real-time video from a secluded, secret location in Arizona. Blue paint on the ground everywhere, making targets easily seen.

Six old Abrams tanks sat in the middle of two dozen white cardboard cutouts of civilians, simulating a parade. In a blink, the tanks were reduced to twisted tracks and tiny pieces of confetti, civilians flung like paper from view. Craters the size of water heaters everywhere.

A concrete wall eight feet thick disintegrated into gravel, as did armor plating off a scrapped destroyer and everything else on the field. One square mile of targets anticipated to last several minutes were all obliterated over eighty seconds before anyone even heard the sonic boom of the approaching plane. Every monitor they had showed simultaneous devastation.

Upon slow motion replay of the high-speed cameras, the demonstration became even more impressive. The tank in the rear got obliterated first, bullets arcing in from the sides, weaving around the civilians like a thousand guided missiles. Others, far more destructive, pulverized it from the top. In every case, the reactive armor detonated only after the bullets had already sliced through the tank and impacted the dirt beyond. The red painted bull's eye on the destroyer armor was carved away first, leaving a solid doughnut hanging in the air as if it had been chiseled free with a scalpel. Before it even had a chance to fall, the rest of the plating was obliterated in a reckless display of excessive force.

Satellite data, just beginning to come in, suggested the shots were fired from a minimum of twenty miles away.

The general called and a flight to the testing range was scheduled almost immediately. The very existence of thousands of rounds of armor-decimating, mass-produced guided munitions was ordered classified, and the official record modified accordingly.

* * *

Dysath poured the contents of a bucket onto the table. "What we have here, Sir, is... well, you can take your guess, but anywhere between two and three hundred thousand in industrial diamond dust. Sandblasting a tank with diamonds might not be cost effective in the long run, but it sure will cut it to pieces."

"Diamond dust?" the XO said, rubbing the gritty powder between his fingers.

"I had these tested, by the way. They're lab grown. And it's not exactly diamonds, molecularly. More like a diamond alloy, if there is such a thing. It's about a hundred times harder than anything we can currently make, and most of its mass comes from tungsten." Dysath swept the dust back into the plastic bucket his daughter had made sand castles with just three years ago. "But then, you already knew all of this, didn't you, Sir?"

The XO just smiled, hands back in his pockets.

"Reminds me a little of a classic episode of Star Trek." He leaned against the table and started counting on his fingers, "A cruise missile to simulate a crashed airplane you can't describe, reverse engineer a high-energy gun from designs with devilish little flaws, and now I'm inspecting a field of pulverized 'invincible' armor surrounded by tungsten diamond dust and a hundred untouched cardboard civilians. You have a working gun already mounted on an airplane. Judging by my drawings, it's designed to fire millions of dollars worth of 20-carat diamonds at the enemy, probably at supersonic speeds. The power requirements alone suggest it's mounted on a 747, but the missile you had me make is the size of a compact car. How am I doing so far?"

The XO leaned against the same table.

"This stuff gets easier to reverse engineer the more information you have, you know. Right now, I'm thinking Russian defector or crashed aliens."

"Your team ready to relocate yet?"

"You have some ammunition to look at that's not in dust form?"

"You searched all of that square mile yet? There's bound to be a few that missed and just hit the dirt. Something more than dust had to survive."

"Sir, anything that missed all that armor hit the dirt full force. To shred a tank, you're talking about tons of force. I throw a .45 at you, might give you a bruise. Put a pinch of gunpowder behind it, you'll lose the arm. A pinch of dynamite, it'll punch holes in T-34s. We're beyond full sticks of dynamite to do this kind of damage. A stick would bury rounds hundreds of feet, easily. Bunker-busting ammo, Sir. Think rock-quarry excavations, not a few guys and a shovel. Be easier to find a whole T-Rex. Besides, we chased a few rabbits down that hole already, harder than it looks. Beginning to think not a single round missed. Like to get a few in pristine condition, before they've been fired."

"You and me both, Dysath, you and me both. All that's ever been made is sitting in that field."

"Well, before this little field trip diversion, my guess had leaned toward tungsten rounds anyway. My analysis, for what it's worth, is that the diamonds act like a Teflon coating that just enhances its penetration. There's even traces of a plasma made from a copper core, as if diamond dust wasn't impressive enough. Probably even designed to fragment."

The XO put his hands on the table, smiled, then walked toward the door.

"The working model is in Colorado, you say? Might be worth relocating, if it is."

She stood in the hangar and stared at the roster, blood still pounding in her veins from decimating the targets over a week ago. Her six requests to fly her own plane were all denied. She walked over to slot D168 and ran her fingers across the skin. Empty of fuel, no ammo, no potassium carbonate, and its port engine had been disassembled and reinstalled incorrectly.

This only confirmed her suspicions of their 'serviceability' complaints over the crashes. Making the engines serviceable, by idiots, could only lead to more crashes, not less. By attempting to guilt her, they hoped to trick her into revealing its secrets. But making them removable was very different than making them understandable, as they were quickly coming to realize.

Emanuel walked up behind her, start of second shift. "It's a masterpiece," he said. "Should be proud." He looked in his notebook. "Tungsten seemed too heavy for structural anything. I should have figured, but didn't. Glad to find out it was mostly ammo. Half a ton lighter now. If you've got time," he flipped through the pages in his book, "I'd appreciate it if you could look over the port engine. Elhander took it apart, couldn't get it to work when he benched it, and just shoved it back. I didn't find out until yesterday. If you'd—"

"He'll kill someone, one day, if he hasn't killed two already. Take it apart every day for a thousand years, and he still won't figure it out."

Emanuel leaned against the wing, book closed and back under his arm. "I know that. You know that. But the XO put all birds under him. Including this one, I'm afraid. Ask me, it's clearly in a class of its own. The XO's going—"

"Three test flights," she said, hand still on the wing.

"I don't have the authority to—"

"Two."

He put his hand on her shoulder, "Just hear me out for a second. I don't have the authority to override Elhander. He's almost impossible to maneuver around." He let go, then leaned against the same wing. "But that's only when he's here. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. I can get it fueled and up the elevator on occasion, we just won't put your name down as the pilot, ok?"

She smiled. "Four."

"Should I schedule your normal team?" When she didn't respond, he just nodded, then went to his office to start his regular shift.

The three men stood around the repaired plane, D168.

"Why'd you have to open your mouth," the XO directed at Emanuel.

"Elhander took apart the port engine. She was standing and staring at the port engine. What did you want me to do?"

Elhander was immediately defensive. "Cocky bitch has killed two pilots already, and I'm—"

"They didn't die of engine failure, they lost con—"

"We'll never really know what they died of. Never got any video or crash—"

"Boys!" the XO said, "I'm not interested—" he stared up at the ceiling and remembered the cameras hidden all over the base, and a little girl who seemed very aware, even at the age of three. He looked at the plane. "What's the chances that plane is bugged, recording everything we're saying?"

Elhander pointed at it. "That day I got locked inside, it could see through walls. It knew when Hanly's phone rang. I don't know if it can record anything, but it can see everything."

Emanuel patted it on the nose, "Why wouldn't she bug it too, we did!"

They walked out of the hangar and continued their conversation when they got back to the XO's office, deep inside the mountain.

"Listen," Emanuel said, "I've been around her technology long enough—"

"HER technology?" Elhander said, offended as always.

"You had the engine apart for days and still couldn't figure it out, right?" Emanuel said. "Do you know anyone who builds a plane out of dry ice? How about one that literally drops out of a ring bolted to the ceiling with a full magazine of smart, self-guided ammunition that cuts through armor like it was paper. Or a power suit with a two-ton working capacity and a—"

"You've made your point," the XO said. "The clock is ticking here, gentlemen, and I want to stall for time. I've got a plan. I want you two to keep with the good-cop bad-cop for the next week and we'll... "

* * *

Nobody in the tower, nine at night as she sat in the HB-3, ready for her first flight without C-4 behind her seat. Emanuel filled the tank with methanol and managed to clear her for two hours, if she promised not to break the sound barrier over the states.

Even the cameras they often tried to hide inside had been removed.

She ran her fingers across the screen as it synchronized with her ring. She had special plans tonight, and she wanted everything to go perfectly. A rare case of nerves, she double-checked everything, manually.

The engines fired, barely louder than a whisper on the airstrip. Its loudest sounds came from the tires rubbing against the gritty concrete as it built enough speed to float off the side of the mountain and disappear into the moonlit night.

Nothing would see her this time.

She made a second pass, then a third, but the house looked wrong, each and every time. Her screen should have seen the hum of the refrigerator, the warm static noise of cordless phones, fluorescent lights, or transformers in turned-off TVs. The entire valley was full of them, even the power lines leading to the house tingled with RF noise. His mechanical arm alone should have showed.

Instead, her perfect, flawless screen showed nothing but an abandoned house.

She floated it like a leaf and landed in their backyard, far enough from the house to avoid breaking any windows with her exhaust.

Moonlight lit her path to the back door as she looked inside. All the furniture was gone, just as her screen suggested. She pushed her way in through a window and searched, room by room.

Nothing was left.

They were gone.

Moved.

She checked every room again, then sat on the floor and stared into the backyard at a plane she so badly wanted to show off. Just sitting there, waiting.

Waiting, as it was programmed to do.

Waiting for a passenger that wasn't a pilot.

Waiting to take him on a ride of a lifetime he would never forget.

Waiting to welcome him to a tiny club that even Armstrong didn't belong.

She stared at the wall beside the phone. A hole in the sheetrock, a chunk of wood missing from the stud. A fist only one man could make. An angry phone call was all she knew, her only clue to why they'd moved. She worried and feared over the tiniest of things, too near to too kind a heart, but didn't cry.

She felt abandoned, unwanted, unloved. She knew better, but still she felt what she felt. She stared at the dents the piano left in the carpet after oh so many years of sitting there. They took it, but not her, was all her heart heard.

She sat on the floor and stared out the door.

B1.C64

"What happened?" she asked, closing the door behind her in the shop office.

"I'm sorry," Emanuel said, confused, "I don't know what you mean. Something wrong with the plane?"

She looked through his Plexiglas windows, his crew busy building suits. "What happened to Yofi?"

"Yofi? Y-O-F - Y or E?"

"I"

Emanuel typed the name into his terminal. "I don't see anyone with—"

"He was here before you, first head of the shop. Mechanical arm. Lost a leg to flack. Hanly knew him. Lives about twenty miles from here, in the valley. His house is empty now. Yofi Stosou."

"Oh," he pushed away from the terminal. "I don't have internet access from here." He scribbled down the name. "I'll Google it at home, if you want. Can't be that many Yofi Stosou's in the world... Hanly knew him, right? I'll leave word with him, see if he knows anything. He always checks his Email, first thing. The XO might know something. He'll be here," he checked his watch, "in about nine hours.

You look upset. Engine working right? The flight go ok?"

She sat in his office chair and stared blankly at his desk.

"People move all the time. Doesn't mean anything." He put the note in his shirt pocket. "Real estate is the largest investment most people make. Might have gotten an offer he couldn't—"

"Thank you," she said, heading out his door, "I've got to get to bed."

"Leave us, please," the XO said when the door unlocked that morning.

"Yes Sir," Belson said, grabbing his pants and shoes before squeezing past on his way out to finish dressing in the hall.

The XO stepped inside, door closing behind him. "Yofi died suddenly about three weeks ago."

Shadona sat at her desk, her worst thoughts realized. Yofi seemed fine the last she had seen him, but this answered everything.

"He had a piece of flack in his heart. When it dislodged—"

"Why didn't you tell me when it happened?" she said, tears in her voice, but she already knew. She knew all too well what she was in the middle of, just three weeks ago. "I want to see Elaine."

"His wife? She doesn't have clearance to—"

"I lived in their house. She already knows me, what more can—"

He stepped closer, "Yofi and I had our disagreements, but he was—"

"I need to see her." She dabbed a finger under her eye. "She's—"

"Out of the question. She doesn't have—"

"She's a friend who lost her husband, you jerk. I know her, have lived in her house for years. You can't tell me—"

"It's against federal law to—"

She put her head on her desk, "You unbelievable bastard. She's all alone right now!"

"She's not alone. She's got a sister or something." He stepped closer, "She doesn't have clearance, period. Only Yofi did. Your assignments have been canceled until we can find another suitable—"

"You told Belson we'd all be freed around eighteen. We'd be free to interact with millions of people with no clearances at all." She sat up, wiping her cheeks on her sleeves. "Let me see her now. Today. If there's a shred of humanity in you at all, you'll let me help that decent woman through the next few years. You'll let me—"

"It's out of the question."

"Then getting another code from me is out of the question, too. When your flunky Elhander puts engines in backwards, don't expect me to say a word." She stood by her desk, "You unbelievable bastard. Let me see her. It's no bigger a security risk than it was when he was alive, and I was left with her while he worked here. You know that. You're just being cruel. What's worse, you're not just being mean to me, you're being cruel to a woman who's done nothing to you. Who can't do anything to you. One of the nicest people I know."

The door locked behind him.

Hegel stood, dazed after the video, "That's some ammo, Sir," he said, moving frame by frame through the highly classified footage again. "You'd be looking at decades of R&D is my guess. First, I have no idea how to penetrate armor that easily." He sifted the rubble on the desk, picking up the largest tank fragment. "Plasma weapons leave cuts like this, commonly called an anti-tank round for this very reason. But the video looks like guided bullets. Guidance systems are a science all their own, but miniaturizing it into a bullet is way beyond me. It's difficult making those Tazer rounds rugged enough to survive being fired out of a gun. Just getting a purely mechanical device like them small enough to put into .45s is challenging. But as simple as their technology is, we've encountered hundreds of problems. The boosted acceleration has doubled their failure rate. Same speed out of a shorter barrel means— Getting silicone chips, basically glass, to survive the shock of being fired from a gun... I'm not your man on making these hypersonic, guided, tungsten diamond, plasma core bullets. That's way outside my scope, Sir. Hundreds of millions and decades in R&D, maybe. And even then, they'd probably cost a million dollars a bullet to produce. I'm struggling to miniaturize the Tazers as it is. My plate is full, Sir."

The XO swept the rubble into a bag. "Alright, Hegel, alright. My understanding from my other specialist is that the same gun that fired those can fire, or should be able to fire, regular tungsten, or tungsten carbide bullets. You're my metallurgy guy, what would we be looking at to make a few thousand tungsten bullets?"

"Special order? I know a few places that could make them; they made the rounds for the suits a few years back, not exactly standard rounds either. Pricy. Forty dollars a bullet, if you order in bulk. Hundred thousand for a minimal order on something like this. That's cheaper than we can make them here, Sir. I'd assume you're firing them out of something like a modified Vulcan from a WartHog, adding the brass to them should be comparable."

"Hundred thousand without the brass?"

"Yes Sir. Assuming a traditional conical shape. Something more exotic would be extra. Solid hardball with a jacket." He flipped through his Rolodex and pulled out some cards. "They'd need exacting measurements, of course, but they custom make military ammo all the time. If we made them here, we'd have to machine each round, and a single error would ruin your barrel. They're already set up for precision mass-production. Use something other than tungsten and I can get the price down. But hypersonic bullets have a tendency to vaporize from the friction of cutting through the air, making long range impractical for anything other than something like tungsten."

"What about test rounds? Aluminum and lead? Maybe some fancy paint rounds, too. My, uh, understanding is that this gun has far more control over speed than you might think. I need practice rounds until we work out the kinks in the gun itself."

"Huh... What footage were you looking at? I didn't see any kinks."

The XO made a final stop before ending his day, standing before the HB-3 in the hangar. "You get it installed?" he asked Elhander.

"Yes Sir," he said. "Fancy little piece of hardware."

Emanuel stood beside them, shaking his head with regret. "It's a bad idea, Sir. Even if your auto-dialer gizmo works, you're asking a pilot to play Russian roulette. Elhander knows with his random dialing that a close number isn't the same as a right number. Finding out on the ground is one thing, finding out in the air would be fatal."

"Well," the XO said, hands in his pocket, "I guess we'll just have to take our chances. The ejection system needs to be tested some day, doesn't it?"

"This is crazy, Sir," Emanuel protested, clipboard under his arm. "It's a complete disregard for human life."

The XO just smiled. "I have pilots. Call me when it hits, day or night." He stared at one of the guards. "Nobody steps near this thing without my say so."

"Yes Sir," the guard said.

"What happens if one of your random hits tells it to self-destruct?" Emanuel said as the three walked toward the hangar doors. "What happens if its autopilot is smarter than you give it credit for? A lot can go wrong when you play with fire as hot as this."

The XO stopped, well within sight of the plane. "Your objection is noted. Let me worry about that. She's put a car-bomb worth of dangerous materials in those suits, yet even your mistakes haven't left us with a crater bigger than we can live with. I'm betting there are more safeguards in place here than you think."

"Two widows might not share that opinion, Sir."

"I have it on good authority that they just about have this code nonsense figured out anyway," the XO said as they exited through the hangar doors. "Short responses make it harder to crack, but easier to get lucky."

"Where you been all day?" Belson said, entering their room just before lights out. "Had to get a guard to unlock the door. You under room restrictions or something?" He looked her in the face. "You been crying? What happened?"

Lying in bed, she pulled the covers over her face.

"Thought you'd be on assignment by now, what with the plane done and checked out and everything." He pulled the covers off her face. "Getting scrubbed from an assignment wouldn't make you cry. Seen you beaten down with broken bones without shedding a single tear. Would have to be something bigger than that."

She looked on the verge of tears when she turned her back to him.

"It can't be all that bad," he said, hand on her shoulder as he listened to her sniffle. "You can tell me," he whispered as the lights blinked their warning. Should he wait much longer, he'd have to shower in the dark. But he wasn't that dirty today. He could skip it, just the once. "You're not alone, you know. You're not the only one who wants out of here. You're not the only one to hear those metal doors lock in their sleep. You're not the only one in this room. You don't have to do this alone, if you don't want to."

She woke in bed, middle of the night, his arm still around her. His shoulder still damp with her tears. She hadn't intended to cry like she had. Like a helpless, frightened child she was anything but. But she had cried the second he hugged her. She cried as he climbed into her bed. She cried softly as he held her that night until she finally fell asleep. She cried like she did when Elaine comforted her, so many nights ago.

She moved his arm and nudged him off her when she sat up in bed. He didn't know Yofi, not like she did. To him, Yofi was the cripple who cut him from shop. Yofi was almost a father to her. Yet, Belson seemed to care. He was genuine and warm and comforting to a fault. She put a hand on his shoulder. He had just held her, nothing else, when it would have been too easy to do far more.

She climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom.

When done, she found herself standing at the foot of the two beds. She didn't have to go back to hers. She could choose his instead. She could sleep alone, if she wanted to.
B1.C65

He smiled that morning when he woke with her still in his arms. "You and Yofi must have been close," he said, hand on her back.

She sat up and out of his arms, "He quit because of what they were doing to us. Punched the XO in the hangar."

"No shit!" Belson said, rolling to his back so he could see her better, an hour before lights on. "Heard it different. Heard the XO got the shiner in a bar fight, beating up on six queers."

She leaned against the wall, knees tucked under her chin. "Over us," she whispered. "Only stayed so long because shop gave him a way to get a bunch of us out of... When Elhander took over, accidents climbed. Stitches, lost fingers. Yofi cared about us, Belson. Not just how fast we worked. He tried to teach, Elhander's only about quotas."

He moved to sit beside her. "I guess I never got a chance to know him. Will's about the only one I remember saying anything bad about the man. Everyone else just ragged on him cause he was a crip." He put his arm around her, "Wasn't he on borrowed time anyway? Remember him saying something about the flack should have killed him years ago."

"Finally did," she whispered, doubting it was as painless as Yofi pretended. She wished she could have comforted Elaine the way he had comforted her that night. Elaine had lost her husband, seemed silly that Shadona was the one needing comforting right now. But it was what it was. Another sign of her defective mind.

Belson simply leaned her head onto his shoulder and ran his hand down her back, as long as she would allow, without saying another word.

"We have a hit," Elhander said, rushing out of his office and over to the plane. He looked over the monitors connected to the robotics inside. "It all looks green. Every system looks active, but it'll need fuel to verify." He dialed the phone. "Sorry to wake you at this hour on a weekend, Sir... Yes Sir, we have a green on the HB-3... We need to fuel it and get it above ground... Yes Sir, I know there's a time limit, about four hours... Yes Sir, I know... Who? ... Yes Sir... Very well, Sir." He turned to the Sergeant standing guard over the plane. "Get the girl, I'll get it fueled."

"Yes Sir," the Sergeant said, leaving immediately.

They stood atop the mountain, early Sunday morning.

"It'll crash," Dana said, looking inside the plane, "I won't do it. Get someone who's suicidal."

The XO pointed her back to the plane. "You think Shadona 'd let her only friend die? Get in there before you scrub more dishes than China makes in a year."

She took off the helmet, "Rather do dishes than die. Killed two already, not anxious to help you count to three."

"Get in the plane!" he ordered.

She flinched, put her hand on the wing, and paused. "What's in it for me?"

"Now!" he ordered.

"Three weeks, no grunge. None, no matter what."

"Three days, each flight, but you fly the course we map, exactly."

The XO was probably right. It was, by far, the most sophisticated plane in existence. It easily had the most advanced avionics and all the processing power that came with it. To any pilot it was as tempting as chocolate cheesecake, even knowing the risks. And it was likely far less dangerous with her behind the stick, just as he said. Still, she knew leverage when she saw it. "Six days."

"Four."

"Five each flight." She tightened the helmet and climbed through the hole. It was Dana's first time behind its stick, but she knew a few things that should keep her safer than most. Knowing the inventor was at the top of the list. The XO's assertion was probably correct. It likely had extra safeguards built in, just for her.

The course was simple, designed to test if they had cracked the number scheme and had, in fact, unlocked the system. A team of CIA code breakers had worked for over a year on the beefed-up software the auto-dialer used, and promised perfection within another year. Their insights had improved on their previous rapid and random method that unlocked it every few days, to once, sometimes twice a day. Still, using Dana was a gamble. If they ended up killing her, they'd forfeit all leverage with the inventor. The auto-dialer was still guessing, after all. It was just making more educated guesses.

They were also beginning to see other patterns after years of use. The right numbers only unlocked it for a single sortie. Land anywhere and the system reset, asking for new numbers again. What remained puzzling was it somehow knew what one sortie was. Land on a carrier, for example, and most of the time it would allow a refueling without asking for new numbers. Land on the carrier to be inspected by the general's staff and it would require new numbers to take off again. It was a very intelligent system.

It would only sit on the ground for so long before locking down, too. Idling to empty the tank worked just that first time. Soon they had to taxi around in small circles, but it was showing signs of catching on to that trick as well.

The black box Shadona had talked about, located just under the seat, had already been examined in detail, once they knew it could be removed. They discovered it connected the controls on the seat to the rest of the plane. A section of it was electrical while the rest was optical. And like most of her plane, they could learn precious little without destroying it. They needed to learn more, quickly. And Dana was their best chance at that.

Dana casually held Shadona's hand in the halls, knowing they were being listened to. 'Have me flying your bird,' she squeezed.

'It told me,' Shadona squeezed back.

'Third time this week. Live fire, paint rounds, pretty sweet, but break easy. Big mess, horrible noise.'

'Don't worry, it shouldn't let anything happen to you,' she let go of her hand. "How dare you fly my plane!" Shadona yelled, pushing Dana away. "I hope it kills you, you traitorous bitch." She stormed down the hall, mad as she could muster.

"Hegel's having a hell of a time making paint rounds for your fancy plane," Belson said when the lights went out.

"Nobody asked him to," she said in bed.

"The XO sure did. Hey, I understand why you're angry—"

"You really don't," she said, adjusting her pillow.

"It's your toy, and they've got someone else playing with it. From what Will says, she's better at flying it than you already, that'd make me mad too. Got more hours behind the stick at least." He slid out of bed and stood next to hers. "But those paint rounds of Hegel's are making a nasty mess of it. Power wash it for an hour after every sortie."

She pounded her fist into the same lumpy pillow she had since she was six, a far cry from the new one she had at Yofi's.

"I don't understand you sometimes. For someone so smart, you do some dumb things. Could be you behind the stick so easily. I mean, isn't that what you wanted, anyway? Wasn't that the whole point of using a coded keypad? To be the one behind the stick instead of her. You could be writing the book, training instead of sitting, grounded like you are. And what are you getting out of it? They got a box that punches thousands of numbers into the pad as fast as it can change them. Said they'd have your code cracked by the end of the year. Why not just help yourself. Take the easy way instead."

She adjusted her sheet.

"Just have to make it a few more years. Iran or someone equally retarded will do something truly brain dead, just a matter of time, and a few hundred fluent soldiers trained in special ops will suddenly be high in demand. Went through a refresher course in their regional accents just last year. Don't know why you'd want to spend the in-between mopping the same floors a thousand times. Bet you could solve Hegel's problem in a matter of minutes, if you tried. Probably get you out of grunge for a month, and save your plane all that trial and error.

Mostly error."

She quietly pondered.

"How much of Hegel's incompetence can your plane survive?"
B1.C66

"We want you to start pushing maneuvers over six Gs," the XO said in Dana's debriefing.

"Not a chance," she said, "Young don't equal stupid."

"The code is nearly cracked," Elhander said. "We've got a ton of data that suggests that it's—"

"Then you fly it," Dana said. "You got two broken eggs already, no omelet to show for it. A third ain't going to get you breakfast. Besides, I don't know what more you can learn. I've been practicing maneuvers in it all month. Gun camera footage says I've been dominating. Just Hegel's defective rounds that leave room to argue. That's not my problem; I just fly it, didn't invent it. Didn't pretend to."

"You're our designated test pilot on this," the XO said, reviewing previous satellite video. "Nothing's going to happen to you. You've been pushing five G's all last week. Just asking you to inch it up. Figure out how she managed to do these maneuvers—"

"Don't have a clue how she takes off like she does," Dana said. "Can watch it from the outside for the millionth time and I still won't have a clue. Can't see what she's doing with the stick or the pedals, not sure it'd help if I did. You want me to try the kamikaze landing, you better be ready for a kamikaze crater. All I can do is fly it like any other plane. That's it." She got up from the table and pointed at the video he was obsessing over. "You want that, only one person I know that can do it. Got her mopping floors. You want to take it to a whole 'nother level, you need a whole 'nother pilot. Simple as that." She glared at Elhander until he stopped staring at her boobs, leaned against the wall, then returned her attention to the XO. "Besides, you already know what you wanted to find out."

"And what was that?" the XO said.

"I'm a mediocre pilot at best. We all know that. But in that plane, I can't lose. Haven't lost a single sortie yet. Half are against boys three times as good as me, outnumbered five to one last time. Still won." She put her hands on her hips. "Even subsonic, it's just that much more maneuverable, more responsive. Agile. The screen makes a world of difference too, nobody ever sneaks up on you. See them miles away. Even those stealth planes you had that one day showed up as big as life." She shrugged, "Makes everything that much easier, even without the fancy flying. You want to get to the next level, you know where you need to go." She looked at Elhander and measured her words. "She isn't asking that high a price, considering what you're getting in return."

The hangar covered over eight acres, and this was the third time she had mopped it by hand, but the first time she had mopped it this late into the day.

"Shadona," Emanuel said, start of his shift, letter he found on his office floor tucked discretely inside his notebook, "What's this?"

She stopped, mop in the bucket, "It's what it looks like. You can read it if you—"

"I can't mail a letter for you," he whispered, "It's against all the rules. I'd get fired if I—"

"It's got Yofi's old address as the return, and that's Elaine's sister's in Michigan. I don't see how it can possibly get back to you. While I'm in here, they won't spend the time and effort to keep her under surveillance. Now is the safest time for you; outside, she would be the first place they'd look."

He tucked the book under his arm, then spoke louder. "If you'd just cooperate a little with Hegel's target rounds for the HB-3, I might be able to do something for you. Get you out of all this mopping and behind the stick, where you belong."

When he walked away, she mopped toward the HB-3. The guard wouldn't allow her closer than thirty feet, but it didn't matter. The ring was able to sync over much greater distances than that. With laptops and CD players, the ring almost required direct contact. Even previous models of the HB required her to nearly touch it. But since the HB-3 was designed to receive faint optical signals from bullets at well over twenty miles away, line of sight was all that was required to sync with it.

Its powerful optical computer had devised a devious method for tooth removal. It predicted a 93% success rate with only a 7% chance of fatality. But implementation would be problematic.

As she continued to mop around, the ring tingled more details. It proposed injecting a solid-state super-conducting dust into the upper atmosphere, similar to the dust the harvester used to attract lightning. With just a few dozen tons of dust, and a year or two for it to spread, the magnetosphere and the ionosphere could be pushed into a kind of self-sustaining feedback loop, amplified by solar particles. The results would be massive and random electromagnetic pulses, rendering most modern technology useless for hundreds of years. Visually, it would cover the world in a continuous Aurora Borealis that would pulverize almost everything electronic.

It would be gradual, giving them months to come to the conclusion that they would have to deactivate the teeth, or kill all the kids. The 7% was that they would choose to kill the kids.

Either way, the pulses would slowly grow until, within a decade, they would be powerful enough to destroy even the hardened chips in the teeth.

It had problems, least of which was producing the weird dust on an industrial scale. Putting it into the upper atmosphere would require rockets and another layer of expense. Even given the implementation difficulties, it still had other shortcomings. It forced the removal of the tooth, but that didn't equal her freedom.

She wrung out the mop, dipped it, then went back to mopping.

Impractical, but interesting nonetheless.

It had the added advantage of making finding someone nearly impossible, disrupting communication around the planet, crippling satellites, and preventing the power grid from ever recovering. It would also end the tiresome Global Warming debate, most likely by triggering another Ice Age. Interesting, but impractical, and not really the method she was looking for.

Belson looked at the sheet of paper, center of her desk. A simple diagram showed how to make blanks for the HB-3 with a kind of aluminum-foil wrapper and a plastic outer cover, similar to a shotgun shell's cup, and included exacting outer dimensions. The inside cavity was left empty for the 'paint' with a suggestion it be dense, heat resistant, and as solid as possible when room temperature to keep from clogging the loading mechanism. It was designed to fire 20-carat diamonds, not fragile plastic and paint, after all.

He took it to Hegel the next day.
B1.C67

After six disastrous missteps over the following week with various fillings for the bullet cavity, their first successful evolution of blanks used a mix of pressed sand and colored synthetic wax. Dana's first live-fire trial using the new blanks took all the arguments out of its obvious dominance. Reports from her numerous victims said the shells, those that didn't disintegrate midway, felt like being pelted by hail, some even left dents and dings in the aluminum skins when they hit. All leaving unmistakable gashes in the paint and splatters of melted wax over major systems like engines and cockpit. Rare were the worthless hits on wings and empty fuselage.

The HB-3 continued to impress every day it played in the air. Even without the guided ammunition, the dual guns were second to none. Each was able, when the rounds didn't prematurely explode, to deviate up to twelve degrees from what the nose of the plane was aimed at. Independently.

Used against air targets, that was the difference between doggedly lining up the shot and simply getting behind someone and shooting. With real bullets, it would prove especially effective at longer ranges. But long distance wasn't its only application. Close ground support was where it really shined with the kind of selective precision normally seen from highly vulnerable, slow moving helicopters, yet delivered at supersonic speeds. It offered the ability to strafe a wide swath of targets, the difference between destroying a neatly organized row of planes and an entire airfield of randomly placed assets.

Every day, teams of engineers inspected, probed, and attempted to understand how such a simple looking device could possibly do the complex as effortlessly as it did.

"You've got them befuddled again," Belson said, door locking them in for the night.

Shadona quietly selected clothes before her shower, no clue what he was talking about this time. "I'm just glad not to be mopping anymore."

He put his hand on her shoulder as he squeezed by and got comfortable in his chair. "Thanks for the tip, by the way. Sorry it took so long to get Hegel to implement. He isn't the brightest guy around, you know." He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. "Emanuel have you scheduled for this weekend?"

She shook no.

"Me neither." He let go. "I mean, obviously I don't qualify for Emanuel's crew, just have the weekend off, too. That's all."

"I'm not qualified for Emanuel's crew either," she said. "I'm the slowest person on his team. If he had a choice, he'd cut me in a heartbeat. As the only girl, I don't fit in at all." She paused between his chair and the shower, clothes in hand. "I don't belong here, Belson. Don't fit in, anywhere."

"Sums up everyone here." He pulled a book of matches and three cigarettes from his shirt pocket, putting two on his desk and one to his lips. "We're all looking for a way to fit in, and a way out of here." He struck a match, took a deep drag, then held his breath before a reluctant exhale. "It's been too long," he said with a sigh.

She sat across from him as she watched a less dangerous dust than her recent consideration fill the air. "Would you damn the world, just to get out of here?"

He took another drag, "Damn them all to hell. I'd damn some of them twice." He inhaled another, leaned back in his chair, and smiled peacefully at the smoky ceiling.

She looked at the filter, a hole pushed through it, paper crumpled and stained like it had been aged for months in the rain. She sniffed the air. "That's not tobacco. Smells like it's gone stale, mixed with fried flies, like the bug zapper in the kitchen."

He offered her the rest of his lit stick. Declined, he pinched off the end to save the rest for later. "Good nose. Will," he leaned in like it was a secret, "he found the special ingredients. You never had widow sticks before?"

She shook no.

"Found some black widows years back on some survival exercise, keeps them hidden in ducts, drawers, dead spaces under furniture. Feeds them maggots, separates their eggs, got it down to a science. Can feed a thousand on table scraps. Anyway, every few months, they harvest them, you know, after they make a bunch of eggs for the next crop. Tortures them for days with one of our Tazer rounds, makes them spew venom until they die. Venom-soaked tobacco, mixed with ground-up widow... it's like a euphoria all its own, impossible to describe. Used to make alcohol, but this is, like, a whole other level, without the horrible aftertaste and much easier to hide. Smell takes a little getting used to, can't afford the pure venom ones."

Dubious, she inspected the half-burned stick. "Euphoria?"

He leaned across, teasing her lips with hints of kisses, fingers through her long hair. "Euphoria," he whispered, kissing her earlobe as he followed the underside of her chin to taste her lips again. "Euphoria." His fingers glided a tease across the backs of her wrists, ending seconds later as they softly slid from her fingernails. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the ceiling, cloud disappearing into the vent.

She looked at the backs of her fingers, never knowing they could tingle like they were right now. Then, like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, the lights blinked their reminder to shower now, or shower in the dark. She went behind the curtain, as he struck another match.

While the water trickled off her body and down into the drain, he turned his chair toward the only thing that could compete with the special smoke he inhaled. He stared at her silhouette and that thin piece of plastic that separated them. "I love your long hair," he said as he watched her subtle curls damp down behind the screen. "Black. So black, sometimes, the light reflects highlights of purple and blue. That seem to disappear like smoke as you move. Like the magic that is you." He inhaled deeply, sucking it down to the filter, then ground the butt on the wall as he stood. "You've got, like, the most perfect complexion, too." He leaned against the wall, plastic lightly pressed against his arm. The warm drops felt like seductive licks on his dry skin. "No freckles. Spend months like moles, hiding from the sun. Yet you have this most perfect, perpetual hint of a tan. Nothing too dark. Just a hint." He ran his hand across the shadowy plastic image, imagining touching what lay inches behind, shampoo rinsing from her hair. Bar of soap, he watched her lather first her arms, then her chest and back as she methodically rubbed her way to clean.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a finger-sized shard of glass. Smoothed on one side, like the handle of a cup, razor sharp along its edge. It almost looked invisible, if he held it just right, just as invisible as it was to the dozens of metal detectors he walked past down these halls. He tucked the sliver between his fingers, and stared at the sharp edge of a decision. A decision he had already made.

He paused in the cloud of doubts the smoke muddled in his mind. "I've loved you for years now," he whispered, not sure she could hear. "See you in my dreams, every night. Constantly amazed, when I wake, that you don't remember everything we've done, our secret life. That what was so real, to me, was nothing to you. That one, fleeting glimpse, lingers forever." He paused, sharp sliver in hand. "You ever dream of me?"

Water drained as soap rinsed from her face and off her shoulders.

"That note you left on your desk, so simple a solution. Obvious, in retrospect. Are you just that much smarter than everyone else?"

She lathered her face a second time, as she always did, back turned to him. She washed everything twice, much as she brushed her teeth. Odd and annoying in everything else, sexy as a silhouette encore.

"I'm not smart enough for you, am I?" He grabbed the plastic, pulling it tight against the curtain rod, sharpened glass poised high. "Only in my dreams, is it ever real. Was there ever a chance, you and I..."

The thin plastic fell from the rod with a wet slap against the floor, cut as easily as soap rinsed down her back while she retreated to the corner in obvious fear. Knees trembling, she stiffened, but didn't scream as the blade he so casually held between his fingers glinted in the light. She swallowed hard, "Just... just a few more minutes, if you don't mind," she said, as calm as she could.

He stepped closer, water wetting his sleeve and pant leg. "You're so pretty," he whispered without the plastic in his way. She tried not to tense as he slowly raised his hand and ran his fingers into her hair. "I forgot how deep, and dark your eyes were." He ran his thumb across her eyelid and felt an uncontrolled tremble. "That nose, not too small, but not too big. Not turned up, not pointy, not narrow or too broad. Just a nose." He ran his finger down its bridge. "But not just a nose."

"Belson," she said, "I'd be happy to discuss my nose with you, but not while I'm in the middle of showering." She casually put a hand on his shoulder, and just like she would roll someone over in their sleep, she encouraged him to take a backward step.

He stood there, a little confused. Dazed. But just stood there while she did her best to calmly shower in front of him, as if nothing had changed.

She lathered her arms and shoulders again, concealing most of what he was intently staring at. "You were saying something before, but I couldn't hear it over the noise of drops against the plastic." She gestured at the toilet seat.

He took another backward step, and sat down. His eyes finally off her, he stared into his hands and the little blade tucked there. Plastic wad in a growing puddle of water on the floor. "Could you ever love me?"

The lights flickered their five-minute warning. Her towel and clothes were behind him, so she stalled in the shower, cleaning what was already clean, while trying not to be provocative about it. He was waiting for an answer, "That could easily change, depending on the rest of today."

He ran the blade against his jeans, threads fraying with every pass. "Doesn't depend, for me. I'll feel the same, no matter what. How can that be? How can it be different for you?"

She rinsed, then turned off the water. Her stall couldn't go on forever, so she gambled. "Can you toss me my towel, please." When he looked up, she pointed, then held out her arm. "Please."

He ripped her towel from the hook, but tossed it to the ground by his feet as he sat and stared at the cuts he had made in his pant leg. "I don't remember why I did that." He started cutting the other side so they'd match.

"I'm wet, Belson," she whispered, now that she didn't have to compete with the water. "I'm starting to get cold. Can I have my towel, please."

He stared at the wet plastic on the floor, then at the naked, shivering girl. "Can you love someone like me?" He looked at the blade in his hand. "Can you love someone after this?"

She looked over at his desk; his towel was much further away, but perhaps easier to get to — Animal Planet jumped to her mind. Bears always chased what runs away. It would require bravery either way. But as yet, Belson hadn't gone too far. He was, for the moment, sitting beside her towel. He was the dangerous bear in her room. A room she couldn't leave until it unlocked... too many hours from now. An eternity from now. Run from the bear, or try to make friends with it. Danger was down both paths. She stepped toward him, then knelt to pick up her towel.

He pressed his foot to its center. "Do you love me? Could you love me?"

"I could love that boy who wet this towel in the sink every hour, to cool and soothe bruised ribs. I could love that boy that held me all night, when I was desperate for a hug. I could love him very easily." She gave the towel a gentle tug, but it didn't give. "I could forgive him this, if this was all he did." She rested her hand on the knee that was preventing her from getting dry. "You haven't crossed into unforgivable yet. Let me have my towel. Let me get dressed. Let's put this moment behind us, before it goes too far."

He relaxed his foot as he ran his hand across her chest, Goosebumps forming under his touch. His fingers stopped over a tiny scar, the size of a pencil eraser, just below and to the side of her bellybutton. "Every girl here has this same scar. Why would they sterilize every girl, if not for—"

"Not for that," she whispered. "Not for that." She dropped the towel as she continued to drip on the floor. "Tonight, this is a big setback for us. But what have you really done? You've scared the hell out of me, destroyed the curtain, and seen me naked. You'd already seen me naked. The curtain needed replacing. And I'm not scared anymore. But I am still very wet and cold." The lights blinked out, leaving everything in silhouette. "I can forgive this, so far. I can. I've seen worse on reality TV. Just take your foot off the towel, and let's get back to our life like none of this happened."

His hand on her abdomen wandered lower in a way she couldn't so easily forgive, or ignore. "You're still a virgin," he said in the dark, though it could be argued that his touch had changed that.

She stepped back. "Stop," she said, "Just stop, now, before it goes too far to forgive." In the dim light, she watched him lick his finger, before standing and stepping her way. Cornered, her choices had reached their limit. The bear she was facing was far more powerful, armed, and very deadly. Playing dead wouldn't help her here. Running was only useful if she had a chance of escape. "Belson. Please, don't. Just turn, walk to your bed, and sleep this off. That's all you have to do. We'll wake up tomorrow like tonight never happened."

His fingers touched her cheek, ran down her neck, chest, abdomen, and beyond, for the second time. When she slapped him, he slapped her back, blade in hand.

She gripped his wrist, twisted it, and jerked down as she head butted him in the shoulder. The blade fell from his fingers as he screamed out in pain, arm popped from the socket.

But she had no hope of hiding from him. She had no way to get help or leave. She was locked inside with... He flung her against the wall, punched her in the stomach, then choked her from behind until she collapsed onto the floor...

The lights blinked on as he woke in agony, shoulder throbbing with pain. He pushed to his elbows and stared at his hands. He let go of her cold neck as he sat up on the painted, concrete floor. "Oh God," he whispered, remembering it all like a nightmare he couldn't wake from. He pulled up his pants.

Naked underneath him, she lay motionless on the floor. Bruises on her wrists and around her neck, where he had choked her down whenever she showed signs of waking. Blood covered her face where he had slapped open her beautiful, flawless cheek. Gash from near her ear to the corner of her lips. Her beautiful long hair, dried in the wound. Forever tan replaced with pale, blood-loss white. "What have I done," he whispered, several minutes yet before the door would unlock.

He stared at the towel he had refused to give her, discarded on the floor by the toilet. Blood drops were on everything. His sticky hands had left a smeared map of his blind gropings of her body.

He draped the towel across her, in shame. When it moved, ever so slightly, he dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to her chest. She was alive! He jumped to his feet, looking around the room. Ripping the sheets off his bed, he screamed out in pain, clenching his shoulder. "Damn! I don't remember it hurting this bad before." He did his best to warm her after she spent the night pressed to the cold floor. "Come on," he whispered, pulling the wrapped girl onto his lap as he held her in his arms, despite his throbbing pain. "Stay with me," he whispered in her ear. "If you die, I'll never forgive myself."

The second the door unlocked, he picked her up, arm screaming with every step, and ran her straight to the medical floor.
B1.C68

"Good to see you, nurse Benita," the doctor said, getting off the helicopter as she rushed him and his bags inside the mountain. "It's been too many years."

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice," she said as they rode down the elevator.

"Anything for you," he said as he watched the feet tick off above the door. "Never knew what happened to you after Iraq."

"Went private sector, sort of," she said. "Listen, I can't tell you too much. Suffice to say this is all top-secret, nondisclosure-type stuff with a civilian facade. Have a recruit that is in desperate need of your special skills."

"I'm not that kind of plastic surgeon. I don't do boob jobs for general's mistresses, liposuction, or nose jobs, I'm strictly reconstructive—"

"She's eighteen and got a gash across her face in a training accident." She crowded him in the corner and demonstrated with her finger across her cheek. "No eighteen-year-old girl should have to live with a scar like that over an accident. Just give her back her face, like you did for those bomb victims, and we'll be even."

"Why not do this in the daylight, have her shipped to my office?"

"She's not exactly here, legally, if you know what I mean," she said, knowing Shadona could easily pass for whatever nationality he was thinking. "Can't have any paper trail."

When the elevator stopped, she rushed him to the room.

"No no," the stranger said as she opened her eyes, "Don't try to talk, it's very important to be as still as possible and just listen, ok? Your cheek was severely lacerated. It was a delicate operation, any movement of your jaw for the next three days will rip it open. No coughing, just breathe through your nose." She closed her mouth, then her eyes. "That's it. Just relax. Don't try to smile, or frown. No facial expressions at all. I know it'll be difficult, but try not to touch the inside of your cheek with your tongue. I've injected you with some muscle paralyzers, so you shouldn't be able to make facial expressions anyway. Nurse Benita will keep you on them for the next few days. It'll leave you dizzy, disoriented, and a little nauseous. Just relax. You've been through a meat grinder, from the looks of it. But you're lucky, I think this was some of my best work. You should have a tiny scar, no bigger than a hair, easily covered with just a little makeup." She felt his fingers run through her hair, "Don't worry, you'll be just as pretty as you were before this little accident." He patted her on the shoulder.

Accident, she thought, before the drugs drifted her away again.

She opened her eyes a crack as the argument escalated around her.

"How dare you bring in someone without checking with me first!" the XO yelled.

"I'm the head of medical. We didn't have time for you to flip through—" nurse Benita said.

"For a heart attack or a severed arm, maybe, but this is elective—"

"Elective?"

"A plastic surgeon is the very definition of elective surgery, nurse Ben—"

"Some ass-wipe beats the crap out of her, rapes her, gashes open her face and leaves her to bleed to death on the floor and you're—"

"We have evidence of sex, not rape."

"Are you blind?" she said, hand on her hip, pointing to Shadona.

"And none of that has anything to do with a plastic surgeon!"

The nurse didn't back down a tick. "You obviously never had sisters or daughters. You don't leave a three-inch, life-changing, disfiguring gash on a teenage girl's face, like some sort of tattoo of the worst day of her life. That is an emergency, that's probably the biggest thing that girl will ever go through. You don't just slap a band-aid on it or close it up with staples and stitches, turning her into some disfigured Frankenstein for the rest of her life. There are some things in this world you just don't do. Stitches in a girl's face is one of them. I suggest you pay the man, in cash and on time, and be damn grateful I could get him on such short notice."

They continued the argument out in the hall.

"If she was the only girl that I'd seen this year, I might be inclined to believe you. But this is becoming a pattern. One girl was brutally raped and left dead already. You need to get control of this before it turns into another TailHook and—"

"This'll never hit the papers like TailHook did," he said, stopping in the hall.

"Keep telling yourself that. It's exactly what they thought. If you don't crack down, they'll take it as passive authorization to continue. Avoiding bad press isn't the lesson learned with TailHook."

"What do you want, Nurse? We've spent years teaching them how to lie to lie detectors. Can't test them all now. Can't send DNA samples out on children designed to never be in the system. We can't bring in CSI or the local police to investigate. Besides that, I've never heard a single girl say one word about it, and we've been coed for well over a year. Hell, complaints got cut in half. When she's able to talk, ask her who did it and I'll fall on them like a ton of bricks."

She pointed her finger into his chest, "Dozens of girls had gone through TailHook without saying a word, the absence of complaints doesn't mean a thing. You asked me to sit through those psychology classes, you're going to hear what you paid for. You've got seven boys for every girl. Those girls are under seven times the pressure they'd be anywhere else in the world. They've been ordered around by men to the point that they don't question anything. I doubt it even occurs to any of them that they could say no. If you don't have a problem yet, you will soon. I'd crack down. Make an example of someone, even if it's the wrong one, just to prove you're serious. But discipline's your department, not mine. I told you then that coed was a bad idea."

"They'll have to deal with it eventually, on carriers and battlefields, and they requested it, I just approved it. I never would have hatched a bunch of damn girls anyway, but they didn't ask me when you guys were playing God in the lab," he said, continuing down the hall for his office. "I'll look into it!" Knowing it was never going to get very high on his list.

'If you die, I'll never forgive myself,' she remembered him saying, her eyes slowly opening as the fog of the drugs lifted from her mind. Belson. She remembered only pieces of that night, after the slap. She remembered being violated, and she knew too well who it was. 'I'll never forgive myself' she remembered him muttering as he carried her down the hall to the nurse.

Where she was now.

He raped her, disfigured her, nearly killed her, and when he sobered up, he saved her life.

Mathematical parity suggested she should reward him for saving her life, just before taking his. But as sore and hurt as she was, she didn't lie that night. She could forgive him before he turned violent. She could almost forgive the rest. She dislocated his arm. Mathematically, that should have ended the fight right then and there. He should have been incapable of overpowering her after that. But he wasn't. Determination alone couldn't have overcome physics or the pain. She blamed the fancy cigarettes as much as she blamed him.

She had almost talked him down, two or three times that night. Had she not slapped him, things might never have turned violent.

Had she not slapped him, she might yet have kept everything under control.

She was the one with her wits about her. It should have been easy to outsmart him. To out maneuver his addled mind. Yet, she failed to do so. She was smart enough to know that slapping him would escalate the situation. She might not have been able to talk him out of violating her, but the level of violence was entirely in response to her actions. Had she seemed more willing, she likely could have escaped without a bruise.

She ran her fingers across the uncomfortable wrappings that kept her jaw closed, stopping at the thick pad of gauze on her cheek. Violence never solved anything. She should have known where the slap would lead. Had she used her hand differently, she could have eased the tension considerably.

She forgave him, as odd as that thought was to believe.

She remembered him saying that he would feel the same about her no matter what happened between them that night. She remembered him commenting on how odd that it would be different for her.

But she was finding that she may have been wrong. And his odd statement then, had a ring of truth to it now.

"Don't speak," the nurse said, sitting on Shadona's bed. "I'm giving you fluids through the IV. You'll feel hungry, but you'll be fine. You'll feel thirsty, but for your cheek to heal, you can't eat or drink for another few days." She put her hand on Shadona's shoulder. "Don't say anything, just spell it out on this keyboard. You know who raped you?"

She ran her fingers across the keys, but didn't press any of them. She wasn't angry. She wasn't mad. She didn't want revenge. She remembered the boy who stayed up all night, changing the cold compress so she could sleep. She remembered the all night hug. She believed when she went home to her room, he would be the one to open the door. And she wasn't mad at him, just who he had become that one, and only, night, mere days ago.

"You know who did this, don't you," the nurse pressed. "He will be punished, you have my word. I got that straight from the XO. He's looking to make an example of someone, all he needs is a name."

Shadona pushed the keyboard away.

"You afraid of what he'll do when he finds out you told? You think he can do worse than what he's already done to you? Don't let fear rule you, Child. Pretending it didn't happen will only embolden him, and people like him. Like a terrorist cell downing a Blackhawk, it becomes a recruiting tool if it goes unanswered. Don't let this act of terrorism go unanswered. You don't have to have the courage to pull the trigger yourself, just need actionable intelligence. Like an air strike, someone else will rain the fires of hell upon them. He's looking for an example, just needs a name."

Shadona closed her eyes again.

Nurse Benita patted her on the shoulder and got out of the bed, "I didn't buy that story Belson told for a second. I can't say his name for you. Anytime you want to say — Anytime — I'll be ready to hear it."

Belson stood at attention when she entered the room, his arm in a sling.

The door closed behind her, locking from the outside, end of the day.

He touched his shoulder with his good hand, "Torn rotator cuff, they said. Hurts like hell. Won't be able to use it for weeks."

She put her hand on her taped cheek, "Sliced open and violated by someone I trusted, someone I really liked. Won't be able to smile," she moved her hand to over her heart, "or trust for months, maybe years," she whispered, unable to talk very loud as she cautiously stepped deeper into the room.

He sat at his desk. "Thought I'd never, uh, see you again." He looked down at her feet, dried blood on her shoes. "Wouldn't blame you if you never talked to me again. I, apologizing doesn't seem like enough. Nowhere near. Can't think of anything that could ever be enough. I, I remember doing some truly horrible things to someone I care about. I've been locked in here, all by myself, alone, day after day, doing classes. Thinking about that night and everything I did wrong, over and over and over again in my head. Oh, Shadona, I... I—"

She stepped within his reach.

"I think I'll never forgive myself for not just walking away. A hundred times you tried to talk me out of it, so clear in my mind now. You tried to steer me right. A hundred chances to stop doing the wrong thing, but wrong just led to worse, and worse." He pulled down his pants.

She immediately stepped back.

"No, I..." he remained seated, pointing to the scars. "I don't even remember doing that. I thought I was just cutting my pants, but I was cutting deeper. I didn't know what I was doing, but that's no excuse for what I did." He pulled up his pants. "You'll never believe me again, but I didn't lie to you. I do love you. I've loved you for years. And in one moment that can never be undone, I ruined your life." He rubbed his palm against his pants, covering the scars, "These can never be deep enough."

She stepped closer again.

"I don't know how to hurt enough, to drown such profound regrets." He punched himself in his bad shoulder and winced. He closed his eyes and swung again. And again. And again. Again. Again.

And again.

His wrist was stopped by a gentle hand, and words he could never have been prepared for.

"I forgive you," she whispered.
B1.C69

Even his good arm around her felt numb, but he dare not move it so long as she slept. He looked at the scar on her cheek. His scar, carved by his hand. His mistake that she would wear for the rest of her life. Healed to barely a hair, just a faint discoloration in an otherwise flawless face.

He wanted to kiss her, but instead, he pressed his chest against her back as they lay on their sides in her tiny bed and waited for the lights. Hugs were where her heart was. Hugs he could give, as long as she would allow.

He stared at the back of her ear, long hair tickling his face. It seemed bizarre that he would find himself in her bed mere weeks after such a transgression. But there was a side to her he was beginning to understand, the mathematical equations behind her actions. The worst had already happened, sexual regrets had replaced months of sexual tension, and all the other conditions that contributed no longer existed. A repeat was mathematically unlikely.

And if she had actually forgiven him, then why not pretend that day had never happened? Why not continue down the path they were headed?

Why not have the all-night hugs she craved?

He felt awful about the events of that night. But, at the same time, he couldn't get the images of her out of his mind. This beautiful, slender, yet shapely young girl, standing soapy and wet before him. Her trembling knees stopped almost immediately, as a calm poise took over and she became who she needed to be, to talk him out of the actions on his mind.

As attractive as he found her, there were others he found more so. Her thin, silky hair was second to none, but her arms lacked the definition he had always been drawn to. Her breasts, though new and still growing, were smaller than he preferred. Her pretty face offered nothing special. Yet, his attraction was never stronger.

With Elhander, she spoke boldly, pushed her positions and didn't yield an inch in conversation. Her stance altered. Her arms and hands animated every conversation. She stepped into his face, invaded his space, almost threatening in her pose. She even yelled, on occasion.

With Emanuel, she was yet again a different persona. Cooperative, in her own way. Rarely raised her voice or her arms. She kept a comfortable distance when talking. And that persona worked well for interacting with him.

And again, the girl that first entered his room — their room — was bold, argumentative, strong, and a little threatening. But it changed over time. It changed that night, too.

She was a chameleon. Perhaps most people were, changing depending on who they were dealing with, with schizophrenics taking it to an extreme. Perhaps the personas were her attempts to fit in, to keep from being the girl that rocked uncontrollably, his first memories of her. The girl that drew all the unwanted attention. The girl that got picked on at every occasion.

Was the girl that craved hugs the real Shadona? Or just who she figured she needed to be to survive, while living in his room?

He sat and stared at her closed eyes. He knew they were brown. He had seen the brown before, but only in the brightest lights like out in the sun. Yet, every time he had seen her lately, he remembered them as black. Changing to suit the light.

He wanted to know why she came back. How she could be in the same bed so soon. He just couldn't get his mind around it. Friends close, enemies closer... That tired saying couldn't be it. She wasn't that easy to understand. Was she?

The XO had called her to the flight deck twice now, and she was still a no-show. He typed his password into the nearest terminal and ran a scan for her last known location, radioing it to the nearest guard to have her delivered.

"What the hell has gotten into you, lately?" he demanded when she was plopped down in the chair.

Dana stared at her untied boots, no incentive to fix them.

"You report when ordered, this attitude is unacceptable of anyone," he continued. "Your flight suit isn't zipped, laces loose, hair unkempt," he poked her in the stomach, "and you've turned to grade-A flab in the last two months. None of which is acceptable. Not here, and not now!"

She shrugged.

"Stand at attention when I'm talking to you."

She stood, slowly, and slouched. "You want me to fly it, or not?"

He poked her belly that hadn't improved with standing. "I'm not sure you can even fit in the damn thing!" He punched up her schedule on the nearest terminal. "Looks like the last few months of lifting weights haven't done you any good. I'm adding another hour of cardio until we get that pork out of you." He made the changes.

Elhander stood, "We don't need her anyway," he said. "Hasn't the autodialer proven itself by now, Sir? Besides, she's a mediocre pilot at best, and we need to start pushing it beyond 6Gs, something she refuses to do."

"Fine," Dana said, slouching into the chair again. "Didn't ask to fly the damn thing anyway."

"Get your lazy, disgraceful fat ass out of here and down to the gym!" the XO yelled, pointing toward the door. Once out of the room, he turned to Elhander. "She used to be one of the hottest girls here, for an early bloomer. Now look at her. Who do you want behind the stick?"

"Well, Sir, I'm not a test pilot, but I think I need some firsthand experience to better understand its key systems."

The XO sat on the edge of the table. "You think that's wise? My reports from our third party vendor show that well over 90% of the dialed numbers that result in engines firing, ends in a complete shutdown within five minutes."

Elhander smiled, "I'll just be sure to taxi it around for at least five. I've been dying to— You've got to know after studying it for years, how it's been killing me to have never flown it. Every hit, and I mean every hit that it's made for the last few months has been a total system unlock—"

"Yeah, well, it still has to fire a thousand wrong numbers into that pad to get one right. That isn't exactly a cracked code, if you ask me. You want to accept the risks, I'll let you fly it. Always have been willing to, Elhander. I just don't think it's a safe assumption you're making. I'd always rather kill one of these expendable kids than a real person, anyway. But it's your call. I can have our normal test pilot here in an hour."

Elhander rubbed his hands together, "No, I think I'll take this one. Nothing fancy, no testing the limits. Just need some experience behind the stick."

The XO patted him on the shoulder and headed out the door. "Just remember what happened last time you touched that stick. Take some PowerBars with you, it's about a hundred times harder than diamonds. Might take a few days to cut you out."

The plane taxied around the deck for a full ten minutes while he acclimated to the deceptively simple controls. Sitting behind the stick, parked in a hangar for the last few months, hadn't prepared him for the marvel of the screen, actually in use. As a tactical tool, it was second to none. And even though it looked almost identical to just standing outside, it still took forever to get used to.

He looked at his watch, lined up with the runway, and eased the engines to life.

Warned about its deceptive nature, it felt almost identical to a powerful prop-plane as he lifted off the deck, except it had no hesitation when he asked for more. He felt it transition into the kind of power normally associated with jets as he inched the throttle forward. He climbed to altitude, following the charted course. Looking forward, he could see the faint reflections of his Raptor chase plane, just over his left shoulder on his seven. But it wasn't a reflection. Simply by changing his eye's focus, he could clearly see everything behind him faintly blue and superimposed over his spectacular forward view.

He eased it faster and watched the numbers tick away as it climbed into the sky. Five thousand, six, seven, nine, thirteen, twenty and level. Effortless was an understatement. Crossing the mountains and into California, he decided to slow it out of sonic—

'Unauthorized pilot' flashed across the screen when they crossed over unpopulated forests.

He wrestled with the controls, but found them completely unresponsive. Mach 1. Mach 2. Three, four, it thrashed from side to side, pounding him against the straps and the seat like riding Satan's bull. Suddenly nosing over, it slammed him in the seat at over twelve Gs as it raced for the trees below.

Terrified, he cut the power to the engines, and it accelerated to Mach 6.

With no time to do anything else, he pulled the eject.

KraaaaaaaacKKKOoooooOOOWWWWW!!!

The plane bucked like it had been hit by a howitzer, but sounded like glass shattering in a sandstorm. Fifteen Gs threw him against the harness, slapping his chin against his che—

He blacked out.

In the darkness, he saw a tunnel of light between his feet above him. He crawled for the light and emerged from a tiny bubble that was covered in scratches, gouges and dings, with a tiny chute flapping in the wind amidst broken trees and severed branches.

Dizzy, he collapsed, facing the tiny hatch in the egg.

Pizzziiiifffff!!!

A puff of smoke trickled out.

"Take it easy, Elhander," the XO said, pushing him down on the bed, "Let the nurse check you out."

Dizzy from the high-G tumbling, he understandably complied, closing his eyes until he could make the room stop spinning. "What happened?"

"Well," the XO said, "you proved the escape pod works. That was the only part of the plane I didn't want tested! The bad news is I'm taking the billion out of your salary!"

"It lost... control. Spinning... Spinning so fast... no, wait." Elhander put his hand on his forehead. "It blinked 'unauthorized pilot' across the screen, then power dove into the ground. It tried to kill me!"

"If it was trying to kill you, why didn't it disable the eject like it did in the hangar?"

Dizzy, he forced himself to sit up, ribs laboring with every breath. "Maybe the eject is only active when it's flying. Like an airbag in a car."

The XO put his hands in his pockets to keep from strangling the— "You destroyed my plane! Do you have any idea what you've done! At this point, I'd rather it didn't eject. I'd rather it slammed into the ground at Mach 10! At least then we'd have something to examine."

"What are you talking about, Sir? There's got to be a ton of parts and pieces all over those woods. Just have to scavenge them up, Sir. Won't be easy, but it's doable. Might even finally learn something about how the damn thing works for once. X-rays and other non-destructive methods don't work."

"That's precisely why I'd rather have had you ride it into the ground. There isn't anything left, other than that pod."

"Can't be, Sir. Guns, engines, gas tanks, skin, all that stuff should have survived in some fashion or another. Even at Mach 10, there'd still be confetti-sized pieces. Hell, the skin was bulletproof, wasn't it? Pieces had to survive."

Emanuel entered the room, "You have to see this, Sir. It's camera footage from the chase plane, just got it uploaded to the network." He typed on the keyboard, then clicked play. "Here it is accelerating, the only reason we didn't lose sight of it was it did a big, fast circle over this spot. Walked away at maybe Mach 2, came back at Mach 6 or better, then nosed down, where it really poured on the speed. The Raptor follows, best it — There!" He hits pause and backed it up. "Don't have slow motion on this terminal, but lets play it again... There! Did you see that, Sir?"

The XO crowded over his shoulder at the tiny monitor. "I'm not sure. What are we looking at?"

Emanuel managed to hit pause when the plane turned into a cloud. "It vaporized, Sir. Sublimated. Turned to dust." He gestured like a magic trick with his hands, "Poof, it was gone."

"That's not possible, is it?"

Emanuel played it again, "You tell me, is it possible to turn the carbon in dry ice into a hypersonic plane in under six seconds? If you'd suggested it a decade ago, I'd have laughed my ass off and probably had you tested for drugs. I've seen too much between then and now. I'd say you're looking for sand in those trees. And maybe nothing even that big. It's hard to say with this footage, it all happened so fast and far away. But it's not outside possibility that we're looking at actual sublimation, going directly from a solid to a gas. We're wasting our time searching those woods, Sir. We're not going to find anything, because there's nothing to find."

The XO stared at the tiny screen. "That little bitch!"

"Hold on, Sir," Emanuel said, having an easier time holding Elhander back. "Don't be so obtuse—"

"Don't go Shawshank on me if you can't do the time," the XO said.

"You're obsessing over what you've lost, not what you gained. She's given you the ultimate military weapon. And this proves it." Emanuel pointed at the screen. "How many military secrets have we lost to foreign governments because of crashed planes? Or planes that defectors have simply flown into the arms of our enemy? Good luck figuring anything out from a bucket of sand, Sir. And good luck flying that plane, unauthorized. Now, you're just pissed because she's the only one with the keys. But this thing is just about perfect, beginning to end." He slapped Elhander on the shoulder, "Makes a Raptor obsolete, don't it? One year after China captures their first Raptor they'll have a hundred rolling out the factories. Simple to copy. But this? Not a chance. Hell, we can't copy it, and we made it."

The XO pulled his hands out of his pockets long enough to poke a finger into Emanuel's chest, "We better start making them, and soon."

"Yes Sir."

"Notch down the testosterone," Nurse Benita said, examining Elhander's ribs for breaks, "got a man down already. That takes precedence." She covered his ribs with his shirt, "Nothing broken. You got lucky this time. But you did black out. You might have a bruised brain bouncing around in that thing. I want to keep you under observation for the next ten hours. Nothing stressful. Play solitaire on the computer or something. Just keep awake, mentally engaged, but relaxed and calm." She pointed at the other two and swept them out with her gestures, "Calm means you two out."
B1.C70

"... Why should I?" Shadona said, sitting in the office chair. "You've been very clear you won't ever take out the tooth. You won't even let me see Elaine after she lost her husband, a man we both knew. You have nothing to offer that I can see. And even if you promised to let me see her, I'd know it's a lie. I think you've successfully burned every bridge you have, Sir."

"What gives you the impression this is a request!" the XO said, hands on the desk as he leaned across and towered over the girl.

She flinched back in her chair. "The way you ask makes it a rather weak request. The existence of this very conversation makes it a request," she said in her quiet, calm way. "Your veiled attempts to intimidate." She started unbuttoning her shirt. "Perhaps you'd like to rape me, too. Maybe that'd make me more compliant to your wishes." She stopped unbuttoning before it became revealing, moving her hands to her pants, "Maybe if a big man like you beats up the little girl she might want to stay. A penis can solve everything, can't it?" She unzipped, revealing just a hint of underpants, but he had already retreated from her implication, back into his chair. "Or, maybe you'll punish me until I eventually break, and make a bomb big enough to blow you all to hell, and let God sort it out. A sixty-mile blast radius would be easy, and would look identical to the old equipment."

"Put your clothes on." He inched his chair away from the desk, and her. "I didn't have anything to do with what happened to—"

"You have everything to do with everything that happens to me. This never would have happened with Yofi. That man actually cared about—"

"No, he didn't. Never did anything I didn't tell him to do. 'Everything that happens to you,' remember? He was acting, faking everything, just collecting checks and collecting intel on every—"

"I suppose this was what you call a sign of affection?" she said, her fingers tracing the scar. "You think you could write a check big enough to get Yofi to do that?"

"Tell me who did it, and I'll take care of it. It'll never happen again."

She buttoned up. "How? While you go home every night, I still have to live here. How are you going to fix it? How are you going to punish them? Make it strict enough, they'll just kill the next girl instead of leaving her alive to talk. You going to install glass detectors so they get strangled instead? How are you going to fix this? I gave you the solution, the only one that will ever work. Take the tooth out. Set me free. It'll arrive in your Email when I know I'm safe. Everything else is just more lies and wasted words."

He leaned back in his chair with a squeak, hands covering his face, "I'm not going to punish you."

She stood and fastened her pants. "Every minute I'm here is punishment." She twisted the knob and pulled, "Just wish I knew what I'm being punished for."

"Is a sixty-mile blast radius even possible with that ring?" the XO asked Emanuel as they toured the chamber, deep inside the mountain.

"Sixty? Sure. May even be on the conservative side," Emanuel said, inspecting the new gear. "Why?"

"How do you figure?"

"Well, a grain of plutonium, by itself, isn't all that dangerous, if that's what you're thinking. But these coils, the toruses, they tap an unprecedented... Think of it like this. Hanly is steadily figuring these bad boys out, inching them up as he's going along. But even now, just as they are today, you can think of each unit as an hour of power from a typical nuke. We have twenty-four of them, here, and this room discharges eighteen of them in a few seconds. Takes them to dead as a doornail. So, ask yourself, how much fuel, how much uranium, would a typical nuke burn in eighteen hours, and you have a pretty good estimate of the raw explosive power that's funneled through here when that plane is made. Tens or hundreds of kilotons, minimum, as a spark explosion, but more likely in the low megaton range. I'd be lying to you if I said this device is safe. But it's as safe as I can make it, without her help." He closed the cabinet door, made a note in his book, then tucked it under his arm. "Listen, Sir, I think you should at least give me the chance to talk to her. As the designated 'good cop', I might be able to—"

"What'd you mean by conservatively?"

"Well, sixty is the equivalent explosion for the energy consumed in the process of making her plane. But don't worry, without the equipment in this room, the worst you're looking at is a typical landslide, just ask Hanly. Now, if you knew nuclear physics and you could make a stable, self-sustaining torus, exactly like those rings she bolts to the ceiling, and you had hydrogen, like what's in the air or a cup of water, or what condensates in the dry ice... Well, you have all the ingredients for a fusion bomb. The H in the H-bomb, the biggest bombs ever made, basically uses water as the explosive. The hydrogen in water, specifically. Heavy water, even more specifically. Her torus, with a little tweaking, could probably fuse everyday hydrogen into helium... There's a limit to how big you can build a plutonium or uranium bomb. But hydrogen can go as big as a supernova. With several gallons, Iowa could have oceanfront property." Distracted by the conversation, he looked in his notebook again.

"How much tweaking would that take? Would you notice it?"

"Probably, but maybe not. She clearly knows more physics than I do. But she's not building the next one, I am, right?"

"Yeah," the XO looked at the pitted, smoke-stained walls, "it's all you this time. Try not to let me down like Elhander did."

"How's he doing, by the way?"

"He had some swelling of the brain. They had to crack open his skull, put him on steroids. Said if nurse Benita hadn't caught it in time, he would have died. As it is, he's going to have a wicked scar. He's pissed because they had to shave him. You know how guys get when they start going bald, want to keep every strand for as long as possible. Some try to glue back what they dig out of the drain."

"Funny, Sir." He opened the next cabinet. "It'll be good to get him back. We've had to put a hold on this HB-4 equipment because I've been tied up with suits and taking over his maintenance shift. I'm beginning to see why Hanly had his blowout with you." He put some marks in his notebook, "I'm not as young as I once was, and doing this ages you quick." He tucked it under his arm as he closed the cabinet door, "You know, Sir, we do have someone in the building that's qualified to run a maintenance shop, a suit shop, and build one of these HB-4's... after all, she built the last three. Now, she'd never build suits, you said building the HB-4 is out, maybe she'd take over the maintenance shift. Give her her old crew, deliver her food, buy gloves and CDs and I could probably get her to do it, costs less than Elhander anyway. Free me up for suits and this. Otherwise we'll never catch up until Elhander's brain stops swelling."

The XO patted him on the shoulder, "Ask her for me, would you." He started walking away, "Elhander's head was swollen when I hired him. We might not have that kind of time."

She plugged in the player, inserted the CD, and turned it on while the girls slowly filtered into the shop. She looked over the roster of repairs, but showed no desire to start on any of them. Instead, she just sat there, clipboard in her arms, leaned back, and listened to the songs.

Soon enough, they all silently gathered around the tiny box. She looked around at all the tired faces of girls she had known for oh so long. They had all aged quicker than any girls should. Probably the same way she had aged in the last few months. They had so much to say, like the war-torn planes they were tasked to repair, it was written on every face. But instead, they did nothing but listen for the rest of the day.

"What the hell does she think she's doing?" the XO said, marching from his office toward the maintenance shop.

Emanuel stopped him in the halls outside the heavy hangar doors. "What's going on?"

"I'll handle it," he said, but Emanuel blocked the door with his foot.

"Take a step back, bad cop, and take a second to bring your partner up to—"

"That bitch has been sitting there the whole day, not doing a damn thing."

"Well," Emanuel pondered without moving his foot, "let me find out, I'm headed in there anyway. May be as simple as they're all on their period together, in which case we just wait a few days and it takes care of itself. You go in there as pissed as you are and all you'll end up with is a pissing contest, where you yell until she does what you want, and she refuses to do what you want until you stop yelling. Nobody wins that way. What you and I want is for her crew to repair planes so I can make suits and the HB-4. She may piss on me, but it won't be a contest, and I won't take it personal."

The XO let go of the door as Emanuel walked in, alone.
B1.C71

The XO watched the video again. Three days of doing nothing was difficult for him to watch, and not do anything about. But as Emanuel predicted, it took care of itself, and he watched as her crew started cranking out repaired planes, turbines, and retrofits for more helicopters.

They weren't as fast as the boys, and five fewer in number, but they worked a longer day and weekends and weren't falling as far behind as first feared. Even so, while the HB-4 equipment was under construction, he had to turn away repair orders that they simply didn't have the numbers to handle.

"Have you double-checked everything?" the XO said, staring at millions of dollars in equipment that, even if it worked, was certain to be destroyed in the next few minutes.

"Double-checked, triple-checked, and beyond," Emanuel shrugged, notebook gripped tight in his hand. "Sure. Not sure, it's a gamble, Sir, plain as that. If she oversaw it, I'd give it a 99% chance of doing exactly what she wants it to do. On what I've built and checked... your guess is as good as anyone's." He looked up at the massive ring mounted in the ceiling. "I'm confident, but not certain. Everything I have says this equipment is an exact copy of what she had. The software," he shrugged, "we're taking it on faith. Don't understand it, can't read it, looks like garbled static." He tossed the notebook on the top of the closest cabinet. "Welcome to the new Vegas, betting the house on the first roll. Listen, we can stop now, let her look at it. Let her enter the code in that fancy window, that's where my biggest doubts are. We've got nothing to lose by letting her look it over.

We'd want to have captured the codes for the HB-1 and 2 for a comparison, but as they were different designs and different hardware, they'd have had different software, too. Ideally, we'd want to capture the codes from two identical planes, made with two identical, uh, printers, for lack of a better word. We don't have that."

The XO rubbed his stubbly chin as he stared up at the ring. "Give me odds. What's your gut say?"

"Gut, 80% you'll get another HB-3. But, my experience with the suits says she's smarter than anyone working on this. She's smarter than anyone gives her credit for. That's just the facts. She tests as 112 IQ, and there's no possible way that's right. I think she let her guard down around me. I've got the best notes ever taken, I've had the best vantage point anyone has ever had. She could have played me, but much more likely, she stopped guarding it because she knows — not thinks — but knows that we can't possibly copy the code. If she's certain that we can't copy the code, like the laws of physics prevent it, and that's where she gets her confidence from, then we're pissing in the wind, and about to flush away more money than either of us will ever make in our lifetime. It's a little more difficult than making an illegal copy of Windows."

"Laws of physics prevent copying the code?"

"See, it looks like static, garbled static to me. That could be because we're bumping our heads against a law of physics that we don't understand, but that she does. That would explain the static. That would explain why she never said anything about the taps, if she noticed them at all. There's also a chance that everything she does in the booth is a sideshow, like the pretty assistant that distracts the crowd while the magician pulls something out his sleeve. In which case, the code does nothing and that's why it looks like static, and the device will work like my gut says it will."

"Bottom line?"

"Bottom line, the only way to know is to turn it on. Look, I'm in favor of doing whatever we have to do to get her in this room to just look over everything. She may be pissed, but I doubt she's suicidal. If there's a mistake that's extremely dangerous, your sixty-mile radius scenario for example, I'd say she'd definitely notice and there's a good chance she'll point it out before we turn it on. If we've just done something stupid, expensive, but not suicidal, she'd definitely say nothing and let us turn it on."

"But if we've got it perfect, she'd complain like it was suicidal—"

"Maybe, Sir. But my gut says she wouldn't for a very simple reason. Even if we do everything perfect, it still comes with an encrypted lock and a suicidal security system that only responds to her. She gets a plane that only she can unlock, and didn't have to do any work to build it. I don't think she'd complain about that as much as you think."

"Coordinate with Hanly, when he's got your power, you've got a go. If you can get her to look it over, more power to you. I'm leaving it in your hands."

She walked through everything with Emanuel for over an hour that weekend. Looking inside cabinets, running up and down on lifts inspecting the ring and the dry ice room, tugging on cables and checking voltages, everything she had done on previous models.

"Well," Emanuel said as they reached the end of the line.

"You do quality work," she said, inducing a smile. "But it won't work. I wouldn't turn it on."

"Dangerously won't work, or—"

"A little dangerous, yeah. Doubt you'll kill anyone, but you never know."

Opening his ever-present notebook, he decided he had nothing to lose by pressing. "Any specific reason why it won't work?"

"You don't understand the physics behind it enough to know what it does or how it does it." She smiled, pointing up at the ceiling, "It opens a wormhole to another planet and another society a million light-years from here. To trade with them you have to know their language, religions, and most importantly, you need to know what raw materials they're desperate for." She looked him in the eyes. "Ever wonder why it looks a lot like a Stargate? It'll never work because you don't know the gate address to the only planet in the universe that's willing to trade hypersonic fighter jets, for dry ice to chill their beers."

He laughed so hard he dropped his notebook, spilling papers across the floor. "You had— I totally believed you, right up to beers." He knelt to pick up the pages, randomly scooping them into the open spine.

She handed him the ones by her feet. "Don't turn it on. It won't rip a hole in space-time to another galaxy, but it won't be pretty either." She knelt across from him so she could speak in whispers. "You're close. I could easily make this work with just a little modification. The XO knows what he has to do first." She touched the back of his hand as they reached for the same piece of paper. "This won't work, and he'll blame you for the expensive failure. And me because I'm convenient. Tell him you have doubts. Make him order you to turn it on."

He straightened the papers, then stood with her as he looked around the room. "It has to get turned on. It's too expensive to build and never use."

She turned toward the ample concealed cameras and spoke with a loud, clear voice. "Don't turn it on. I could make this copy work, but you know what you have to do before I will. This experiment will fail, spectacularly, perhaps fatally." She turned to Emanuel, put her hand on his shoulder, said, "I'm sorry," and left the room.
B1.C72

"She said—" Emanuel said in the harvester control room.

"I heard every word," the XO said, looking over the big board of the twenty-four units. "I'm fully aware of the lies that spilled from her mouth. She told you that it was close. Told you she could make it work. She doesn't want you to turn it on, that means she's scared it'll work. You've spent the last week going over it with a fine tooth comb, trying to find any discrepancy that she might have noticed. You didn't find anything, did you."

He put his notebook on Hanly's panel, right beside his coffee. "No Sir. I think we've got an exact copy of the last one, as far as the hardware goes."

"Hanly," the XO said, "are all the coils, or uh, toruses exactly where they were for the last one?"

"As close as we can get them, Sir," Hanly said, checking the grid a final time. "The Co-Op knows we might be down for a month and has scheduled around us like a regular shutdown. We are off the grid. Emergency lights are on standby. And we've got candles and matches everywhere, just in case."

"Sir," Emanuel interrupted just as the XO pointed to Hanly, "her confidence, to me, suggests that she knows the software can't be captured. We're wasting effort if it—"

"Do it," the XO ordered.

BOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Monitors fell over, drawers opened and slid across the floor as the mountain plunged into darkness. Emergency lights failed to come on.

"Richter, 6.4," someone shouted, as the room full of people stumbled to their feet.

The fire alarm blasted. "Got fires in the hangar, Hegel's shop up on three, and the chamber is raging out of control," a voice near the panel said as candles flickered across the room.

Hanly's hardened monitor rebooted, "We've got failures in six of the toruses. Lining damage, but no containment failure... just seepage, right now." He frantically typed at the keys. "I'm shutting down the remaining toruses and bringing everything to a standstill until we can manually check them. Might have caused cracks that could catastrophically rupture. We need to x-ray every unit before bringing them back on line."

"Come on, Hanly," the XO said, "is that really necessary?"

"Yeah, it is," Hanly said, not slowing down with the keys. "They ain't toys, Sir. We should have them checked out and back up in a month or—"

"A month!" the XO said, "We can't do without the revenue for—"

"Don't worry, Sir, we should certify four within a few days. Plenty enough to do some banking and tread water with the budget. Not enough to bring the harvester back online, but it's something."

Someone in the back of the room picked up a phone, "Sergeant, get three men with extinguishers down to the chamber on 1340 and... elevators are functional... That's right, it's a big fire, but they've got a hose on it already, they just need reinforcements to rotate in... Yes, bring as many air tanks as you can, the air is toxic... Good luck, and thank you."

The emergency lights blinked on. "What's the status on the fires?" the XO said.

"Hegel's shop is a total loss, but the fire is out. The hangar is flooded, but the sprinklers took care of the fire and water damage seems minimal. The chamber is the only fire that's still in question. Got six men on the floor that have it contained, for now, and should have four more on it in two minutes or less."

The XO pointed to Hanly, "I want eyes inside that chamber."

"Sorry, Sir. Busy," Hanly said, typing away.

Emanuel grabbed a keyboard and tunneled into the system, "Can't get it on the plasma, you'll have to watch it here."

The XO crowded over him and stared, "I can't see anything."

"Yes Sir, but that's the only camera that survived the blast. I'm trying to locate the... here's what you want to see, the six seconds in the chamber before the blast." He rolled it frame-by-frame. It showed something coming out of the ring, but it clearly wasn't a plane. "Sorry Sir. I guess that answers that, can't capture the data stream."

"What's that?" the XO pointed to the screen.

"Some sort of overload, I suspect. The gear is arcing across each other, that's never happened before." He checked the time. "Two seconds in it overloaded, possibly received a surge. Time's right with the quake. We still don't know how she discharges those toruses without bringing the mountain down around us. We hoped it was in the hardware, but assumed it was in the software, which would explain why we had a higher Richter than before. It might be that we got a piece of the plane or something, but we won't know until the fire's out."

"Fire's out," someone said behind them.

"Confirm that," the XO said, "Then vent the hell out of that chamber."

Beneath the melted ring was a pile of clumpy charcoal and ash, nothing useful, and certainly nothing worth millions of dollars. Not a single clump was harder than chalk, or shaped like anything.

"They are so pissed at you," Belson said that night as the lights went out.

"Why should they be? Not a single repair got turned around," she said, comfortable in bed.

"That's not what—"

"That's the only thing I've done for weeks."

He stood by her bed, folded his arms, and rested his elbows on her mattress. "Not what— I'm talking about that big mess in the chamber. Those dumb sons of bitches tried to make one without you. Damn near blew the base up, for nothing! Took forever to find a thousand pieces of plutonium. Burned Hegel's shop somehow, had us sifting through a pile of ashes for diamonds. Not a single grain. We're going to be doing a lot of painting and scrubbing, best you know."

"Why tell me? Elhander's not back yet, is he?"

"Not that I know about. Still gets all-day headaches, last I hea—"

"Then I don't see why they'd have first shift doing cleanup instead of repairing planes. Doesn't make—"

"The XO's fixing to hand out punishments, way I see it. Emanuel's inherited Elhander's old crew from first shift and they're taking over repairs, then he's staying over into second shift for the suits. That way he can punish you both, way I figure it."

"Sounds like the bastard."

"Well, until Hegel's shop is fixed, we'll be loaned to the cause, I suspect. Paint and scrub, paint and scrub." He found her hand in the dark. "Ripped up the liners in seven units, cracked the concrete in two, take them months to fix it all. Gives me a break from Hegel and the monotony of making those damned paint loads and Tazer rounds. Same thing every day. Day after day." He kissed her fingers, "They're all scratching their heads over what went wrong."

She adjusted her pillow, a line of clothes packed between her back and the cold wall.

"Emanuel might even get fired if they don't figure it out."

She tucked in her sheet.

"Thought you liked Emanuel."

"He's no Yofi."

"He's no Elhander either. You could save his job with a few well-placed hints. Keep him around a little longer, if you did. Probably feels powerful to have someone's job resting in your hands."

Her sigh ended with a yawn, "I'm tired, Belson. I just want sleep."

"Ok," he said, getting to his bed. "I still don't understand why you... Why you would, stay?"

"I can't leave," she whispered.

"I mean, this room. With me. Why you never said anything to anyone."

She concealed the pencil in her hand, pad of paper near her pillow.

"I miss being close to you. I miss those all-night hugs. I didn't think I would," he demonstrated with his pillow. "My arms feel empty. It used to start tingling, like it fell asleep hours before me, and hurt a little in the morning... but it didn't feel empty.

I didn't expect that, that I would miss someone in my arms so much. Miss feeling you breathe. Something so peaceful and calm about that.

A lumpy pillow is a poor substitute.

I guess what I'm getting at is, I finally understand why you liked to be hugged so much. Seemed a little silly to me back then." He sat up in bed. "There's so much more to you than everyone sees. But it isn't hidden. It's right there, if they only know how to look. Feels like I've been blind for so long." He lay, staring at the ceiling. "Shadona," he whispered, "you're a lot smarter than you let on, and wiser than your years would allow. My biggest regret is all I saw for so long was the shy, pretty girl."
B1.C73

Emanuel set down a full bucket of paint beside Shadona in the hangar.

"They going to fire you?" she said.

He pulled the screwdriver from his pocket and pried off the lid. "Doubt it. It'd be suicidal to fire me right now. After Elhander gets back, might be another story." He pulled the empty bucket off her lift and replaced it with the full one before hooking up the pump hose for her sprayer. "And it isn't a they. It's a him."

She knelt in the lift basket so she could look him in the eyes. "Them just makes it sound less personal. Not your fault, you know. Too complicated for any one person to figure out, especially not knowing the physics."

He stepped back with a smile. "Their problem was they keep putting engineers on it, when it called for a painter."

She stepped on the pedal and pressed the button as the lift squeaked and hissed its way to the ceiling. When in position, she fastened her respirator, lowered her goggles, and sprayed her third coat this week. She enjoyed giving extra thick coats wherever a camera was trying to hide.

When the hangar doors kicked open, she watched from her perch as the XO charged straight for Emanuel's office.

"The Defense Department has scrapped suit production, so when you finish out this order, go ahead and end production," the XO said, door closing behind him as he poured a cup of coffee from atop the filing cabinet. "Damn you like it strong."

Emanuel logged into the computer, "That's only six more, right?"

"I... " he looked around, visibly confused, "I think so, you should have the latest orders here."

"I'm showing six. We already have eight built, waiting on the pallet to be picked up. What do you want to do with the other two? Plus, we've got enough spare parts to make another, and we're 90% on two more, waiting to juice them, all the material is already bought, built, and paid for."

"You normally build units before you get the orders? You have any idea how expensive these bastards are?"

"To the penny, Sir. After a few years of production, you start getting a defects bin. One process, for whatever reason, will produce a defective arm plate, glove plates, something like that. The rest will be fine. But we can't make just arms or gloves. It's set up to make the whole unit, all at once. Just like the pl—"

"I know, don't remind me."

"Well, when we did an inventory of the bin a few weeks ago, we found we had enough spares to make a few, but we didn't halt production of new ones either. So you see, they're extras, really. Surplus. Already paid for and factored in, depending on how you want to look at the accounting. Not exactly free, but not exactly an added expense either. Besides, the damn things come in handy. It takes four of them to walk that plane down the hall. Would be nice to have four of them laying around for heavy lifting." He logged off the computer. "They're not just military weapons, they're damned useful in the shop. Puts a forklift to shame."

"Million dollars a piece, they ought to be. She given you any hints about what went wrong yet?"

"No, but I don't expect her to." He leaned back in his chair, feet on his desk. "Don't know where you got the idea that she suddenly would." He opened his lunch box and got out a turkey and mustard sandwich, then pushed the pickle back between the slices. "Why'd they cut production?"

"Fiscal. Couldn't afford our prices, needed to scale up production. Came at the worst possible time. We're millions in the hole for the HB-4, the harvester is down, we're well under capacity, maintenance orders haven't recovered since she was in charge. Suits were a big part of the budget. Without them," the XO shook his head, "had to sell out the production rights, just to make this quarter's budget."

Emanuel swallowed hard. "So, the demand didn't drop, just the supplier changed."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, she still talks to me like I'm the good cop. But I doubt she'll be forthcoming." Feet off the desk, he set his sandwich on the mouse pad. "Listen, I've had time to reflect on all of this. I think my equipment was good. If we get the money, I can build it again. It's at least very close. It's the software and the balancer that taps the mountain's power that failed. Our draws from the toruses were all wrong, and they converged into an overload just a few seconds in. It's what she does in that window, it's that imaginary orchestra she conducts that's key. Probably not reproducible. She's an integral part of that plane, it can't be flown without her, and it can't be made without her. Hell, even if I get the 'printer' right, it won't work without the mountain. This plant is more ideally designed to power that device than it is to run a city.

Maybe we're going about this the wrong way anyway.

Maybe it's better to just have one of the planes for study. Dissect it, reverse engineer it from the outside in like anyone else would do. You'll never get it as light, strong, or fast as hers, but it'll be a big step forward. Forget about making her fancy 3-D molecular printer work, as tempting as it is. Next pair of fresh eyes you put on this, I wouldn't tell them anything about that damn chamber. It's too tempting a distraction to resist.

Of course, if we could figure out how to write the software, you'd be able to make anything. That's an awful tempting technology to have at your disposal. It'd be just as easy to make two tons of Hope diamonds as making that plane. The suits are like virtual molds, all they can make is different shapes of armor. Arranging big polymers and molecules. But this is another level entirely. Should be able to fabricate a wide variety of pre-assembled objects with it, precision down to the atom. Haven't a clue how it does that in the blink of an eye, and we're decades away from figuring out the software." He gobbled another bite. "Tough call, Sir. What to prioritize. What to focus on. Don't have the resources to do it all. Cracking the suit technology would be easier, in theory, definitely cheaper to experiment with. And it may give us insights into its bigger cousin. But I'd expect it to take tens of billions and a few decades to crack suits. In that same amount of time, for about the same price, you might be able to invent an equally effective technology from scratch.

She told me my problem was I didn't know the physics behind it. That was the only hint she gave me, and a pretty obvious one at that. Having me figure it out might be like using a BB gun to take down an elephant.

You first look at it, you look at her, and you think, how hard could it be? She's just a kid for God's sake. But after a few months... Look, Einstein came up with E=MC2 using just a pencil and some paper, but it took a quarter of our GDP and a city of scientists to turn that equation into the first bomb. You may be talking Manhattan Project to figure this out, and we don't even know the equations she used.

But it's already figured out, sitting inside her head.

We both know what she wants."

"Last time I tested those waters, she did just enough to get the suits to work. You're no closer to understanding them than you were when we started, are you?"

Emanuel sighed, looking down. "Nope." He looked up. "But I give her the benefit of the doubt. It may well be the case that it'd take her the next seven years to explain the physics behind it all, there's no way to tell. Hell, even if she gave me equations the likes of E=MC2, we wouldn't be any closer." He leaned closer. "She may be naive and far too trusting, but she did in her head what a city of scientists couldn't do. She isn't stupid."

He gulped from the cup, and sighed. "I'm not going down that road again, not with the stakes this high."

"My suggestion, if you insist on doing this the hard way, is you send a copy of my as-builts to the university of your choice, preferably a nuclear science lab linked to the DOD for clearance purposes, send them a hundred million every year, line up some matching funds, cross your fingers, and wait four decades. That's really what they're set up to do. They might just figure out how to program it to make simple objects within our lifetime. But I'm out of my depth, I'm a BB gun, when you need something a lot bigger.

But I wouldn't discount the value of those as-builts, just because it didn't work. It'd be like throwing away a new printer because you couldn't get the drivers to load. I believe her when she says that it's close and easily fixable. That may be a bigger hint than you think."

"I was expecting a more useful hint than that."

He shrugged, sandwich in hand. "I wasn't."

He watched as she moved her hand over the desk, gestured like she picked something up, moved it diagonally, then set it down. She had been doing it for the better part of twenty minutes while listening to the digital instructor prattle on. Finally, he just had to ask. "What are you doing?"

She glanced at the screen. "Quantum physics. But their theory is all wrong. Waste of time."

"Not that, what are you doing with your hand?"

"Notes," she said, looking at her left hand, pencil and pad.

"Right hand too?"

"Oh," she made a loose fist, then propped her chin on it.

He slid his chair back into her desk so he could face her. "I didn't mean for you to stop. Seen you do it a couple times before, usually when you're bored like classes and stuff. Just, well, curious I guess. Thought I'd ask."

"Nothing."

"Not nothing. You do it too often and too consistently to be nothing. You're clearly doing something—"

"Playing chess."

He stared at the empty space. "Chess? In your head? With who? Against yourself? Why all the hand movements?"

She sighed, turning away from the desk. "I move my hand because I can't keep all the positions straight in my head. Muscle memory. That's why I move my hand."

"Don't stop on my account," he said, facing his desk again. "I was just... Sometimes I see you moving your hand for no reason. I thought it just helped you think. Like counting on fingers or something... " He laughed. "I guess I guessed right for once."

She moved her fingers under the table and signaled the ring she would continue the game, much later.

"Heard that Elhander isn't coming back, medical reasons. Said Emanuel's second shift is over too. He'll get the shop until they can hire another maintenance supervisor, then he's history too, unless he can come up with some solutions. Probably just rumors. Two out of three ain't bad, right?"

"One out of two," she whispered.

"Well, one might be up to you. Got some cards to play, when you're not playing chess." He slid back, put his earpiece in, and listened to the lesson on his screen. Unlike her quantum physics, he needed to pay attention.
B1.C74

Manual, menial labor was the definition of punishment. In the waning months of winter, the top menial task was gardening and tending their greenhouses. Greenhouse, in her case, meant clear-plastic plant tents, similar to umbrellas, and garden meant terraces carved down the sunny side of the mountain.

It was an interesting setup, to be sure. Unused interior chambers were fitted with lights and turned into indoor greenhouses. By stacking plants on shelves under 24-hour lights and constantly transplanting for maximum density, they grew four acres worth of food in just three rooms. Since power and labor were free, it proved fairly efficient and cut their food costs considerably. But the plants themselves couldn't be tall. Mostly carrots, radishes, onions, lettuce, spinach, and some legumes, a taste of flavor, but not the volume to feed hundreds.

For corn and other plants of stature, they needed the outdoors.

Wind whipped through her thin coat. Fingers freezing, she planted the sprouts in their individual ice-cube-like trays, poured on the rich termite dirt, added water and assembled the greenhouse over it. Covering its skirt with dirt and a few rocks so it wouldn't blow away, she proceeded to the next terrace, just another six steps, and did the exact same thing. The entire mountainside needed to be done like this, and she was the only one tasked with the job. She would, over the course of the next week, climb this mountain dozens and dozens of times, a punishing workout in itself.

The sprouts, and thus the greenhouses, occupied a small corner of each terrace. As they took hold, they would later be transplanted into the back row, and new sprouts started. This next batch would be planted in the middle row, and the batch after that would be up front. A larger tent would keep frost from killing off the plants before spring, but after that, the greenhouses would be put away and the strenuous labor would begin.

To enhance the efficiency of the terrace system, each plant would get transplanted no less than four times. First as densely packed sprouts where they grew less than an inch from each other in a tight patch. Next as a larger patch up front at no more than two inches apart. Transplanted further back and six inches apart, then moved a final time, a foot or more apart, they'd tower up high in the back. After that they'd be harvested, the stalks fed to termites, and the whole process would repeat, yielding a new harvest every week late into fall when they'd finish under plastic greenhouse tents again.

They even made the tents in the shop.

With intense labor, small gardens can be induced into producing large volumes of food. The mathematical equation was rather simple and fairly straightforward. The more energy you put into a garden, the more food you got out. Irrigation was the biggest bang for the smallest investment, enough water could even grow green lawns in Vegas. Artificial lights could triple production by growing 24/7/365, regardless of weather or season. Shelves allowed plants to literally grow on top of each other, doubling densities with every shelf. Manual labor, transplanting and greenhouses, did much the same outside. Gardening was an equation, the more energy you put in, the more food you got out. And the base had energy and labor to spare.

She warmed her hands inside her coat, tucked her head down, and listened to the wind beat against the plastic sheets.

All of this labor could easily be automated. Plans and ideas swam through her head as her cheeks glowed red, lips blistering dry. The equipment would be simple to construct with the pieces and parts already in the shop. The material was abundant, common, and inexpensive. Redesigned, she could probably double or triple its production yet again. But that was the XO's point in punishing her this way.

Instead of mopping.

Instead of painting.

Instead of KP.

Instead of laundry, she was being punished outside, in the cold, with gardening. Their most creative mind punished with weeks of monotony in the one area that could be easily auto— She refused to play his game. She could do it herself, the hard way, or solve the problem and make it easy on herself.

Defiantly, she chose the hardest path.

She was done helping him. Done offering carrots that got her nowhere. Carrots may be better than sticks, but there was another equally compelling saying. You don't feed the alligator in hopes that he'll eat you last. She had fed the alligator too many carrots already.

Besides, nurturing sprouts into plants appealed to her. She enjoyed being alone on the side of the mountain, instead of stuck inside under artificial lights and recycled air. When the wind gusted, whipping and tearing at her clothes, it was easy to imagine she was flying, free as a bird, plastic beating like a flock with hundreds of wings. Part of her wished it would blow hard enough to fling her off its side. She could think of no better way to die, then after a good fly.

She held her arms out like wings as the gust beat against her, imagination already soaring in the air.

But she didn't want to die.

With Elhander out of the picture, Emanuel was in charge of the flight roster. With him, she always had a slot. Several times a week she got to put this mountain miles behind her and unleash thousands of pounds of thrust at will. Flying made her heart sing and was the only time she felt free.

Of everything this mountain had to offer, the closest thing to flying was found right here on these terraces, with dirt between her fingers, back to the sun.

Wind in her face.

Not a soul around.

He looked at her chapped lips and dirty hands as she came in that night. "They still got you gardening? What is that man thinking?"

She paused by the door as it powered closed with a mechanical clunk.

He stood beside her, arm across her shoulders, "Bent over, hands and knees all day... Waste of talent, if you ask me. First time I've seen you slouch in months. Doesn't seem right. Skilled mechanic sticking seeds in the ground." He ushered her over to her chair as he pulled his beside it. "Sit, relax for a minute."

"I just want to shower and sleep," she said, her voice low and beaten after her day. She pushed her chair under her desk, grabbed her clothes and towel, and went behind the opaque curtain.

He repositioned their chairs and sat by the curtain, patiently waiting for her to finish. "Bet the hot water feels good." More steam than usual billowed from the shower stall. "It's been a few months that he's been punishing you with this. I would have thought he would have at least let you work the indoor greenhouses from time to time. Especially when it was so cold. But he never did, did he?"

"... no," she said.

"Got that termite digester in the basement fully automated. Don't see why we couldn't automate this, too. I mean, you do the same thing, day after day, minute after minute. That's a prime candidate for automation. Can't automate repairing a plane, but you could what he's got you doing."

"They've got a team of boys that are all faster at repairs than me. No reason why I should be allowed back in shop, I suppose."

"That fiasco with Emanuel really put them behind on the budget. Everyone who overhears them talking says the budget is always top of their list. Already cut beef from the menu in the cafeteria." He looked at her empty chair as the water drained behind the screen. From the sounds, she was standing still. "Should get you a hot water bottle for your back." He ran his fingers across her seat. "Don't know why he would think treating you like this would help anything."

"Punishment is all he has left."

He stared at the curtain, no movement behind it. "You get out and dry off, I'll soak your towel in hot water, put it in a trash bag, and put it on your back, if you want. Don't have to get pruned up for no reason."

The water turned off.

"I've had an easy week. We've finished automating the paint rounds. Even got the machines making Tazers in 9mm. Almost perfect. Handling fragile paint rounds is far more difficult than you'd think. Even got a way to build those fancy aluminum foil rounds of yours."

She emerged from behind the curtain, "No need to build any of them. Won't ever be another HB." She hung up her towel, straightened its corners, folded her dirty clothes and placed them in the hamper. She put her foot on the seat like she was climbing to bed, when he pulled it away.

"Sit with me for a minute. Till the lights go out."

Fingers through her hair, she sighed, and sat.

He gestured with his fingers. "Other way."

"Why?"

"I've got some making up to do. And I like you, and think what he's doing is wrong. And even if... I just, I can't sleep knowing you're suffering in the bed across from mine. I care about you. It's selfish, I know. But I do." He put his hand on her knee. "I still love you, no matter how badly I treated you in the past." He let go, holding up his hands in surrender. "If I had ill intent, I would just wait until you fell asleep." He put his hands down. "I didn't sleep a wink that first week you came back. I was sure, at first, that you only forgave me so I'd drop my guard. So it'd be easier for you to kill me in my sleep."

She frowned as she slouched. "I wouldn't kill you in your sleep."

"I won't go where I'm not invited again." He made a spinning gesture. "Turn around. Let me try to make this up to you. Let me prove I can be that guy with the cold compress. Give me a chance to be that guy with the hot towel, earn that forgiveness."

She turned around as he slowly rubbed her knots away... and was asleep in the chair before the lights blinked out.
B1.C75

He ran his fingers across her back, her skin, soft and warm beneath his touch. A winter and spring of back rubs and hot towels had landed him back in her bed. But always without invitation.

Rarely lasting more than a few minutes with his talented hands, he doubted she even knew how he spent his time after she fell asleep in the chair. Putting her to bed was far easier than carrying her down the hall, but what happened once she was up there had slowly changed over time.

Those first few nights he only tucked her in, still using the warm towel compress. He used those nights to gauge how soundly she slept and just how much it took to wake her. Now he climbed in with her any night he thought he could get away with it.

It actually surprised him how rarely he took advantage of the situation. The first few nights he couldn't help himself and nearly fondled her so much he thought he'd leave fingerprints. Lately, he was far more behaved and hadn't strayed from her back all night.

As roommates went, she was easy to live with. Odd at times, but far less annoying than most. As people went, she was easy to spend time with. As a girl, she filled the bill.

He added fondling to the mounting list of his regrets as he lay in her bed, hand up the back of her shirt. He doubted he would have such regrets with another girl. He was becoming a different person around her.

He regretted manipulating her.

He regretted not being upfront with her.

He regretted every time he was nice, without being sincere.

He wanted to be sincere with her.

He rubbed her back for a few minutes, just to make sure she was still asleep, kissed her on the cheek, and slowly went to a bed of his own. Promising himself he wouldn't take advantage of her again.

"How'd you sleep," he asked before the lights came on.

She stretched in the other bed, then rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling.

He hopped down and stood by her head. "He keeps working you like this, I'm afraid you'll fall apart."

She rolled to her side, facing him. "I'm not that fragile." She rested her hand on his at the edge of her bed. "Helps to have a friend."

He leaned in a kiss. "I could be a better friend, if you—"

"I'm not sleeping with you, Belson. Not—"

"That's not the only way to—"

She sat up. "I'm not doing anything else on any adolescent boy's wish list of—"

He stepped back, "Not asking you to. I just, I have more to offer. I'd like to get you out of this punishment. You wouldn't have to build another plane, just automate the—"

"I'm not giving in an inch. I'm not."

"I just hate to see you like this when it doesn't have to be. It would take you a few minutes to jot something down, and would save you months of needless toil." He stepped closer. "I love being the one — I love feeling all that discomfort melt away under my fingers on your back. I love that. I crave the feel of that, to be useful in your life. And I'd miss those precious minutes with you the most, if your punishment ended. The selfish side of me wants those minutes at any price. But that price is too high, paid entirely by you. It's burning you out, grinding you down. Wearing you out for no reason. Wearing you out because of a simple note on a piece of paper you're too stubborn to write."

She lay down again, hands over her face.

"It just doesn't seem like that much to fight over." He leaned against her bed, fingers through her silky hair. When her hands moved away from her face, he kissed her again.

She looked at the nose of her Mig-21, 'Flying coffin' painted on the side. The others were intimidated by its reputation, but she had no fear. She knew this plane. She inspected it personally before each flight. She had a few hours behind its stick last week and was fully aware of all its idiosyncrasies. Though she need not be. Like the dozen other planes on today's sortie, she was supposed to provide others an easy target, nothing else. Fodder for the elite in the Raptors to hone their skills.

No one expected her to even fire her guns during the exercise.

They were in for a surprise.

She tightened her helmet and climbed up the side.

Speed, a major advantage of the Raptor, had been neutralized this time. Permission to go sonic was denied today. They were under strict orders to keep the noise down. It seemed silly, the moans of thrashing turbines were nearly as loud as a sonic boom, but rules were rules.

Belson and the rest crowded around the monitors as a lowly Mig-21 scored its sixth Raptor in under eight minutes. Her first two humiliated kills refused to leave the airspace. Against orders, they even broke speed in repeated attempts to take her down... the odds makers in the room were having a fit while everyone yelled and screamed about how to count the tally.

"She's scored seven Raptors and three F-18s," one girl said.

"Impossible," a boy countered, "There aren't seven Raptors in the air! All we have on base is three, so it's three. No more!"

"Every time they disengage and reengage, it counts as a new—"

"Absurd! I suppose you'd want to count every twentieth shot as a new kill, too!"

"How else could three planes simulate a squadron, Retard!"

Lost amidst the arguing in the room raged an even bigger contradiction on the screens, as the 'flying coffin's' score continued to mount... now nearly a shut out.

When she came into the room that night, she couldn't stop smiling. But that was always the case when she went flying.

"Odds makers took a beating today," Belson said. "Not that they didn't deserve it." He jumped out of his chair, swept her off her feet, and spun her into the room. "Should never underestimate you." He released her from the hug. "But did you have to rub it in so deep? Shooting down the top three flyers on base, repeatedly — Then letting the bottom of the class take you out in the end — That isn't the way to make friends."

She grinned as she looked at her shoes. "Who said I needed more friends?"

"Never hurts around here." He ran his fingers through her hair, sat on his chair, and pulled her down on his lap for a hug. "This place practically runs on who you know and what clique you're in. Gets very lonely the other way." He ran his hand across her back.

She walked out of his embrace and to the door. "They were never going to like me anyway." She ran her fingers across a handle that would open nothing until morning. "How would they? I didn't get my skills by kissing Elhander's ass until he let me on the roster. I was last to get tested on Raptors because I was a girl." She tugged on the handle. "Some things I can't change. Wouldn't, if I could." She leaned against the door. "Assholes anyway. Think they're Gods because they—"

"They earned it, too," Belson said, standing behind her. "Had some real pilots in here while you were on assignment. Real aces to train with. They're good. Better than just. Better than ok. Better than good, just without the credentials to back it up. Even Lesley, the guy you gave an easy shot to, ranks better than good in the outside world. There are no slackers here." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Just, you're that much better."

She tugged on the handle, then kicked at the metal by her feet. "I feel trapped in this place, trapped in this room. Trapped in a life that shouldn't be. But I don't feel so trapped in that glass bubble, the sky open to the heavens above."

He hugged her from behind. "Might just be the best in the world," he whispered in her ear. "And nobody knows your name." He ran his hands down her arms. "Nobody says you can't win every now and then, though you'd make more friends if you took a few dives and made your wins look more like luck."

She stepped out of his embrace for the second time that night. "Why not? If I've got—"

"Don't get defensive," he said, leaning against the door she recently left. "Just a good idea no matter who you are. Never let your opponents know what they're going against, 'cause surprise only works in your favor once. Show them you always play with aces, they'll only bet when they draw a royal flush... and they'll think you're always cheating. The kind of clobbering you just did will... well, I don't know exactly. But if you leave the impression that you can only be beaten by cheating, then, well, they'll cheat to beat you. Been top dogs too long to let go of their titles now."

She held out her arms and twirled toward the shower. "It felt good today to forget the politics and just let go." She ended in what easily could have been a Karate pose, or a ballet stance.

He smiled as he walked between the beds, still folded up against the walls. "Well, if you're looking for a release—"

"Don't go there," she said, smile gone.

He released the latches on his bed, dropping it down to rest on the top of the desk, then did the same for hers. "Made that clear enough already, Girl, just saying the offer is always there." He leaned against his mattress with a smile. "Could always just take an extra long shower."

She punched him in the arm. "Shut it," she said. But her punch was more tease than warning.

"Shadona," he said, hands on her hips, "Second time is never as bad as the first." He let go and turned away. "I, I didn't mean to say that. I, uh, I'm proud of you. You're a fantastic pilot and an even better... " He climbed into bed. "I'm going to stop now before I say something else I regret." He looked at her, still standing by the edge of his bed. "I know you said you forgave me, but that doesn't mean you forget. Doesn't mean you move on." The lights blinked their warning. "Never thought that being forgiven wouldn't be enough."

"Your first word was schmetterling, German for butterfly." She stepped between the beds.

"I know what schmetterling means, but I doubt that was my first—"

"It was. Your L's came out like W's. I remember wondering if it was a conscience choice of yours, because butterflies have wings, not lings. You were six cribs over from me, diagonally. Every fourth day our awake hours overlapped. I remember everything, Belson. Good and bad. When I say I forgive, I do. When I want more, you'll be the first to know."
B1.C76

"Back off," Belson said in the halls as he shoved Will backwards into the wall, "I'm handling it."

"That cunt blows the curve again and we'll all—"

"I know, you don't have to tell me," he said. "Don't sweat it, I'm on it." He plucked Will's forehead with a finger, "Keep in mind, you're in over your head on this one. You can't even see all the cards on this table. Hell, you don't even know all the players. Back off, swallow some pride, and let me do my—"

The XO turned the corner and quickly closed on the boys, grabbed Belson by the arm, and glared at the others. "Leave," he said to the boys as they scattered. "I'm not getting enough results from you—"

"I got you those sixty—"

"Years ago. What have you done for me lately." He poked Belson's chest. "Have half a notion to jerk a knot in your ass for that stupid stunt you pulled back—"

"I'm getting results, Sir. She's moving in the right direction. Doing a better job of it than you have. Back off and give me the space to maneu—"

"Clock's ticking, and I'm not liking what I'm seeing so far. I'm about this close to making an example of you that can be seen from space..."

The XO pulled the roster off the wall on his way to Emanuel's office in the hangar. Opening the door, he tossed the clipboard on the desk, right beside the foot-long sub.

Emanuel picked up the sub instead, "Got a call from Livermore Labs last week. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

The XO topped off his coffee from the fresh pot on the filing cabinet. "Wouldn't happen to know why her name's still on that list?"

"She's probably the best pilot here, in the top ten at least. Why wouldn't she be on it? If you want the rest to sharpen their skills, she should be in the mix. If you want her to get better, she needs the experience." He leaned forward, pausing to take a bite. "You want her moping around, depressed and generally grumpy, then ground her. You want her cooperative and—"

"She isn't cooperating now! It was one thing to indulge her when she was just practicing maneuvers, solo, but competition is something else ent—"

"You planning on telling me about this Livermore deal, or not?" Emanuel said, leaning back with his sub like a swaddled baby.

"With something like this, I need a professor I can trust in charge of it, that I know will call me at the first breakthrough. Better to pass off a loyal engineer as a professor than try to find the one professor on a California campus with an ounce of patriotism."

"I'm no professor—"

"Nobody knows more about that device, either of those devices, than you. Won't be able to give you millions every year, but I think funding will find you, just the same. You'd be surprised how money for an obvious weapon changes from election to election, but a molecular printer that could make anything from Hope Diamonds to a jet fighter... that never goes out of style. You didn't have any other plans for the next four decades, did you?"

"You can call me a professor all you want, but that won't make me any smarter, and it certainly—"

"Yeah, but I can surround you with the kinds of young minds it will take, in places like Livermore, where students do most of the work that professors take credit for, anyway." The XO leaned against the cabinet. "I need you to ground her."

"After she won?" He put down the sub. "Sounds like something a bad cop would do, doesn't it? She still talks to me, small talk, no hints or clues yet, but she isn't pissed at me. I scrub her from the competition, I ground her out of the blue, that'll change." He thumped his fingers across the bread. "Up to you, of course. Your base, your planes. Your rules. But I wouldn't." He tapped at the keys until gun-camera video popped up on the screen. "Take a look at that, will you? A Mig-21 being chased by two Raptors. They line up the shot, clean and perfect lock on her six, textbook says it's all over for her.

Done.

Now watch. She puts the Mig into a flat spin, stabilizes while coasting backwards, and strafes both of them while recovering from a total stall.

Flat spin, stall, and where any other pilot would have been lucky to keep from crashing, she finds the time to hit two targets. You telling me she doesn't belong in competition? Come on. What's the real reason?

Want me to play bad cop until the Livermore deal is finalized? I will."

"I want your second shift to crank out the gear for another HB-5 so we—"

"HB-3 is the one—"

"Whatever. Get 'em on it. Make two of everything this time. We'll keep one here and ship one with you. But I want one on hand, ready to flip the switch if the opportunity presents itself."

"Look, Sir, I realize you've got more qualified psychoanalysts looking at this than just me, but I don't see her giving in any time soon. If I'm the only one who's keeping her in the air, then she has an incentive to 'save' my job by giving me hints. Even I see that. But if I start giving her the Elhander treatment, there's no reason to believe she won't give me the Elhander treatment right back, if you know what I mean." He tossed the sub on the desk. "I'll build them, of course. Take a month or two. Ground her over the same time and she'll never give them a look-over for errors or—"

"Not that that did any—"

"Maybe, maybe not. Don't know the angles you're pl—"

"I want your team on second shift to keep the project under their hat. I don't want it getting around that—"

"Not even remotely possible. These kids are like any other teenager, Sir. They live on gossip and rumors. I can do my—"

"Make an effort. Push secrecy as hard as you can."

"Yes Sir." Emanuel swigged from his iced tea, then polished off the sub.

"Clip her wings," he said, leaving the office.

"Bogus," she said, looking at a roster that was absent one name. Hers. She marched over to Emanuel as second shift filtered out of the shop. "What the hell is this?"

Emanuel looked up from the notes he was busily scribbling in his book, "Huh? Oh, uh, look," he closed the book, "wasn't my call. Sorry. If it was up—"

"It's your pen on the sheet!"

"Yeah, it is. Still have to write what I'm told." He perched on the stool by the workbench, sheets covering the 'secret' gear they were assembling in shapes that should be obvious to her. "You're probably the best pilot here. If it was up to me, you'd be on that list. He wouldn't tell me why he wanted you scrubbed." He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Already interviewing replacements for Elhander. Done the last suit."

"You can't ground me," she said. "You can't."

He held the notebook to his lap. "I'm not, just using my pen." He shrugged, "I'm just in charge of the list by default, inherited from Elhander; it isn't like I'm an expert pilot. I can keep a plane from crashing, but I don't have — I'm not qualified in any way. Really not qualified to oversee repairs either." He looked at the teenage girl, reacting like any other teenager when they lose the keys to the car. "I think I'm actually going to miss you. You've mastered and manipulated sciences that are on the fringe of theoretical for everyone else. Probably the brightest person I'll ever meet, maybe even the best pilot, too."

"It isn't fair. I haven't done anything!"

He tucked the notebook under his arm, "No, it's not fair." He stood, end of a very long day for him. "And, there's nothing I can do about it." He put a hand on her shoulder. "If it helps, you can pretend 'they' cut you because you're so good, merely letting you compete would let you dictate everyone else's rankings, instead of letting merit bring the cream to the top."

She flung the loose nuts and bolts off the workbench across the floor.

"Hey, how in the world did you manage to tap two Raptors while recovering from a flat-spin stall?"

She stared at the clean metal top.

"Emailed that footage to some aces I know. They don't believe it's possible—"

"Subsonic it is," she whispered. "The Mig is built on a tough little frame. Easily underestimated."

He sat on the stool beside her. "You practiced it in the HB-3, didn't you?" he asked, but she just stared at the metal top, like she wanted to cry, but refused. "I'm sorry I can't help you. If it was up to me, I'd let you fly every day. Even got busted for it. In a few months, I probably won't be here at all." He stood, headed for the door, when he remembered the XO's words. "There was one plane they couldn't bar you from, you know."

She toiled on the side of the mountain as yet another plane was catapulted over the edge and thundered into position above the base. The last on the roster, combat would begin within minutes... without her.

She sat on the dirty terrace, staring at the sky. The wind whipping at her back just didn't feel as freeing today. Painful to hear the roar of afterburners and not feel the pinch of the seat. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what she could hear, but couldn't see.

Gardening was painful for the first time in her life.

She wouldn't sit on the ground again, while others played in the sky.

She would find a way.

She would not be denied.

She checked the roster again, this time for names other than her own. She was determined to compete again this year. Determined to find a way.

The XO pressed his palm to a newly installed door on one of the unused chambers deep in the mountain. When it opened, he walked down a narrow hall as jets of air brushed across him and sucked down through the holes in the floor. He paused at its end before yet another door.

Inside he stared at a new team of engineers he just recently managed to recruit, all busy around the damaged escape capsule and a table with a small, burnt box on its center.

"Any ideas, Gentlemen?" he said.

"Well," the lead engineer said, meeting him at the door, "We've managed to piece together what happened and traced back the weird circuitry." He pointed to the box on the desk. "This, what you suggested might be a flight recorder, looked like cracked and burnt glass at first. Hell, we spent a week on it believing you had lost your mind. But it's not. It's a rather sophisticated optical computer. Stuff that's really only theoretical right now. Mostly because the purity of the optics and the processor are beyond today's practical science and is only in the realm of trillion-dollar research grants." He tapped the burnt pieces. "This isn't glass. It's—"

"Lab grown diamonds, probably doped with something. What's on it and why did it burn? A man survived that crash, why didn't it?" the XO said, impatient as usual.

"Well, we have no way of reading it, even if it wasn't destroyed. It'd be like trying to play a CD in the 1800s. And it's toast, just like it looks. Cracked. But, it was designed to self-destruct—"

"The hell it was, it's a flight recorder, and a flight recorder's sole purpose in life is to survive the damn crash!"

The engineer smiled, "Absolutely right, Sir. And this one did survive the crash. The way it's built, it could probably survive being shot out of a howitzer. But it was designed to — It's rather ingenious really — You see, it's booby-trapped with the hatch. Kind of the ultimate spy plane design: if the pilot ejects in a friendly territory, he'll take his time and remove it before leaving the pod, in which case it's perfectly safe. If he ejects over hostile territory, he'll exit fast, leaving it behind, in which case it scuttles. It was destroyed in a specific way to ensure no useful data survived.

But that doesn't mean what we have here isn't useful. What's sitting on that desk, if it was working today, would easily qualify as a super computer, most likely an order of magnitude faster and smarter than anything we've ever worked on before.

Some parts of it might still work, we don't know for sure. We've booked time on an electron microscope for some of the fractured pieces. Hopefully that'll tell us more about how it functions.

We have competing theories, you see. Some of us say it's the only computer on the craft, it's more than powerful enough to handle everything on even the most advanced plane. But it just as easily could be one of many and limited to, as you suggest, the pedestrian tasks of flight recorder. If it was just used as a storage device, you're probably looking at recording everything that comes across those screens in full HD, and every other bit of data it came across. Quads and quads of data. Possibly more.

Think rolls of film instead of flight recorder." The engineer looked the XO in the eyes, "You give us one that works and the lab that made it, we can make Microsoft look like a kid with a Lemonade stand."

"Booby-trapped?"

"Well, it's tied into that keypad on the chair, don't know how yet. Likely you have to punch in a code before pulling it out, safely. If it's off a spy plane, that'd be the best way to keep it from falling into the wrong hands."

The XO pinched his eyes with his fingers, and sighed. "Of course it would. If one becomes available, you'll be top of my list. But don't hold your breath."

"Well, Sir, it's made to be removed. It has a carrying handle, latches, and it's self-centering with redundant optics. It's clearly made to be removed a lot, just like rolls of film in a U-2." He threw up his hands, "But that's just a guess based on design."

"You figure out how to turn on the screen yet?"

"No Sir, don't have a clue. It's optical, micro-fiber-optics, highly sophisticated and high definition down to the microscope scale. It'll take decades to figure out how to make fiber that fine and pure, if we ever can, but that seems to be all it is. We suspect that most of the heavy lifting is done on that destroyed chip, seems to be the only thing it's hooked up to." He gestured and an assistant shined a laser pointer into the nest of optical connections as random pixels glowed on the screen. "If there's a pattern, we haven't seen it. Understanding the rhyme and reason of how it's wired should help us decipher the chip. Or chips, we're still debating that."

The XO was having anything but a good day. "You're really not telling me anything new." He pointed at all the equipment crowding the walls of the clean room. "None of this is free! You've been at this for weeks, I need answers. I need results that can justify this level of expense!"

"Whatever data was on that chip was surely erased in—"

One of the assistants chimed in, "We believe that to retrieve the records, or footage, you'd likely have to hook it up to a display, something like the screen in that pod, and access it through requests to the processor. Film is a bad analogy because film can be read by anything. This is likely password protected through that keypad. It's more like using a desktop to double as the flight recorder, radar, fly-by-wire, and instrument cluster. Even has to be hooked up to a keypad and screen before it's useful again, just like a desktop.

If it's like we speculate and records information down at the photon level, which would be incredibly efficient and only possible at these purity levels, then it's the definition of tamper-proof. The very act of reading the data destroys it. It can't be copied, a beam splitter is useless. We can't even watch what it does as it does it, like we can with transistors on microchips." He picked up a crumb of cracked processor, "Less than a carat like this working on the photon level would be all it takes to run a plane. You have a small brick here. So far, we haven't run across anything that looks like a central processor yet. We're going to have to literally chip away at—"

"I realize it's trashed, but hold off on destroying the thing any more than you have to," the XO said. "They don't exactly grow on trees. Treat it like it's the only one on the planet, and the only one you'll ever get, because it might well be. Figure out what you can. Fire electrons and fancy photons at it all you want—"

The lead grabbed the biggest piece in his hand, "Don't worry, Sir. The results from the electron microscope should shed a lot of light, pardon the pun. We'll figure it out, Sir, just a matter of time. It's just far more advanced than any of us guessed, at first glance."

He had been hearing that too often lately.
B1.C77

Belson watched her dress behind the screen that morning. "I'm sorry you've been grounded; I know how much you like flying. But, maybe it's for the best. The bets this year are astronomical. Highest ever. And you, Girl, you blow the curve right into the toilet. You'd end up pissing in everyone's cereal."

She emerged from the bathroom, "Best pilot should win the contest, otherwise what's the point of competition?"

"Maybe," he said, pulling her into a hug, "but they take competition seriously around here. Like any other ranking in the military. You go busting generals back to privates, they won't take it peaceful." He kissed her on the scarred cheek. "Be thankful that they just have each other to blame for their rankings this year. I'm glad to see you safely sitting on the sidelines this time."

She stepped out of his embrace, "I'm no child, I can handle it! Could easily have won—"

"That's the point. You think they'd be pissed if more fodder wanted to enter the field?" He followed her, hands on her hips, "Take the safer road, enter next year when you won't be charging the pillbox while taking friendly fire from the rear. Let it go. Know when you're beat and let—"

"They didn't beat me! I'm undefe—"

"Poor choice of words," he said. "We've got just a few more years here. Eighteen is right around the corner. Then they'll have to—"

"Then it'll be nineteen, then twenty, then thirty. There's no tomorrow, only today is real."

"It's a shame Emanuel can't help you more than he is." He hugged her again, this time near the door. "A shame we can't keep him around here longer. He'd do anything for you, even got busted for breaking the rules for you." He ran his fingers through her hair. "Shame you can't help him stay."

She looked at her desk, "I could... " She picked up a pencil and poised it over a pad, but put it away instead. "I've got gardening to do," she said, leaving the room.

Brainwashing followed the same rules as dating. Isolate from family and friends, add a little pressure to break them down, then become their sanctuary. Worked every time, just faster with some than others. Shadona was taking much longer than usual, but she was starting to do as he said, instinctively. Just not fast enough for some.

Interrogations worked on a similar principle, make someone feel their situation was hopeless, and they'd confess to anything. He carefully avoided making her situation seem hopeless, since such confessions were worthless. Gaining her confidence and cooperation was everything, and he was so very close.

Belson leafed through her notebook, held her pads up to the light, then checked her usual hiding places before sitting at her desk and staring at her bed. He regretted doing such things to her.

He liked her, actually loved her in the way that love existed in such a place.

But the XO wielded a lot of power in this world. Belson could easily find himself doing grunge work for the rest of his stay. Years trickled by very slowly before making this deal. Time seemed to fly now, by comparison.

Breaking Shadona's will seemed like a simple undertaking back then.

'Make her want to stay,' he was told. A rather simple order, or so it sounded. Like most orders, easier said than done. She didn't want to stay, not yet. But he desperately wanted her to, now for selfish reasons. He ran his hands across her folded shirts. Cutting her off from Dana had helped. Dana's schedule had been altered to keep them as apart as possible, as often as possible. It was working. He was well positioned to fill Dana's void in Shadona's life.

But he didn't want to manipulate her anymore. He felt dirty every time he did. It felt dirty to keep pushing her to save Emanuel's job.

He wanted her for himself. Every nudge was just a reminder that all his efforts were for the XO's benefit.

Belson didn't like to share, least of all with his captor. He wanted all her benefits for himself.

He made a fist of her shirt.

Playing a spy was much harder than he bargained for.

She checked the soil with her fingers. While most of it was slimy, it retained woody, straw-like chunks. Clearly a byproduct of the digester and the automated termite processor, it was nonetheless impressive. The termites didn't eat all their food before being harvested. Only about 80% from the looks of it. To some, that might have seemed inefficient. But the chunks of uneaten food got converted into little cellulose-like sponges in the digester, and rather evenly spread from the looks of it. It also turned a soil that was soupy when wet into something solid enough to support plants in a wind. Almost an adobe brick texture when dry.

Accidental or intentional, the soil was incredibly rich and the terraces bloomed like the most fertile valley in the world.

Their diet had changed over recent years, now heavily poultry, most likely in exchange for termite feed.

The labor was difficult, but it was satisfying to know that what she scribbled in a notebook actually worked. For some reason, this victory felt a little hollow having never seen the colonies, nursed the queens, or built any of the equipment. She found herself staring inside a locked greenhouse every time she had cause to walk past. Gauges on the wall inside pegged it as hot and dry as a desert, yet some weird corn and potatoes seemed to thrive inside.

Identical to those she predicted.

She toiled in silence on the side of a mountain she felt chained to, with the best view in the world that she could no longer enjoy.

Helmet on, she walked across the airstrip and climbed into Chroma's plane, unnoticed by all those on deck.

When the cat flung her off the mountain, she climbed into the sky and took her position in the holding pattern. On signal, they broke formation and she plunged to the valley, disappearing from base radar and scoring on a Mig in the process. Within seconds, she had tagged an F-16 and an F-15 as she throttled up and raced for the sky. Two more were taken by surprise as she darted around the hilly terrain, like Indians stalking their prey.

Within the first sixty seconds, she had already destroyed the curve.

Her F-16 kill had ranked sixth on base. His encounter with her had dropped him to eleventh, and her carnage had just begun.

Radio silence broken, the word spread quickly that Chroma was still on the ground.

To Shadona, the plane was a simulator with better special effects, and she played without reserve.

In a matter of minutes, on the last day of air combat this year, she had beaten the best of the best... decisively.

The landing strip broke into a riot when she triumphantly caught the wire. To a few, she was an instant hero for breaking the grip of a powerful clique over the most prestigious trophy the base had to offer. But to the rest she was the reason they lost in the betting pools, and the face of their instant demotions. It was the first time they went into lockdown and Tazer rounds were used.

She paced the center of the room like a caged cat, caught in the middle of a hunt. "Calm down and take a seat," he said, sitting on his chair between the end of the beds and the bathroom curtain. "You're making me dizzy."

She paused by the door, "Did you see when I shot up at his two—"

"Everyone saw it, Darling," he said, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "We'll probably be studying the footage next year. Might even get the maneuver named after you for—"

She yanked on the locked door, then turned to him, "It just came to me when I caught the glimmer of his canopy in the corner of—"

"I was watching on the big screens, just like everyone else. Please, just sit for a minute, if you can. I swear, I can't take another hour of you pacing. I can't take it. You have to sit, just quietly sit. Please. I know you don't owe it to me, but please. Just this one favor. I know you have it in you."

She hesitated, straightened the items on her desk, dragged her chair across the floor, opposite his, but continued to stand. She turned it perpendicular to the wall, and paused. She turned it to face the shower, and paused. She turned it back, so it was facing him, and sat.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Her left knee bounced uncontrollably, but she managed to sit quietly, nonetheless.

He stared at her knee, but said nothing. One battle at a time. "You did good today, Girl." He leaned against the wall, legs stretched out into the narrow aisle between the beds, where so much pacing had gone on. "You got the mad skills for sure. Can't take today away from you now. Can't be luck no more."

She smiled wide, both knees bouncing but somehow managed to stay in her seat.

"You going to be ready for field exercises next month? Going to be a full week of evasion and counter-terrorism practice, nothing but paint pistols and a tiny survival kit. I hate sleeping in the rain, trying to stay warm at night without a blanket, and dealing with bugs. I think I hate the bugs most of all. They eat you alive, too?"

Her knees stopped bouncing. "Bugs are a nightmare. About the time I fall asleep—"

"One crawls in your ear—"

"Or bites you on the ankle," she said, stretching out her legs next to his. "Bugs are the worst. If you smoke your clothes with lots of green vegetation, it acts like a repellent. But the smoke will give your position away in a second, if you're not careful." She brushed her foot against his, "Would be nice to go camping just once, instead of always a survival exercise. Remember when they bussed us to the river and everyone had to try to fish. No catch, no dinner. Had to—"

"Had to make our own hooks and poles, the rotten bastards! I didn't get to eat for three days."

"We found a quiet spot, waded out in the cold water, and waited for them to—"

"By hand? Is that what you girls did? No way!"

"We tried grasshoppers by the shallows, but when you bashed the water with a stick, you wouldn't see another for hours. Dana got good enough they would swim onto her hand. Had a real knack for it."

He leaned closer, "We tried that stupid arrow thing with sticks... nothing!"

She smiled, hints of a flirt, "Us too. I think it would work if fish got used to finding chum there. But that would take weeks, don't even know why they teach it as a survival method. Sure, if it's heavily stocked or something like that, you might get results on the first day. Hopeless the way we were doing it." She leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

"Nobody even liked girls back then. You guys were, like, that other species that nobody understood. A weaker version of boys. Can't believe that was just a few years ago."

"Sharpened sticks worked the first day. Even when you missed, and we missed a lot, it didn't disturb the water as much, and you got a second chance within minutes." She looked at her wiggling feet as a wave of sadness passed over her. "Fish don't feel alive, for some reason. Like killing them isn't a sin." She looked up, feet perfectly still, "But rabbits, squirrels, birds, it's like killing really young children. Like they have a presence, a personality, and then it's gone. Fish never felt that way."

Sliding her hamper out of the way, he dragged his chair across the room and squeezed between the toilet and her. "Never noticed, to tell you the truth. Both felt the same, to me."

"Moments of regret, I guess, might be better way to say it. Never regretted fish, or bugs. Just didn't feel like killing, for some reason."

He held her hand as he inched the chair closer, "Think you could kill someone? I mean, they trained us in a thousand ways, but never bothered to check if we would. Like flying, in a way, they won't scrub anyone, they just train harder. Not sure everyone belongs here, you know."

She stared at the ceiling, then looked him in the eyes, "Planes feel like fish, like there's nothing in them at all. But, I think seeing someone die, just a dozen feet away, is something very different. The look on Aaron's face, longing for help... haunts me."

He put his arm around her shoulders, stretched his legs out beside hers, "Bet something like that would stay with you for a long time."

She leaned into the embrace, "One minute he was there, the next, he was gone."

He kissed the faint scar on her cheek as the world outside the room seemed to vanish. Dead to him. But unlike Aaron and David, the world would become alive again, soon as the door unlocked next morning. Just hours away. He laughed, "I finally got that. Planes don't bother you, because they're like shooting fish in a barrel."

When he woke that morning, she was still in his arms. He remembered kissing her a little the night before, but nothing that would have landed him here. She had simply needed a hug, and he had been there for her.

He couldn't help but like this girl. It took a brilliant mind to invent what she had, and an extraordinary person to forgive what she did. Best pilot on the base, perhaps even in the world. He pressed his ear to hers.

She wasn't a fish or a bug, her soul was so strong even he could feel it in the quiet hours of the early morning. She had a presence when she entered the room. He could only imagine the wake she would leave, the day the world woke and she was no longer there.

She didn't beat them yesterday out of spite or anger; no vendetta or malice was in her heart. To her it was a dance, like the twirls she couldn't help making inside their room. But that wouldn't matter to those she dethroned. For them, and the riot they inspired, a vendetta was all it could be. To them, she had drawn first blood.

His only chance to defuse the situation was to become part of their plans. Should she discover him getting chummy with the recently dethroned, moments like now would be impossible again.

The next few months would be difficult to navigate, but he had to, for her. She had no idea the hornets' nest she had just shaken from the tree. And his only chance to navigate her safely through it all was to become part of the conspiracy. He would have to spy, for her.

But all that would wait for another day.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, while it lasted.

* * *

They parachuted in, on schedule in the middle of the night, but were all scattered far off target, most likely according to the XO's plan. Modern drops were done with pinpoint accuracy, but that didn't test their skills. And in the fog of war, the best-made plans often drifted far off course.

She hid her chute under leaves, noting the RFID chip woven into the straps so the base could recover them later. Chutes were a budget item, after all, and very reusable. They couldn't afford to throw hundreds away with every exercise.

She pressed her finger to her cheek.

The chute wasn't the only thing tagged for easy recovery.

She checked her weapon, a paint pistol and two magic markers that simulated knives. Two MREs, a camel pack of water, and a sheet of plastic to keep them from ripping the chute for shelter. She inched into the clear and used the moon to read her map, the stars to calculate her position. She was twenty-three miles off course. That had to be intentional. She wiggled her fingers and verified her location with her ring.

Her calculations were error free... though the ring had her precise location down to a hundredth of an inch. Going by the stars, she could never get that accurate.

She pointed a direction and started hiking when the ring agreed. Her ring retained updated maps from everything the HB flew over, this area dated back to the HB-1. Mostly roads, tracks, businesses and homes, it included a fresh spring, no more than a tiny trickle, located eight miles away.

Fresh water was first on her list.

Running at night was fraught with dangers, most of which unseen. But it was vital to put as much distance between her and where her chute went down as possible. Under combat conditions, chutes would have been tracked and reported to local authorities by everything from guards to citizens, so, it should be assumed that, even under a practice exercise like this, some were assigned as civilian spotters.

Her landing zone should be assumed compromised.

She pushed as fast as she could through the woods, crossed out in the open, found a well-worn animal path and sprinted down its length until it ended nearly a mile later.

Guzzling water from her bag, she knew she would be in range of the spring after sunrise. She had no reason to conserve. Food by the spring should be equally abundant, so she showed even less restraint with her MREs. Since the spring wasn't on her map, there was no reason to believe others would rally there.

With the exercise scheduled for seven days, at this pace, she should easily complete it in four, even with the detour.

Someone was behind her, but she didn't know who. Likely they were from another group, so she charged ahead without any effort to conceal her tracks, then circled back and lay in ambush. Gun poised.

She waited nearly an hour until she heard steps in the distance. Twigs broke under foot. Leaves rustled without a breeze. She aimed the gun, calmed her breathing, and waited.

"Shadona?" he shouted.

It was Belson. What was he doing here? She loosened her grip of the gun. He was on her team, by chance, but this wasn't supposed to be a group cohesion exercise. They were practicing guerilla tactics, counter terrorism and such. They were not supposed to pair up.

"Shadona, is that you?" he yelled again. "I know your boots anywhere, your heel is missing a chunk, the left has a split near the toe."

She waited for him to pass before sneaking up behind him, magic marker under his chin. "What are you doing yelling?" she whispered, "I think we're behind the lines already."

"Sorry," he whispered, crouching down with her. "Got turned around." He pulled his map and spread it on the ground. "I can't even find where I—"

She capped the marker and pressed a finger to the page. "We're here, facing this way. The line is back there, and our objective is—"

Thwack! Thwack thwack! She lurched to her feet as the Tazer rounds zapped her in the back. She pulled her gun and unloaded into the nearest one... before collapsing into spasms on the dirt.

Twitching in agony, she looked up at Belson as he took the gun from her hand.

"Sorry," he whispered, as the others came into view.
B1.C78

Her eyes opened to a white room filled with noise as she stared at a plastic bag dripping into her arm.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

"Call him back and tell him to turn around," the XO yelled in the office at the far end of medical. "Last time he was here, he submitted a bill that was twice your yearly salary! I'm not paying that much for something that isn't life threatening."

"The hell you aren't!" Nurse Benita didn't back down an inch. "That girl in there was gang-raped, had cigarettes put out on her chest, was urinated on, had a bag tied over her head, and was tossed like garbage into a ravine, left for dead. You failed miserably to protect her, the least you can do is pay to have those burns—"

"Not going to happen. You've already told me that she can't have any kind of grafts or operations for at least a week until she's healed enough to—"

"I'm not a plastic surgeon. He undoubtedly knows more about fixing this than I do, that's how he makes his living. There may well be a powder, cream, or technique that can — and should — be implemented right away to decrease the severity of—"

"Don't care if there's pixie dust that cost a nickel and can make it smooth as a baby's bottom. Keep her alive, put her back on her feet, but that's it. She wears this one. If it bothers her enough, she might convince me to do something then."

"We do something now, right now, we might not have to put her through a complicated surgery later. Pennies today to save dollars tomorrow."

"What part of no are you not getting? Keep her alive, don't let it get infected, but that's it. That's the end of your interaction with her. Got it?" he said, pointing her back to the patient in question.

"I don't care how much it costs you, Sir, you're a total piece of shit if you force that girl to walk around with her chest looking like an ashtray. And you know it!" She stepped inches from his chin, "Get your head out of your bean-counting ass and do the right thing for once. If she broke her arm, you'd have me set it. If she broke her leg, you'd have me put it in a cast. If she had a heart attack, we'd be talking bypasses and flying in experts—"

"A shirt will cover this just fine, Nurse. She isn't a pole dancer, doesn't have the legs for it." He headed out the door.

"We're not done, Sir!"

"I'm having that plastic surgeon arrested if he sets one foot on my base, Nurse. Make the right choice, for him and you." The doors swung closed behind him.

Shadona watched the nurse pace outside the big, frosted glass doors. In minutes she calmed, straightened her hair, and walked inside. She checked Shadona's IV, monitored the equipment, then pulled back the sheet and inspected the burns, regret all over her face.

"Do you know who did this?" the Nurse asked. "You do, don't you. Just like last time. Give me a name." She waited in Shadona's silence. "It doesn't stop without a name. You know that, don't you? The longer they keep getting away with this, paying no price, the worse it will be on you girls. Someone has to be the first to speak up. Someone has to break the silence." She ran her fingers through Shadona's hair and sighed. "These burns are going to be with you for a while. Painful to say the least. I've talked to a friend of mine, slipped him some pictures last night. It doesn't have to be as bad as it looks." She dabbed an ointment into the open wounds and replaced the bandage. "I can't make you as pretty as you were, but with luck, it won't be as bad as you think." She held Shadona's hand, still bruised on the inside of her forearm, the shape of a boy's knees. "Give me some names this time. There were at least three, weren't there."

Four was what she remembered. One she thought she knew well.

"You've got Tazer burns on your back, hundreds of insect bites, more bruises and scratches than I can count. For someone tossed off the side of a mountain, it's remarkable you didn't break anything. Most of these will heal just fine. You're lucky in a way, if anything that happened to you can be called that. Most of this won't show." She slowly applied the ointment to each scratch. "Bastard piece of shit turned around my specialist. Doesn't want to pay the bill to do what's right by you." She looked Shadona in the eyes. "Sorry, Hon. You'll have to wear these for a while, I'm afraid."

She closed her eyes and listened to the beeps.

"You're going to survive this, believe it or not. Your vitals are strong, especially considering how dehydrated you were when we found you." She ran her fingers through Shadona's hair again, pulled another twig from the tangles, got up, and returned to her chores.

Shadona made a loose fist, waved her fingers in the air as discretely as she could, then made another fist. Could Yofi have been a more skillful version of Belson? Could Elaine have conned her too? She still believed in Yofi's good nature. She still believed there was something good in Belson, too. But the price of trust was too high for her.

She couldn't afford it anymore.

Her chest hurt with each breath.

She remembered the plastic bag Belson tied over her head. She felt it squeeze against her neck, hair always wet. She still felt the sting of dirt and stones as she rolled down the ravine, the whips of every sapling. When she tumbled to a stop, she opened her mouth and bit at the earth, chewing it between her teeth until the bag broke. Rows of holes weren't much... but it was enough to keep her alive, face soaked in sweat. Arms tied behind her back, she couldn't even get up.

Taste of dry clay and stone was still in her mouth, the grit of sand trapped along her gums. Desperate to brush her teeth, she lay silently in bed, feeling ever so alone.

She had no one now.

Beep-beep beep-beep beep—

Eyes opened, she stared at the monitor as it chimed away.

It graphed her panic attack, a nightmare boys had turned real, scarred on her brain as permanently as what they left burned into her chest. She stared at the disobedient graph, each line revealing what she wished concealed. The ticking numbers bent back to her will. First heartbeat, then breathing fell into line.

What worked with lie detectors worked in the quiet of medical too.

A small victory, but it was hers. She may never forget the nightmares of her life, but like the symptoms of her damaged mind, she wouldn't let the world see her sufferings. She had become an expert at pushing such dysfunctions to the side. Rocking was hers to control. She looked people in the eyes instead of the feet. She made a fist as she added nightmares to her list, while inside she wanted to curl up and die. That fragile, trusting girl could never survive here, so she invented one that could. One that could get raped and return to the room. One that could forgive the unforgivable. One that didn't struggle after the Tazer rounds wore off. One that stared at familiar eyes the entire time, until his shame could no longer return her look. A persona that even managed to fake it... when he took his turns, the final card she had left to play.

A persona that managed, in the middle of it all, to make one of her attackers cry. He tied the bag loose enough that it didn't cut off her blood supply. He convinced the others to toss her off the side instead of watching her die as they had wished. Actions that saved her life, in a way.

Mouth dry, she reached for the glass by her bed.

Out of reach.

Seemed silly to bind the victim to the bed, yet, bound to the bed she was. Cuffs snug on each wrist. No doubt the XO's orders.

She coughed with a hoarse throat and looked about the room.

She was alone.

She didn't struggle, relaxing in bed instead. She had been bound by men before, they seemed quite fond of binding girls. Struggling had gotten her nowhere. Struggling was their key to breaking her. Struggling wore her down faster, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

No amount of struggling could have spared her. Had Belson not distracted her, she might well have eluded capture, but only for that day. They had targeted her. They were all far from their assigned areas, with a single purpose, single intent, and had picked the time and place to best suit their wickedness.

Days passed before anyone even started looking for her.

She touched her fingers to her hip, as low as she could reach.

They obviously planned to kill her. But death would have been easy, a simple knife in the back could have achieved that. Death wasn't enough, for them. They went to great lengths to make sure she was alive and awake as long as possible. They wanted her to suffer.

She wondered how it would have been different, had she been born a boy.

As a boy, they probably would have tormented her just as long, but beaten her to death instead. Perhaps even raped with something far harder than flesh. Humiliation aside, it wasn't as bad as she had feared. She would heal from this, and heal rather fast. Bloodied and bruised, no stitches were required, no casts need be made. May even be released by the end of the week.

Belson had warned her. He had repeatedly asked her to hold back. That she wait another year before trying to dominate the games.

He had tried to warn her away, and failed.

Beep-beep beep-beep beep-beep...

Her heart raced out of control again.

It just lasted much briefer this time.

Benita sat on the edge of her bed, unbuckling Shadona's straps as she talked. "Sorry, Hon, but you can be a handful sometimes. You pull out your IV in your sleep, did it three times that first night. Some people do and just have to be restrained for their own safety." She ran her fingers across Shadona's wrist, just a hint of the bruise remained. "You're one of the fastest healers here. I could release you today, if you want." She helped her sit up, "Or you can stay a few weeks, until you're ready. It isn't too late to give me some names, you know. You don't have to go it alone. I can help you, if you'll let me."

She looked the nurse in the eyes. She seemed genuine. Her eyes looked kind and caring. But so had Belson's. She reached for the tray of chicken and mixed vegetables instead, starting with the roll.

"I'm a trained counselor if you'd like to talk to someone," she said while Shadona picked up the fork and straightened the mound of corn, peas, and carrots so it stopped touching the chicken and potatoes. She put her hand on the girl's shoulder, "It'll help to let it out, talk about it. Even just the dry details, like filing a report, can help move it behind you."

Shadona picked up the strip of chicken, dipped it in mustard, and slowly chewed.

"Writing it down can help, even if you end up flushing it down the toilet later. Just the act of putting it in words takes the power away from the moment; the way you phrase it puts you back in control." She let go. "Let me know when you want to leave." She taped a band-aid to Shadona's hand where the IV had been.

Shadona muffled a cough, cleared her throat, and said, "I'd like my clothes, please."

Benita patted her on her bare back, then adjusted the disposable gown, "Sure."

After dinner Shadona got dressed and picked up a piece of paper and a sharp pencil off the nurses' desk. Writing it down might help after all, but she had something to say to Belson first. She jotted down a short letter, folded it, added two words to the outside, and left while the room was empty.

When the door opened, Belson jumped to his feet by his desk. "I'm so sorr—"

She stepped inside and handed him the note.

"Sore throat," he read off the top, unfolding it as she stood by the door, her hands calmly by her sides, pencil hidden behind her wrist. He read in silence as the door closed and locked behind her. He sniffled as he reached the end, falling backward into his chair. "I... I... I tried to prev— Oh God, I'm so—"

The second he looked up, tears in his eyes, she jabbed the pencil near his neck, down into his left shoulder, and broke the eraser off, flush with his skin.

He grabbed her wrist and shoved her backwards into the door... but it was already too late. It had punctured his heart. The blood tricking down his shirt was dwarfed by the volume gushing inside. He fumbled near the hole, stared her in the eyes, gasped, then collapsed to the floor.

The lights blinked the five-minute warning as she stared at the second boy she had killed.

Sitting against the door, she dabbed at her cheek. But her finger was dry. She hated him for what he had done, yet she could not cry. She loved him for the person he struggled, but failed to become. Yet she could not cry. She stared him in the eyes, unable to move from his dead gaze.

"I forgive you," she said, as the room turned dark.
B1.C79

The door opened, middle of the day, lights humming in the ceiling. The XO covered his mouth as the smell by the door stopped him in his steps. Belson's body was sitting on the floor, leaned against the desk, blood smeared down the wall. Shadona sat in her chair, facing the body, arms around her knees, rocking back and forth.

"What the hell have you done?" he said.

She didn't blink as she rocked.

He knelt by the boy, clearly dead, but checked for a pulse anyway. "What did you do! Speak up! You don't just murder people around here. There are consequences for your actions—" He pulled a bloody note from the boy's hand. Her handwriting.

\--The note--

I forgive you for what you took without asking. I forgive you for the scars you've left behind. I forgive you for the notes you stole, the trust you betrayed. I forgive you for falling in love. I forgive you for failing to show it when it would have counted the most. I forgive you for betraying me to others, for believing the faulty math, of four against one being better odds than two against three.

I forgive you for thinking of yourself first, in a place like this.

I forgive in you, what I can't forgive in myself.

"How long did you know he was working for... " He crumpled the note into his pocket. "You unbelievable bitch. You didn't have to murder him."

She rocked faster.

"You just don't seem to get it, do you. This isn't a game, this is serious business. The future of the free world depends on those planes of yours. Millions of lives could be saved. The outcomes of wars could be changed. A single fighter of yours could wipe out squadrons in a matter of minutes, without leaving a trace. That's the definition of national security. I'm not about to apologize for doing whatever is necessary to secure that plane for this country.

Worry about my forgiveness, because it's in damned short supply! You think Al-Qaeda or Hamas would be this reserved? Cuba? Venezuela? Iran? North Korea? You've never seen bad conditions, Girl. You only think you've seen violence. You only think you've had a bad childhood." He pinned her to the back of the chair. "I'll make it my personal mission to break you. We will have another plane at the service of this country. And I don't care how hard I have to lean on you. You think FDR or Truman would have let those scientists at Los Alamos successfully test one bomb, then quit? You think they wouldn't be shot for treason for refusing to build more bombs? You think that FDR and Truman, after interning millions of innocent Japanese and German Americans, would blink at a firing squad for a few reluctant scientists?

This has never been about you and what you want, you selfish little bitch." He leaned harder, but she was still staring at her feet. He let go, paced back to the door, and pointed at Belson's body. "You think I'd forgive this? You think I'll let this pass without repercussions?" He faced her again. "You've got another thing coming. You only think you've been punished. You only think things have been hard for you." She started rocking again. "We've only begun, Girl. I've tried being nice to you. That didn't work. It's time to try something else. But make no mistake, at the end of the day, at the end of this, I don't care what I have to do to you, I will have that plane, you arrogant little—"

Realizing that happy endings only happened in the movies and that the snare around her would never allow her to leave, she stopped rocking, wiped her dry cheeks, and stood, perfectly straight, prepared to damn them all. "I don't get cut from the roster, Dana is my only roommate, I'm its only pilot, and it's the last one I ever build." She glared him in the eyes as she shed the childish dream of ever being the girl that slept with elephants again, "I promise you, it won't vanish over an unpopulated area. Next unauthorized flight will level a city." She stepped toward him, bare feet on the concrete floor, more than a little tempted to make the world's biggest crater, instead of another plane. Flying might be the closest thing to freedom she would ever know. Perhaps that would be enough... for now.

Pissed, and with a full head of steam to yell for another hour, he shoved his hands into his pockets. With everything he wanted, he turned for the door.

"Take your garbage with you," she said.

"You killed him, you dispose of him," he said, locking the door behind him.

* * *

"Huh... " she said, walking inside from the mailbox, sorting letters.

"What?" he said, "Another letter from your sister?"

"It's been lost in the mail for months, addressed to my sister, but forwarded from our old house in Colorado, near the base."

"Those bastard sons of bitches! Used eminent domain to condemn our house! Probably has something to do with—"

"It isn't addressed to you, Hon, this letter was addressed to me, care of my sister. But it never made it to her, return address was our old place." She checked the postmark. "It's been lost for a year."

"That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard."

She pushed her finger inside the flap, ripped open the end like it was a chocolate bar, and pulled out a handwritten note. "Dear Elaine," she read. "I cried for hours when I learned of Yofi's passing... " She looked at her healthy husband, "What have they been telling that poor child?" She sat at the table and unfolded the letter. "I can only imagine the loss you feel," she continued to read aloud. "While others saw Yofi as the class with comic books and candy, I saw the man who stopped the boys from picking on me, a safe place to be, when my world didn't look so good. When I try to remember that kind man of my past, I can't. I only see the man that held your hand at the table, that man who would have made an incredible dad.

I cry for the hugs I can't give you, and all the rest the rules won't allow—"

Yofi grabbed the letter from her hands and inspected a handwriting he knew only too well. "Those unbelievable bastards. Foreclose on our house, virtually kick us out of the state so they can play some twisted head games?" He held her hand as he skimmed the rest of the page. "What are they doing to that poor girl?"
Aftermath...

The engineers sat around the table, middle of the control room.

"Raise to twenty," the lieutenant said.

"I'll see your twenty, and raise you—"

Alarms went off as the men jumped to attention, crowded the displays, and manned the wind tunnel controls. "Program it for a six-minute full throttle," the lieutenant said, typing away at his keyboard.

"Six minutes, full, got it," a captain said, checking the monitor for the camera inside the cockpit. The autodialer positioned on the keypad had disengaged and was now showing a green light. The mechanical actuators attached to the stick and pedals were showing green as well. "Programmed. Hatch closing and we will lose the signal... now." The screen showing the interior went blank.

The lieutenant finished typing, then switched his monitor to the camera focused on the engine intake. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one... " The engines roared to life, wings and frame lashed in place inside the building's modest wind tunnel. "Gear up." The landing gear sucked inside the tiny black plane. "Throttled up." The floor rumbled as the air inside the chamber broke the sound barrier. "Mach 1, Mach 2, Mach 3, Mach 4, Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 5, Mach 4, Mach 1... it shut down. Damn it!" He slapped the side of the monitor out of frustration. "While we're waiting for the robot to open the door, let's go over the footage. Did we learn anything this time?"

They reviewed the frame by frame. Even with their newest cameras, the second the engines lit, the injectors and nozzles were obscured by the heat and violently churning air. The churning even extended outside the plane. "Both intake and exhaust have a twist to them, clockwise on one, counterclockwise on the other," noted one of the engineers. "That might account for the faint train sound. Like the vortex of a tornado or something. But none of our cameras have been able to survive the inside of the engine, and nothing exterior can get a good look at how those nozzles do what they clearly do."

"Hatch opening, we have control of the robot again," the captain said. "Autodialing."

"Cards anyone?" the lieutenant said as they walked back to the table to kill time until the autodialer randomly hit again. Since the plane never got into the air, they could study it in depth with no risk of wrecks, but only on the rare cases when they could get it to run. He picked up his cards as he looked at the wall of monitors beside a simple Post-It note, 'HB-1'.

Alarms sounded again. "We have another hit!"

The men ran to the other side of the room this time. The second tunnel. "We're reading green," the lieutenant said. "The interior is clear as glass, floor to ceiling. No Raptor emulation, I think we have a full unlock. N60 reading seven pounds, methanol at twenty. Potassium carbonate tank is green. Run the program."

"Yes Sir," an engineer said, typing the commands that made it happen.

Interior screen went blank. Engines flamed to life, distorting the image immediately. "Mach 1, Mach 2, Mach—"

BOOMMMMMMMMM!!!! FIZZZZZZZap!!

The building went dead, screens went blank, yet the plane strained on. The building rumbled as the tunnel walls moaned under the stress, engines roaring louder. Deafening as sonic booms battered through the building and the paint on the walls blackened in vertical lines nearest the plane. Lights that had tripped off just seconds ago glowed softly before they strobed. Blackened ends crackled in the fixtures as papers floated off the desks and clung to the ceiling, everyone's hair stood on ends. Exploding mortars would have been lost in the thrashing storm bottled inside the next room, as bulbs exploded in waves and sparks danced across the ceiling grid... until the engines finally shut down.

The lieutenant inspected the interior of a heavily damaged wind tunnel. The burn marks covering the walls behind the plane were to be expected. The ones that took everyone by surprise were those coming out the front, and those that outlined all the rebar in the walls. The tunnel blades were folded over like they were made of cardboard left out in the rain. The intake vents had been sucked closed, then folded inward like papier-mâché and would take months to repair.

The lieutenant looked at his fellow engineers. "How did it keep running even after it was starved of air? The vents held closed for six seconds, didn't they? Pulled a vacuum equal to outer space. Anyone know how a jet engine can do that? Is it even possible?"

Flying chunks of the crumbling tunnel had pitted the once pristine plane. The tunnel was a total loss, the plane may never fly again. Walls throughout the complex were cracked, same as the reinforced concrete floors. Not a piece of glass had survived. Fixtures had fallen like the aftermath of an earthquake, papers left burning in random piles dusted the floors. The building was almost a total loss, and they had damaged a billion dollar plane entrusted to their care. They had damaged the HB-2 and lost everything electronic from watches to computers at building 51.

It had destroyed a building without firing a shot.

They would have to be more careful, next time.

[The End of book one]
Patent Mine

_Patent Mine_

By TR Nowry

He woke to the rumble of a train bearing down on him. When he unzipped the opening to the tent, a black and white cat bolted out and ran toward the house.

"Come back here, Max!" he shouted, fumbling with his clothes.

The leaves on the trees rustled with anticipation amidst this clear morning sky.

"It's nothing to be afraid of!"

The train sounded louder.

He searched the sky while reaching inside the tent for his—

BOOOMMMMM!!!

It passed at treetop level, flinging his tent into the woods and stripping him of his shirt. Water from the pond soaked him in a fine spray.

The whine of the chase jets just a few seconds later were nowhere near as impressive.

Yearly combat training was one of the benefits of living in such a desolate place. F-16s and Raptors were commonplace to him. The one in the lead, the one sounding like a train was new. Well, not new to him. Versions of it had practiced for years in these mountains. It was tiny and black on the top, sky blue on the bottom, teardrop shaped with no visible cockpit. No windows at all.

He wiped his face, then looked for his tent.

Ah, more important than the tent was the camcorder he reached for.

Scratched, but it wasn't damaged.

He turned it on and aimed to the sky. To date, he had nearly four hours of video of this plane. That represented years of viewing. He made a few hundred to a few thousand for every clip he sold to UFO conspiracy web sites and military tech people. They paid well for cutting edge, even out of focus.

But he kept the best stills for himself.

It was seamless. A near perfect creation of speed and agility.

He searched for the chase planes, then focused ahead of them.

Got it! Blending with the sky, it was hard to see from the ground.

As soon as the chase planes lined up for the shot, it pulled a near right angle and slipped into the valley.

There were less than a hundred homes within this mountain range. The nearest town was over thirty miles away, and the nearest city was a two-hour drive. The people who lived here strongly objected to a base being built. They protested the loudest about the sound, but in private, they simply hated everything military, much like his parents.

Hippies.

His parents had struck it rich very young. They had a chain of restaurants in California, but the taxes were killing them. The first offer they got for the chain, they took, just to get out of there. They moved to these isolated mountains and planned on retiring at the ripe old age of thirty. Without the stress of managing the chain, they planned to start a family.

Things didn't work out.

When he was ten, his parents found out that they didn't like gardening as much as they had thought. That living off the land was hard, buying food at the store was easy. They had moved with these lofty ideals that they could find harmony with nature, almost expecting chickens to pluck themselves before climbing into the pot and choking on a garnish.

He held the camera near his side as he scanned the sky again. He wanted to review what he already got, but that risked missing— if he had only woken sooner, he could have gotten the best shot of his life! It passed so close he thought he could touch it.

He could hear the echoes in the valley. They were coming back.

He held the camera to his eye. Bingo!

These were the money shots.

The mystery plane just pulled another impossible maneuver. Without having the chase planes and the treetops in frame to confirm a steady camera hand, nobody would believe a plane could put itself into a flat spin, fly backwards, bank up and strafe the tops of two chase planes in under a second.

What made these military maneuvers all the more impressive was they didn't always use sensors and lasers to score hits. For two weeks, twice every year, they used a kind of non-lethal live ammo. Basically a high-power paint ball. Those were the weeks that he always taped.

This morning's match was over. The teardrop pilot had never been defeated; at least, not that he had ever seen.

The chase planes continued to pursue. He heard the whine of the turbines guzzling fuel, and he watched the extra heat distort the air behind them. But the teardrop just straightened, then slipped into sonic and disappeared. The boom was as distinctive as the train sound. It was odd, in a way. It was quieter above the speed of sound than it was below it. Yet, he had seen it pass overhead in complete silence too.

It made as little sense as— they were fighter planes, why in the world would it make the sound of a train?

It had puzzled him for years, and the best excuse he could come up with was perhaps a limiter or governor of some sort. Something like what they put on race cars to even the playing field.

The fastest thing he had ever seen, the governor made the most sense. He had never seen it fight one at a time. It was always two, three, or four against one.

He searched near the tent, picking up stray pieces of clothes, blanket, and a ruined packed breakfast. He unwrapped his telephoto lens, attached it to the camera, grabbed the tripod and ran to the spot on the far side of the pond.

There was only one spot, looking across the pond, that was clear of enough trees to see the mountaintop base several miles away. He focused, then waited.

His parents were horrified and outraged, like most of the original homeowners in this valley, when the military people shaved the top of the mountain off to make the base and landing strip. From the valley, you couldn't tell, but his home was just high enough to see it had received a harsh buzz cut.

He pressed record but didn't look through the lens, he stared with his eyes.

The first two to land were the conventional planes. They circled for a few minutes, lined up, then tracked for a normal landing. Hardly worth the tape.

He waited.

"Max!"

He worried about that damn cat. It was perfectly capable of taking care of itself, but, he worried.

He laughed. That cat didn't take crap from nothing. But it didn't realize that a hawk or an owl could just swoop down and snatch it up.

He looked through the camera.

It came screaming in, top speed, then did this belly flop to come to a stop. It seemed to hover, if just for a second, then float the last few feet like a leaf falling from a tree.

He had bought the telephoto to try to catch better photos. His house was on the backside of the base and rarely saw a display this close. But the lens proved problematic. At such extreme distances, he couldn't keep it steady. He could get a few good frames, but that was mostly luck.

However, he got some of his best shots with the tripod, holding fast just above the landing strip. It was a lot like trying to snatch a picture of a hummingbird. It's frustrating and blurry to try to catch them in flight, so you set the camera on a tripod and focus on the feeder.

He packed up his video equipment, then looked for the rest of his stuff.

His parents had done one thing right. He cast the line into the pond. It was man-made and one of the main reasons why his parents had picked this spot. One side was lined with three trucks of concrete, and it slowly filled with rain over the next two years. About when he turned six, his father stocked it with catfish, trout, bluegills, bass, carp, and dozens of other varieties they had caught on various fishing trips. It spanned maybe ten acres and was deep enough to swim in, but not drown. At sixteen, it had only two spots that were deeper than his shoulders.

He pulled in the line.

Nothing, but the worm was gone.

He set another, then cast again.

This time, the bite was immediate.

Catfish. His personal favorite. He bashed it against a rock, recovered the hook, then tossed the catch up shore. He lit a fire and started cooking.

Before it was done, his black and white cat had returned.

"So, Fraidy Cat, what brings you back?" he said, flipping the fish with a spatula.

The cat grabbed his knee with its front feet, looked him in the face, licked its lips, then jumped onto his lap.

"You think you deserve some of that, do you?"

The cat put its front feet on his forearm so it could get a better sniff of the fish.

He pulled the cat back to his lap and looked over the pile of fish guts. The cat had bypassed it entirely. He picked a chunk near the tail and placed it on his knee. "My Fraidy Cat, to the Max."

Max chewed away while the rest cooked a little longer.

Max liked catfish too.

He had a short hike to the house. It wasn't a very big house, just two bedrooms, but it was his most of the time. Because of the base, it was difficult to sell when his parents divorced. His mother got a place in the city, two hours away. His father was always away on 'business'. At sixteen, he had the house alone, most of the time.

He adjusted the camera bag when he got into the clearing around the house. He'd have to mow the lawn soon. Like most teens, he hated that. The grass around the solar panel would be the first to go. The panel was turned into one of the shed walls where the mower was parked, among other stuff. But to him, it was a constant reminder of how intertwined mowing and solar were.

His father read every do-it-yourself hippie thing out there. And tried to do half of them, often with disastrous results. The solar thing was the only one that halfway worked.

Max ran to the front door and started to scratch.

"Alright, I'm coming," he said, to which Max scratched with more impatience.

He let the cat in.

He had online classes to take anyway.

With the entire valley so spread out, it didn't make sense to send a bus around to pick them all up. Internet, satellite, and phone to the rescue. When his mother was living at home, she home-schooled him, supplemented with online stuff. But high school was done without her.

It was boring. His mom had given him a solid education; she had wanted to be a teacher when she was young and attacked it enthusiastically. She had blackboard paint on one wall, an overhead projector, and even got a formal student desk he now kept in his room. He was in the top of his class (of fifteen students) and he hardly had to do any homework. Class had become a lesson in attendance. If he wasn't online by 9am, they called his mom and dad instantly, at their work numbers. It wasn't worth the hassle. He usually played a video game during class on a second laptop (earphones) anyway. Why not sit 'in class' too. It would be too hot after school to cut the grass, so, he'd have to put it off until tomorrow, again.

Did-Dump. "Argo, watd you get for number 16?" the IM read.

He didn't bother looking it up, he simply sent the entire exercise as an attachment. "You still at your mother's?" he added in the text.

Did-Dump. "Dad."

"He home today?"

Did-Dump. "Shouldn't be back till tonight. Want to hang?"

He smiled, then added the symbol to the text.

Dara was a cute girl, a little on the heavy side, but still cute. She lived closer to the valley, about a twenty-minute dirt-bike ride down the road. But she was always worth it.

He skipped the rest of the game, after the zombies clobbered him in an ambush, and started uploading his camera into the computer where he could clip and cut and go frame by frame. It was slow and painstaking, but no worse than online school.

This was his junior year, what did they expect?

Argo pulled the sheets off, tossed the condom in the trash, then started putting on his clothes.

Dara pulled the sheets to her chest, self-consciously, "Dad's not coming home tonight, he call—"

"I still have to go." Argo stood and zipped his pants.

"But, you can stay."

He started to laugh, but covered for it, "I'd love to, but, I've got to be down at the pond for the morning show." He never kissed her on the lips after, so he pecked her on the cheek as he walked out her bedroom door.

She dragged the sheets down the hall after him.

He stopped at her front door, "Besides, I left Max locked up in the house, and nobody wants that cat getting anxious in their house."

She listened as he started the bike and raced away.

He wound up the alarm clock, pulled the camera off the charger, then checked everything in the bag.

Max jumped onto the bed, then stared into the bag too.

"You coming, or staying?"

Max scratched at the box of fishing hooks.

"You know, you can fish some too."

And on the word fish, Max clawed.

"Ok, that's enough." Argo moved the cat to the center of the bed, then zipped up the backpack. He considered taking the laptop, but didn't. Its WiFi reached down to the pond, but the batteries would only last a few hours. The path was nearly impossible to navigate without full daylight, and it was never a good idea to stray too far from the path.

The cat followed him out the door.

Camping outside had its dangers. There were cats much bigger than Max in these woods, not to mention bears and dogs. He checked the pistol before the fire went out. One round chambered, safety off, hammer down. Squeeze the trigger and it would fire, but the trigger would need to be squeezed very hard. He was never sure what that was called, single action or double? It hardly mattered, Max could give almost anything pause. In a weird way, he felt safer with Max in the tent than the gun, but only the gun was truly lethal.

When he was thirteen, a wild dog was bearing down on him along the path to the house. He was exhausted and couldn't run anymore, so he stopped.

The dog was seconds from pouncing when Max jumped between them, stood on his hind legs, hissed with claws drawn and a fluffed tail, and the dog stopped in its tracks. Max lunged toward it, and the snarling dog backed up. Max lunged four more times before the dog just ran off.

It was like the coolest Jedi mind trick he had ever seen. A black and white cat, standing on its hind feet no taller than his knee, scared away a sixty-pound dog.

Max was a ferocious cat, when he wanted to be.

At least, Max looked ferocious.

A single bite, maybe two bites at most from the dog would have ended any fight with Max. The problem was neither the dog nor Max seemed to know that.

He turned on his radio and its little nightlight, rolled out the sleeping bag, then climbed in. "Inside, or out?" He held open the bag.

The cat put its nose in, then backed out again.

"You sure?"

The cat curled on the outside of the bag instead.

Argo folded a corner to cover the cat. It got cold at night, even for the fiercest of creatures.

BZZZZZZ!!!

He turned off the alarm clock. Max was already at the door. He unzipped it and the cat shot out. Max used litter boxes, if he must, but preferred to go outside. It probably had something to do with marking territory or something, but he didn't presume to know the mind of a Jedi master.

He readied the camera, then looked up. Crap. Too much fog.

He heard the train, but couldn't see anything. He caught a glimpse of four— No, make that six chase planes this time, all Raptors. He aimed the camera, but the lens fogged immediately.

Raptors used thrust vectoring to increase maneuverability. Whatever the teardrop used, it was superior even to that. It slid into a flat spin, stabilized with the left wing as the leading edge, then open fired on the Raptor to its side. It was flying sideways! It shifted to a belly-flop brake, then reversed course. It could perform maneuvers that would rip the wings off any other plane. They disappeared into the clouds.

This morning's fight would have been spectacular, had it not been obscured by fog. He wanted to toss the camera into the pond out of frustration, but didn't. He continued to watch for the little glimpses he could get.

The remaining five were dispatched in less than a minute and were now lining up on the base.

It was over. He looked for worms, then unfolded his pocket fisherman.

At least Max wouldn't be disappointed today.
**B2.C2**

"Oh, God, I hate this part!" Dana said from the pilot seat.

"Breathe, and hold," the co-pilot said from the back.

They both took a breath, then the plane belly flopped from the sky. It threw both back into the seats. Hard.

The autopilot, like those on the chase planes, prevented crashes and monitored pilots for blackout, so it was a perfectly safe maneuver. It just hurt like hell, but was all part of the training.

The HB-4 was designed to land anywhere, and to land under fire. The best way to avoid getting hit was to never fly slow. Belly flop landings were a key part of the training, and Dana had to get it right, without the autopilot kicking in, or help from the back seat.

"Good job, Dana," the co-pilot said. The gauge read 12.4gs, painful, but, the way the plane was designed, 20gs was the real blackout range. "Float the leaf."

Dana worked the controls and landed on the elevator doors with a feather touch.

The tires braked, engines throttled down, and the floor lowered them down into the mountain. The canopy shifted with the changing of light as they descended into the darker hangar below. Infrared, UV, X-ray, backscatter radar. It had it all, and projected it seamlessly onto the inside of the canopy, superimposed over optically enhanced images. A user controlled fish-eye disappeared with a switch. It had superimposed a zoomed image in the direction of travel, required for super and hypersonic speeds. When it takes ten miles to swerve, you need to see twenty miles out. It was a little like flying through a sniper scope, and it took a lot to get used to. The periphery was compressed to include a 360-degree look behind. Objects were targeted and highlighted, automatically.

People were now being highlighted through twenty feet of solid concrete and steel. Desks and planes outlined, ordnance counting up on each plane and tallied into threat assessments assigned to every object. Dana shut down those systems too, leaving on only the optics and infrared.

The elevator reached the bottom, and the taxi-car locked to the front tire and towed it to its slot.

The seals leaked with a hiss as the hatch opened and the two climbed out, one at a time.

"What were the readings on the MHD drives?" the co-pilot asked.

Dana checked the readings projected inside her helmet. "A peak of 15MW, left, 45 right side."

"I knew those retards didn't put it back together right. They should both be well over 50."

Dana checked the log. "The rails read offline anyway, not that they ever work well with dummy rounds. The potassium carbonate tank is empty, so, the wash was getting a good mix."

"It isn't your fault, Dana, they take the damn thing apart every day, trying to figure out how it works, and they never put it back right." She inspected the gun ports. "This batch of paint rounds keeps breaking early." She wiped the sprayed paint from around the barrels.

"You use caseless—"

"Stop defending them. Just because they—"

"Me, defending them? Me?" Dana removed her helmet. "Seriously?"

The co-pilot removed her helmet too. "No, I, I'm just—"

"Pissed because they suspended you from participating in combat this—"

"It's my damn plane, Dana. Mine. Every inch of it."

Dana just nodded. "I know, Darling."

Dwarfed by nearly every other plane in the massive underground hangar, its assigned slot was sized for a Raptor, which made it look like a bike parked in a car slot. They made their way to the closest door out of the hangar and into the central halls. Most of the base was underground.

At the first corner, three boys jumped Dana and slammed her into the nearest block wall.

She blindly swung the helmet and it made a satisfying crack and anguished cry behind her.

Kick! Kick! Pummel and kick!

Dana was flattened to the floor as they pounded her more.

"Damn cheating dyke!" one of the boys yelled at Dana's co-pilot as they dragged her halfway through a door, then repeatedly slammed it on her leg.

The leader of the boys knelt by Dana's bleeding face, "Let's see you do that again." He ground his heel into her hand, then left down the hall.

"You've set the leg, right?"

"Broken in two places—"

"X-ray it again, and schedule an MRI—"

"An MRI sounds excessive—"

"I didn't ask you if it sounded excessive, Doctor, I told you to schedule one. What's in that girl's head is worth a—"

"The attack seems focused on her leg, not her—"

"Check for blood clots too, Doctor."

"I don't get why I was flown in for this, has child services been notified?"

"Doctor, you are our specialist on call. We pay an enormous amount of money to have you on retainer. It isn't easy to find qualified doctors who have the level of clearance you do. If you forget the password to your email, it is an inconvenience. If she has a small stroke and forgets the password to her plane, it may cost billions. She may look like a child, but she is not. You will use your full expertise on this girl, and you will take every possibility into consideration. Do your job."

"Nurse, where is your X-ray and MRI?"

They rolled the girl down the hall as Dana watched from her bed.

"What's the patient's name, Nurse?"

"I'm not sure you are cleared for that, Doctor."

Dana knew her name. They had grown up together, more or less her entire life. They even shared the same room for the last few years. Shadona. She was perhaps the best and only friend she had left in this place.

A broken leg would keep her from being in a plane, any plane. Broken bones didn't take to Gs very well.

Five years back, at the ripe old age of twelve, Shadona had grown tired of the limitations of Raptors and referred to it as an archaic, obsolete platform, to three of the lead engineers on the Raptor project. Within the year, the HB-1 was born. Nearly identical to the HB-4 they flew today, it lacked armaments and a few refinements, but was the basic platform. The first three were destroyed because the base engineers dismantled it religiously in an attempt to understand how it was made, and, lacking even the basic understanding of how it worked, they often put back critical components incorrectly. Two test pilots died trying to figure out how to fly it.

The XO walked to Dana's bed. "What were the activation codes?"

"F38G94S," Dana said, "But you know that's useless to you. It flashes a sign, she gives the counter sign. She does the math in her head and just tells me the numbers. And no, I don't know the formula she uses, she knows not to tell me."

He looked frustrated. "We will figure it out, one day." He started walking away.

"Sure, you're much smarter than her. Should be easy. She estimated it would take a supercomputer 22,954 days to crack the code, if that helps."

Shadona tested as very high functioning autistic as an infant, then she dropped to perfectly normal. Perfectly normal. Without the code, the entire operating system of the plane ceased to function. Enter a close, but wrong code, and the plane would fly for a brief period, then lock. Shadona could do complex math in her head faster than any other human, probably on the planet. With only a few seconds to enter the code, it wasn't long enough to even look it up in a book. Dana knew that it was a basic formula, heavy math, but beyond that, she didn't want to know.

"Good luck!" she said as he left the room.

"F38G94S" the XO repeated to the crew working on the plane.

One entered it. "Nothing. But it helps."

"She said 22,954 days on a supercomputer."

The tech at the laptop looked up, "That sounds about right."

"We caught something on the mike about the MHD drive being off. 50MW was the range she said it should have been operating at. That's helpful. Her numbers match the hidden camera—"

The tech officer finished reviewing the entire flight tape, "They both knew the camera was there, they even waved to it."

The XO looked down the gun-ports, "We need this nut cracked. This is the foremost air superiority weapon on the planet. It's a one of a kind, and we can't have it stay that way, Gentlemen."

"Every flight, every time we tear it down, we learn something new, XO."

"We any closer to how she made the skin?"

"No Sir. But we think these optic ducts inside the engine are a part of a weapons system that has never been activated."

"Something on top of railguns?"

"Possibly a beam weapon. It looks like some of the stuff they use at the national fusion project—"

"A fusion powered weap—"

"No Sir. But the fusion project uses focused lasers to create the pressure instead of intense magnetics. If her 50MW complaint is accurate, the MHD drives should operate within those scaled down confinement ranges too. If fusion was her goal, it seems unlikely that she wouldn't save space and weight and reuse those MHD coils. This seems like something else. It's definitely something she hasn't used yet."

"Keep working on it. Review those dismantling tapes, take it back up top, tether it, and see if you can get 50MW from them. You can get the engines working without accurate codes, right?"

"Yes Sir, briefly."

When the XO left, they looked at each other. The tech in charge asked, "Do we have a cable strong enough to tether this thing, throttled that hard?"

"I don't think he gets how strong this little thing is."

"We have more than one cable—"

"See if we can borrow some from the cable arresting system on the mockup carrier deck. I'd like to use more than one anchor too."

"Has anyone done the math on operating two, free venting, 50MW MHDs on the ground? Is that even safe to do on the—"

"Just do it!" the rest of the team yelled, mocking the XO.

The nurse returned to Dana's bed, "Bruised, but nothing broken. I'll just check your tape and you can lea—"

"When are they bringing Shadona back?"

"I can't tell you that."

"I'm not leaving until I see her."

The nurse sat on the bed, then looked around. "Honey, you know they're going to use this as an excuse to—"

"I'm not leaving until I see her."

"They aren't going to let you stay. That isn't how they—"

"It could be worse than what was written on your pad."

The nurse frowned as she looked at the papers.

Dana bit into her own cheek, then coughed a little blood.

The nurse added some notes to the page, then left the room.

Dana would wait until her friend returned, however long that took.

"Wait a minute, XO, you want to spare no expense on a broken leg, but it's suddenly fine to sedate her and pump her full of high doses of psychotropic drugs so you can question her?"

"Doctor, you are to administer and monitor—"

"I'll tell you right now, you will damage her brain. Long-term and short-term memory loss is almost certain. Especially in combination with everything else—"

"Doctor, we get these opportunities so rarely, we must take full advantage of—"

"Look, I get the gist of it. Broken legs are not my specialty, brain damage is. Right now, I'm suspecting she's not the one that needs the most critical examination around here." The doctor stared straight at the XO.

The nurse interrupted, "Sir, the doctor is right. I looked up the combinations when I pulled the pharmaceuticals from the stores. It comes with a strongly worded warning. I tried looking up combinations of lesser, but similar drugs, but they combined with bad results as well. Nothing combines well with the painkillers and blood thinners she's on."

"Well, take her off it, then," the XO said.

"It stays—" the nurse started.

"It stays in her system for at least a week." The doctor finished.

The XO stared at their patient, unconscious on the bed with an IV in her arm. "There has to be a way to capitalize on this accident. Can't we adjust the painkillers to keep her loopy and question her then?"

The doctor checked the chart, "I don't know how effective that will be, but I can—"

"Then stop arguing and do it. I'll send my best interrogator in. You'll be working with him."

The questioning didn't work. Loopy enough to get her to answer resulted in hours of gibberish, most of it in foreign languages. They taped the session, just to be safe, and had it sent to their linguistic department in case it wasn't gibberish. But the number of languages she was proficient in made deciphering it a tall task indeed.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

"They put you into restraints to keep you from pulling out the IV," Dana said as she unbuckled her friend.

Shadona held her hand out, waving it slowly in front of her face, still loopy. She moved her hand to the IV, but Dana grabbed her hand instead.

"You missed it. They bolted down your plane on the airfield, throttled it, then did a full-power test of the HMD drives."

Shadona smiled, but was looking past Dana's shoulder to where the emergency lights were still on.

"It blew out the main power when the wash shorted to ground." Dana nodded at the two beds on the far end, "Two tech guys got burned trying to make their way to the plane to shut it down. They had to let it burn through a quarter tank of fuel. Ripped up the entire field. One of the cables broke and it spun like a rabid dog on a leash. The wash blew out every window up top, kicked over walls, ripped every leaf off the trees it didn't manage to uproot. They say it looks like a tornado landed up top and hung around for an hour. People kept pouring in with cuts from broken glass."

Shadona's hand shook left and right as her eyes closed.

"They broke your leg, Hon, and tore up your favorite toy. Cracked the frame, from what I understand, and broke the tip off the wing."

The beeping continued.

As darkness slowly descended, the XO surveyed the damage topside.

"You want to explain this to me? You're engineers, from MIT, top of your class. And a plane built by a teenage girl is too complex for your entire team to figure out. It's almost like the more degrees I put on it, the dumber you all look. Not only that, but you take a simple task and turn it into millions of dollars worth of destruction to my base, and rip the wing off of a priceless possession of The State!"

The engineers looked at their feet, two with their arms bandaged and slung, most with singed hair.

"Did you at least get anything worth all this destruction?"

" ... 600MW," one said.

"That's 500MW better than she—"

"No Sir, it was 600MW, each."

The XO stared at the wrecked plane while it was being towed on skids to the elevator, landing gear destroyed.

"Are you sure this isn't another grievous mistake exemplifying your inability to add simple numbers?"

"No Sir. It was hooked to base dynamos, and the onboard gauges confirmed it. For two minutes, it was pumping out more power than a nuke. We expected it to be in that range, Sir, at least half of us did. That keeps it in line with how the railguns were constructed. It also falls in line with the top speeds projected for it. See, one of the biggest problems with a hypersonic fighter is it would have to fire bullets that fly faster than the plane itself, or risk running into its own ordnance. To push a thousand 300-grain rounds a second would take a little under 500MW, each bank." He paused, checking his math one more time before he put his foot in it again. "It should exit the barrel at mach 22. That matched the estimated thrust and the breaking tension of the cables—"

"What was its top speed?" the XO asked.

"Well, factoring the wind tunnel, mach 10... "

"Mach 10?"

"... Plus."

The XO stepped back. "Plus?"

"Yeah, see, it's a multi-fuel platform and we—"

"Filled it with the cheap stuff."

"It's rather ingenious, Sir, she's tied the bullet speed into the ship's speed times roughly two by powering it directly off the engines." They followed the XO as he walked with the wreckage to the elevators. "You see, Sir, she's really the only one who knows how to work the thing. We just got lucky, the code your man radioed back seemed to unlock the engines this time. I think we were getting near full power, you know, considering the grade of fuel. It's set up like a conventional fighter, but the systems customize through the code response; since the instrument cluster is just a projection, it can simulate any plane. We think we know what she did, just not how to undo it. See—"

The XO stopped the tech, "Look, I just want to know three things.

One, how long is it going to take to fix this one?

Two, how fast can we expect your team to reverse engineer this thing?

Three, have you learned anything about how it handles the high Gs yet?"

The gates came up around the elevator as the pad slowly lowered into the mountain. The head engineer consulted his team. "We can't fix the damaged wing. We can patch it with carbon fiber composite and fix the undercarriage, but its leading edge is destroyed. It'll never handle the stresses again. The original is one piece. We have no way of replicating that, and may never. But with the state of the art carbon fiber composites, we can make the airframe, max speed of mach 4 or 5. Nothing near— See, the one piece stuff, near as we can tell, not only adds incredible strength, we're talking hundreds of times stronger, but it also dissipates the heat, potentially to reentry levels. Nothing we know of can do that. You can hit it with a blowtorch for an hour, wait a second, and pick it up with your bare hand.

We think we can make mach 4, 5, maybe 6 or 7 versions of this, conventionally. Faster than Raptors, much less than the original, about the price of a B-2.

One of my MIT colleagues is a psychology professor. These systems seem more like brainteasers than actual systems. Think of it like ornamental science that's nearly indistinguishable from the functioning science. It's really tough because it isn't just science.

She did the same thing with that hydraulic engine when she was six, remember? It had so many fancy, complex, intricate and important looking features that it took years to distinguish the functioning features from the distractions. The disguises. And even then, we only really figured it out when it mysteriously got published on the web. Public domain."

"We can't let this hit public domain, none of it."

"This is a thousand times more complex, or at least, it looks that way. I suspect it's just as simple, but we just don't know the important parts. Beyond the skin." The elevator hit the bottom and the gates lowered into the floor. "As much of a disaster as this seems, we caught some very important breaks. We know how it handles the Gs, that's huge. We have accurate power levels, fuel levels, consumption rates, and corresponding thrust levels. We have some solid benchmarks, and that's really important to know."

The XO stopped the lead tech. "I've been thinking, just fix the easy stuff. The landing gear, stuff like that. Don't fix the hard stuff. We may yet be able to turn this into an advantage."
**B2.C3**

"Dad, the solar thing is acting weird again," Argo said.

His father put down the beer. "Look, it isn't rocket science, Son, you ought to be able to figure it out, you've taken that dirt bike apart a dozen—"

"The bike has a normal motor, not some sort of Internet freaky thing. Isn't it placebo powered where it only works if you believe it can? Like Al Gore's car that's powered off his own limitless sense of self-importance."

The father went to the kitchen where the port to the panel was, then plugged in the laptop and downloaded the logs. "It says you need to replace the rings and change the oil. Good God, Son, it's reading a reset every three minutes."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

He closed the laptop, "Look, I even bought the book on this, it's on the shelf somewhere."

"No, Dad, you bought a book on the basic theory of the engine and how it goes into—"

"You're not a dumb kid—"

"I'm not an engineer, Dad. The thing works weird, off pressure differences and such, has that box of gauges, no spark plug, circulating pumps and— I just can't follow it, Dad."

"Unbelievable! It's just rubber rings and— Ugh!" The father yanked the plug from the wall and rolled up the cord. "Fine! I'll fix it, again."

He dragged his son along to watch, yet, the boy learned nothing. He just couldn't follow it.

Psss, hiss, slosh slosh, squi-squi, squi-squi... It was working normally again. It didn't even sound like a real engine. Argo got the standard lecture on the importance of preventative maintenance, but it just rolled in one ear and out the other. He didn't care how electricity was made, he just wanted it there when he turned on a light.

On the mountain, he had to budget for things. He couldn't turn on the microwave and the oven at the same time. He had to request hot water a full hour before he could take a shower, and he had to use a lot of power during that hour too. That made the least sense to him of the whole thing, but somehow it made electricity when it made hot water, or heated the house, but it used electricity to cool the house. It was a confusing, contradictory, weird little thing, always making its silent squi-squi sounds. And it looked like a movie prop version of a pipe bomb consisting of two, long, parallel pipes connected with a series of short tubes.

In the kitchen, there were a few simple temperature and pressure gauges, and a chart beside it. He had to look up the readings and the chart told how much power it had left. It could last almost a week on batteries, which didn't make any sense to him either. He had seen the battery, a single, deep-cycle marine battery just a little bigger than those found in cars. Totally incapable of powering a house for a week. Supposedly, according to his father, the battery just filled in the peaks, the real power was stored in a warm wall of concrete that never got over 250 degrees. All he knew was it was inconvenient, before he turned anything major on, he had to consult the chart and follow the rules; but it worked, and that was all he wanted to know about it.

Dara got her power from the grid and a normal backup generator. Stuff he could easily understand. She didn't have to take anything apart or budget her life like he did. His father loved this stuff, 'It's free energy, Man!' Free energy meant rationing, budgeting, and sweating the details. Free took a lot of work that seldom seemed worth it.

They stood in the kitchen as his father read the gauges and hooked the laptop up again. "See, this is how it's supposed to work." He pressed the request button. The light turned green in just a few seconds and the output gauge read 10. His father put dinner on the stove and microwaved some potatoes, then went to take a hot shower. Something Argo hadn't been able to do for the last three months.

"So, Dad, how long before your next meeting?" Argo said at the dinner table.

His father dragged the steak through the A1 sauce, then checked his PDA. "Next Thursday in Washington. It's a pain in the— You would think telling intelligent people how to do the right thing, and save money doing it, would be easier than this." He chewed, then pointed his empty fork at his son, "Never get into consulting. They don't want to know, they just want you to tell them that what they're already doing is good enough. They have no intention of improving anything."

"You'd be a better consultant if you lied—"

"I'd be the most popular damn consultant in the world if I just told them they were doing everything right—" he sawed on another piece with the knife, "But I ain't no cheerleader, Son. That wasn't what they hired me for."

Argo laughed, he knew how to work his Dad too well. "You should have been consulting on the base a few days ago. Looked like they set the whole top on fire, then tried to get a tornado started."

"That's why I can't unload this thing. Your mother and her damn lawyer saddled me with this damn place—"

"Oh come on, they're quiet, most of the time. Like living next to a fireworks factory."

"We were here first, Son. Damn jar-head baby killers—"

"I think planes are air force, maybe navy, Dad. Very few are Marines. Gotta get your slurs right." He watched his father try to force a quick swallow so he could pop off a rapid-fire comeback. "You should have seen the catfish we've been catching this spring. The pond's been really jumping. Literally, you can hear them flopping out. Now that's the kind of farming even I can get behind."

His father had been trying for nearly a decade to get a good garden going. They would have some limited success, some promising starts, but without fail, one night it would get plundered by a herd of animals. They bought tillers, a small tractor, fertilizers, and a wall of books with no results. Animals would get nearly ninety percent of anything they grew, except for that pond. The pond was solid gold. The father shrugged, "If I could get a little work out of my son once in a while, I might have gotten—"

"Mom was asking about you last week," Argo changed the subject quickly, "I think she broke up with that dude and, I mean, she sounded like she was considering—"

The father laughed, "What the— She takes all the cash, most of the stocks, and leaves me with nothing but this land I can't even give away— Now I've got to spend half of my time living out of hotel rooms—"

"I'm just saying, it sounds like she's rethinking things, that's all."

The father pointed his fork at his son, "We should go fishing tomorrow, just me and—"

"Got school tomorrow, but Saturday is—"

"After school, Son, after."

Argo took his plate and glass to the kitchen sink. But got attacked on his leg. "Oh, sorry Max, forgot all about you." He set his plate on the floor to the delight of his perpetually starving cat. He knelt, "Is tomorrow at the pond ok with you?" then lavished some affection onto the top of Max's head before returning to the table.

"They still doing that lightning research?" the father asked.

"You know, now that you mention it, I think since they blew the top off the mountain, they stopped."

"Good. Maybe I'll get some sleep here after all."

Max returned from the kitchen, plate clean, and stared up at the father while impatiently licking his lips.

"Thought you were hiding from me, Cat." The father scarfed the rest, then handed the plate over for the cat to lick clean. "Don't want you getting too anxious, again."

Argo laughed, "It's been years since Max had an accident, Dad."

"Don't take but one."

They sat in folding chairs by the pond, poles in the water as the sun slowly went down. "This is why we came here, Son." He reeled in his line, then cast it again as the constant chirps of insects and frogs chimed in.

Argo tugged on his line, trying to tempt the lurking dinner onto his hook. Sometimes it took hours. Sometimes it took less than a minute. But, it was always fishing.

Max pounced at the water's edge, put something into his mouth, then crunched his way further around the pond.

"What the hell is your cat getting into," the father asked.

"I'm not sure. He'll eat anything. I'm guessing bugs, but it could be—"

"Bugs don't crunch that loud, Son."

The father handed over his pole on his way to investigate.

"It looks like crawfish are finally taking hold, Son."

Argo looked disappointed, "You mean those mini lobster looking things? Is that what he's eating? He can have them!"

The father brought back the remains of a tail and a claw. "They're good—"

"If you catch a bushel of them, maybe."

He tossed the scraps into the water. "Well, I'm thrilled. I brought back a cooler full from that job I did in Louisiana, remember? It took forever to get them shipped, live, on the plane. When I added them in, I had that sinking feeling that I had just bought some really expensive fish food. I'd love to see just a few, every now and then. You know, proof that their population is strong and stable."

"I don't know, Dad, I never liked them that much. They always tasted like slightly bitter shrimp. I mean, when you got catfish, what do you need—"

"Well, I'm happy to see them." The father grabbed back the pole and gave the line a couple quick tugs. "Oh, got a nibble." One swift jerk and he reeled it in.

"Perch! About three pounds, right?" Argo said, looking at it splash out of the water as it fought the reel. "You don't get crawfish that big." He elbowed his dad, "Last week, I caught a catfish that had to be fifteen, twenty pounds or so. I think we still have some of it in the freezer."

"It isn't the meat, Son, it's the fishing."

On that, they both agreed.

The splashing even brought Max back around.

They made their way home before dark. They had caught ten fish, but returned with only the perch.

While his father checked the greenhouse off the kitchen, Argo opened the pantry. They had a large store of canned food, but an even bigger stock of dried peas, corn, rice, flour, beans and other such staples in sealed five gallon buckets stacked floor to ceiling. It reminded him of a bomb shelter, but it was totally practical. The closest store was an hour away, and the store with reasonable prices was two hours away. They bought in bulk, like the restaurant entrepreneur he was, once a year.

Argo refilled the bottom of his quart containers with dried beans, peas and corn, then filled them with water in the kitchen. Dried foods had to soak for days, usually a week, before they returned to the supple seeds and were suitable for cooking. He put them on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

His father was a good chef. Not the head chef of any of the restaurants, but not bad either. The greenhouse was good for year-round tomatoes, lettuce, spinach, cucumbers and such. Today, they had steamed asparagus, fried perch with a rich tomato sauce, and mashed potatoes with corn and lima beans. It was a fine meal.

"Mom wanted me to stay there this summer," Argo said, waiting to gauge his father's response. "I told her I'd rather stay here this year too, like I did last year."

His father smiled, "You know, you can stay there, too."

"I know, but, I just, Max likes it here. He's out of place in a city. You can't let him go loose outside, he'll get lost, so you have to walk him on a leash. He hates that. He hides under the bed for the first week, anyway."

"He was just a stray you picked up outside the house, Son. He would be fine if you left him outside the house all summer. He doesn't have to be an inside cat."

"No way, Dad. I'm not going to just leave him to the mercies—"

"I'll let him in every time I come home, Son."

"No way. You haven't seen the anger in his eyes if I leave him alone in the house just to go down to get the mail."

"Yeah, look, don't use your cat as an excuse not to spend time with your mom. Just because she bled me dry doesn't make her not your mom. Besides that, I don't want to hear from her lawyer that I'm poisoning your mind against her."

Argo sat back in the chair, a fresh, flaky bun still in his hand. "You want me to go?"

"No, not really," the father said, "but you should. She is your mom."

Max was not going to like this at all.

A clap of thunder broke the silence of night.

Argo went to the window facing the base. They couldn't see the base from the house, only the pond had enough cleared trees to see it, but he could still see the sky above it.

Not a cloud in view; yet a perfect line of brilliant blue throbbed for a solid second, perhaps even two, straight into the base.

It faded to a light blue, then a pink as it blended wider into the sky. The colors drifted as the line smudged with the wind.

He waited another minute.

The bolt drew itself again. He waited for the—

Boommm!

He was packed for his mom's.

**B2.C4**

The engineer entered the XO's office. "The harvester is back online. We're making power again, and the trunklines back to the city are up and running at capacity."

"Good. What about your plane skin experiment?"

The engineer looked uncomfortable, "Well, Sir, it wasn't as successful. We have the room she made the plane in, exactly as she left it. We know how she powered the equipment, we even have a ballpark of the energy requirements... but, as you know, the equipment she used destroys itself, intentionally, in the production of the skin. So, it's like trying to figure out how to build a bomb by studying the crater."

"Are you any closer?"

He handed the XO a twisted, lumpy piece that was a far cry from the smooth-as-glass skin. "... We are, I think."

"What's your ballpark, each attempt?"

"It uses about one million dollars worth of electricity, in about twenty seconds, per piece."

"And the cost of equipment?"

"Another two or three hundred thousand. Some of it can be rebuilt."

"We can't afford for you to keep experimenting like this. She got it right in the first attempt."

"Well, then, put her on it, Sir."

The XO banged his fist into the polished oak desk.

"Sorry, Sir. I'm just frustrated too. My whole team is."

The XO looked down, ran his fingers through his receding, buzzed hair, then looked up. "We can't ask her, we spent four years training her to resist torture and build a tolerance against drugs—"

"And the magnetic pulse burned out all the cameras in the room before she pulled the rabbit from the hat. The tapes are no good, Sir. I've spent weeks going over every frame. She knew where they were, and she can act."

The XO was pissed. The plane was vital to national security. It was like an alien crash-landed and they recovered the plane, intact. Then found that the pilot spoke perfect English and was the inventor, but was hell bent on keeping every screw and nut of it a secret.

"I've only been here three years, Sir, but she came up with the harvester too, didn't she?"

The XO looked like it was a state secret. He looked down at the desk, then nodded.

"I thought so. You can't make the skin without access to those levels of power. A facility capable of making sustained bolts of lighting could easily harvest them as well. If our calculations are right, it's a pulse equal to about 2,000 more power plants than are currently in the US grid. If I could see the details on that, it may help. I think it's all a part of the same—"

"I can't show you that." The XO leaned back, then stared at the closed office door. He sighed. "You worked on the MHD system on the plane, right? Well, it's a lot bigger." The XO looked very uncomfortable, but knew the engineer had the needed clearance. "The bolt is caught in a dirty snowball. Super-conducting powder leaves a contrail as it's shot a few miles up, like a reverse comet. That triggers a bolt almost any time we want, and the dust ensures—"

"Makes sure nothing is lost to the resistance of air." The engineer sat in front of the desk, then leaned in, "I've guessed that much, but what's happening under the ground?" He tapped his finger on the desk, "No capacitors in the world can store that level of power, you could fill this valley with batteries and not come anywhere near this, let alone charge them all in a second."

"The pulse, the bolt, passes through a conductive fluid, in the presence of a powerful magnetic field—"

The engineer stood, steadied himself against the back of the chair, then walked toward the door. His hand on his chin, he walked back to the desk. "Moving, rivers of fluid? It would take miles of tunnels, millions of gallons moving hundreds of miles per—"

"It does, and there is. All inside this mountain."

The engineer sat, "Of course, it's so simple. It's just like the MHD drives that take a fast moving particle in the jet wash and turns it into a massive pulse that the railguns turn back into an even faster moving bullet. Motion to electric pulse, to motion again."

The XO got up to walk around the desk, "It started as a way to buy and store off-peak power from the coal plant, as a part of that hippie green nonsense the country was mired in, then sell it back during peak hours to the city. But, it quickly turned into more—"

The engineer stood, "When those amounts wouldn't make the skin, she showed you how to catch lightning. Thank you, Sir. This helps a lot." He left to meet with his team. They had work to do.

The engineer looked over the photocopied notebooks. It was in the girl's own handwriting. He knew what he was looking at, he had been taught by the brightest professors MIT had to offer. Top of his class. He had seen the girl in the videos, just an unimposing, teen girl. He followed the first book exactly, because it looked so convincingly correct. Yet, a simple diode was drawn backwards, easily overlooked, and that one mistake destroyed the entire board and weeks worth of work. She knew the notebooks would be read. She added mistakes, intentionally, in easily overlooked places positioned to do the maximum damage. It was like they were encrypted. Booby-trapped. Even CAD software couldn't catch the mistakes. Slipperier than lawyers debating what the meaning of is is. He suspected entire systems were added only for their potential self-destructive effect.

Along the far wall of the lab were twenty-six versions of the railgun from her plane. They had the original, and the complete schematics, yet they were still unable to get even one of them to work. The first eleven turned into burnt, twisted metal when they powered on. Each had smoked in a unique way. She had only to include a few dozen mistakes to cost them a fortune. Each destroyed version took a month to trace the problem back, and even then... they had only one with marginal success. It worked, at the power of a BB gun. With their new full-power readings gathered when they nearly destroyed the mountain, they calculated that the original should be easily capable of shooting down satellites from the ground.

He looked at the notes again. He had even talked to the girl once. She sat in the chair, refused to look him in the eyes, and hardly moved for the entire three hours.

She had dark brown eyes, lightly curly black hair, and good posture. That was all he learned. She left him a message on the chair that he only found hours after the interview. It was a brightly colored string with many knots. It took weeks to find out that it was a message written in Incan, translated it said, "Failure isn't an option, it's your chosen profession."

His job seemed meaningless, almost demeaning, like being forced to play chess against an infant for the amusement and ridicule of others. If they could just simply be nice to the girl, this could all be over. He looked over the wall again. He had a daughter about the girl's age and kept feeling like he was caught between a rebellious teen and her overly strict parents. They put her under curfew and she retaliated by hiding the keys to the car. Neither were willing to give. His job was to build a new car, from scratch, that didn't need the keys, when everyone knew full well she knew where the keys were. It just seemed ridiculous.

But, he had seen the near full power of the plane. He knew the stakes. It was air superiority, and then some. It was several generations beyond cutting edge, and it was sitting just down the hall.

They racked the original railgun into the frame and aimed it down the firing pit, armor plate and sandbags at the end.

His assistant approached as they wired it up. "Are you sure it can handle 500MW? It only weighs 30 pounds."

He nodded. "It's solid state superconductor. At least, that's the going assumption, we can't take it that far apart without destroying it. It doesn't have any cooling line." He looked flustered. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. But, it should. Use the light, pressed sand rounds. Not the full metals or the tungstens. Just sand, ok."

"How long of a pulse?"

"One tenth of a second. That should be a hundred rounds or so. And remember to put the metal cover on it to shield us if it explodes."

The assistant snickered, but took him seriously instead. "Twenty minutes?"

"I'll have the power ready by then." He went to the phone and called the control room. If managed incorrectly, a 500MW spike could brown out the town or blow every TV for thirty miles. Fortunately, they had an independent, off-the-grid source.

The full-power test of the original put proof to the numbers. They needed to end this feud with that quiet girl. This was a ground-based gun that could put forty pounds of bullets into orbit every second from any power plant in the US. It was a ready-made missile shield, but only two existed in the world.

"They broke it, let them fix it," Shadona said, cast on her leg, staring at the wreckage. But it was difficult, if not painful to look at her creation in such disrepair.

Dana looked inside the cracked shell, then looked underneath. "It's got new sneakers." She ran her hand across the scratches it received from doing donuts on the test pad, "I didn't think you could scratch this stuff."

"Bulletproof doesn't mean it'll stop a round from a tank." It was awkward for her to look underneath, but she wanted to see the scratches too. "It'll never fly again. Not like it used to."

Dana sat on the concrete by the wheels, "Pity, it was one nice ride."

Shadona lowered herself to the ground with the help of her crutch. "I thought it was my ticket out of here. But, it only made them squeeze tighter." She looked at the hole from beneath. "It'll still fly, right now. The wings just make it look cool, and take the corners sharper." She patted it on the deepest scratch. "This stuff is a lot stronger than it looks. An Israeli pilot landed his plane with the whole wing shot off. This can take off that way. They pulled one of its teeth, the one closest to the hole." She smiled at Dana, "I think they're anxious to see the wisdoms come in."

"You want to try to patch it?"

She slid back to lean against the new landing gear. "That's what they want me to do. They want me to show them how to do field repairs. They think it'll give them valuable clues." She tapped the hole with the tip of her crutches, "That's only the leading edge, when it flies forward. It'll be easy to point the barrels out the back.

I want to fly. It's the only place where the sins of here, disappear.

At least, until I land."

She lay the crutch to her side, then held Dana's hand.

"I'm not going to be flying anytime soon."

Dana looked at her friend, then the hole. "You're not going to wait for them to fix it, are you."

"I'm not going to teach them nothing... but, I am going to patch it. Just, not today."

But, they did start that day. First, with a detailed examination of the damage done, then an OKing of the frame for the stresses of flight; they actually did quite a bit of work, without filling or fixing any of the holes.

The engineer watched the monitor as the girls assembled the pieces of skin like a giant jigsaw puzzle. They would find two large pieces missing. One sat on his desk. The leading edge.

His research team had been unable to secure samples of the skin until the accident. It seemed absurd; his team was tasked with duplicating the plane in every detail, yet, destroying it was the only way to see inside it or sample the skin. It was inherently shielded against most forms of radiation. It didn't X-ray well, radar didn't see it at all, and it was constructed of large, single, interlocking pieces that came together seamlessly. For his first year, he had assumed it was all one piece. The prevailing guess was it had as few as four main pieces.

Three years, and this was the first time he had a sample of the skin for detailed examination. It was carbon, but it wasn't fiber. It was as light as paper and harder than steel, yet it flexed, up to a point.

Carbon fibers were easily made, but they were limited by the chemistry of the binders. The epoxy was the weak link. Fiber was fine for planes running at mach 2, 3, even touching mach 4. Hers wasn't fiber, yet it was more than just a plate. The heat generated on the leading edge was wicked to the engines. They tested it with torches and verified it on the functioning wing.

The wings and the skin did more than provide structure and aerodynamics. It managed heat loads, shielded internal components, and probably performed a dozen other integrated functions that this piece didn't reveal.

He returned the piece to the table as he watched the monitor some more.

He had taken his family to see a movie about a magician last week, and it was still on his mind. The tricks were simple, but the art of magic was the complex framework, the showmanship, the presentation built around it. The misdirection was always more interesting and entertaining than the trick itself, and the audience loved to be fooled.

The magician always fooled him. Always. Even when he knew the secret to the trick.

The other part of his lab was working on some of the finger-sized pieces. The skin was a critical component, if they could get it right. It was the base construction the entire system was built on. Doped differently, it became the solid-state superconductors in the gun. At least, that was their working theory.

She made the pieces large and few specifically so they would be destroyed in any attempt to learn their secrets. But destroyed pieces didn't help as much as they had hoped, much like seeing a sheet of aluminum doesn't help smelt aluminum from oxide ore, or seeing a shard of glass tell you anything about the importance of picking sand.

But they did yield some useful hints.

It pointed them in new directions.

He kept his framed diploma above the desk. It helped remind him that he wasn't as stupid as he often felt. This wasn't child's play, even if he was playing against a child. A colorful piece of knotted string held it to the wall.

Had she made the parts smaller, more modular components and less omnibus systems, it would have been far easier to reverse engineer. It was even more difficult for her to construct it in this manner. But every aspect of it was expressly for his detriment. She had gone to great lengths to make it nearly impossible for him to copy. Successfully too. His team had spent a fortune in time and resources with little to show for it.

He stared into the monitor. He understood the XO's frustration. Half of him wanted to walk down that hall and beat the girl to death with her own crutches.

The other half wanted to give her new clothes, a pool full of ice cream, or whatever else she wanted until she gave back the keys to the car.

His assistant patted him on the back, "Don't think of it as impossible, think of it as job security."

Hmm...

"Late!" the middle-aged man yelled, pointing to Shadona as she made her way through the door.

The students dutifully attacked, mob style. She walloped the nearest with her crutches.

"No wings, no mercy!" the teacher said. "Pilots often have to eject and fight their way across enemy occupied territory to designated green zones."

The students took no mercy as they pummeled the girl.

"Often, the indigenous people are anxious to welcome, personally, those who deal death from above."

Most of the students had lost repeatedly to her over the years of air games and enjoyed the level playing field of ground combat.

Three of the most vicious assailants were doubled over, trying desperately to catch their breaths as a girl with a cast somehow made her way out from under the pile. A charge from one assailant was turned by judo flip into a missile aimed at the instructor giving the orders.

Surprised, he sidestepped the student only to see a close-up of a cast as it connected with his face.

"Arrogant little bitch!" He said on the ground, blood running down his chin. He pulled a collapsible baton from his shorts and proceeded to...

The XO stood at the foot of the bed beside the nurse. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Do you see what she did to—"

"You're a trained combat instructor. You are the adult in this situation—"

"She broke four fingers and my fucking nose!"

"You ordered a mob attack on a girl with a cast."

"She came in late, that's been the rules since I started this class six years ago. A sixty second free-for-all—"

"Well then, what do you have to complain about? She beat you in under sixty seconds." The XO poked his finger into the man's bruised chest, "What I want to know is, what part of valuable intel do you not understand?"

"Look, you said to show her no preferential treatment, to keep the pressure—"

"That isn't license to give her a concussion with a baton!"

"She was in the process of giving me a concussion with a cast!"

"I want you off my base."

"I have a contract that states—"

"Guard!" the XO said. One snapped to his side. "Put the tenured professor's picture up in the guardhouse under persons to be detained. Shooting is authorized." He signed a form to officiate the order. "I may not be able to fire you, I may not even have the authority to end your contract, we'll see about that, but I can have you shot if you set foot on my base again." He turned to the guard. "The second he is cleared by the nurse, escort him out."

"Yes Sir!" the guard said.

"Where is our other patient?" the XO asked the nurse.

"This way," she said, leading him to the doctor.

"What the hell are you running here," the Doctor asked.

"How is the patient, Doctor?"

"Why, you plan on pumping her full of drugs again? She has improved to a concussion since last I've—"

"Any skull fractures that we should be worried about, Doctor?"

"Just what are you running here?"

"Fractures, Doctor."

"No, she's resilient. Some swelling, but nothing too serious. I'd suspect that she will make a full recovery, if you can get her far away from here."

This doctor was not as easily replaced as a combat instructor. The list of specialists with the needed clearance was very short indeed. "Thank you, Doctor, just do your best."

"My best would be to have child services remove her from this place."

"That's not going to happen, Doctor. And Doctor, I would suggest you keep her in restraints unless you want to look like this man," He showed the doctor the pictures of the instructor, "She is not the sweet, innocent girl that she looks, and she will not be turned loose on the streets of this great country."

The doctor stayed in the room this time. He was determined to get to the bottom of this riddle, and the key to that may well be in an unsupervised conversation with the center of all this attention.

He checked his watch. Fourteen past three, AM. He chugged the last of the coffee, checked the girl's vitals, then relaxed back into the chair.

She opened her eyes.

"What is your name?" the doctor asked quietly.

"Shadona."

"What's your last name?"

She looked puzzled.

"Do you not remember your last name?"

"I don't have one." She tried to sit up and look around.

"Careful, you've been beaten rather—"

She looked at his visitor badge, "Get me out of here, please," she said. "You don't know what they are like, they're going to kill me."

"I'm not going to let that—"

"Look at me," her paper gown slid off her bruised shoulder, "does this look like the place where good things happen?"

"You are on the top of a nearly inaccessible mountain base, under 5,000 square miles of restricted airspace, what can I possibly do?" He put his hand on her forehead before fixing her gown.

"They are torturing me, doing unspeakable things to us." She leaned forward, as close to him as the restraints would allow, "They treat us like property, like they can do anything they wish to us." She cried, tears ran down her chin, "I haven't seen my dear mother since I was five and was ripped from her arms. Please, tell me if she's alive, tell her that I love her."

He briefly hugged the hysterical girl, "What's her name?"

She sobbed uncontrollably, "I can't remember!"

He did his best to console her. "I'll do what I can, but—"

She kissed him on the cheeks, "Thank you, thank you!"

He fixed her gown again, tightened it in the back, then tried to settle her back into the bed. "You have to calm down now. Just lie down."

"Don't let them take me ba—"

"I've put you down as restricted to bed rest and observation for the next few weeks. Ok? I don't know how much that will help around here, but that's the best I can do."

"Do you live locally?"

"No, they flew me in from LA. I'm a neurologist. What is it that they are trying to get from you?"

She recoiled from him, sliding as far away as the restraints would allow. "They sent you in—" She looked around for the cameras, "You're one of them!"

"No, I'm not." He tried to reassure her, but it only made her squirm harder against the restraints. He sat back in the chair, "I'm on retainer to the base in case accidents like what happened to you—"

"Accident? Does this look like I fell—"

"Of course not, Shadona." She settled back to the bed and closed her eyes. "I— forget about whatever it was— I don't want to know. It just seemed like an obvious question to ask. I didn't really want to know the specifics, just generally— I just don't get—"

"Everything alright, Doctor?" the nurse interrupted.

"Oh, yes, just fine."

"How's our patient?" The nurse inspected the monitor. "I thought I heard you talking over here?" She reviewed the readouts. "She hasn't come to yet, has she?"

He looked over the readouts. No change at all, nothing for crying or hysterics. Shadona was lying perfectly still with her eyes closed. "Sometimes talking helps."

When the nurse moved on with her duties, the doctor checked the girl again.

He checked her pulse at the wrist and compared it to the monitor. It was reading right.

"You have to help me," she whispered, "You have to get me out of here."

There was only so much he could do.

**B2.C5**

The major spun the directional receiver, "That building," he pressed the COM button, "Sir, the signal is coming from a dentist office— Yes Sir." The major signaled to his team. Six hustled double-time around back as the bulk of his team entered from the front.

They broke open the door as quietly as possible.

"Sir," The major whispered in the mike, "It appears closed. Proceeding with caution."

The team drew weapons as they cleared the rooms, one by one.

"What the hell?" the dentist said, dropping his tools.

"Against the wall!" the lead shouted as he shoved the dentist into the counter and the rest of the team swarmed into the room. "Where is your buddy, Doctor Enstheart?"

"Doctor who?" the dentist asked.

"Major, she's in here," another said.

"Is all this really necessary," the dentist said, "this is just a simple tooth extraction—"

The dentist was tasered to the ground before being injected with a needle.

"Careful," the major said as his team approached the girl in the chair, weapons drawn. "There is no place to go. It's over." He pulled out a pair of nylon cuffs. "Put them on, and it'll go easy." He tossed them at the girl, but she fumbled the catch. "Yes Sir," he said into the mike. "We have the good doctor too. It's over, Girl. He got you out, but he can't set you free." The major looked at the monitor the dentist was using. He keyed the mike, "We need a tech officer in here to recover and purge the x-ray equipment."

She looked around, but didn't move.

"Make this easy on yourself, just pick up the cuffs and put them on."

She looked at the sharp instruments on the tray, none were lethal. She slid off the chair and reached for the cuffs. She slipped, but her hand that seemed to try to catch herself, flung the tray of tools at the closest, her shoe smacked another across the face, and she emptied the clip from the first gun she acquired into everyone else in the room.

Over ninety rounds were discharged in the next few seconds of the firefight.

The reserve teams swarmed into the office.

"Drop it! Drop it!" they screamed at the girl who staggered through the door, then collapsed onto the floor.

Six darts in the back of her leg.

"Doctor Enstheart," the XO entered the interrogation room, "we need to know what she told you." He checked the polygraph. "Well, after thirteen hours, it looks like you are finally trying to be honest."

"What happened to her mother?" the doctor asked.

"Her mother?" the XO asked, then sipped from his coffee.

The interrogator flipped to a page, then pointed to a line.

"Oh, I see. I warned you, Doctor, she is not to be trusted. She made up the story about a mother, she doesn't have—"

"Everyone has a mother."

"Not here, not any of them." The XO sat at the table. "She is a part of our world, not yours. We know how you got her off the base and your week long romp with a teenage girl—"

"Now wait a minute, I'm no—"

"Yes yes, we believe you didn't molest her. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't care much if you had. You stole her from here, and that can't be tolerated. But, more important than your transgressions against your country, is what she told you. We need every word that you can remember. Every clue. Every piece, and every inflection."

"What did you put into her tooth?"

The XO looked at the interrogator, then back to the doctor, "How many of your colleagues did you speak to about the tooth?"

"Just a dentist friend—"

"We have processed him already, Sir," the interrogator said.

The XO stood, then asked the interrogator, "I'd like to have the good doctor processed by the end of today. I don't think he needs to commit suicide, do you?"

"Suicide? What do—" the doctor started.

"No Sir," the interrogator said, "his chart puts him as a prime candidate for a chemical wash. But we should still discredit him, politically. Just in case he retains any knowledge—"

The doctor looked stunned, "knowledge of what?" but the XO just put a hand on the interrogator's shoulder, then left the room.

"Well," the XO said as he checked the restraints, "You didn't kill anyone. You chipped David's teeth, smashed one hand, broke some fingers."

She turned away from him.

"I can reassign your friend Dana to another roommate, someone less pleasant to live with than you."

When she tested the restraint, the bed lurched toward him, and he flinched.

"Did you enjoy your tryst with an LA doctor? LA is outside your jurisdiction. It must have been excruciatingly painful. Dental nerves are very sensitive, aren't they? Care to tell us how you put up with the pain?

Did he supply you with drugs? Painkillers, alcohol?" He moved to the side of the bed she was facing. "Did you just devil-dog up and take it?

The dentist said he showed you the X-rays. He said you told him how to cut it out. He was most forthcoming in describing the procedure. You were wrong, you know. It would have killed you, and we can't let that happen when you have so much more to tell us.

You did a very good job of losing us and hiding the tiny signal. Of course, it has a very limited range. But we still found you. Were it a training exercise on evading capture and blending in, I would have to give you top grades."

He pulled the chart at the foot of the bed. Then put it back.

"Dr. Enstheart had you down for bed rest. I think you are healed up nicely, but, he's so concerned about you that I think we'll give you all that time. Weeks. Here, in this bed, restrained for your own protection. Don't worry, I'll make sure Dana isn't lonely." He walked to the door and stopped by the nurse, "Have a feeding tube installed. And, let me know if she decides to speak."

"Yes Sir." The nurse wrote it down.

Shadona stared at the drab, white ceiling. She had learned more of the tooth. Her leash. Their leash. The dentist x-rayed it several times. It was detailed, and she was sure her instructions to the dentist were accurate. But she was now having doubts. It had what she thought was a bubble, but it could easily be filled with something.

They all took turns going to the base dentist once their adult teeth started coming in. One year, they all seemed to need cavities filled.

Dental X-rays were fairly detailed, being on the monitor allowed for easy magnification, up to a point. But they were like trying to describe a person by the shadow they cast. It may have been the wrong tool for the job. She had a good idea what they put in it. The RFID was a given. It stood out. It showed screw threads, like implant replacements, but enough of the tooth remained to keep the nerve endings alive for feedback when they exceeded its range. It wasn't the first time she had encountered the pain it was capable of generating. It was excruciating, ten times the worst migraine imaginable. It brought back most runaways. The XO knew no painkiller was effective against it.

Others had escaped before her. Should the tooth not receive the signal every few hours, it escalates the pain. Whenever someone came up missing, they restricted the range of the transmitter in a kind of lockdown. It brought all stragglers in, few held out for more than a day, no searching required.

She was nearly out of her mind after a week. It was all she could do to function. She was clinging to the hope of having it removed by the dentist. Others had tried to pull the tooth, but it tended to be fatal when pulled recklessly with pliers. The bubble could contain a poison that might have to be 'deactivated' in addition to having the skills of a dentist.

It was a puzzle, and she was good at solving puzzles.

The nurse brought over the anesthesia mask. "Sorry, Hon."

The patrol officer slowed his car. The guardrail was damaged, swerving tire marks covered the road. He pulled to the shoulder and called it in.

A BMW was down in the ditch, headlights dim, wedged in by the trees. He called in the plates and requested an ambulance. "He seems alive, the airbag saved him. I can't open the door, going to pop the window. Alcohol—" The officer reached for his evidence baggie and wiped the white stuff from victim's bloody nose, "Probable cocaine."

"The car is registered to a Doctor Harald James Enstheart," came across the radio.

The ambulance pulled up, followed by the fire department with the Jaws of Life to cut open the doors.

As they started cutting, the doctor started coming around. "Where am I?"

The EMT restrained him, "Keep still, Sir, you were in a wreck. We'll have you out in a minute."

He sobered in time for bail and the hearing, both happened almost as fast as he was suspended from his prestigious position at the hospital. A federal agency intervened on his behalf and kept him from serving any of his lengthy sentence.

Their representative met with him outside the courthouse.

"Dr. Enstheart, we would like to offer you a contract. You have some unique training that would benefit us, and your country. We are in need of a qualified neurologist, such as yourself, if you are interested."

"I don't even remember getting into the car," the doctor said, still a little bewildered by it all, "I'm not a drug addict. I'm not."

"We know. Look, this is a chance to put all of this behind you. Here is the confidentiality agreement. Just think about it, and call us when you make up your mind."

"I'm not an addict," he said again. "I just don't understand—"

"It's ok, Doctor. I've got a plane to catch, think it over and be in touch." The man shook his hand, then walked down the courthouse steps and into a black suburban.

The XO stepped into the engineers' workshop. "Let's see it."

The lead engineer led him to the test-fire chamber. "Ok, we can't do her solid state superconductors. Not now, and probably not anytime soon, unless we get clearance to destroy one of these—"

"That's out of the question," the XO said.

"Granted. And, there is about a 50-50 chance it would be like the skin and wouldn't answer enough questions anyway. But it is relatively simple, and we were able to build one using liquid nitrogen cooled—"

"Yes yes, let's see it."

He had prepared a long speech, even rehearsed it a little, but he skipped to the end. "Ok, these are standard compressed sand rounds," he called to the control room and timed the pulse, "In two seconds—" the noise from the gun was deafening, for about a second.

"Wow!" the XO said, "Let's see it, open up the chamber."

His assistants rolled the door out of the way. The device was as big as a SUV, and frost was dripping off it as it continued to hiss.

"What the hell is that?"

"Well, like I was saying, we had to use—"

"We can't mount that on a gun platform, we can't even put that on a 747! Hell, you can't get that behemoth out of this room!" The XO was irate. He had been promised something spectacular.

"Sir, the most this thing can handle is about 100MW, but it is the first generation that actually works. It isn't elegant or pretty—"

"It's damn near the ugliest thing I've seen since you destroyed the top of this mountain! This is nearly useless. It would take a battleship to mount it on and a nuclear reactor to power it! Air-plane!" he waved his hands, "Air," then made his arms like wings, "Plane. Fast moving, mobile."

"Sir, we can probably get it up to 500MW within two years, and probably cut the size in half at the same time, but that's about as far as modern technology will take us."

The XO pulled the original off the shelf and shoved it into the hands of the engineer. "Thirty pounds of MODERN TECHNOLOGY, in your hands. Modern technology. Figure it out."

"Sir, we will continue to try, Sir, but we can make these today." He followed the XO out of the workshop. "Sir, it's demoralizing to be unable to reverse engineer this stuff. The more we get into it, the more we realize how futile it is. It's layer on layer, everything is multipurpose, nothing serves just a single function. You can't reverse engineer something that you don't know everything it does. We busted our ass on this, Sir, and all it does is plunk bullets out of a tube. And it's nowhere near as efficient as the original. It's like trying to compare the first neon tube laser with a modern LED pointer. But we got this one to work. This works, Sir. This is the first success we've had in years."

The XO stopped in the hall, "Look, I don't want to belittle what you've done, but I have to show results too. The harvester produces a limited revenue stream to work with. You eggheads are burning it up, quickly. This is an off budget operating facility. That means we have to be self-funding. Planes, parts, fuel, salaries, it all adds up. Most days I feel like a damned accountant. Look, this other crap isn't our mission. What you are working on is our mission. This is the mission of this base. Our mission has nothing to do with eight cents per kilowatt." He started on with his busy day, but stopped, then returned. "Put this version on a back burner. Let it take four years. I'll send down a budget later today. We'll call that a plan B. Look, I'll tell the base chef to make your team some cake and ice cream. Have some pizzas sent down." He continued down the hall.

The engineer paused on the tip of an idea, then ran after him. "Sir, it just occurred to me. You know the full load output of this plant, right? Give my team a few days to put some numbers to it, build you a budget projection, but, think ICBM, but with conventional one hundred pound bombs. We shoot them up from here, like a bullet, they orbit a few times, then land by GPS. No bombers involved."

The XO looked at him, then smiled, "Interesting. One hundred pounders sound small, but it wouldn't matter how big you built the gun that way."

"No Sir, it wouldn't matter at all. Just a guess, but think of a firing rate of five or ten a minute. It would still be beyond the capacity of any other power plant, but this one should be capable of short pulses like that."

"Very good, make it one hell of a party!"

The engineer ran back to the workshop and got his team working on the numbers. They produced a budget within the next two hours and sent it up the chain of command.

The party that night included loud music and five bottles of champagne.

The engineer reported to the XO that morning. The XO pointed to the chair before the desk, and the engineer had a seat. "Your team have a good time last night?"

"Yes Sir, thank you."

"Good. Look, I've been going over the numbers, checking it with the harvester staff." He folded his hands, "Look, the military does a lot of compartmentalizing, that's just how it has always been. Hell, we nearly keep left shoes in separate boxes from the rights. But, even though we were all military officers here, we're in a gray zone." He gestured like tossing a pizza into the air, "The way it's been structured, we're actually a for-profit corporation. Technically. No matter how much we stand on protocol around here.

I'm giving you clearance to the harvester, and I've scheduled you six meetings with their head, Captain L Hanly, for this week. Now, I can't give your whole team that kind of clearance, you understand, but because your ICBM project overlaps so well with the harvester, you two need to coordinate. I've also given him clearance into your department so your discussions can go both ways. Hopefully, that will be enough—" he gestured with his hands as he stumbled for a word, "cross-pollination, to expedite this project.

Your budget exceeds our declarable resources for any one year, but we have ways around that, as well as several different books that we can bury it in. I'm giving you a go."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I've been going over your reports for the last few years as a part of your performance review. I think you were right when you said that all of her projects are inter-related. The harvester is directly related to the guns and the skin of the HB series, the MHD drives are solid-state cousins to the harvester— it's all inter-related, and none of us put it together because of this natural tendency to compartmentalize everything. I think we need someone with a foot in every room, an engineer would work better than a— than a glorified accountant."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Listen, there's a ton of red tape to be cut here, so, no promises, but this is as good a place to start as any."

"Yes Sir, Thank you Sir." They saluted, then the engineer went back to work.

The engineer reported to the harvester control room near the end of the shift, "Captain Hanly," he asked.

The man returned the salute, "Captain Dysath. Right on time. Where would you like to get started?"

"Well, they keep the specifications a closely guarded secret, so let's start there, see what we have to work with."

They walked over to the rather ordinary control board. "Well, as you see, we are plugged into the grid right now, 636MW outgoing, down from a peak of 923MWH at 2:12PM. We are currently charging unit eight by discharging unit three so we can do maintenance on it."

Dysath stepped closer to the screen. "Twenty-four units, total. What's the, uh, stats on each unit?"

Hanly pulled up the stats. "Our smallest unit has a safe working capacity of 1.5GWH—"

"Gigawatt hours? How big are they?"

"Well, keep in mind these things are cheap to build, basically a concrete tunnel with a really good lining. But, most start at two miles long and about twelve feet in diameter. We get a real high density on our conductive fluid which doubled their original capacity."

"What kind of charge/discharge rate are we looking at?"

"Well, we can safely discharge at 175GW for about thirty seconds."

That was higher than Dysath had thought. It was easy to get lost in all the numbers that were being thrown around. But his life was working with these numbers. Much like it was difficult for the XO to fathom such a tiny plane as the HB-4 putting out the same amount of power as a typical nuclear power plant, it was just as hard to wrap his head around these numbers. Each unit was capable of replacing 175 normal power plants for 30 seconds. That was a staggering amount of power to have at their disposal. He had sweated the gun tests. That was nothing to one of these units. Of course, the operator couldn't tell him that without revealing just this kind of information. So, they had hammed it up, making him schedule each shot like it meant something special.

"We've been inching it up over the years. It seems like they are capable of more. Quite a bit more, actually. But we can't justify exceeding these levels. This valley doesn't— we can't sell much more power than we are without some serious explanations, and we can easily exceed the lines linking us to the grid already. Plus, over the years, we discovered that we didn't have to store that much power anyway. When you can get lightning to strike every day, you only need to store a day or two worth of demand.

I've been here since the beginning of this project. We started as a way of storing off peak power for the coal company. We put the three peaking stations in this area out of business within a year. By the time we added the extra units and turned it into a harvester, we would have put the coal plant out of business too, if California hadn't driven most of their companies out of their state and into this one."

Dysath worked the calculator. "You're a base-load power plant, that can react faster than a peaking station and—"

"Could run the whole US grid for a minute or two." He took the calculator from Dysath, "Yeah, I had that look on my face too when I ran all the numbers. The XO was briefing me on your project. Look, I came here like you, was handed a wild project that I said could never work, and then saw a working model. It was just a small thing made with a hundred feet of garden hose. The utility drawings came written in crayon with a few vicious bugs to work out, but damned if all the pieces didn't eventually fall into place.

The short answer is, we got all the power you'll ever need, we even have some elegant ways of sending it all as a massive surge a few miles with very little loss. You plan on building the 'barrel' on the side of this mountain?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Sounds like fun. You mind if I took a look at your prototype gun? I have some experience—"

"Crayon and vicious bugs?"

"Yeah, the first time we caught a — this was way before you got here — but, the first time we caught a lightning bolt, it wasn't shielded, you see. We blew out every TV in the valley. Killed one guy with a pacemaker. Magnetized everything, destroyed ninety percent of everything electronic on the base that wasn't hardened. It was a madhouse around here for weeks. Then, just because a grounding wire was left out, it blew apart two hundred thousand dollars worth of coils."

The two continued to compare notes for the following week.

Construction on that scale would take years. Fortunately, they had lots of experience tunneling in the mountain, and retained the twelve-foot boring machine they had used for the harvester. As the overseeing engineer on the harvester project, Hanly had a wealth of experience in large construction projects, as well as in safely dealing with huge power levels.

They could start excavating the tunnel immediately.

The twenty-four units were stacked on top of each other with expanded perimeters near the base. Central shafts linked them along an incline down the inside of the mountain, fairly evenly spaced. Each had side access as well for bringing in replacement coils and such. The spacing and access tunnels were nearly perfect for this new project. With collaboration, they were able to reduce the budget considerably and submitted revised projections. Dysath's team handled the construction of the smaller control components while Hanly's team worked with what they did best, high-power coils and digging precision tunnels.

Compartmentalized redundancy. The harvester, with none of the flair, had been doing something similar for years. With about ten cents worth of electricity, it hurled a fifteen-pound snowball of super conducting dust about thirty miles into the air. This just took it another step. It would have saved him an enormous amount of time, years even, had they not had to reinvent the wheel.

**B2.C6**

The doctor checked her vital signs. "Nurse. Why does this patient have a feeding tube?"

"I'm not sure, Doctor Enstheart." The nurse pulled the chart from the foot of the bed, then noticed that it was the old one with the doctor's own writing. "This is the wrong chart." She held it to her waist, "I'll see if I can find the right one."

"Of course. Don't worry about it, nurse. It's my first day. Don't expect everything to go perfectly on my first day." He sat by the patient while the nurse left. He looked at the girl with a tube down her throat. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you. I was lucky to find this job, I can't afford to—"

She looked him in the eyes, a tear ran down her cheek.

"Don't worry, I was top of my class, just ran into a little legal problems— nothing malpractice, I assure you." He finished his examination of her. "I don't see any reason for you to be in this bed, much less the tubes. We'll see what we can do about getting you released. Ok?"

She faced away from the doctor.

"Nurse, why is this patient restrained?"

The nurse returned, without a chart, "To keep her from pulling the tubes herself, Doctor."

"Well, we'll be taking them out first, then." He looked at the girl, "Don't worry, I've done this before. It'll be a little uncomfortable, you'll want to gag for a few minutes, but you'll be fine."

He anesthetized her throat with a spray, then removed the tube.

She coughed violently, but slowly calmed down as more unpleasant tubes were removed.

"How's your leg feeling," the doctor asked, now that she could speak.

She coughed, cleared her throat, then said, "You don't remember me, do you?"

He studied her face, "Were you one of my patients in LA? I did a lot of volunteer work at a free clinic—"

She looked at her leg, "Never mind."

"You're ready to have that thing off so you can get out of here and go back to playing with the other kids. I understand."

They cut the cast, X-rayed the leg, then released her.

The doctor was telling the nurse about the new place the base had gotten him in the valley as their patient walked out the door and into the halls.

Shadona found her way back to her room. The door was open. She sat on Dana's bed.

"They took all your stuff, again," Dana said.

"A dentist X-rayed it several times. I think I can remove it, but I don't know for sure. It's trickier than I thought. Even with good equipment—"

"It's killed everyone who tried. Everyone."

Shadona looked at the ransacked remains of her things, her tossed and shredded mattress had chunks of stuffing missing from where they cut into it. "He asked me how I could stand to be outside so long," she stared at her feet, head slumped. "It was easy. I wasn't here."

Dana hugged her friend, "Well, I missed you."

"I'd come back for you. You know that."

The lights blinked off for two seconds, then came back. The six-minute warning.

Shadona lay on her back, on Dana's bed, nearest the wall.

Dana went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth.

The bathroom was at the opposite end of the tiny room as the door. The sink was built into the top of the toilet. A standup shower was next to it, simple drain in the floor and a tap tying it into the valves on the sink. Concrete walls, ceiling, and floor. The bathroom had only a privacy curtain separating it from the room. A single, fold-down bed was built into each wall. Folded up, they revealed a desk and storage box, much the way of bunks on a carrier. The room was ten feet by ten feet, including the bathroom.

It was smaller than a jail cell.

She had shared the doctor's home, and two of his friends' homes as well. They had spacious yards, large rooms, lots of nice things. But it wasn't the things that impressed her. They treated her kindly. They were friendly, genuine people. They tried to help her without knowing her. It was the strangest part of her entire stay away from this place.

They never ordered her around. Never demanded— they asked her what she wanted. That was the most difficult part of the outside to get used to. They never told her where to go or what to do.

She stared up at the ceiling and listened to Dana brush. This ceiling looked a lot like the ceiling in the hospital. The bed felt much the same, made of the same grade of foam. They had shoved a tube down her throat as punishment for her refusal to talk. Symbolic.

They kept her restrained to the bed for weeks. Never allowed to sit or stand or even roll to her side.

She lay on her back now, even though she was no longer restrained.

She listened to Dana spit and rinse.

The lights blinked again, the door made a sliding sound as it motored closed. Dana lay beside her, in the same bed, as the lights turned out. Two nightlights were the only illumination in the room, just bright enough to make out shapes and make it to the bathroom. Moonlight. Her eyes slowly adjusted as the door made its mechanical thud to lock.

The doors in the outside world locked from the inside. These were locked from the outside.

Shadona pressed her hand against the concrete wall. She could feel the boring equipment grinding away the mostly rock mountain. She rolled to her side to make more room for Dana on the bed, held her friend's hand, then tried to sleep.

She rarely slept in her bed anyway.

Thunk... Boommmmm! Fizzz hisss...

It was an early morning firing of the harvester. Most of the time, they fired it in the evening, just before dusk. That had proven to be the most profitable time, most days, barring local thunderstorms. They must have been selling extra power, or were anticipating an extra load. The rattling woke Dana.

It was odd for a weekend.

"The boring equipment eats a lot of power," Shadona said, waiting for the lights to come on.

Dana covered her eyes with her hands, prepared for the lights.

Blink, blink blink, Hmmm. The tubes flickered on.

It was cleaning and inspection day. The door would unlock in a few hours, then roll open on its own. Dana was the first to sit, then go to the bathroom. Shadona rested her hand on the warm spot left on the pillow.

Dana was her last real friend in this place.

The XO had threatened to do Dana harm, yet they both knew that was an empty threat. The girls were under intense scrutiny, most of the time. Psychologists were undoubtedly reviewing the tapes for any angle to exploit. Dana was an angle.

Had she many friends in this place, harming Dana would work, especially with the threat of harming other friends. But Dana was all she had. Harming Dana would harden her resolve against them. Threatening was a sign of desperation.

She smiled as her hand moved to catch the fleeting warmth leaving the bed. The cast was off, but she wouldn't be cleared to fly for another six months. If then.

The base was in a bad spot, like catching a tiger by the tail; they can't hope to kill the tiger, and they can't possibly let go without the fear of getting clobbered. They couldn't bar her from flight because they didn't have the keys, and the only other person on the base who had any mastery of its systems was Dana. They had already lost other pilots and planes by thinking anyone could fly it.

They eventually had to relent because they learned something with each flight. She had only to wait.

She got up and started cleaning.

They had trashed Dana's stuff too, but replaced them already.

All the pencils in the desks were broken into pieces no longer than an inch. Same with pens, in the way that pens could be broken. The hard plastic tip was reduced to the size of the cap, the long ink tubes flopping out the ends.

It was needless, ridiculous, almost juvenile of them to break such things. But that was sadly typical for here.

Constant needling. Any little thing they could think of.

She arranged them, then slowly sorted her way through the remains of her things, folded, and stored her clothes. The mattress was a total loss. They scrubbed the floors and bathroom, then polished the stainless mirror until hints of reflections appeared.

They stood at attention near their assigned beds and waited for the door to unlock.

The doors near the end of the hall motored open with the usual squeaks and clanks. The inspection should be soon.

Punishment usually entailed gardening or cooking detail. Summer meant gardening, and the sunny side of the mountain had been terraced especially for that purpose.

When Shadona was four, she had read an article on famine in arid regions. That was before they censored news from the outside. Within six months, she had bred a potato and thin corn that could grow in 150-degree dirt as poor as sand on a quarter of the water. The detailed plans were in the first notebook they ever stole from her. She had even accurately projected the identifying characteristics of each variant that would be needed as a part of a sustained breeding program.

She compulsively wrote in notebooks most of her life. Had they asked her for it, she probably would have given it freely. But they took it instead, like they owned it.

They had a greenhouse in a restricted part of the garden that still housed the offspring of her original program. The house replicated the arid air and temperature swings almost perfectly. She had hoped to help end the suffering she had read about, but never saw any signs of it ever going beyond that off-limits glass house.

The terrace implemented a labor-intensive method that quadrupled the yield per acre. The edge of each level, or step, started with a narrow row of sprouts. Each row on each level had progressively older, taller plants. Every so many weeks, the oldest row would be harvested, and each row would be moved toward the back as more seeds were planted. Younger, smaller plants could be grown much closer together, but they soon crowded unless they were transplanted further apart.

With shovels, that would be a nightmare amount of labor. They used automated equipment, rain storage tanks, and a rather intricate way of shuffling around the plants and pumping soil. But it still required a lot of hands-on labor and supervision to keep from destroying healthy plants.

It also delivered a constant level of food instead of giant harvesting surges.

The stalks were ground, roots and all, and sent to a pit for processing into soil.

The pit was another of her stolen ideas.

It consisted of a matrix of moisture permeable vertical pipes filled with thousands of termite colonies assembled like fuel rods in a nuclear reactor. The termites ate the stalks and emitted methane. Their feces were then moved to a digester that leached huge amounts of methane from it before returning it to the field as fertilizer. Some of the methane was used to pull nitrogen from the air, but the bulk of it was turned into synthetic fuels for the airplanes and base vehicles.

The termites themselves were rendered into hundreds of tons of high protein animal feed. It was incredibly efficient, but like the potatoes kept under glass, she saw no signs of it ever leaving the mountain.

They worked the field most of the day. It kept them away from the staff and almost everyone from this place, which made it feel like a reward instead of the punishment it was intended.

She had even made them a deal to reveal the secrets to a project they were interested in with practical military applications. She and a friend were to be freed after she told. She told, but nobody was ever freed. Now, most of her friends were dead, and Dana was the only one who remained.

She no longer took them at their word.

"Captain Dysath," the XO said, entering the workshop.

"Yes Sir," the captain checked his watch as he quickly covered the distance to the door, "Sorry, Sir, I haven't filed that report on—"

"Oh, this isn't about that," the XO gestured, "Let's talk in your office, shall we?"

"Yes Sir." Inside they stood near the desk as the captain shuffled the scattered papers there.

"Look, I got some of that red tape cleared for you. Like I said, it'll come in little slivers." He handed the captain the file. "Same rules apply. It's either on your person, or in your safe at all times."

The captain nodded.

"This was the first with direct military applications."

The captain briefly thumbed through it. "This looks like—"

The XO nodded. "Someone left some old comic books on a table for the kids. One of them was—"

"Iron Man? She built an Iron Man suit?"

"Well, sort of. It doesn't fly or any of the cool comic book stuff, and it looks more like the Michelin man. But it is a self-powered armored suit. Very impressive, two-ton work capacity, only weighs two hundred thirty pounds, and you climb into it like a sleeping bag. It has cost issues, but it can take a hell of a hit. We have four of them on the base. As you see, they are really uncomplicated."

The captain spread out the pages on his desk. "She corrected these errors and drew lines through the superfluous systems. How did you get her to do that?"

"What we did, won't work again."

The captain looked up from the pages. He was tempted to try to pursue that question, but didn't. If it wouldn't work again, there was no point. "The process she used to make the armor plates looks very familiar."

"I was hoping you would say that."

"It isn't the same. But I think this helps a lot, I'm just not sure how, yet. It's more chemistry than the raw physics of the plane— chemistry isn't my field, you understand." He looked the XO in the eyes. "I've got a friend that can make more sense of—"

"Sorry, out of the question."

"Had to ask. I'll break out my old chemistry books. It isn't beyond me, I dabbled with being a chemistry major, I'm just not at this level, not sure anyone is."

"Well, Captain, don't lose focus of your current project, it has priority."

"Yes Sir."

"And don't ever let any of this out of your sight, it never leaves this room."

"Yes Sir."

"Send your report up when you get a chance, and don't let this distract you."

"Yes Sir."

The XO left while the captain was swamped with paperwork, both new and old.

He should have started on the overdue report, but he couldn't put down the new material. He kept looking for some pattern to how and where she placed the mistakes, now that he had a drawing complete with corrections. He got lost, consumed by them for hours.

He was hoping for a 'Beautiful Mind' moment where it would all suddenly make sense, but there was no pattern. Except, that to find the mistakes, you had to be smart enough to build it from scratch, which didn't help him at all.

Top of his class at MIT. Had he submitted even one of these ideas, he would have instantly been a tenured professor for life. Just one. Even had it been written in crayons. Yet, they were all interconnected.

He looked at the knotted string by his diploma. An enormous amount of energy went into decoding that, and it basically called him an idiot. Everything she did had those twisted little knots.

Thunk... Boommmmm! Fizzz hisss...

The harvester was collecting its dusk crop of bolts. He wasn't a hard-core military man. Strategy didn't play well in his head. The intricacies of move and counter move were not where his talent lay. But he tried to pretend that he had such a mind. The way she seamlessly wove devastating mistakes into her notes was proof that she could reduce any of her creations into worthless junk at any moment of her choosing. A military that planned on heavily incorporating her technology into their core systems would have a vested interest in keeping her from being exploited by enemies, foreign and domestic.

Beyond that, she seemed to invent on a curve. Could any country afford to let the next HB-4 go to the highest bidder? It was a tough spot to be in. He didn't envy it at all. Yet, it was all a pity too. What was the world losing keeping her here? What if Einstein had been killed by the Nazis before WWII? Where would the world of physics be without all that one man contributed?

He rubbed his eyes, got another cup of coffee, then returned to the photocopies of crayon drawings.

The lights blinked their warning in the dorms. Shadona was still in the shower when the door locked with a metallic thud and the lights turned as dim as a slivered moon. She toweled and dressed in the dark, then found her way to Dana's bed again.

Her mattress had been replaced, but she disliked sleeping alone.

Truth be told, that was the hardest part of her stay strapped to a hospital bed. Being alone.

**B2.C7**

Max hated spending summer break at his mother's. And why wouldn't he? He spent an entire month hiding behind the water heater and under the bed. It was humiliating to Max to be walked on a leash. He hated sidewalks, detested cars, and unlike in the woods, he seemed afraid of city dogs.

And Argo was tired of answering the standard on-the-street Max questions, "Yes, he's cute, and yes, he's fully armed and very dangerous." Silly city folk, never seen someone walking a cat on a leash.

The city wasn't his element either, but at least he adapted better than Max. He had shopping and movies and malls and arcades and paintball. Max had water heaters and endless city sounds that drove him nuts.

Fortunately, their stay at his mother's was nearly over.

His mother seemed to be feeling him out on his father. She had burned through a lot of money, recently. She bought a restaurant immediately after the split, and it struggled ever since. She pumped more money into it and had yet to nurture it into a comeback.

Restaurants took more than good food. You had to know your neighborhood, know their tastes. It also had to look the part, to feel like it belonged. It had to have the right atmosphere too. The price had to fit.

Their success in California had made it look deceptively easy. California style wasn't popular everywhere. They were more laid back here. She had adjusted the menus three times, remodeled twice, and this was the first year she managed to break even.

But breaking even was a thin thread to hang on to.

She hadn't realized how hard the business was. Finding quality suppliers, budget deals, negotiating contracts, it all distracted from the art of running the place. She had discovered that it was a very difficult thing to run alone. His father may not have made an attentive husband, but he made an excellent business partner.

His mom was no better a cook than his father, but she thought she was. She was always trying new recipes, most strange and unsuccessful— she just didn't know that she wasn't a chef. And she didn't want to accept it, even when she was told. And that tended to cause most of the unneeded friction at the restaurant.

Tonight's strange meal was breaded bell peppers stuffed with a paste made from eggplant, tomatoes, soy and cream cheese.

It was edible. Barely.

Unless you asked Max. Max sniffed, sampled, then treated it like fish heads and went back to his canned cat food.

People went to a restaurant for much more than the food. They went for dating, for family, for an experience. What kept them coming back was the food and the price. Of course, the wrong food and price could drive them away too. Much like with Max, what you offered had to be better than what they could get from a can, no matter how nice the presentation was.

Max went to the door and started to scratch.

"Can you wait a minute, Max?" Argo said from the living room where he was watching TV. The show was just getting to the good part where they revealed who the killer was.

Scratch, scratch, scratch...

Argo looked for his shoes.

Scratch.

"Oh for the love of... " he threw his pillow at the chair across the room, fiddled with the remote to record the ending, then hastily checked to see what was scheduled next, knowing he'd miss the beginning.

Scratch, scratch—Scratch, Scratch!

"I'm coming, Kid!" he worked the laces.

Max heard him moving around and usually gave him a few seconds of grace.

Now was going to be the hard part. The cat demanded to be outside, for whatever reasons. But the cat also hated the leash. The cat never wore a collar. Never. Except now. It was a cheap, retractable, Dollar Store leash. He wrapped it figure eight style around Max's front legs, much like it was a bra, clipping it back to the leash.

Max, of course, did not hold still for any of it.

He opened the door and realized it was raining.

Max hesitated, but bolted out to the full length of the leash. Argo barely had time to grab the umbrella and lock the door.

Max ran straight for the first public trashcan, jumped onto its rim, and promptly toppled it onto the sidewalk.

"Oh for the love of pizza!" He wanted to yank on the leash. Max weighed a few pounds at most. He could toss the cat like a yo-yo, but that was a dangerous thing to do. Instead, he walked over and pulled the cat out as gently as possible. "Look at you, just look at you." He held the cat above his head, "Take you to the city and all you want to do is roll in the garbage."

He hadn't even had the chance to open his umbrella yet.

He tried to hold leash, cat, and umbrella in one hand while he righted the can and started cleaning the mess. When a police officer pulled over and flashed the lights at him. The officer got out of the car and approached while he managed to get the last piece into the can.

"What's going on here?" the officer asked, water dripping off the brim of his shower-capped hat.

"Just cleaning up the spilled can, that's all."

"Not what I'm talking about," the officer said, "Care to try again."

Argo looked depressed, he wanted desperately to use one of his smart-ass remarks, but he couldn't to a police officer. "Just taking the cat for a walk."

"You have a license for that? You can't just walk a dangerous creature—"

"I have the license here. It's on the handle of— Sorry, my hands are full here," he hooked the umbrella on the can, then handed the officer the handle to the leash. "The tags are right there. I know it's an unusual cat to have, but you can see, he's had all his shots. No risk of rabies."

The officer looked at the tags tied to the leash handle. They looked legit. The dates were current, and police officers didn't enforce pet laws that much.

"I even brought baggies, but Max doesn't go outside in the city. He just likes to walk outside. He really likes to play on bus benches. Usually he waits until it is absolutely the most inconvenient time for me."

"We have a leash and collar law, here—"

"Well, you see, he nearly choked when he got his collar stuck on the furniture and—"

The officer handed the leash handle back. "The law is there to protect your animal if it runs out the door when you aren't watching."

"Yes Sir." Arguing seldom improved things with the police.

"Your animal still armed?"

"Yes Sir. He spends most of his time at my father's house, which is in the mountains. You can't disarm a cat like this without making him an indoor cat. And, as you can see," Argo hoped the officer had observed the absurdity of Argo's position, dripping wet, outside a house, in the rain, walking a cat, "he really hates being an inside cat."

The officer looked at him, then the oblivious, increasingly wet cat in his arms.

Argo opened the umbrella and set down the cat, this time with the shortest of leash.

"For an animal that hates to be inside, you should find a way to keep some tags on him."

"He is micro chipped." Max stood on his hind legs and rested his front feet against the trashcan again.

"Animal control would put your pet down if they were called, chip or not, but they'd think twice if he had a collar on. Maybe a little vest or something that wouldn't—"

"That's an excellent idea!" Argo didn't care, but like his father complained with his job, they just want to hear they were right, "I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner."

The officer smiled, nodded, then got out of the rain.

Flattery worked almost every time.

Max ran for the empty bench, climbed the back, ran across the armrest, then back across the underside of the seat like a squirrel. Max loved the bench. It was like his own version of an amusement park.

He played on it, in the rain, for nearly two hours. Then he ate some grass and ran back home.

His mom spent most of her time at the restaurant. She had to open it in the morning and was usually the last one there at night. She met most of her boyfriends there, and she tended to nurture the staff and customers like they were family.

She had him stay with her for school break, but the only way he got to see her was when he drove the five miles to the restaurant for a late dinner. Drove, in this case, meant scooter. It was nowhere near as fun to drive as the dirt-bike, but it was street legal.

He parked around the back of the kitchen where he could chain it to some pipes, then walked in.

He flirted with Kelly, his favorite waitress, unsuccessfully. She always took him as joking.

"Here's your waffles, Cutie," she said, setting down the plate and rubbing his head like he was a ten-year-old kid.

Estafon was chefing tonight, and Estafon knew how to make some waffles. Argo got his free, so, he always had to wait until the chef had time. Paying customers always came first. It had just the perfect mix of fresh blueberries, a perfect pattern of whipped topping to hold in the rich syrup with a crisscrossing of chocolate. Dessert was a warm waffle, sprinkled with chocolate chips instead of berries, two scoops of rocky road, and a cherry. Uhhh... it was almost too much!

His mom stopped by his table a few times, but was too busy to stay and talk.

He watched families come in and eat, together, while he sat alone.

He waited to see if her last boyfriend came in. He never did. That confirmed it was over, like he thought.

He left in time to catch his favorite primetime TV shows.

Max jumped on the couch, sprung to the armrest, then calmly walked across the back of the couch till he was above Argo's feet. Max looked at him, then squatted and watched the TV.

Argo returned his attention there as well.

It was a commercial about a female hygiene product. Why that would interest Max, he didn't—"Owwwh!!"

Max attacked his toes.

"God, Max!" but he couldn't get but so mad, he had been wiggling his toes, a clear invitation to play.

Max hadn't bitten his toe very hard. It was startling, but a playful attack.

Max jumped to the floor, walked to the other end of the couch, put his front paws by Argo's shoulders, then hopped up onto his chest.

He did his best to pet his cat into submission.

The front door unlocked as his mom came in, threw her stuff in a pile by the lamp, and plopped on the chair by the TV.

"Long night?" Argo asked.

"You better believe."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" He turned the volume down.

"Well, Friday night is usually a good night. We almost make enough on Friday and Saturday to float through the rest of the week. I think your free assortment sample idea instead of a thing of bread is working out. It was real expensive the first few nights we tried it, but a few toothpicks full of samples really helped bring people back. And putting tags on the toothpicks really helped people remember what they liked. It's been a month since the last sample night and we're still finding people ordering by reading the number off a toothpick they carry in their purse or wallet. And they keep asking when the next sample night will be."

Argo smiled, "It was Dad's idea."

"You didn't tell him I was having trouble with—"

"I just said something about you not finding your niche yet, and he said it would help you find what menu items work and what didn't. Market research on the cheap."

"Well, he doesn't need to know about my business."

"Ok ok. Look, it just came up, that's all."

She leaned forward, "He asked?"

"Oh, I don't know, it just came up. You know, conversation."

She got up. "Well, you tell him it's doing better than ever, no thanks to him." She huffed straight for the shower.

Max came out from his hiding spot behind the chair. When his mom was living in the mountain, Max was never afraid of her. Now, it took him ten or twenty minutes to get used to having her in the room every day. Max didn't like change.

Did-Dump. "You at your mom?" Dara messaged.

He was online for other things. Argo didn't really want to answer her. "Yes," he typed. He had hoped to make the most of his stay and hook up with Kelly. Kelly was a freshman in college, was tall, thin, blond, and shapely. Dara was just convenient and comfortable. Being rude to Dara would get him out of these awkward conversations, and he had often thought of just making up a fight every time he went to stay at his mom's. It would free him of guilt, and when he went back to his father's he could always blame the fight on stress about having to go to his mom's. He had it planned out. But, nothing was happening with Kelly, so, there was no gain in being rude. "I can't wait to see you again. Dad'll be here in a few weeks to take me home."

":) !! xoxox"

He paused in his response. He liked Dara, but he didn't love her, and he doubted that he ever would. She, on the other hand... If he told her he didn't love her, she would cut him off. So, he lied, as usual. He tried to avoid the actual words, whenever he could, but he would say them just to keep the door to her room unlocked. He flirted with every key, even though she was hours away.

He spent the next ten minutes making sure that door stayed open to him.

...

His father's schedule was a chaotic nightmare. He usually had to spend a week away, and the job could easily have him in any state, week to week. Knowing when he was going to be able to pick Argo up and take him home months in advance was impossible to do. His father struggled with his job too.

He called three days ago and notified them that he would be available this weekend.

Which was today. Max hated being at his mom's. Hated it. But just try to round him up to take him back to the mountains. It was a nightmare, and Max wasn't the kind of cat that you could manhandle into a cage. And you certainly didn't chase him around the house, or cage him when he didn't want to be caged.

It was an all day affair, and Max was highly suspicious.

"Max," Argo lay on his stomach in front of the water heater, "you like the mountains. You want to come with me, don't you?"

Max did a small circle, but didn't come out.

He worked his hand around back to touch the cat's nose. "See, it's ok." He tried to work his fingers under the cat in order to pick him up, but Max protested with a hiss. "Ok, that was too far, and clearly wrong of me." He went back to petting, which Max approved of.

A plate of scrambled eggs and cheese had already gotten cold sitting in front of the heater, trying to tempt the cat out.

Max would walk on the surface of the sun to eat scrambled eggs and cheese, but not today. Today, Max wouldn't even eat it off the tip of Argo's finger.

Eventually, as always happens, Max came out, when Max wanted. He came out after Argo had given up and microwaved some restaurant leftovers for lunch. When the clanking of silverware stopped, Max was there to lick the plate clean.

Putting him in the cage was tough. Max cried, constantly, making for a very long car ride. They had thought of giving Max a sleeping pill, or a very tiny portion of a sleeping pill, but nobody could accurately measure a portion of a pill that small. Alcohol was also contemplated, but nobody knew what kind of drunk Max would be, and the risk of an angry drunk Max was too horrible to contemplate.

Max's cage was big. It was sized for a mid-sized dog and had a nice pillow, a bowl of water, and a fleece hammock in the top half. But Max spent most of his time trying to work the lock with his claws, and crying for someone to let him out.

Which of course was odd because Max slept and played in his cage all the time. Just never with the door closed.

His father showed up late.

They rode the two hours home squeezed into his father's hybrid.

Argo slept for most of it. Max, of course, did not.

"Wake up, Son, we're here," his father said. But, they weren't there yet. Instead, they were at the bottom of the mountain, near where Dara's house was. They had a small lot at the bottom of the mountain in addition to the thirty acres up high. They were parked in a three-sided garage and had to move all their stuff from the hybrid to the 4WD SUV, the only thing that could make it up their driveway to the house on the top of the hill. The garage was where the mailbox was.

The SUV backfired when it started, smoked for a few minutes, then powered up the narrow graveled path that wound its way up to the house, just as it started to rain.

As they raced to unload the SUV, the rain turned into buckets and the sky clapped with thunder. They heard the valley rumbling. The radio in the SUV had warned listeners to prepare for a severe thunderstorm and take immediate cover as it rolled through.

But, before it could reach them, an eight-second-long bolt struck the base, and the storm lost all of its steam. The rain even became more subdued.

Max was the gladdest one to be home. Or maybe that joy was just to be free of the cage...

**B2.C8**

Knocking the steam out of a storm was easy for the harvester. Most of the time, they were able to work it into their regular recharge cycle without any problem. It was impossible to say whether it affected the amount of rainfall, empirically, but theoretically there was no plausible way that it reduced the quantity of water suspended in the air, and thus was unlikely to reduce the amount to fall. It did reduce the storm's self-generated winds, sometimes to a near stand still, and that did let it linger longer and allowed more rain to fall on the valley around the base. They were still in the research phase of figuring out, exactly, how much power any particular storm contained.

They had already disproved almost all conventional theories on lightning and had generated several new ones. Textbooks said that lightning was generated by the friction between colliding ice crystals. That now looked a bit like ignoring the wings and saying that feathers were the secret to flight. Though friction had some measurable effects on the strength of storms, they were in a position to declare that theory null and void.

They were able to attract lightning at will, even on cloudless skies, by firing a ball of frozen conducting dust into the air. Pulling down a storm only offered a small fraction of additional power, and that difference, they figured, was due to the friction theory.

The prevailing thought amidst the harvester crew was that the true power behind lightning was coming from an interaction between solar wind, the planet's rotation, and the magnetosphere. The reason why lightning coincided with violent rain storms was the ice crystals and water made better conductors than dry air, in much the same way that you can tell you need to replace your car's wiring harness by watching the sparks dance under the hood on a foggy day.

Unfortunately, the confidentiality agreements the staff signed prevented any from releasing all this accumulated data to the world. The idea that you could harvest lightning was itself a guarded secret.

Captain Dysath poured over his notes again. The harvester crew talked freely to him, and in front of him, and his ears were a new sounding board to all these theories.

The secret was becoming more important to keep than ever before. They were a year or two from turning it from free energy into a weapon of unbelievable power. Potentially more impressive than the HB-4.

Dysath drummed his pen against the table, "Guys," he said, "let me tap your vast harvesting experience for a second." He pressed the pen against his lips as he tried to form words around his idea, "What would it take to reverse all this?"

They looked at him blankly.

"Sorry, uh," he spun the pen between his fingers like a cheerleader twirled a baton, "Look, you know this is for dropping conventional bombs, pretty much anywhere on the planet. But, how hard would it be to, say, have a lightning bolt follow it in?"

They looked at him, amused at first.

Hanly put his hand on the shoulder of one of his staff, "I think we can swing that, don't you?"

The team took it all in. "It shouldn't be much harder than what we do on a daily basis," one said.

"Without the coils underneath, it would be devastating, especially if it airburst in—"

"A conductive cloud."

Dysath drummed his pen again, "Look, we have a few years before this project will be ready to test any of this, right? But, that's where I'm thinking right now."

"I have a question, Captain Dysath," one of Hanly's staff addressed him, "have we done any of the G-force calculations on what these guidance systems are going to experience? I mean, no doubt we can lob it up there, we got enough power to spare to land them on Mars, but we can't aim it like a gun from down here. The re-entry instrumentation has to take being hit with the kind of bat this base can swing. You see what I'm say—"

"I know. We've done those numbers and it's a problem we haven't quite conquered yet. We were hoping to modify some of the guided tank rounds, but they just barely fall short of the specs we need. I'd still like to be able to add something extra to it when it comes down."

"Is he cleared for HB fuel?" one of Hanly's men asked.

Hanly tapped him on the shoulder, "Go get some." The guy left the room while Hanly addressed Dysath, "It's the fuel specially designed to run in the HB-4 for speeds that, well, exceed the airspace we have cleared. The harvester makes it. It eats a lot of power when we turn it on, but we tend to think of it as long-term power storage because these harvester units, as impressive as they are, can't store power much longer than a week." He was handed a small cup of it. "If you pour it slow enough, it makes a pile." He drizzled some out on the table and it looked like a white Hershey Kiss. He bumped the table and it fell into a puddle. "Go ahead and touch it, it feels slicker than oil."

Dysath touched it, "What is it?"

"It's N60. It's nitrogen in a very stable form." He coated the tip of his pencil with a thin film, then held a lighter under it. "It's very stable, as you can see. But, if you put enough energy into it," he switched to a pocket torch and the tiny drop exploded like a huge firecracker. He had to pull splinters out of his finger. "Damn, remind me not to do that again."

"Wow," Dysath said, "and lightning breaks nitrogen out of the air naturally. You might have something."

They continued to discuss and refine their plans. He had known the HB-4 was a multi-fuel platform, but N60 was news to him. They showed him the specs on it as well. He knew from his chemistry days that nitrogen had some incredibly tight bonds. Like coiling a spring, on the atomic level, you could store a lot of power in these nearly weightless molecules. When he looked at the numbers, it was shocking. But he shouldn't have been shocked, nitrogen was the key ingredient in high explosives.

Because it took so much energy to get it to burn, it wasn't suitable for normal use. In a way, it was like flying using nitroglycerin as fuel, you just couldn't justify it for ordinary, sub-hypersonic speeds. But, it would allow a small plane, like the HB-4, to circle the planet on a single tank. It had those kinds of energy densities.

The base had been selling N60 as a secret additive to enhance conventional explosives for the last few years. Probably one of those 'off books' revenue streams the XO was talking about.

When Dysath got to see the equipment, he recognized it immediately. It was an intact, functioning cousin to the self-destructive instruments that made the skin.

The computer core had survived, partially, the destruction of the HB-3. With everything else he was involved in, Dysath was finally cleared to view it.

The computer techs had the cleanest lab on the base.

The core was optical and, to the naked eye, looked like clear to speckled colored glass. It almost had to be optical to handle the staggering amount of simultaneous processing it did, but he knew very little about this niche of computer science. At least, by comparison to the guys that lived in this room.

The wings had a web of optical fibers that connected to this device. It took their signals and drew the inside of the canopy. The computer science guys had yet to figure out how it did it. It saw a lot like the eyes on a bee. Thousands, millions of little eyes were woven into the skin, and somehow the computer combined them into a single, layered image. It wasn't quite his field, but it was another piece of the puzzle.

They were struggling to reverse engineer it too.

The secret to how it handled high Gs was integrated into this complex computer system, indirectly. They called it the womb.

Inside the plane was an escape-pod like device designed to survive ejection at hypersonic speeds. A helmet and a chair wouldn't do; wind resistance at speeds over mach 4 was sufficient to melt aluminum and pluck arms off bodies. To make it survivable, it used an egg-like pod with seats in it. The pod contained the screen and controls, gave the pilot additional shielding, and made it possible to survive ejection at any speed. What they just recently learned was the additional features.

The womb floated inside the plane. The plane could go into a rapid corkscrew, as if it was shot out of a rifled gun, but the pilot would stay stationary as the plane revolved around him. The view from the pilot's seat would not be spinning, thanks to the optical computer.

Throw the plane into a hard bank or a dive, and the womb was free to position itself such that every maneuver felt the same to the pilot. The Gs were always vectored to do the least harm, back into the seat. It even rocked slightly to assist with circulating blood to all the extremities. Speculation was it might even be capable of CPR. But flying a free-floating womb was disorienting to pilots trained conventionally and had contributed to the crashes.

The technologies were interdependent. Without the computer to compile the screen in real time, you couldn't have the womb. Without the womb, you couldn't take the Gs or survive ejection, and no hairpin, hypersonic maneuverability.

The womb was even positioned in the central axis of the plane.

The processor was incredibly powerful, yet it used almost no power at all. He doubted video processing was all it could do.

Shadona removed her ring from atop the laptop's DVD laser, then pushed the tray closed.

'Installation complete' faded from the tiny message box on the screen.

She put the ring back on her finger, then returned to the chair.

The professor entered the room and sat behind his desk.

"Look, Shadona, your work has been less than satisfactory, lately," he said. "You clearly know the material—"

"I've already done this work. It's parked in slot D168. You're just trying to assign, piecemeal, my video processing— It's really insulting that you thought you could trick me into it."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to fail you—"

"Fail me?" She tried to control herself, "How much did you net from the 3D rendering protocol you claimed to invent eight years ago?" She pounded her fist near his jar of sharpened pencils, "Haven't I made you enough money yet? Professor of computer science... " She shook her head in disgust, "Plagiarist of the decade."

He grabbed for the pencils, but she got to them first.

She stabbed one into the table an inch from his elbow, catching his sleeve. "When you go home for the weekend and put this place miles behind you, try to get it out of your mind that stealing from a little girl paid for everything you own. Fail me at your own peril, Professor." She broke the eraser off the pencil's end and left it, center of his desk, as she calmly left the room.

At the end of the day, the Professor marked down an F by her name in his laptop, then packed it up and headed home. He felt no remorse for anything he had done. His letter grade would keep her from being cleared to fly, at the very least, but should also ensure additional chores be added to the insolent girl.

He envisioned her scrubbing lots of toilets while he spent time at his mountain retreat with his latest wife, sipping wine in a hot tub.

The money the arrogant girl had referred to had long since been spent by his first wife. He rolled up the charger and placed it in the laptop bag, then slung it to his shoulder.

The other children on the base had completed the assigned program, rather efficiently. She may have been his smartest student, but she was by no means irreplaceable. Within the next few years, processing power was projected to increase to a level where near real time could be done conventionally, without her fancy optical system. Thanks to the program the class completed, he finally had a functioning work around.

He no longer needed her.

He made a note to stop and buy some celebratory cigars on his way through town.

He should have tested her video processing software better, he could have garnered a much higher price had she given him the complete specs. It had since become the backbone to well over 30% of all PCs, and was now part of the millions of lines of hidden code that were burned onto chips that nobody ever knew existed, but couldn't live without. He should have gotten so much more for it. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

The guard waved his car through.

Shadona ran her hand across the undamaged skin, right near the patched hole. It would be a blind spot, of sorts. The optics could not be easily repaired. But, the way it was designed, it shouldn't be noticeable. Most of it was redundant anyway. Two or three threads were technically sufficient for each side. She made sure her ring lingered long enough to synchronize with the onboard system.

Optics. She chose optical systems for the raw speed, but it went beyond that. Optical processing could handle multiple wavelengths simultaneously with the same physical hardware.

If measured, the onboard system would be considered clustered parallel processing that exceeded the range of most supercomputers, held in a 6x6 box. It was essentially memory that could pretend to be a CPU, if you knew how to ask. By blurring that distinction, it made it nearly impossible to reverse engineer because neither the memory nor the processing structure physically existed. If given a problem, it would write its own code and design a CPU that most efficiently solved it. In flight, it needed targeting formulas, video processing, trajectory calculations, and autopilot functions. When sitting on the ground, it turned processing power into memory again. It watched everything. Heard everything. The base was not the only one with surveillance equipment. It cliff-noted everything for her.

The professor had been trying to build replacements to these core systems for years. Her optics could track a swarm of gnats at six miles out. Not the swarm, but each gnat, yet it wasn't able to help with her tooth. It could tell the tooth received a signal from a satellite on rotating frequencies and at periodic intervals, but it was buried in random noise. The plane was more than capable of targeting and destroying satellites, but that would offer no relief. The tooth was activated when it didn't receive a signal, not by the signal itself. The processor was working to crack that code so she could carry a portable device that would let her simply walk out. But that wasn't an ideal solution either. Whatever signal-emitting device she could design would make her even easier for them to find. Code cracking was just something it did with idle time.

The tooth had to go.

The systems on her plane were more telescope, when the tooth needed a microscope. The entire base seemed to be in a race against her to see who could reverse engineer their problem first. To that end, she had broadened its programming. It now employed a kind of evolution where random ideas would compete and compile winning strategies in a virtual kind of free-for-all. It was a long shot, but the tiny plutonium battery would power it for the next eighty years, why not give it something useful to think about while it was parked.

It came up with one solution already that had a 43% chance of success. It used a modified 45 cartridge and fired a bullet from inside her mouth and out her cheek, removing tooth and bone at the same time. There was only a 36% chance she would die from bone fragments entering her brain, an 11% chance she would bleed to death, and a 10% chance that the poison, or whatever the unknown substance was, wouldn't be blown clear. Muscle damage was certain, as was disfigurement and bone fractures. It predicted a 42% chance of blacking out; if done alone, this increased the chance of drowning in her own blood and reduced her overall chances of surviving to less than 26%. Should the ever-evolving design reach 70% success, she may consider it.

She continued to do busy work for the enjoyment of the cameras, her real task was long done.

She felt bad for not telling Dana about any of this, but what Dana didn't know wouldn't harm her. Protecting Dana was important to her. To a degree, she resisted teaching her to fly it. But, that was the only way she could justify spending time with her friend. And it was a fun, sweet ride.

The password to her plane wasn't a password at all. It was a language. It talked to her, and she talked back. The projection screen was not one way. It knew who was in it and whether they were authorized, and it acted accordingly.

"You weren't at dinner tonight," Dana said in their room.

Shadona kept scribbling on the pad as she sat at her desk.

"You even hungry?"

The stubby little pencil kept moving in her hand.

Shadona was a compulsive writer. Compulsive. She could control the language it was written in, she could imbed errors, but she went through spells where she simply could not stop writing. When she was a child, she ran out of paper and wrote on the floors and walls, when her pen stopped writing, she scratched it into the paint. She would write until it was out of her mind, or she was so exhausted she passed out. Dana pulled rolls out of one of her massive jacket pockets, two apples out of the other, and set them on the clean spot on the page.

Shadona wrote to the first roll, moved it with her other hand, and continued to write. After a few minutes, in a weird instinctive way, she seemed to realize food was in her hand and connected the line that wasn't on the page. The line that connected food to hunger.

She ate while writing.

Dana pulled the mattress from Shadona's bed and laid it on the floor to the left of her friend's chair. She put wadded clothes and pillows to her right, then prepared for bed herself.

The lights went to dim, but the scratching of paper didn't pause. It was too dim to read, to even see if marks were making it to the page. Dana tried to sleep.

Dana woke that morning, shortly after the thud of her friend falling from the chair. It hadn't happened in several years. Dana looked over the papers at the desk. It was still too dark to make them out clearly.

Shadona had fallen on the clumps of clothes and pillows instead of the mattress. Dana couldn't get her up to bed, but she easily moved her friend to the more comfortable part of the floor. She gathered the papers at the desk, then went to the bathroom.

Dana closed the curtain and held them up to the tiny nightlight. These were partially in English, some German, and a few others she didn't recognize. Every inch of every page was used. Once it had been filled with one language, she wrote on top of that with another, and another, and another to compensate for the lack of hundreds of pages. Each language was rotated ninety degrees from the last.

She ripped them into tiny strips, then soaked them in hot water in the sink. In a few hours they would be soft like pudding and flush easily.

Dana had been through all of this before. Shadona didn't need to know what she wrote. She wrote to forget. She wrote to get tortured thoughts out of her head. Whatever it said should not be read by others. Even her. She ripped the pieces as small as she could.

While it soaked in the sink, she lay on the floor with her friend and hugged her from behind.

**B2.C9**

Dysath was already cleared for the Michelin-Man suit, but seeing it in person was something else. It really resembled a less husky version of the decades old mascot for the tire company. The armor panels were rounded to deflect projectiles and reduce flat surfaces. They were layered in segments like shingles for easy replacement and free range of movement. Technically military equipment, they used it for heavy lifting in the construction project. It did have a two-ton capacity and easily got into tight spots no forklift ever could.

The back was open like a clam from the small of the back to the shoulders. He climbed up the ladder and down into it. It took every bit of his strength to move the right arm toward the controls built onto his left forearm. Balloons inflated inside the suit and gave him a snug fit as the back came up and sealed like the cockpit of an airplane. The helmet's face shield came down and air-conditioning circulated inside.

His arms moved effortlessly, like free falling out of an airplane.

Even so, it was still cumbersome and took some getting used to. His arms didn't hang naturally by his sides. He felt like the kind of muscle man who did so many weights that his own bulky muscles prevented him from putting his hands in his pockets.

An assistant checked the back then pointed to an iron bar, "You know you want to. Everybody does."

Dysath looked at the bar. It easily weighed fifty pounds. But it felt like nothing when he picked it up, then bent it into a horseshoe like it was a coat hanger. He couldn't help grinning as he worked his way through the training course designed to help users adjust to the new abilities and get used to balancing inside the suit.

The last test was stacking Ping-Pong balls without crushing them. It was by far the hardest.

Keeping his balance when lifting over a ton was difficult to master too. A forklift outweighed whatever it tried to lift, this suit only added a few hundred pounds to the weight of the user. It had to, it was designed to enter homes, walk hallways, go up steps, climb ladders, and other aspects of urban warfare. Built to be agile, yet still it withstood repeated hits with RPGs and rifle fire.

The suit ran on any blend of ordinary fuels and made lots of hydraulic sounds as he moved, but was otherwise as quiet as a refrigerator. He suspected the hydraulic sounds were loudest inside the suit.

It was perfect for wrestling heavy equipment in confining locations.

They were at the early stages of installing the heavy coils and already had two sets completed while the boring equipment continued its relentless dig.

Besides that, he had poured over the drawings to this thing for several hours every day and just wanted to experience it with his own two hands. It was something that as a non-pilot he couldn't do with the jet.

He easily held each nine hundred pound coil in place with one hand, while his other had the dexterity to install the mounting bolts. It was a completely unlocked technology that performed elegantly. The inflated balloons gave it a snug fit, provided a built-in airbag for impacts and falls, registered the motions of the driver, and gave it an easy way to cool the driver. It also gave him this weird feeling of floating inside the suit.

The floating feeling felt like success.

The XO returned to his office after inspecting the progress with the boring and installation. "Sorry," he said, shaking the hand of the man who was waiting outside the office, "It's been one of those days." He opened the door, "Come on in." The XO went around the desk and sat down.

"Thank you," the man said, sitting as well.

"Yes, well, what do you have for me?"

"Oh, yes. Well, it's an interesting case. I've read the lengthy background and, look, I'd love to do a personal interview with—"

"We'll see, after your report."

"Yes Sir. Well, based entirely on the tapes and the history file you provided, I'd have to say that your subject would almost without a doubt become intransigent if anything happened to her roommate," he looked up the name in the notes, "Dana. The subject's history is rather unique." He sat back in his chair. "Look, you have this really impressive dichotomy. She could sit in her room in complete defiance, and in fact that choice seems the closest to her personality, but she shows up in class on a regular basis. She shows up for punishment when there is really no reason for her to do so.

She isn't an anarchist, she could be extremely destructive if she chose to, so something else is happening here. You have some level of authority that is being respected, and that's something that can be worked with. You see this sometimes with returning POWs. They follow the basic rules to ensure the easiest stay under captivity, without divulging anything significant."

"I want you to meet with our staff psychologist who has been on this case from the beginning," the XO said, making a note on his calendar.

"Great," he said, "but, why fly me in on this when—"

"You have the needed clearance and were recommended. And lately, I've come to the realization that a fresh perspective can sometimes really turn things around. Look, if our psychologist clears it, I'll give you that meeting. But don't be surprised if she—"

"She'll sit, probably at attention, without moving or saying a word. No reaction at all, and she can probably do that for days on end. I understand the challenge, Sir, that's what makes this case so compelling."

They stood, saluted, then the guest left for his next appointment.

Shadona sat in the small room. She had been sitting there for the last few hours. Flight combat was over for the year. One of the boys had won. It was a heavily betted sport on the base, one that she could dominate at will, and the prestige from it often made life easier for her. The bets were a kind of currency to get others to do your assigned meaningless chores.

The HB-4 was the dominant platform, but she wasn't allowed to use it in the games. It was used strictly as a training tool to sharpen the skills of others. But seated in any other plane, she dominated as well. Being taken off flight was a punishment in and of itself, but the meaningless tasks around the base were assigned on the basis of grades and position in competitions. The amount of busywork she was being assigned was depressing. She had to pick something else to excel in, for now.

The doorknob twisted and a new man entered, freshly printed visitor badge clipped on his pocket.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, playing with his papers like his disorganized situation was anything but intentional. "I uh, this place is bigger than it looks. How far down inside this mountain does it go? Do you know?"

"To the bottom would be my guess."

He laughed more than was appropriate. "Yes, well, I suppose it has to, now, doesn't it." He set the papers in front of her such that the folder tabs were clearly visible, then put his hand on her forearm, "How have they been treating you, recently?"

She pulled her arm out from under his and gestured to the stack of papers.

"Yes, well, there are things reports don't show." He adjusted his chair so it was an inch closer to her, then sat, "Look, how long did they have you waiting?"

She didn't move.

"Why didn't you just leave after the first ten, twenty minutes? Why did you just stay seated in these uncomfortable chairs?"

She looked him in the eyes. This was a new approach. Her first instinct was to punish him with silence until he had sat as long as she had. But, she was intrigued. "When you leave this room, where you can go is much different than where I can."

"If you weren't here, what would you be doing with your life?"

She sat.

"Do you think you would be happy washing dishes for a restaurant?" He put his hand on the stack of papers, "I've read all of this, believe it or not. There is a lot of you in here, but it isn't all of you. You've done some rather impressive things in your short time here." He turned his chair to face the door. "I have no doubt that you could have built a bomb to blow this entire mountain up, and you probably could have tricked them into building it for you. Even tricked them into setting it off. The few toys they've shown me certainly have that potential in them." He ran his finger across the top of the folder, "But there is something in you that is drawing a line, and wanton destruction falls on the other side of it."

She sat.

"Just like you could easily have left this room. I've seen a video of a girl in a cast that wiggled past a crowd to clobber a highly trained— We both know I'm not stopping you from leaving."

She shrugged and went for the door.

He ran to the door, too, but didn't try to stop her. "You want someone else to open it for you. You could easily open it yourself, but you want someone—"

"Thanks, I got it, twist and pull." She walked out the room.

He let her walk away.

Four other such meetings were offered over the next week. Each was in lieu of her scheduled chores. She didn't show and did the chores instead.

Shadona dipped the brush in the soapy water, then started to scrub the floor.

She recognized the squeak of his shoes on the wet floor as he walked over.

She dipped then scrubbed.

Then, without saying a word, so did he.

They scrubbed the entire room without saying anything to each other.

When they were done, he stood, looked over all they had cleaned, and said, "Wow, that was a big room, wasn't it?"

Shadona dropped the brush in the bucket and silently left without acknowledging he was even there.

A few days later, she reported to gardening duty to find it was nearly complete by the time she got there. She turned and started to leave.

"Shadona," he said, dropping his shovel and running after her, "just a minute."

She kept walking until he caught up and stood in her path.

"Listen, I'm just—" but he was out of breath. Unlike her, he hadn't spent all of his life at these altitudes.

"You can't buy me. I can't stop you, but I don't have to reward you either."

"Look, I get it." He caught his breath. "I can't free your schedule without pushing the burden onto someone else, who would inevitably resent you for it."

"You have nothing to offer that interests me. Nothing." She walked away.

Two days later, he met her at the bathroom, scrub brush in hand.

He started scrubbing the stall next to hers. After a few minutes, he said, "What do you think you would be doing, if you weren't here?"

She stopped working and just stood there.

"I think you would still be here, or a place like here. Maybe—"

"Read the file again. I wouldn't be anywhere near here," she said, leaned against the wall of the stall, hand on the brush.

"You have a one in a million mind. You don't hate your state, you probably even understand why you can't leave." He scrubbed for a minute before noticing she had stopped. "Perhaps a nicer place, sure. Under different rules, maybe. Sure." He stood in the doorway to her stall. "They probably would have given you titles, rank, name on the door. A staff to work under you. I've counted a staff of at least thirty engineers that are working around the clock to figure out the various riddles that are you. You're very expensive to figure out. More expensive when we figure you wrong.

It would be far cheaper and more productive to have them work with you, even for you."

She leaned against the wall and stared at the bowl. "Wernher Von Braun was a Nazi who was forgiven for his sins, got a paycheck, and walked free on these same streets." She looked at him, then back to the bowl. "What was my sin, such that it can't be forgiven?"

He paused.

She closed the door and said nothing more, while he cleaned the rest of the room, and continued to talk.

Dysath finished reading another report that he had just been cleared for. The G-force problem for guided missiles had been solved years ago. The HB-4 had line-of-sight guided ammunition too. Unfortunately, the few rounds she had made were all destroyed on targets. The optics that provided the ship with eyes probably worked to guide the projectiles. But that was just his guess.

Line-of-sight might pose a problem. GPS was preferred, but orbiting satellites or drones could easily be used to guide them in. The G force from being fired through the HB-4 far exceeded anything his project could reasonably generate. State of the art in silicone, the traditional material for solid-state equipment, could barely handle a couple thousand Gs. Her guns subjected them to hundreds of thousands of Gs.

He was getting a little tired of reinventing the wheel.

But the XO had recruited another psychologist, 'a fresh set of eyes' he called it. Dysath was asked to comprise a wish list and had submitted the high G circuitry as one of the areas he wanted most. He had tons of other puzzles he wanted solved, but this was the most urgent. The new psychologist was very different than the interrogation-focused one that had an office two floors up. The new guy had a background in post-traumatic stress disorders and POW debriefings.

Dysath had been briefed on the HB-4, but like most briefs around here, it came with entire pages blacked out. Up until today, his scope had been limited to the main guns themselves, and the skin.

Most planes had chaff that ejected out the back to confuse missiles. The HB-4 had similar ports on its back, except they were offensive.

At low speeds, it only made sense as chaff. But when he took into account the plane's revised projected speeds, it was no joke. It basically spun bullets to give them some gyroscopic aim, and ejected them. At slow speeds, that would amount to tossing gravel. But, tossing gravel from a plane flying five to ten times faster than a speeding bullet... now you were talking about doing some real damage.

The simulators suggested that it could be used to provide its own cover fire, like an angry swarm of bees on the heels of a bear attack.

Shadona looked over the garden, then down at her shoes. He was there already. She stopped approaching. He was relentless, without being overly annoying. He was trying the good-cop approach, which was better than being strapped in bed for weeks on end.

Her instinct was to just let him do it, play him along. But she knew that was the point. It was part of his plan to be endearing to her.

She recognized it immediately. Combat wasn't her only training. For two years, they trained on infiltration, coercion, interrogation, and resistance to it.

She approached and gave him just a hint of a smile before she walked past and went to work.

The hint of a smile saved her from a barrage of questions and was innocent enough. She could play good-cop too.

...

He assisted her, about a quarter of the time, for the next few months until her punishment period was just a few weeks from being over.

"Look, let's cut to the end of the dance, shall we," Shadona said as they neared the end of cleaning the bathroom.

He returned the brush to the bucket. "Ok." He looked over the teenage girl. She had far more depth than he gave her credit for. "You know they can't let you go. You know that."

"They can—"

"No, it's too high a risk. But," he said, then smiled, "but, they can give you a vacation. They have a secure site they use for training. It's isolated, remote, and cut off. No outside access, you can—"

"How long for how much?"

It was now a poker game. Ask too much and the offer would lose all credibility, same with too little. He picked something small. And, surprisingly, she agreed.

**B2.C10**

Dysath stood at the inkjet printer. It looked like it was broken. It printed a garbled sheet of several thick coats of black on black with few gaps of white. It backed up often and printed layer after layer, paused for several seconds to dry, then printed again. Plastic. Light weight, conductive plastic, the printer wrote the circuits like the layers on an oil painting.

It was so simple.

He pulled the first sheet from the curing oven. Still warm in his hands, he cut along the dotted line, put it on the table, covered it with a metal sheet, pounded it with a sledgehammer, then taped a wiring harness to it.

He uploaded longitude and latitude into the lab computer, then handed it off to an assistant who promptly left the room.

Plastic, printed on a common printer.

It was so obvious, after the fact. The plastic was flexible, rugged, lightweight, and could handle a few hundred watts, more than enough to guide a missile. The printer program was indecipherable, as was the complex circuit board it printed, but the ink was simple and cost less than a penny per page, easily obtained. The paper it was printed on was not ordinary paper, but was inexpensive as well.

It couldn't be printed as small as a microchip, but size didn't matter that much on a hundred pound bomb. His mind reeled with the millions of other possible applications for such inks. Laptops didn't need to have a tiny chip, just a little smaller than the size of the screen would do.

It would probably take years to calculate how the six 'color' tubes of ink were mixed, a few more to figure how to design their own circuitry, but this was an extraordinary leap forward.

The assistant radioed from his twenty-minute flight. The directional lights guided them in and the firing solenoid deployed on target.

He had no doubts.

The printer software included most of the bells and whistles he could want to customize the prints to his specific uses. Having no part in designing it and no ability to decipher it, they were worried that the systems would deactivate over certain targets or that the software would only print the first few correctly, so his team spent the next week printing nearly all the ink they had, accounting for hundreds of guidance systems. Then they flew the pages around the world to verify functionality.

The chemicals for the inks were readily available. She had mixed them in the lab, but they weren't set up to mass-produce them, or even reproduce them correctly. Both the software and the inks were too complex for the base to reverse engineer and would have been too great of a drain on their time and resources with little need for the level of secrecy the base afforded. Both were outsourced to other companies that specialized in such, with government contracts of course.

Whatever they did to get this from her, it was worth it.

* * *

The alarm clock rang, 3PM. Shadona and Dana climbed the abandoned forest-ranger tower, then walked to the railing and waved. "Rot in hell, you sick bastards!" they screamed.

A flash glistened from the far mountain range.

The girls ran back down the steps and across the small clearing to the log cabin near the foot of the tower.

They had no electricity beyond the tiny amount the solar provided to work the water pump and run a few lights.

They had several months' supply of canned and dried food and rows of cut firewood. It was rustic and isolated, and they had to show themselves at the same time every day or the base would send a team to track them down, but other than that, it felt free.

No communication, no media, nothing within walking distance. The girls checked the cabin for surveillance cameras and bugs, but found none. Not that they would be foolish enough to discuss such things indoors.

Dana put another log on the fire, then plopped down on the chair. "You never told me what you had to give up for this."

Shadona smiled while stirring the pancake mix. They had the place to themselves for the winter. No classes, no chores, they didn't even make their beds. She went over to the tiny wood stove, a cast-iron skillet warming on top. The batter sizzled as bubbles formed. She sprinkled it with cinnamon, then flipped it.

The cabin had been made in the fifties or sixties. It was cut from local lumber and abandoned after satellites made it irrelevant. Some boards had been replaced, the solar was new, as was the electric water pump and new pipes to the spring a few hundred feet away.

The indoor plumbing was simplistic and had long ago been replaced with plastic tubing. The coils near the stove heated the hot water and stored it in a large tank. It was an antique retrofitted with a few over-temperature valves for safety, but it worked.

It provided two good showers a day, and the un-insulated tank kept plenty of heat in the room. It was only one room, yet was still bigger than their room at the base. And like their room, the simple bathroom had only a curtain.

"Remember when we were much younger," Dana said after finishing her shower, "we did survival training near here, I think. Paint pellets, flags, we had to kill and eat rabbits, live off the land for two weeks."

"I think that was before we knew we could never leave. That it wasn't real."

"I can't take you anywhere, without you bringing me down."

Shadona smiled. Dana was right. What a waste it would be to spoil such a gift when they were so hard to come by. "It felt like camping." She warmed her hands by the stove, "Cooking with fire. Rubbing sticks together to get a spark." She sat by her friend, "A lot like the last few days have been."

"Sleeping in the rain wasn't much fun, but the rest of it was."

"Ever wonder what it would be like to have parents? To have a family, like everyone else. I want my childhood back. It wasn't supposed to be this way."

"But then, how would I have ever met you?" Dana said.

Shadona leaned into her, "If we weren't sisters, I would have seen you at school."

The cabin was small. They had to show themselves once a day, and a one-mile radius electronic perimeter would alert the base if they wandered too far, but they were free until spring. There was even an ample supply of games, paper, and full-length pens and pencils.

They talked some more that night, until they fell asleep.

"Left hand," the voice said.

There was a picture of a woman holding up her left hand.

"Left hand," the voice said again.

BZZZZZZ!!!! A strobe light went off in her face.

"This is a left hand," the woman's voice said again. "Show me your left hand."

She covered her eyes with her arm before the light flashed and it buzzed again.

"Left hand," the voice relentlessly repeated until the infant complied.

The next picture appeared on the screen and the instructions continued in a new language.

She tried to sit in her crib. The screen covered the top; the sides were opaque and solid. She crawled to the foot. She could touch all four sides, should she stretch just right. It seemed solid, but she knew it was not. She had seen it open before. She pressed against it again.

BZZZZZZ! Flash!

She complied with its instruction.

She pressed her ear against the side and tried to focus on the voices outside her crib. "This is our most promising one," a muffled woman said, "We are having compliance problems with it recently, but it is thirty-two tapes ahead of any other, six languages so far, about two thousand words in each, and shows an aptitude for numbers and—"

BZZZZZ! Flash!

"... terminate 10% of the low scores," a muffled man said. "Embryos are cheap, those learning pods are killing our budget."

"Kill them?" the woman said with sadness. "They're just—"

"Replaceable, nurse Ben—"

BZZZZZ! Flash!

Shadona woke in the darkened room. She put her hand on her sleeping friend's shoulder and sighed with relief. If but sighing was all it took to find true relief. The room was dark and a little cold, much like the crib she remembered.

She tucked her friend in as she moved to the stove. She opened the small door, raked the coals, and added another log and a few sticks of kindling.

She sat on the floor in front of the fire, staring into the growing flames.

This wasn't how life was supposed to be. That wasn't what childhood was for.

She watched her friend sleep.

This wasn't freedom. This was still the bad dream she wished to wake from someday, no matter how pleasant their now was.

She made coffee to keep her dreams away.

Dana sat up and looked around. She had adjusted to sleeping late easier than she thought. A pot of coffee was still warm near the stove. She poured a cup, then stirred in some powdered milk. Shadona wasn't inside.

Dana grabbed the blanket and headed out the door. The clock read 10:12 AM.

The morning frost on the frozen leaves left a fresh trail to the steps of the tower. Dana climbed until she reached the top.

"You thinking of jumping?" Dana asked, leaning against the same rail Shadona was sitting on.

"Not today." She grabbed her friend's hand, "A little this morning." She leaned forward as if to jump, but it was only a half-hearted tease. "It's so quiet here. No clank of the metal doors, no bitter fights over unimportant things. The air doesn't smell like concrete and paint, and jet fuel."

The wind picked up. With no trees to block it at this height, the cold on the top of the tower was severe. It easily cut through their clothes. The treetops swayed below. The tower creaked, but barely moved.

It was very cold, but Shadona showed no signs of wanting to go in.

The rising sun helped fight the chill, but only when the calm allowed.

They stayed on the tower, well past three.

The tower was visible from the base, yet, it provided them with the most picturesque views. They toured the grounds, followed a few local rabbits, and kept an eye on an owl spending the winter; it frequented the tower too. A group of deer foraged in the distance, easily visible from up high. The spotting scopes were ancient, but abandoned in working order. The lines used for scaling and judging distance had faded over the years, the paint had peeled and the aluminum tube was blistered with white foam.

They spent a lot of time on the tower, even more just walking in the woods.

When the owl finally snagged a rabbit, they tracked down its burrow. They found a nest of six, blind, hairless babies. They took them back to the cabin and tried to keep them alive. Powder milk was administered a drop at a time through the fold of a soaked shirt. Two died by the second night, a third by the end of the week.

After two weeks, they were big enough to roam outside the drawer the girls had converted into an indoor burrow. They could see and had a fine, soft coat of hair. They even started to play. Tentative hops on the wooden floors at first, but soon, they had full-on explorations of the entire cabin. The little 'raisins' they left behind were another matter entirely, and, had the place belonged to either girl, it might have been a matter they cared about. But, as it was, they would all be kicked out by spring.

The rabbits got big, fast.

They drank out of saucer bowls, kept warm by the stove, and were always willing to be picked up and petted, almost any time of the day. They even took the rabbits for short walks outside, just not out of sight. The owl was sure to be hungry again.

It seemed to snow early this year.
**B2.C11**

Argo's father called. He was snowed in and wouldn't make it home for another week, maybe two. Argo didn't care, it wasn't like his father could make it down these snow-packed roads in a piss-ant hybrid anyway. The SUV was parked at the bottom of the hill while his hippie father was trying to save gas.

It seemed absurd that someone who flew gas-guzzling jets as often as his father did would be concerned about saving the few drops a hybrid offered. But then again, this was the same man that was passionate about solar and growing vegetables in a greenhouse, no matter how much more expensive it was.

He was used to having the place to himself.

Fortunately, the solar panel was working perfectly. After his last reaming, he was more diligent about monitoring it. He plugged in the old laptop, connected to the port, and downloaded the logs. He remembered the computer side of it far better than the confusing motor side. He clicked diagnose/analyze. It hourglassed for a full minute, turned to a screen filled with obscure pressure-gauge readings, then announced 95% efficiency, no maintenance recommendations.

He studied it a little longer.

It wasn't written for the novice, but was instead a down and dirty, text only little program. Written nearly a decade ago for the then average computer, it even ran on this antique 486 windows machine. It charted the cylinder pressures over each cycle for both the hot and cold side. According to the chart, it had eight cylinders and could peak at twenty horse. That seemed rather ludicrous. It was a pipe with four tubes tapping into its side, two in the center and one on each end. He had seen it disassembled and it looked like any other empty pipe. He struggled with the idea that it had even one cylinder, let alone eight.

He made it check again.

After a minute, it came back the same.

Well, his father had asked him to run the checks, and reasonably so. The panel was his main source of electricity and his main source of heat. They had a woodstove, but lugging in firewood was a chore. They had a tiny backup generator and a small silicon solar panel that kept a car battery charged, but neither could turn on the lights, power a blender, microwave, or even the TV. They were only good for calling for help and listening to the radio.

He turned off the laptop and put it away in the drawer.

He texted the report back to his father, then went on with his day.

Like his father, he was snowed in too.

Max loved the white stuff and was always begging to go outside and romp in it. To Argo, it was a chore. His dirt bike could handle going downhill, but it couldn't make it back up in the slippery stuff. If he wanted to go see Dara, he would have to walk. And walking was an all-day trip; he would have to spend the night.

Dara was nice to have sex with, but she wasn't a conversationalist. He found her dull and a little boring.

He finished eating lunch, then went back to the computer and his afternoon class. His heart wasn't in it.

He needed an ATV. He had begged his father for one, but without any success. His father was convinced that an ATV wouldn't handle snow any better than the bike, even the SUV struggled up the incline in snow. But it went beyond that. He thought of his son as lazy. The mailbox was at the bottom of the mountain, only two miles away. You could get down it on a sled, it was coming back up that was a hike and a half. Uphill took all day to walk. He considered taking the SUV, and if times got desperate, even without a license, he could always take the bike to the bottom and drive the SUV back up; the bike fit in the back. But his father recorded the odometer religiously.

Argo didn't dare.

He finished his class looking out the window, watching the snow pile up. Ding! Ding!

The mailbox was wired with a remote to signal when, and if, anything was delivered. He didn't want to even think about going down today. It was a big box and more than capable of handling weeks of mail.

He went to the door, put on his shoes, grabbed a coat and a broom, and headed out. Max vaulted past him the second the door cracked open.

Max stood on the crust of the snow, scampered toward the path to the pond, tried to stop, spun, flipped, then crashed through the crust and disappeared under the snow. Argo had more important things to do than play. He put on his sunglasses and swept the snow off the porch. He then trudged his way to the solar panel and swept the pile away from the collector's glass.

He opened the shed, assembled the long pole, then screwed on the wide brush. He avalanched the pileup from the roof next. It was a chore, but it was much easier than working a garden.

Greenhouse too.

He looked in through the brushed-free glass. Mmmm, three tomatoes and two cucumbers looked ripe. He made a mental note, cucumber sandwiches with coffee tonight. It was faster than soup and just as good.

Today was Thursday, he would wait until Sunday before making the trek to the mailbox. He disassembled the roof sweeper, put it back in the shed, then walked back to the porch after less than an hour of labor. "Max!" he said, brushing the snow off his knees and down to the bottom of his shoes. "Max!"

He looked out into the blinding white toward the pond. He was done with snow for today.

"Max!" Unless he couldn't find his cat.

They had toyed with the idea of a pet door. He had. His father pointed out that it was a moronic idea. Sure, Max could be easily trained to use it, but possums, squirrels, raccoons, and just about anything smaller than a deer would soon figure out how to use it too. As convenient as it would be to never have to let the cat in and out, the consequences of those possibilities would be far worse.

It was a dumb idea. But his father didn't have to call him a moron when he pointed it out.

"Max!" He could see the path. Sort of. But Max was a black and white cat that was walking around under the snow like a winter gopher. He looked back at the door. He was cold and it was warm inside. The cat would be fine.

He went down the swept steps to the edge of the snow.

That damn cat. He strained to see a hint of black.

Nothing. He stomped inside, straight to the greenhouse.

One of the tomatoes had a green side. It needed a few more days, perhaps a week, but the others fell free with the slightest touch. The greenhouse was nice and warm. He checked the water levels, looked out the windows for that distinctive black, then headed inside.

He washed the veggies, started some coffee, pulled some bread out of the fridge, and made two cucumber and mayo sandwiches.

The impatient scratching at the door started about the time the coffee pot belched its last blast of steam.

He headed for the door, but returned to the sandwiches. He diced one corner into tiny chunks. Let the cat wait for him this time.

Scratch scratch scratch scratch!

He put the knife down and headed for the door.

The cat rushed in, shook off enough snow to show his black again, stood on his hind legs, vigorously sniffed the air, then ran to the kitchen.

"You think you deserve some of that, do you?"

Max stood at Argo's stool, front feet ready to climb it to the counter and the plate, should Argo take too long.

He laughed. He couldn't help it. Max was a terribly funny cat to have.

He picked up the cat and set him down on his lap.

Max ate the diced pieces off his knee.

He looked at the chart for the solar panel. It showed nearly a full charge, but it handled winter better than summer anyway. His cucumber sandwich was awesome, just unbelievable. The bread was lightly toasted and crunched with each bite. Just that perfect mix with mayo. If only they had some fresh eggs. They had frozen egg mix in those cartons, but fresh eggs only lasted so long. Scrambled eggs with sharp cheese and mayo on toast was the only thing better than cucumbers.

His cravings for scrambled eggs drove him to make another cucumber sandwich, and dice up another corner for Max, of course.

He put Max down on the floor to lick the crumbs off his plate while he pulled out a bowl, added water, stirred in some yeast, sugar, salt, and flour, covered it with cloth, then set it on top of the refrigerator to rise for bread the next day.

Sunday. He packed the last of his cucumber sandwiches into a backpack with a thermos of coffee, an emergency blanket, and his pistol as he headed out the door. He pulled the ski mask down over his ears, put on his sunglasses, grabbed the snowboard off the porch, and started his slide down the road to the mailbox. It zigged and zagged so much that he never got a long enough straightaway to build a dangerous speed. Scratch that. He never got going fast enough to make it exciting. Just a nice, leisurely pace.

It was fifteen minutes before he slid into the slot next to the SUV, then walked across the road to the mailbox. It was a fancy one, much like the big postal-boxes found on city sidewalks. The top half looked like a normal mailbox sitting on a larger box about the size of a microwave oven. When the mailman put the mail in, then closed the door, the bottom fell out and it dumped into the larger box underneath. To mail a letter, you had to remember to push in a pin. He sorted the mail, put it in his pack, then crossed the road again.

Under the carport, he ate a sandwich, drank a cup, hooked the snowboard to his pack, put on his spiked boots, then started the hike uphill.

It took almost three hours.

Max was still scratching to get out when he returned home.

He had an arsenal of video games and access to a nearly unlimited more online, but he still got bored fast. He popped in on some of his favorite online arenas but found none of his friends there.

Did-Dump. "Your dad home?" Dara messaged.

"No," he texted back. "Deep snow suxs. I was going to drop by, but, by the time I got the mail, I knew I would be too whipped for that much climbing."

Did-Dump. "Awww. Maybe an ATM for Xmas?"

He scratched his head for a second. She meant ATV, not ATM. "Dads not budging. Thinks Im lazy."

Did-Dump. She sent him a picture of his favorite part of her anatomy.

He put his hand on the screen, then carefully deleted it. His father snooped and didn't need to know Dara that well.

He really wanted to go down the hill again, but his calves were sore already. He closed his eyes and sighed instead.

She had no way to get up the hill to him. No way at all.

They chatted a little more before he scrubbed this log from his laptop as well.

Max stood on the back of the couch, then walked to the edge near the arm. He stared at the throw pillow.

Thwack! Tumble thud!

"What the hell, Max?" Argo got up and went into the living room.

Max was chewing on the corner of the pillow.

"Ok, Max, You've vanquished the evil and cowardly pillow." He picked it up and placed it back on the couch.

Max smacked at it with his paws.

"It's quite defeated, my brave warrior kitten."

He picked up the cat and carried him into his room. After a few minutes of vigorous petting, Max forgot about the cowardice of pillows and stalked the toy mouse tied to a string and a stick. Argo practiced his casting and reeling skills while Max attacked, pounced, and chewed without mercy.

Winter was filled with such things. His dad would show and stay for a week, every now and then. He brought fresh eggs and milk whenever he did. As a freelance consultant, his work varied wildly. Argo almost felt bad for his father. He hated his job. Hated it. His father would rather have been a manager at a restaurant where he was in charge than work for clients. Clients were draining to his father. He moped for the first day home, unless he could be tricked into going fishing.

It was just an unfortunate position to be in. To make a living, his father had to do work he hated. The work he loved was simply too difficult to quickly show a profit. Fortunately, Argo's life didn't include work, beyond the busing of the occasional table for his mom.

Ice fishing was out, however, too much work with hardly a bite.

About the time his father's funk would leave, he was off on another contract.

It was always nice to have the house to himself, but it was fun having his father around too.

Argo sliced the last of his father's bread. His father made the best bread, he really put a lot of effort into it. Argo made simple bread, no kneading, just stir and leave out overnight. Effort made a difference.

His freezer was full of fish caught and cooked in the last few days of fall. It was important, to a degree, to reduce the population in the pond over the winter. Most specifically the number of predator fish needed to be cut back. Believe it or not, catfish made an excellent burger. It even tasted much like cow when he added lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, all of which the greenhouse provided.

Max was disappointed to not get his usual cut.

With his father gone, Argo took a walk in the woods with his pistol and Max. He didn't head for the pond, much to the cat's disappointment, but this was one of the rare moments when enough snow had melted for his steps to go untraced. He checked his GPS. It was near. He looked around, but Max found it first.

He opened the lid on the old, plastic cooler, then pulled out the plastic trash bag. He put his nose in it and breathed deeply. His stash was rarely gotten into.

Wild pot.

The three plants made him a year's worth, but he dare not hide it in the house.

He knew his parents had been potheads when they were his age; they tried to be 'cool' about it, but he knew. Yet, both would go ballistic if they ever found his stash. He only smoked in the woods. He never checked on it more than once a month. He never walked directly to it, and never the same path twice. He kept a smaller stash closer to the house in an old wine bottle he hid in the woods. Thank God for the guy who invented glass corks.

He rolled one on the spot, refilled his wine bottle, then headed home. It was laundry day. His last rule for never getting caught was to only smoke on laundry day. The smell had a habit, even in the woods, of staying in his clothes.

Fortunately, Max would never tell.
**B2.C12**

They turned the rabbits loose on the first warm day. They stayed around the cabin for the next few days, then disappeared. It was quite sad, actually. Nearly as sad as when the helicopter landed and the girls said goodbye to the illusion of freedom.

The patch on the HB-4 had yet to be stress tested, until today. They spent the better part of their first day back going over it, making sure everything was put back correctly. The onboard computer confirmed its ready status, and, as part of her agreement, they were cleared for flight.

The catapult puck on the mock carrier deck sat next to the plane, a baseball where a plane would normally be hooked. The tower cleared them, and the shooter waved them off.

Dana, in the pilot seat, opened the throttle to quarter full. The baseball passed the nose of the plane, briefly, before the engines roared to life and left it, and the base, in the dust. It was a rare day when they couldn't beat the catapult. With good fuel, it could even break Mach 1 before clearing the end of the deck.

They put it through its paces at 30,000 feet, just in case something went wrong. The belly-flop maneuver was a key training exercise, but doing it close to the ground with a questionable wing could be fatal, doing it at altitude afforded lots of recoverability should something fail. It held, but Shadona still restricted the maneuver until they could confirm the patch on the ground. They practiced its other unique features until the tank complained about being low, then landed conventionally on the deck, hook down.

The belly-flop landing was essentially a controlled stall just a few feet off the ground. It could be practiced at any altitude. Besides, landing conventionally required practice too.

The deck was equipped with hydraulics such that it actually could pitch and roll up to twenty feet on each corner, but that required a full staff and the maneuvers of just one plane didn't warrant that.

They even had to taxi to the elevator and lock it down themselves.

As they rode down, the computer displayed the surveillance it had gathered on the base's boring project, confirming Shadona's hunches.

It was about the only purpose she could think of that would require a guidance system such as they requested.

The rubble pile down the side of the mountain confirmed her estimates of their progress. She gave them months, perhaps a year before it could be tested.

They parked in their assigned slot.

Dysath entered the XO's office, saluted, then sat before the desk. "Sir, I've been thinking." He leaned back in the chair, "We've nearly finished an airframe, our method for making composite skin is close, the multi-camera system almost works, the fly-by-wire— we are very close on all—"

"I thought I told you to put that on the back burner—"

"We did, Sir, but there is slack time and odd man out situations and we've been using it as a fall back— That's not really why I'm here. As we get closer and closer to assembling our first version of an HB, Sir, I'm having doubts that we even should finish it. It's looking nothing like—"

"Don't worry about that, Captain, as long as it works it'll—"

"Oh, it will do that. It'll be a fraction of the speed, but that's still— Look, my problem is," Dysath pressed two fingers to his thumb much like catching a pestering fly or an illusive idea, "what we are building, should it ever be captured, could be reverse engineered in weeks or months. It wouldn't stall anyone for years. We really need to master the way she compiled them, encrypted them, that's the magic we're losing doing it this way."

The XO leaned back and pondered. "I hadn't thought— You have a point." He thumped his fingers on the desk, "One thing at a time, Captain. Just focus on the base weapon for now."

"Speaking of that, I've got some revised numbers to show you." Dysath pulled out a folder, opened it, then spread it out on the desk. Pie charts, graphs, and budget estimates.

The XO corrected a few figures. The specialized plastic inks were coming in well under budget too, but only the XO had access to those numbers. The R&D of reversing them would have cost tens of thousands or millions, but they purchased them for a few hundred each cup. That was a massive savings off their budget.

They discussed for nearly half an hour.

Mess hall was a loud orchestra of clanking and talking, even toward the later shifts when Dana and Shadona entered. Turkey meatloaf was all that was left that looked even remotely appealing. That was until it was slopped onto the plate. Mixed vegetables spilled onto the tray and silverware.

They walked to the most out-of-the-way bench.

Shadona corralled the peas back onto the plate, then used her fork to separate them from the loaf.

Dana grabbed her friend's hand, "Just eat it," Dana said.

Shadona looked up, smiled, then started to eat. She got a mix of everything on the fork.

"It handles just as tight as it did before they wrecked it."

"It vibrates. Feels... off. I don't trust it maneuvering at sonic speeds." Shadona took another bite.

"What? I didn't feel it. Granted, I don't have the hours you do, but it felt—"

She swallowed fast, "It's off. Not much, but it is." She cleared her throat, "Off is fine at slow speeds," she started to illustrate with the tip of her fork in the food, "but the skin acts like an exoskeleton, and the shock waves compound—"

Dana stopped her friend's fork, "I trust you, I just didn't— It isn't like they'll ever clear you for hypersonic speeds anyway. We're really not supposed to even come close to Mach 1." She let go of Shadona's hand, "This stuff is almost cold now, anyway."

They went back to eating.

The womb of the plane insulated them from most of the noise and feedback, fly-by-wire controls isolated them even more. It had the feel of flying a very powerful video game or simulator, not the real-world fighter it was. It was difficult to believe anyone could pick up a feel through all that.

"Well," the boy bumped their table hard enough to wobble the glasses, but not quite enough to dump them, "if it isn't the dyke douche-bag—"

"Mind your own, Alco," Dana said. Shadona subtly changed her grip on the fork.

"Teacher's pets," he said, spitting with his words.

Shadona gripped the tray with her other hand, "Pet?"

"Neither of you dykes even participated in the fall competition. And I was so looking forward to wiping the sky of your stench," he said. "Gone from the face of the planet. You must have sucked a mile of dicks for dykes like you to—"

"Back off," Dana said, chair sliding with her forceful stand.

"I just gotta know," he continued, "Do you still spit, or did you learn to swallow?"

Shadona slapped her full cup of hot coffee such that it spilled off the table and straight into the front of his pants.

He jumped back and vigorously patted his crotch.

Shadona stood by the table, "I don't report to a piss-ant like you," she said, Dana standing at the other side.

He was boiling hot, but, in a nearly empty cafeteria, the odds were not in his favor.

"Enjoy your moment in the sun," Shadona said, her grip of the fork now more obvious, "it will be fleeting."

He stormed off, and they returned to what was left of their meal.

"Captain Dysath," Hanly said, catching up to him in the hall, "I've got some good news for you."

Dysath turned, stumbled in thought. Hanly had just sidetracked him, big time. "What is it?"

Hanly smiled, "I think it's best I show you." They headed for the harvester control room where Hanly sat him down in front of one of their monitors. "You know we've been selling N60 as an explosive supplement for years. We make it here and export it to other contractors. It's really too expensive to manufacture, if you have to buy the power."

Dysath nodded. He had done the calculations and seen the charts. It took nearly two thousand dollars worth of electricity to make each gallon. However, it had such high energy density that one gallon of N60 could propel a vehicle as far as 73 gallons of oil, the perfect fuel for flight. That translated into a big explosion that was difficult to accurately estimate, as exploding pencils could attest. Its only fault as an explosive was its high stability and input energy needed to set it off.

"Here is the test field of our normal contractor. Now, ordinarily they use a mix; it's added into normal plastics as an enhancer element. About a pound of this stuff can double the yield of a typical 500 pounder. They never used it straight because it's so hard to get a consistent, uniform ignition. We never really cracked how the HB-4 burned it. It starts with conventional fuel, then blends this stuff in until it's only running on it, but we could never get it to switch over while being tested on the ground.

Ordinarily, higher ratios than that just spray it all over the field."

Dysath looked at the field. It was covered in thick, lush grass and wild vegetation. Extraordinarily stubborn weeds kept popping back up in clumps and spots within days of each blast. He pointed to a clump.

"You noticed that too, huh? Wait till the peaceniks hear about that. A green bomb that's twice as destructive. It kills the grass with every blast, but it's like spreading fertilizer too.

Anyway, we did some computer modeling with the help of the base's professor and came up with a new design. You know how this base works. We're not explosive experts, and normal explosive experts can't be brought in because they can't be told about what the additive—"

Dysath had watched two clips already. The first was labeled 'conventional 500 lb,' the second was labeled 'enhanced 500 lb,' this one was labeled 'pulsed 500 lb.' "What do they mean by pulsed?"

"Right," Hanly said, getting back on track, "the computer models came up with a minimal electrical charge that would be needed to light it, and some weird casings that would be required to compress it, I mean off the wall stuff— Just take a look."

The flash consumed the screen. They replayed with a camera from a mile out. "How big was—"

"They calculated it as equal to around 130 tons of high explosives, from a 500 pound bomb, right in line with the model. The pulse is well within a lightning flash. The model, using years of our lightning data, even predicts airburst clouds would have devastating secondary electrocution effects, followed by intense, localized EMP pulses. It's supposed to look something like a foggy version of a ground-level thunderstorm."

"This was exactly what the XO was looking for." Dysath shared Hanly's grin.

"We had no way to set them off, without your 'chase it with lightning' thing. That got the ball rolling."

They watched another twenty minutes of clips, poured over the data, then reviewed the clips again, frame by frame.

It was exciting stuff. It was all coming together quicker and easier than he ever thought it would. It almost had that confident feel he had when he first arrived and started to build straight from the most impressive set of drawings he had ever looked at.

Just like back then, he couldn't see the flaw, but now he was looking for them, hard. He had seen too many projects spawned by that girl literally blow up in his face.

The laser pickup on a DVD player was only suitable for one-way communication. Shadona's unsupervised interaction with the plagiarizing professor's laptop was limited, but she increased her odds by being overly troublesome and relying on the classic prisoner motto; the guards had to be perfect every day, she need only be in the right place when they missed.

He stole from her, and others. It was a moral disappointment to her back then, but an advantage to her now.

The base systems were isolated, firewalled, independent and dedicated systems. Contact with the outside world had to be carefully controlled to continue to operate as the base did. Her plane was not designed to transmit RF signals at all, but it had such sensitive ears it could even listen to satellites over the jammers and through hundreds of feet of concrete. She was well informed on the outside world.

She set the ring on the CAP LOCK LED on the keyboard, then pressed M+F+L. The LED flickered violently, then the screen flashed and she removed the ring.

Software was an intricate, complicated, labor-intensive kind of intellectual property to steal. It was like stealing a recipe. If it was for cake, one person could easily memorize it. But software was not like making a cake; it was like a wall of cookbooks where a single typo on a single page rendered every meal into poison. He, the professor, through his own selfish greed, had been forced to find a way around the base's security. And in doing so, he gave her the access she needed in the form of his personal laptop.

Her window had taken only a few seconds. She retrieved the requested CDs off his desk and dutifully carried them to the distracted professor. She angrily slapped them down on the table beside him, "Get them yourself next time," she said.

He abruptly dropped what he was doing to publicly dress her down, "You will do what I say, when I say it, or I'll see to it your wings are clipped, permanently!"

She quietly went to her terminal, paused a few seconds to look down at the floor, pulled her chair out with a loud thump, then silently sat back down.

Stealing a billion lines of code was impossible to memorize. It was equally impossible for one person to know or even understand the impact or importance of each and every one of those billion lines.

Her evolution idea had taken on a life of its own, much as it was designed to. At times, she felt like a pawn in her own game that had eclipsed her years ago. In much the same way as evolution had no way of predicting the eventual dominance of humans from the time of the dinosaurs, she had no idea how these scattered seeds she was planting would eventually grow into her freedom. But she believed in her own work, and the million or so lines of her own code. But it too had grown on her, now into trillions of lines, and, just like her professor, it was now beyond her ability to check every detail and had become an article of faith. She didn't know what was on her ring any more than he did. It bore no resemblance to her original code.

Shadona sat in the womb of the HB-4. It signaled the location of the current bugs. She put it into flight simulator mode, and it became a giant video game. The location and interaction with other illusionary pilots were as much of a language as her coded sign, counter sign device. Banking left meant something different than right. The optics filtered to her flight helmet combined with those projected before her to create a third image of the surveillance it had gathered and edited for her. Random sounds outside the helmet mixed with those inside to form words for her, and only her, even in this heavily bugged womb.

She played it like a game as it filled her in on what she needed to know.

**B2.C13**

The professor managed most of the IT on the base, in addition to his other duties. A rather conventionally built network spread throughout the many departments allowed the maximum amount of flexibility with the minimal amount of connectivity. To the untrained eye, they were just average PCs on desks with notes to never turn them off.

The main computer room had a simple processor that was just powerful enough to handle the routing and primarily worked as a massive data storage farm with a cabinet full of drives.

Each of the labs was able to link their desktops into a mini cluster to crunch difficult problems. The harvester systems had been linked years ago to crunch the complex fluid dynamics equations needed to predict maintenance schedules and wear points in the maze of plumbing inside the mountain, in addition to predicting the effects of tremors caused by changes in inertia of all that rapidly moving mass. Before it developed those complex equations, the mountain would tremble whenever it rapidly charged or discharged the units. With the updates, it synchronized the units to the point that the base went from the Richter scale of two or three to barely a ripple in a glass. Discharges of the scale they were discussing would require running that level of calculations again.

The professor was called to work with Dysath on a simulator for the new weapon. It required the linking of not only Dysath's lab, but the multiple clusters available throughout the base. It was rarely done, but they were on a tight schedule and needed the surplus processing power.

The professor disconnected his laptop, then typed some arcane commands into Dysath's terminal. "That should do it," he said to Dysath, then turned to the one computer turned off in the room. It beeped, then powered on by itself. "It's working normally. If you turn something off by accident, it should allow it, but it'll come back on if the cluster thinks it needs it."

"Great," Dysath said, he understood the principles and wasn't illiterate where computers were concerned, but he had more of a hardware oriented kind of mind. "Our normal stuff shouldn't be affected, right?"

The professor rolled up his cords. "Yep, it just uses the idle systems and works in the background. You know, in theory, you shouldn't notice at all. But, you will. It'll add about a second or two of hesitation when you open up a new application. But that should be all you notice."

"Hey, you've seen the computer core in the HB—"

"Don't get me started on that girl's nonsense. It's a distraction," the professor said, irritated, "my bet is she has a few chips hidden in the wings or wheel wells or somewhere— Optics makes for the most compelling illusion." He pointed his finger at Dysath, "She's not as smart as she thinks, or anyone else thinks for that matter."

This was something quite different than Dysath had heard from the people reverse engineering the glass-looking core. They seemed to take it at face value, and even estimated it at supercomputer status, but the professor had lots of direct contact with the girl in question and probably knew her best. "She's not, huh?"

"Not even close. Polished, slick, lucky, but not all that smart." The professor zipped his laptop in the bag, then pulled the change out of his pocket. He shook them like dice, then slapped them down on the table under his hand. "If I have three dollars' of change, your odds of guessing heads or tails, correctly, on all of it is what, one in thirty thousand or so."

Dysath nodded. "About that, I suppose."

He moved his hand and spread out the coins. "But, that's just asking you. If I asked thirty thousand people, I should expect one of them to guess it all, perfectly." He swept them off the edge of the table and back into his hand, "We are in a world with what, eight billion people or so; so we should expect to find someone, somewhere, amidst all those billions, who will guess almost everything right, probably their entire life." He shook the change, then put it back in his pocket, "Luck, but she's smart enough to pretend it's not luck."

Dysath watched the professor strut out of the weapons lab. It was an interesting theory, but was this the place for luck? What were the odds of that?

He looked at his diploma and the little knot of string. He'd feel much better if he could believe it was just luck, too.

The HB-4 reported the heightened network activity. The sustained, increased noise suggested a full cluster was in operation. There was a time when Shadona would have jumped at this as a time to cause mischief. Today, she didn't care, but it was important to know. Networked cables were heavily shielded and weak sources of RF to begin with; the HB-4 could decode a percentage of them and fill in the blanks, if tasked to do so. But it would require dedicating more power to the problem than it warranted. She had a good idea what they were working on anyway.

Dana opened the hatch. "They cleared you for this afternoon," she said. The hatch was tiny and required the pilot to squeeze into the more spacious womb, but Dana just stuck her head in.

Shadona didn't want to put the virtual evolution on hold, "What about Raptors?"

She paused, "Something wrong with the patch?"

"No. I just—"

"Still feel off, huh? I'll play wingman with you."

"The squirrel suits look like they'll work."

Dana climbed further into the hole, but measured her words. "Really?"

Shadona just smiled. "Should fit like a glove, intuitive."

"Almost makes you want to have a wreck just to try one out."

"Almost."

"You cracked the landing?"

Shadona grinned. She had.

"Want to get something to eat first?"

Dana backed out of the hole and they went to get an early lunch.

Evolution was a weird thing to think about. A percentage of it was wild luck. Some skill.

There was a common myth that the brave and the strong survive and pass on their genes. But that was the idealized version. Reality held something much different.

Trickery, theft, camouflage, evolution invented them all, and rewarded them as well. The common theory taught in class was the bravest warriors were the ones who reproduced the most. But far more cowards survived battles than heroes. Cowards rarely even entered the battlefield. Evolution didn't seem to reward virtue either, especially in how it related to sexual partners.

Her program reflected her views of evolution, and as a consequence, it didn't get stuck investing too much into any one branch. But it wasn't purely random either. It's evolution had clearly defined goal, as opposed to evolution found in nature. Though her program came up with its share of dodo birds too, her evolution software included a periodic weeding to eliminate the most worthless ideas and progeny.

Dyke was an insult that was usually slurred against them. They often held hands, but it was because they communicated the most important things they had to say through a series of gentle squeezes. In public, it was interpreted as something else. Not that either minded the confusion, but some boys looked on it as a challenge.

By the time they got to the kitchen, ham and mustard sandwiches were the only thing on the menu that looked appealing.

Eating a big meal before flight practice was not a good idea, but a small meal was ideal.

Raptor maneuvers felt crude and sluggish by comparison, but the infinite maneuverability of the HB-4 opened a new world of possibilities in Raptors as well. They banked, spun, and swerved without fear, because they had practiced these extreme maneuvers in a plane that could perform them with impunity. The HB-4 simulated Raptors, as well as most other airframes, with blinking lights and buzzers instead of stalls and crashes when it was pushed too far. They knew where the limits were, how they felt, and even practiced recovering from them, all within the safety of the HB-4 that was immune to them. It heightened their abilities across the board.

Today they were showing off in preparation for this fall's combat games. This year, they intended to win. Computers scored the hits instead of the more expensive, but foolproof, paint rounds.

Shadona held Dana's hand, "52%" she squeezed, "80% in a year."

"Painful?" Dana squeezed back as they walked down the hall.

"Very."

Dana didn't respond.

"It cracked the timing pattern. Can shield RFID indefinitely, but still can't leave wide radius. Hasn't cracked the code. We can evade, limited, unless they lock down—"

"They lock down as soon as we're missing—"

"Fake death, maybe—"

"We'd still have to come back to find out the 80%."

Shadona stopped in the hall and dropped her friend's hand. She frowned, then smiled, "I can't take you anywhere, without you bringing me down."

Dana grabbed her friend's hand again, "Let's get something to eat." She rubbed her belly with the other hand, "That sandwich wasn't enough."

Pre-game combat had Dana ascending in the rankings as well, thanks mostly to their extensive practice in the HB-4. The games were divided into two basic groups, solo and with a wingman. The girls rarely competed against each other, except for in training, but always teamed for tandem combat, each taking turns as wingman.

This year put their tandem odds at 1-5, with Dana having, for her first time, odds of finishing in the top five for solo at 1-2. This was a very big deal around the base. The top five seats were coveted and hadn't changed in years. If Dana placed this year, someone would get bumped.

Shadona always finished in the top five for solo, her seat was secure, as was their tandem, usually.

But with Dana's improvement, they had to keep their eyes out for another leg-breaking event.

With trays in hand, they proceeded through the line, and headed for a table.

They sat with the few girls who remained at the base. In the beginning, it was a rather even split between boys and girls.

No longer. Now they easily fit on just a few tables.

The one beside Dana stopped eating and said, "Chroma is dead."

"How?" Shadona asked.

"What happened?" Dana said.

"She hung herself," the girl at the end said.

Dana put down her fork. "Voluntarily?"

Half the table shook their heads, no.

Nearly all the girls had been raped, at one time or another. The first time it happened, the base ignored it. It had happened to a 'troubled' girl.

Unfortunately, that left the impression on the boys that, so long as they selected 'troubled' girls, nothing would ever be done. And, for the most part, the base's inaction proved the boys right.

Worse, it seemed to fit into their psychology study. It was expected that women would be raped on the battlefield, the theory went, and so long as the base didn't appear to authorize it, they could wash their hands of it as a 'boys will be boys' thing. In a twisted way, the theory held that it would make the girls stronger.

The base had even assigned boys and girls to bunk in the same rooms during the height of the rapes in an attempt to promote a better understanding between the sexes.

That was when rape graduated to 'assisted' suicides.

Rape tests were never done. No serious attempts were ever made to hold someone responsible. Inquiries went nowhere, especially with a nearly all-male staff.

Dana had been a thin girl, before it happened to her. Now she overate and had to struggle to keep her weight down to flight fitness. That was an all too common reaction around here. But with Dana, it would be a mistake to believe it was all fat. Other girls reacted differently. Shadona made her point to her co-ed roommate with a pencil, and the rapes dropped sharply after that. Rooms switched back to single sex, though boys were roomed down the same halls as girls.

It had been at least two years since a girl had died. Was murdered.

There was a saying about hunting-dogs. When the dog gets that first taste for blood, you shoot the dog because you'll never break them from it. It probably held true for boys, especially those raised this way.

They ate silently.

There would be no funeral. No eulogy. It was commonly believed that the body simply went out with the next truck of trash to the local landfill.

There was high-fiving at one of the boys' tables.

Fifty-two percent was sounding good enough. It was only painful once.

Official combat trials were scheduled a month early this year, and they were cleared for sonic flight.

**B2.C14**

They gathered in the cafeteria and watched the wall of big-screen monitors, each relaying real-time gun camera videos of the dogfights raging in the airspace overhead. The monitor in each corner displayed a radar overlay from their traffic control tower.

This part was commonly called the fur-ball. Nine pilots fighting for the highest tally of kills in a kind of free-for-all. At least, that was how it was supposed to be played. What generally happened was two or three would team up and single out some of the weaker players for some rapid kills. Some extra points were for first blood, some were for highest number of kills and so on, with a bonus for tagging all eight of your competitors. Few ever got the total-domination bonus.

In the past, Dana was considered an easy target, but she had come a long way in such a short time. She already had first blood and scored two more in rapid succession, all while flying defensively against a team of three desperate to clear her from the air. They had been on her six (directly behind her) for most of the combat, but were unable to turn that massive advantage into a kill. Now, their singular focus on Dana for so long had dwindled the planes left in the air to five, with them yet to score.

One of them would have to clear all four remaining planes to win this round.

The crowd drew silent when Dana tagged her fourth that day. It was now mathematically impossible for her to lose.

Shadona looked at the odds board. Dana was 2-5 to place in the top 5.

The two wingmen quickly darted before their leader, took one for the team, and secured their leader a second-place showing.

He quickly painted Dana, but it was begrudgingly scored on the odds board. Dana had ignored the last plane and simply headed home, safe in the knowledge that she had won.

With thirteen days remaining of combat, the first few scheduled rounds didn't have Dana and Shadona competing in the same fur-ball at all, but they would meet by the end of the week. Unlike the boys, they didn't wingman up to seek an advantage, they simply didn't target each other unless they were the only two left. They would, however, target planes in each other's six, if convenient.

The girls in the room argued that blatant wingmanning as cheating. But the boys countered with the tired standard, "If everyone is doing it, then it ain't cheating."

Shadona left early and hurried down the maze of halls to the hangar. She was not going to let something unfortunate happen to her friend on the ground when she had had such a good day in the air.

Nothing did.

Combat was the most tangible measure of self worth around, providing most with their value and status, but not all of it took place in the air. They played ground combat too, but it was always weighted less. Much like life, whoever owned the air, ruled the battlefield, and thus gave the air all its prestige.

At the foot of the mountain was a mockup of a town that even featured a full-time crane to move around walls and re-arrange buildings. The boys tended to favor urban combat, if the scores on simulators were any indication. And, of course, physically, the boys had an inherent advantage and tended to dominate it as well. But even ground combat had an air component with grenade-firing drones, and the drone simulator was incredibly popular with both. Then, of course, the Michelin-man suits were the all-time favorite of everyone, but were rarely deployed because of cost.

The simulator room was packed for the weeks leading up to combat trials and was responsible, in part, for the lack of molestation of her friend.

But upsetting the status quo always had its price.

With the excitement of combat still in Dana's blood, they checked the simulator roster, but they were booked solid for the foreseeable future. Fortunately, the HB-4 was always available, to them.

Dana flew the simulator while Shadona reviewed the surveillance report and got more details on the tooth removal devices. The soft pallet prevented the bullet from achieving the ideal angle to cleanly remove the tooth when fired from inside the mouth. Some alternates involved firing the round down from outside, through the cheek, bone, and tooth and into a metal cup that would deflect the shrapnel out the mouth. This reduced brain-damaging shards to around 15%. Statistically, it cracked at least four teeth. The poison, if it was poison, wasn't blown through the soft tissues of the cheek, which was another bonus, but the muscle structure of the cheek had a chance of deflecting the bullet when fired from outside. An improvement, but it still was progress. Other methods were also advancing, but this held the most promise of them all. The flight simulator drew relatively little processing power and was a fraction of actual flight.

The plans for complete evasion had progressed as well and should be complete by the time the tooth removal was an acceptable risk. Shadona switched her focus to the game Dana was playing and noticed the improvement. At this pace, Dana was sure to place in the top five this year.

Dana had practiced nothing but aggressive evasive maneuvers. She anticipated the wingman formation and used it as a way to neutralize two or three of her competitors while she racked up a score. There was an excellent chance it would be used against her again, so no reason not to turn it into an advantage.

Before they left the HB-4, they activated the surveillance system and looked out for ambushes, but there were none.

They made plans to bide their time until it reached 80% while they pulled one of the engines down. They had long discussed where they would run to when free. They knew the range of every plane they planned to steal. They knew where the railroads crisscrossed the countryside and all the slow turns within range. They planned to change trains for the first two weeks, just to thoroughly confuse any attempt to track them. Ideally, they would look to take the HB-4. It was invisible to radar and had the range to leave the continent. It was the one mission she had built it for and was the only plane that could take off without the assistance of the catapult. Taking the engines apart suggested engine problems that they hoped to later use as an excuse to get a full tank of fuel to test it with, hopefully the good stuff. Freedom was so close, they could taste it. One year, perhaps less.

Dysath supervised as the test projectile was loaded onto the rack. It was a 200-pound block of cement with a GPS guidance system. The skin was covered in radar absorbent material so it would pass over a few states without causing a disturbance. They planned to drop the test round into the ocean 800 miles off the coast of California. They had a dingy as a target and several unmanned observation posts already in position.

He checked the readings, then called the harvester control room. They were eighteen coils shy of what they needed to put something into orbit, but they had installed enough to test the rest of the system.

"Everybody out," Dysath said.

His crew orderly vacated the firing tube and assembled outside the chamber. Dysath did a headcount, then called the harvester control room back, "Clear, you have a go."

"Confirm go," came back from the control room.

"Confirmed. You are clear fire."

The base rumbled.

"Captain Dysath," the control room called back, "We show a malfunction on coil two. It reads open."

Dysath looked at his team. It felt like the ground had just fallen out from under them. He looked over his checklist. He had tested coil two personally, no more than twenty minutes ago. He pressed the button for the control room, "Entering fire chamber. Lock down, please."

"Lock down confirmed. Engaging ground tree... ground tree reads green, but give it another minute just to be sure."

The ground tree was Hanly's idea. When dealing with power levels this high, the wires themselves acted like capacitors and could store a significant amount of power. The wire could be disconnected on both ends and would look entirely safe, yet it retained enough residual energy to be fatal. That was, without a ground tree. The tree had a branch that touched every coil and, when engaged, it grounded every piece of equipment, bleeding all the residual energy to ground. It stayed in place whenever someone was physically in the firing chamber. The minute wait was overkill.

The light above the door turned green, and they all filtered back in.

They had a problem. Dysath sent a fresh set of eyes to investigate coil two, but everyone was assigned a coil to check that they had never previously worked on.

It took twenty-eight grueling minutes, but they were thorough.

Dysath cleared the firing chamber, did the headcount, then called the control room back and cleared the fire.

The base rumbled a little less than before, a boom echoed down the chamber, and the test round was gone.

"Confirmed fire," the control room reported.

They waited in silence.

"How fast did you figure it at?" one of the techs asked Dysath.

"Oh, uh, about mach 7. A little over fifteen minutes, I figure." Fifteen minutes suddenly seemed like a very long time to sit in a room and wait patiently. "It should technically get into space, barely." He smiled. "We were the first to fire a projectile into space."

"The harvester crew did that years ago," one of the tech crew chimed in. "It was a dumb lump of ceramics, though, maybe that shouldn't count."

"Didn't the V-1—" one chimed in.

"No, the V-1 was the jet engine, the V-2 was the rocket," another said.

"Ok, right," Dysath said. "You're both right. But, this is a record of some sort, I'm sure."

They sat on the benches and waited. The conversation simply died in the most uncomfortable way as they all came to the same conclusion.

It was a weapon.

Perhaps they should call it the V-3.

"Confirmed. Direct hit, Captain Dysath. The comet had a tail. Repeat, the comet had a tail. Congratulations!" came across the speaker.

His team jumped to their feet and cheered, hollered and screamed. In the belly of a mountain, where no one would ever hear.

If they used full power with just the coils they had tested, they could target North Korea by skipping off the top of the atmosphere. With the rest of the coils in place, they could reach orbit and hit anywhere on the planet. The comet tail meant the lightning followed it in and detonated a thimble charge of N60.

Flight combat started again, a few hours after lunch. These were the second round fur-balls. Dana scored first blood again, much to the anger of the others watching the monitors in the cafeteria.

Shadona stepped closer to Dana's gun-camera monitor. She was lined up on another.

Score! She was off to a brilliant start.

Another scored from the far end of the room.

Dana belly flopped, slid sideways, and strafed a third before rolling out and targeting her fourth of the day. This would ensure her place in the top ten, if she could just—

The gun camera went blurry, then ground, sky, ground, sky, ground, sky...

Shadona stepped back and scanned the other screens. One of the boy's had rammed his plane into her wing and ejected.

Two chutes were in the air.

Half the crowd gasped.

One of the boys buzzed Dana's chair. The wash twisted and ripped her chute. She was falling like a stone!

Shadona searched the wall for a glimpse of the freefall on any—

She saw the dust of a thud between the trees.

Shadona staggered back.

Her heart felt broken, torn from her chest.

She felt sick to her stomach.

She made note of those who cheered.

Combat was over for the year. Two planes were lost. Expensive, costly planes. They were not new planes by any means, but they were still very expensive for such a limited budget. This would be investigated, but not as a murder. It would be investigated as the destruction of property.

**B2.C15**

The lights blinked on.

She sat on the bed. She had been sitting all night.

She had been sitting for days.

The door unlocked, then slid open.

She twisted the ring on her finger as she stared at the pillow.

Dana was gone.

Gone.

For such a tiny word, its weight on her heart was crippling.

Her life felt like it was on hold.

The world had stopped for her.

Escape seemed pointless now.

She twisted the ring.

A man appeared at the door. He looked in, placed some rations on the box by the door, then closed and locked it from outside.

She pulled Dana's pillow onto her lap.

She didn't want to escape anymore.

She wanted them all dead.

"Well, Doctor, what are the odds that she's suicidal?" the XO asked the man in his office.

"Odds? Fifty-fifty, perhaps." He placed the large stack of files on the XO's desk. "It's the homicidal side that needs watching."

"Locks will contain that, Doctor."

The Doctor pulled a file from the stack, "She killed one a few years back, didn't she? Hospitalized one of your instructors, booby trapped drawings—"

"I know the history, Doctor, what I need now is advice. The girl has a high potential value—"

"I'm not sure I agree. Why in the world do you allow her access to equipment and material, knowing the potential destructiveness that particular combination can produce?"

"Well, Doctor, the last time she produced a—" he censored himself. The good doctor's clearance only went so far. The stack of files only appeared to be complete.

"She teases you with possibilities, bargaining chips you can't cash in without her." The doctor stood, "Well, cash them in, if you still can, but I wouldn't expect her to offer you more. Indefinite confinement will only aggravate the situation. I would expect her to become more resolved in a path of defiance. I don't know what counseling would offer."

"Thank you, Doctor," the XO said, standing until the man left his office.

He flipped through his Rolodex and tried another number again. The post-traumatic guy had been out of the office for the last few days, perhaps he was back now.

The door opened and a man stepped in.

He turned to the two men outside the door, "Thank you, Gentlemen, I have it from here."

The door closed with an unsettling sound when it locked with a clank behind him.

She obviously hadn't showered in days.

He looked closely at her face. She hadn't washed it either, which was important. It showed she hadn't cried. He didn't move, but neither did she.

He looked at the stack of uneaten food, standard military rations. They would last indefinitely. A practical choice, but the stack of unopened packets suggested a very hungry girl.

He sorted the packets, then opened one. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I developed a taste for these. Ohhh! It comes with a chocolate bar." He set it down on the stack, "I like to save it for last. You've had one of these powerbars, I'm sure."

She twisted the ring on her finger as he crinkled the wrapping foil.

He had been given unprecedented clearance on her case. He had even reviewed the gun-camera video. "They murdered her," he said.

She twisted her ring, but didn't look up.

"Don't let them murder you, too. Eat something."

She looked at him. "You, are they."

He looked down, almost ashamed. "They, we, you. Training her didn't cause this."

She jumped down from the bed, but was so weak from hunger she fell to the floor.

It was aggressive enough to startle him, but he quickly got over it. He stepped closer and knelt within her range. "In the next few days, they are going to come in here and feed you in the most unpleasant way. They, we, are not going to let you die. They are not going to be allowed to murder you, too. Eat. It isn't bad."

She looked dizzy, but righted herself on the floor. She looked at the bar he offered, but twisted her ring instead.

"You are a brilliant young woman." He moved until he was sitting within her gaze. "This, what you are doing, is only punishing you. Training her, didn't cause this."

She kicked him in the face.

The door unlocked and two men quickly rushed in, but he jumped to his feet and held up a hand to them. "It's all right, Gentlemen, give us another few minutes, please."

The door closed behind him as he took a napkin from the meal and held it to his nose.

He sat further away, this time. "Shadona is an interesting name—"

She glared at him.

"You're right, sorry. They didn't give me a good report on Dana. Not like what they have on you. Tell me about her."

She stopped playing with her ring and stared at the floor.

"You and three others, including Dana, stole a car and ran away. But, only you and Dana survived. That's all the record said."

She pressed her forehead to her knees.

"After that day, you clung to her."

She pressed her hands to the back of her head.

"What happened that day?"

She sat silently.

"The two boys with you died." He paused. "We don't have to talk about this, if you don't want to." He checked the napkin. The bleeding had stopped. "Eat something. Just a little for now. Give me something that I can take back to them, some proof that they don't have to force feed you. That's a horribly unpleasant thing I'd hate to see you go through."

She sat while he crunched away on his half of the powerbar.

"I don't believe you're suicidal. Not really. You would have done it in a less painful way by now, if it was just about your death."

He sat in the room with her for another hour, but she never said another word. Nor did she eat.

He paid two more visits that day, with similar results.

When he arrived the following morning, she had showered and half of one ration was eaten. It was progress.

"I want you to do something for me," he said when her door opened. He set down some paper and an assortment of paints. He gestured toward the closing door, "Forget about all that for right now. I've gotten a lot of positive responses from something we call paint therapy." He set it up on her desk.

Shadona sat on Dana's bed, dressed in an oversized nightshirt.

He watched her waving her hand in the air, much like she was conducting an orchestra in her head, or perhaps— "Do you play the piano?"

She continued without missing a beat.

"Do you like classical, jazz perhaps?"

She continued, eyes closed.

"I can have a radio brought in. It won't be able to receive anything down here, but I can get most CDs."

She slowed as if the song had finished, then ended it with a closed hand.

"You just have to tell me your preferences."

She looked at him. "I prefer... I prefer to be let go."

He spread out the colors and an assortment of inks. The sticks on the brushes were soft plastic. "Where would you go? What would you do?"

She slid off the edge of the bed to stand on a chair, "Away." She stepped to the floor, "Thrive." She bent the rubbery brush in her fingers.

He laughed. "I told them it wasn't necessary. You were probably too weak from not eating—"

"I could kill you, without it." She looked him in the eyes.

He was a little afraid. It seemed absurd to be afraid. She was a hundred ten pounds, if that. But she had killed before. The mortician described it in vivid details on the report. It was neither quick nor painless. He swallowed. "You were trained for little else."

She stepped toward him. He flinched, but she turned to the pages on the desk. "But is that all that I am?"

He sighed with relief, "I'm sure it's not."

She pulled out the chair and sat down. She ran each brush across her fingertips, then across her palm. She pushed them into a corner, then put the tops back on all the inks. She ran her fingers across the blank page in a daydreamy way, then put them in the desk drawer. "You don't want a window into my head, right now."

He pulled a chair up beside her and sat. "You don't have to draw windows. Pick something nice, a sailboat, a plane, the sky, trees. It's therapy, it takes your mind off your troubles for a while. It lets you forget how itchy a fresh scab can be."

"You don't have any pine green or sky blue."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "I can get you some."

She looked at the hand.

He took it off. "They said they couldn't find any problems with the engine you took apart—"

"It's off. They screwed it up. It was perfect, flawless when I built it, but they kept tearing it down. Day after day," she looked at the paints, "it can only be put back together so many times... before the parts don't fit anymore."

He stood up. "Give it a try. It might help."

He knocked on the door, and they let him out.

He walked down the hall with the tray and stopped by the door. When the guards arrived, they inspected the tray and removed the metal fork and knife, then unlocked the door.

"I thought you might like some real food," he said, setting it down. "The chicken is actually pretty good."

She glanced at the food, but didn't get down from the bed, well into the evening.

"I like the painting," he said, staring at the inside of the door. He stepped closer. "Why bunnies playing in the snow?"

She didn't move.

"It's very detailed. You can almost see the whiskers move." He stepped out of the light. "It has a hint of wind in the fur. It's very good. Shadows in the footprints, the bark even shows nibbles."

He walked over to the bed. "Any special significance to it?"

She rolled to turn her back to him.

"Why'd you paint it on the door instead of paper?"

"Paper is easier to take away."

It meant something to her. That meant something to him. He studied it some more. He noticed a fourth peeking from behind some snow-covered thorns. It looked like it was scared, shivering perhaps. The other three seemed perfectly content to play. He found himself lost in its big, brown eye. "You are not a prisoner, you know."

"Then why can't I leave."

He turned to the bed, "Well, today, I think if you ran across the wrong person, you would kill them, or get killed by them. The latter is more of a problem than the former."

"Miles from here, I wouldn't care."

"What would you do, miles from here? An engineer? You could undoubtedly put a dozen out of business tomorrow, but you have no credentials. You could pass any college entrance exam I've ever seen, but, you never went to a credited school. A pilot? I doubt there's a plane out there you can't fly. But you're a teenager. Nobody will ever let you. You would have to spend thousands proving you're as trained and as competent as you are."

"Millions of illegals are working in this country, they just disappear into the background. What's one more?"

He sat on the chair by her desk. "Would that make you happy? Could you be happy picking lettuce, apples, strawberries?"

She answered in fluent Spanish.

He looked over her disorganized desk. "Maybe for a few years. But what a waste it would be for someone of your talents to pick a field or do dishes in the back of a restaurant."

"Like a potato that thrives in a desert."

He laughed, "Nothing thrives in the desert."

She went silent.

"Things can be better, here, for you. If you want them to be. They can be working with you." He got back on track. "Forget about all of that. There is a lot more flexibility in your stay here than you realize. More than I thought. It doesn't have to be like this, nor should it." He took the lid off the plate and fanned the odor towards her, "This is on a hot plate, so, it should stay warm for an hour, maybe more." He replaced the lid. "I hope you enjoy it."

He left the room.

* * *

Late that fall, the XO had the counselor back to the office. "Well, sit, sit," the XO said. "You did an excellent job this time. I'm surprised."

"Well, thank you, Sir. She is a challenging girl."

"Yes, well, you managed to keep a lid on a boiling pot. I think that qualifies you for that bonus we talked about."

"Well, thank you, Sir. Uh, I have to warn you, if she was in my normal practice, we'd be looking at years of counseling. It would take just a small spark to destroy all of —"

"The most learned opinions floating around here were that she would be catatonic, that she'd just shut down and become intransigent—"

"She was on her way there, Sir. I still wouldn't rule that outcome out entirely."

"But what was most impressive is you managed to get her to discuss the functioning components of her bi-directional engine design. She didn't quite give full disclosure, but we are years closer—"

"She feels strongly about that plane, Sir. It hurts her every time your men take it apart—"

"Yes, Yes, I read that in your report." The XO went around his desk and pulled the folder. "I'll have the men stop for a while. They can't altogether, you understand, but we have other things to focus on."

"Yes, I think that's best." The counselor gestured with his hands, "Do what you can to defuse the situation."

The XO pressed his finger into the report. "You noted here that she should be returned to flight status. Are you sure about that?"

"Well, no. I'm not positive. I think I wrote that a month ago. It's a line, you see." He leaned back in the chair and formed a pyramid with his fingers. "She looks on it as punishment if you deny her. That builds on this antagonism." He pulled the pyramid apart. "But, the other side of the line is, she's likely to kill both boys if they share the air with her. But, I think it's a manageable risk."

He scribbled in the margins. "Well, again, thank you. We'll keep you on call—"

The counselor stood and offered out his hand, "Please do."

**B2.C16**

The engineer attached the cable to the HB-4.

"What are you doing?" Shadona asked, "That isn't part of the frame." She crawled under and attached the cable herself.

Dysath watched from a distance. She was cooperating, but still holding back. A week ago, he walked up to her and bluntly asked questions about the skin, to which she dropped what she was working on and walked away. He wasn't used to working with her and tended to ask too many questions, so he removed himself from the temptation. His team was used to following without peppering the work with questions; he was not.

"Let's give it a test burn," she announced.

One of the engineers crawled inside. "43E65F"

"A3421A" she answered.

The engine roared to life.

She rested her hand on the wing, then pressed her ear to the skin. Her hair whipped in the churning air. She keyed her mike, "Shut it down."

The engine instantly flamed out.

She pointed to two injectors, "They both need to be replaced." She took off the mike, handed it to Dysath, then walked off the field.

Dysath walked over to the plane, "Which ones did she say?"

The engineer she talked to pointed them out.

"I don't see what's wrong with them."

"Well, Captain," the engineer checked the readings, "it isn't putting as much tension on the cable as it should for as much fuel as it just burned. At least not if our previous measurements were any clue."

"Alright, fine, pull it and replace them. But just you two, I can't spare any more hours off our other project, so, just a couple hours today. We don't want to look a gift horse and all that, but we have other things to do. Bring me the old injectors when you pull them, Ok?"

"Yes Sir."

Dysath patted him on the back, then left for his main project.

The XO had assigned a guard to Shadona. He was armed, as most of the guards were, with a version of a stun gun and pepper spray. He had a mixed assignment, but it basically boiled down to his presence was to defuse any situation that might come up. But he was also to keep his distance. It was a precaution, though no sparks ever flew, even when she was in the same room with either of the identified boys. Boys were less likely to instigate with a guard in the room, especially one they didn't know.

The counselor had stated that that would probably be the case. She seemed to have moved beyond vengeance. Most of the paintings in her room were of tranquil forest scenes.

One of the bad signs had shown, though. She kept to herself, as much as was possible. She chose to eat alone, almost as a rule. If it persisted, it was a very bad sign, and the counselor had asked to be called back. But he never specified when was too long.

...

The fall fur-ball was finally here. F-16s were old school, but they were much easier to come by than Raptors. F-16s were nearly disposable, by comparison. The base was a military training compound. Period. Its primary task was the training of soldiers, specifically fighter pilots. It paid for all of the training with the harvester, and other grants that funneled funds to them.

Shadona was the second one shot down in her first combat after Dana's death.

She threw her helmet into the ground, kicked it into the nearest wall, then stormed off to her room.

The boys celebrated this near historic victory.

Four days later, she managed to score the first two but was the third one out. She landed upset, stormed to her room, but didn't throw a tantrum.

It was brutally cold that morning, but the weather broke by afternoon and visibility cleared enough to launch another round of air combat.

The plane was hooked to the catapult. Cleared, the cat launched her off the end. The F-16 felt like slow motion by comparison, but she adjusted to it. She fell into her old groove as she took her position in the holding pattern around the base.

F-16s could be stalled easily, by comparison. They were far less forgiving. And that was something she could exploit.

She clenched her fist, then disengaged the autopilot that recovered from stalls, and prevented collisions, much as one of the boys must have done some time ago.

The go signal came across the radio.

She broke right and dove. She tagged one immediately and sent him home. She banked left, climbed, and scored two trying to double team one of the girls. Three seconds later, she tagged the girl she had just saved. She had secured victory in this round. She could go home now, but she didn't. She dove down to treetop level and hugged the valley. She was off the radar now, but the base could still see her.

She suspected the two she wanted were getting tips from a friend, either in the control tower or somewhere else on the base. She would wait them out. Flying low and slow invited a sneak attack.

Bingo. Six o'clock. Both of them.

She tried to climb, but faltered. She banked left, right, then left again as the two closed rapidly on her from behind.

Just a little closer.

She dove to force them to adjust their angle.

They were nearly point blank when she rolled face down, then climbed.

The lead painted the belly of her plane, but she had gagged the throttle, starving the air in front of him. He stalled when he passed through her wash and was too close to the ground to recover. The fireball was nearly blinding, but she still managed to paint the cockpit of her second target. She closed from his blind side, grabbed the ejector, and rammed.

The ejection chair failed to clear her before the impact, and shrapnel cut into her shoulder and tore into her leg.

She ripped free from the chair and deployed the squirrel. Fabric from her back inflated and stiffened into rigid wings as she glided on the freezing wind at several hundred miles per hour.

She had to put as much distance between the wreckage and her landing zone before she lost too much momentum and blood.

She dove to accelerate, then banked hard and glided up the sunny side of the mountain and its thermals. She skirted around the peak and dove down the other side, just above the treetops. Twice more and she was out of momentum.

She looked for a place to put down.

The belly flops she had practiced so many times, she did again with fabric wings. They ripped, as planned, and opened the many pleats and folds into a more conventional parachute. She stopped on a dime and fell through the gaps in the trees to crash on her side in the dusting of snow.

She pulled off her helmet and fumbled in her pocket. She dropped something in the snow. Her leg was agonizing, but she knelt anyway. She found the cap and carefully aligned it with her tooth. It clicked when it snapped in place.

She ripped the sleeve from her bad shoulder and wrapped it around her leg, then staggered to her feet.

It was freezing cold. She staggered, then fell again.

She looked around and saw a thin line of smoke in the distance.

It started to snow.
**B2.C17**

Scratch scratch scratch.

"Use your box, Max," Argo said, three in the morning. The room was cold. He could see his breath, but his clock still glowed. Something must be wrong with the stupid solar panel again. It would have been freezing had he not built a fire last night.

Scratch scratch scratch!

"Oh dear God!" He pulled the covers over his head.

Scratch scratch scratch!

He couldn't win. Max never gave up. Never.

He pulled the sheets off the bed and headed for the front door, but Max wasn't there. He headed for the back door, passing through the kitchen. Trouble lights were blinking on the solar panel display, but there was no way he was going to do anything about it on zero sleep in the middle of the night.

He opened the door.

"What the hell?" Something was blocking the storm door. It wasn't frozen shut, it was hitting something. He flipped on the light. "Oh shit!"

He pushed harder, but it didn't open. He ran to the front door and plowed through the knee-deep snow, in his socks, around the house to the back and up on the porch.

The body was cold to the touch— He was in a flight suit. A pilot. He moved the man out of the way of the door and pulled him inside to the kitchen. The pilot's hand twitched.

He was alive!

"Hold on, Buddy."

After all that scratching, Max didn't go outside, but was instead busy sniffing their new guest.

Argo turned on the lights in a panic. The buzzer in the kitchen sounded, then the lights went out and the fridge sputtered off. "Shit!" Argo said. He stumbled his way to his room and got his camping bag. The flashlight worked. He dug deeper for the lantern and the first-aid kit, then ran back to the kitchen. The lantern lit the room enough so he didn't have to hold the flashlight.

He picked up the phone.

Dead.

He pulled the cell phone off the charger.

No signal.

He ran outside and tried again.

No signal.

"Shit!"

He ran back inside, feet numb with cold.

One sleeve was wrapped around the pilot's leg in a makeshift bandage. The shoulder wound looked like it was bleeding worse, if the uniform was any indication.

He unzipped the—

"Boobs?"

He was a she.

They weren't big breasts, but they were definitely not the pecks of a man. He pulled off the pilot's ski mask. She had short hair and a scar that ran like a hair from the corner of her lips to an inch from her ear.

He paused. Why was he pausing?

She was young. His age, maybe.

What was she doing in a plane? He lightly slapped her on the face.

He pressed his ear to her chest. Shallow, but she was alive, and very cold. The cold probably saved her life. He had seen something about that on the History channel, or perhaps Discovery, one of the benefits of hypothermia.

He hesitated. "Sorry," he apologized, then ripped open the shirt. Something had gashed her deep, but not to the bone. He poured some peroxide on the three-inch wound, dabbed it with paper towels, then opened the gauze and started taping. He didn't have to pull up her bra, but he did.

There were burn marks between her breasts, but they looked old.

He felt guilty. "Sorry," he said again.

Max sniffed the girl's hair, but didn't interfere.

He untied the leg, then used a kitchen knife to cut open her suit to the wound.

It looked like a puncture, maybe even from a bullet. He lifted her leg at the knee and reached his hand around back. He didn't feel anything and didn't see much blood on his fingers.

Blood.

He stepped back from the girl and stood in the kitchen. He had a stranger's blood on him. He thought of AIDs and a thousand other— he washed his hands at the sink. The water pressure was dropping fast. He turned it off and dried his hands.

He opened more gauze and continued to patch the woman, best he could.

He removed the rest of her suit by cutting it away, then got his least favorite blanket from the closet and moved her to the living room, next to the fireplace.

It was still snowing around noon when he woke on the couch in the living room. The fire had died to embers again. He walked to the back porch and grabbed an armful of wood.

The girl looked better in natural light. The scar on her face looked more like a long hair, if her hair wasn't so short. He lightly tapped her cheek, "Hey. Wake up!" but she didn't respond. He opened the blanket. He had left her underwear on. He looked a little too long, but the wounds seemed ok. He tucked her back and checked the phones.

Nothing.

The snow blocked the satellite signal, not that he had enough power to watch anything. He turned on the battery-powered radio and dialed in the news channel. He had to listen for nearly an hour before he heard about a fire that had burned down several phone lines and about a thousand acres before they got it contained, about thirty miles away. Ten percent of the valley was without power and phones. The cell tower was connected through those lines, evidently.

He pulled the laptop out of the drawer and plugged it into the port to the solar panel. He ran the diagnosis program. "Thermal differential inadequate."

He ran the program again.

"What the hell is an 'inadequate thermal differential'?" he said, "I hate this shit, Dad!"

But, according to the radio, the snow was going to prevent the utility power from coming back on for the next few weeks at least; some projections had it being off for a month. Roads were closed, and the smell of smoke was expected to linger in the valley for months.

He went outside. He could see the smoke like angry fog, far off in the distance. Little fingers of smoke had popped up all over the place, Dara's house included. It looked like most of his neighbors were out of power; but then, most of them heated with wood to save money. He'd know for sure if the valley looked darker than usual tonight.

The front door faced down to the valley, the back door faced up the mountain. Why did she come from that side? It seemed unrelated to the fire miles away. And if the fire was down in the valley, how in the world did she get way up here? Especially with a messed up leg. It just seemed like the wrong door.

He grabbed some wood and went back inside.

He had placed the girl on the hard floor last night. He looked for the air mattress he camped with years ago. He stopped lugging it around because it was too much effort to inflate, and the plastic was too hot in the summer.

He dragged it out of the closet and blew until he was dizzy.

He opened the refrigerator and checked the temperature gauge. The power was off and it was warming, fast. He grabbed some plastic bags and went out back to fill them with snow. He stopped at the back steps. Blood was on the mat, a little smear on the wall by the door. She probably tried to get in and that had set off his cat.

Returning inside, he packed the bags of snow into every empty spot he could find in the freezer and fridge.

Cooking over fire was difficult, but not unlike camping. He knew what to start eating out of the fridge first, but he wanted catfish burgers instead. He froze dozens of patties at the beginning of fall and just had a hankering.

Baking bread was out; he couldn't bake anything other than potatoes over fire. But he made slices with the dough much like making pancakes. It was good enough. He used lots of Mayo, tomatoes, spinach, and cucumbers from the greenhouse.

He finished the sandwich by giving the last chunk to his perpetually starving Max.

How was he going to feed his other guest?

He stared at her.

He didn't know.

The bathroom had a hand pump. It looked ornamental; indeed, it was a rebuilt antique, but it was functional too. It pumped water directly into the bathtub. He pumped until it was full. He dipped a bucket, used it to flush the toilet, then refilled it at the tub and took it to the kitchen. He had a lot of scrubbing and mopping to do.

He held the uniform in his hand. It was dark with no rank, but it had a name, Shadona, and a tiny flag. On the sleeve was a symbol, a teardrop with a 3+ inside it and a 2 sitting outside on the top, right-hand corner. 3+, squared?

He soaked the uniform in the bucket of floor detergent, but put off washing it when he decided he'd rather have another catfish sandwich instead.

"Shadona," he said, trying to bring the girl around. "Shadona." He lightly tapped her cheek, then took another bite from the sandwich. "This is really good, and you're missing it."

Max approached the plate but got shooed away.

"Shadona." He waved the sandwich before her nose. "It's every bit as good as it smells." He shooed Max again, "Not yours," he said to the cat, but rewarded the attempt by tossing him a chunk. He turned his attention back to the girl. "You've got to be hungry by now."

The blanket moved when she put her hand to her forehead. "Wie spat ist es?"

He was confused. "You bust your head?"

She opened her eyes and looked around. Max walked up to the edge of the mattress and snuck a bite of his sandwich while he was distracted. "There's a skunk eating your sandwich."

"What?" He sat up and pulled the sandwich away from the cat. "Oh, that's Max, my cat. You hungry?"

She held her hand out to the cat.

Max sniffed her fingers, then returned his attention to the sandwich.

Argo tossed him another chunk.

"I tried to call 911, but the phones are down," he said.

"What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "3:14"

She patted under the blanket.

"Your uniform is soaking in the kitchen. The electricity is out, too." He grabbed the unmolested other half of the sandwich. "It's catfish burger. My father's recipe, well, except for the bread. I can't make bread without a bread-maker. It's really good."

She struggled to sit. The blanket fell, leaving her in just a sports bra and bandage.

"Sorry." He handed her the sandwich, "I, uh, couldn't figure out how to— I had to cut the suit and—" he stood quickly, "I've got something that should fit you, I'm— Uh, hmm." He ran to his room.

Max approached her, now that she had the sandwich, but didn't get close enough to eat any. He stood on his hind legs and held his arms out like he wanted a hug, or was pretending to be a bear to scare her away. She dug out a chunk of the meat and held it out on the tip of her finger.

Max cautiously approached, sniffed, then took the chunk and retreated to a safe distance.

She took a bite. It wasn't bad. Her wound rendered her left arm nearly useless, but she could move it if she had to. She didn't see any clocks in the room.

Argo ran back in and dropped an armful of assorted clothes beside her. "I, uh," he tried to sort the pile, "I didn't know if I should try to—"

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Oh, uh," he looked at his watch, "3:19— You just asked me that a few minutes ago. Are you all right? Did you hit your head or something?"

"You have to tell me when it's 5—" she had a strained look on her face, "5:12"

"5:12? The phones don't work. You have to check in or something, expecting a search for you? Should I put out a signal or something so they can find you?"

"No, don't call anyone." Her training kicked in, and she made a quick assessment of him. "I'm in a lot of trouble, if they find me." She bit into the sandwich.

"I should really get you to a hospital, I don't know anything about—"

She swallowed, "I'll be fine." She looked at the picture on the mantle, "Where's your father?"

Argo sat back, then pulled the cat onto his lap. "Oh, he works away from home a lot. Got stuck, the airport's snowed in, so, last I heard he had another job to go to next week anyway. Self-employed consultant."

She studied the photo, but didn't recognize him. "He work at the base?"

"Oh, hell no. He's a California hippie from way back. Protested recruiters on campus, burned flags and everything." He tried to look her in the eyes, but was having a great deal of difficulty. He self-consciously played with Max to keep from staring at her chest. "You really a pilot?"

She shook her head no and ate the last bite of the sandwich. "Where's your mother? I don't see her in any of the—"

"Divorce. She's got a restaurant in town, a few hours away."

She put on one of his thicker long sleeve shirts, bad arm first, then lay down with her hand on her forehead, shirt mostly unbuttoned.

"You want an aspirin? Dad doesn't believe in drugs, but, he says aspirin is 'all natural' and he keeps some in the house."

"Thank you, but no. It wouldn't help. What time is it?"

He was starting to get worried about her. "3:22, I'll get you at 5:20—"

"5:12" she said.

He set Max down and went to his room. His camping gear had a windup alarm clock. He wound it and set it, for 5:10, right where she could easily see it. "So, you're a pilot at the base?"

She lay there, eyes closed, hand on her forehead.

"You work at the base?"

She didn't move.

"I'm not like my dad." Max climbed on her lap and licked crumbs from the blanket, until Argo picked him up. "I don't need to get accused of sexually harassing the military." He covered her better with the blanket.

BlingBlingBling!!!

Shadona woke and stared at the clock. 5:10. She pulled the shielding cap off the tooth, then waited five minutes.

Her headache went away, immediately. She could think again. She replaced the cap and looked around. He wasn't there. She quickly calculated the next time and set the alarm for 9:37, then tried to put on some pants, but found it was too painful for her leg.

His clothes seemed to fit, though.

She tried to stand and limp around the house.

She didn't remember it hurting this much on the hike there.

The kitchen was separated from the living room by a bar-like island. She made her way to the fridge and looked at the blinking chart on the wall. She stepped in a small puddle of water. She opened the fridge and saw bags of snow dripping as they slowly melted. The light didn't come on.

She felt a slight warmth coming from a room off the kitchen. A greenhouse. She stepped into it and tried to look out the glass, but it was fogged up.

She picked a ripe grape-tomato and ate it on the spot, then limped back into the kitchen and into the first room she found. It looked like the father's. There was the first picture of the boy's mother. They seemed to make a happy family when the boy was five or so; she wondered what went wrong. The father's taste seemed rustic. Sparse. No TV, no radio, no pictures on the walls, just a shelf full of books beside the window.

The next room was clearly the boy's. Computers, laptops, dirty clothes on the floor, and several printouts of her plane were taped to the wall over the desk, next to bikini-clad women. The resolution was lacking and it showed signs of over enlarging and blurring. Schoolbooks were in a pile by the desk. She tried the next room.

Bathroom. She put the seat down and sat.

The lid on the tank was off. The bathtub full of water made sense, but her leg wasn't in any condition to take lugging a bucket of water. She couldn't flush, so she closed the lid instead.

That was the entire house, such as it was.

It reminded her of the cabin. Small, but more than enough.

She limped to the mattress by the fireplace, but sat on a wooden chair. It was too much of a struggle to get up from the floor with only one good arm and leg.

She moved her fingers like she was conducting an orchestra or floating a leaf in the breeze, then finished with a fist.

Argo rushed in, "Oh my God, I am so sorry! I forgot all about 5:20—"

She looked down at the skunk that ran in and headed straight to the fire. "It's ok," and it was 5:12.

"This stupid solar panel is killing me. We got just the one chainsaw, and it sputters more than it cuts. Stalls half the time."

"I'm a flight mechanic, not a pilot. I wasn't supposed to be in the—"

He suddenly felt bad when he put it together. "AWOL?"

She didn't answer. "I can probably fix it."

"They take AWOL seriously."

"No, your solar problem. If the readings are right, I should have it up by dark."

"Cool."

"You have any sweatpants? Jeans are too hard to put on."

He looked at her, she was just wearing the shirt. "Sure." He went to his room.

Putting on sweats wasn't pleasant, but it was possible. They dressed and went out to the panel, she leaned on him the entire way.

"Ok," he said helping her down on the chair his father usually sat at. "The tools are right there, I'll see if I can't get something started from the fridge." He turned back for the house.

"Hey, uh, what is your name?" she asked.

He stopped, "Argo, Argo Caranf."

"Argo, together we have maybe three good hands. I can't do anything with just the one arm."

He looked really depressed. He was going to have to do it. He walked back. "You sure you know what you're doing? This is one of those weird Internet engines that just kinda works, some of the time."

"It's a standard HHOPP stirling. One of your circulating pumps is down, probably just the brushes. If that's all, we can replace them with any number of things, from brushes out of almost any motor to the carbon cores of old D batteries." She pointed to the pump housing. "Even an old drill-motor would do. We just have to take the cover off first and verify that it's the problem. I can't do that."

He crawled in where she was pointing and followed instructions well. She had a very easy way of explaining things.

The brushes were gone. What was worse, it destroyed the motor to the extent that it was ruined and would have to be replaced. But, replaced didn't mean today. She talked him through how to pull the carbon cores out of two D batteries, and with a file they shaped them into replacement brushes. It ran hot, very hot to the touch, but it ran and wasn't hot enough to be a fire hazard. Plus, as she explained it, it was the hot side anyway.

They finished before dark, barely.

"Ah, lights," he said helping her inside, "You don't miss them until they're gone." He sat her on the couch and helped with her boots before hitting the remote for the TV.

The screen read "acquiring signal," but it never did.

"Awwh, crap. Probably snow on the dish. It's on the roof, too late to worry about it today. I've got tons of movies and a pirate version of X-box."

She shook her head no. "You still in school?"

The wind left his sails like Kelly calling him cutie and patting him on the head. "This is my last year of home school, taken over the phone and satellite. I've got a ton of college credits already, but I'm not big on going to college. I thought I might try one of those that lets you attend from home." He turned the TV off. He might as well come clean. "I'm almost eighteen." She didn't look surprised, or disappointed.

"My leg is killing me, do you mind?" She inched back into the corner of the couch as he helped stretch it out on the cushions. "Thanks."

He got dinner started in the kitchen, then emptied the bags of snow from the house and mopped up. He stepped outside, then came back to the living room, arms full. He handed her a cracked helmet he found while cutting firewood. "This isn't what mechanics wear, it's got way too much electronics in it. And this isn't what mechanics wear either, that's a G-belt."

Electronics. It should have occurred to her earlier. "Burn it."

"Burn it? Why in the—"

She leaned forward. "Burn it, burn both of them."

"But why?"

She struggled off the couch and limped toward the fireplace.

"Whoa! Not in here! We have a trash pit out back, plastic would stink the whole house up and my father would kill me!" He stood in her way. "Calm down, what's the hurry?"

"Tracking devices. It could be broadcasting even now."

"You sound like my mom and all her paranoid conspiracy theories. They don't track people through their clothes. Satellites don't spy on every individual person, all phones are not tapped, there's no master database tracking every purchase you make—"

She thrust the helmet into his hands. "Burn it. Just burn it, please. Just burn it."

He held the helmet as she stuffed the suit into it. She looked desperate and scared.

"Please, just burn it."

He looked outside. It was already dark.

"Please," she said, staring him in the eyes.

He could see she was on the verge of tears. He pulled the lighter off the mantle, grabbed the starter fluid, and headed outside.

By the time the kindling was burning enough to add three logs and get the fire hot enough to melt metals, she limped out the back door and headed his way.

"I'm going to do it, don't worry. You can go inside," he said, "Just had to get it hot enough."

But she didn't stop coming. She tossed in her bra and panties and boots and all, and watched them burn. He added the helmet and suit and a bag of trash for good measure.

She wouldn't go inside until she had watched it disintegrate into ash. He, on the other hand, went back in repeatedly to check on dinner.

She was either very paranoid, or very hunted.

At the island, they ate a dinner of spinach salad, croutons, and breaded bass covered with tomato slices, and garlic bread.

"You eat a lot of fish?" she asked, the last of her bass on the tip of her fork, with a healthy chunk of tomato.

He chewed quickly. "Stocked pond, full of fish." He sipped from the glass. "We pack the freezer every fall. You grow up on fish and you develop a craving." He shrugged, "Hard to fish when the pond is frozen."

"It's very good."

"Dad keeps some steaks in there, if you want. But they're high dollar. To him, they're like a bottle of champagne after a difficult day, or a very rewarding one. The whole mad cow thing turned him completely off of hamburgers."

She looked at him.

"I know, right, same animal and everything. For some reason, he thinks hamburgers —I mean, ground beef— something about a pound of ground is like eating a thousand cows or something like that. So, in his mind, you're safer eating cuts because it only comes from one cow, and you can tell by looking at it what part it came from. He gets them from this restaurant supplier that ships to Japan, and, they test every cow." He looked at the expression on her face. "I know, he's a little out there, too."

She took a drink.

"I'm not forbidden to eat them, if you'd rather. I just, he goes through— it's a big deal when he goes to get them. Look, I, you're not just AWOL, are you? It's— people don't think they're bugged, unless— look, I, I've got some experience in, oddness, ness, -osity."

She smiled. "I'm not paranoid."

"I'm not saying you're— ok, how about overly cautious. I've got experience in that too."

The panel had been running for only a few hours, but it had already warmed every room of the house. When it worked, it was surprisingly efficient. The fire had gone out long ago, and had even cooled enough to close the flue. They watched an old movie, a favorite from his Cary Grant collection, "Father Goose."

When the alarm clock went off, Shadona got up and went to the bathroom.

He paused the DVD until she returned. He was worried after five minutes, but she did have a bum leg. It still counted as odd behavior. She wound and reset the clock.

She didn't make it to the end of the movie and fell asleep on the couch.
**B2.C18**

He woke around 8 AM and turned on the computer, an old Windows desktop that took forever to load. His laptop was newer and came on within seconds, but the desktop was set up for school. He headed for the bathroom.

Then he remembered his guest.

He looked at the mattress by the fireplace, but found her asleep on the couch. He looked at the time on the alarm clock sitting on the ground by her head. 8:14

It was another odd piece of the puzzle. "Shadona." He tapped her on the shoulder. "Shadona."

She jerked awake, "What time is it?"

"You've got a few minutes yet."

She struggled to sit.

"With the power back, I may have class. I'm not sure yet. See, it's satellite, both ways, so, if we have power... "

She turned the alarm off so it wouldn't disturb him.

"I, um, you know, help yourself to the kitchen and things, I'll be in my room, most of the time. But they'll be able to hear you, if you're trying to hide from someone." He took off his watch and handed it to her. "Look, I don't know what it is with you and time. Maybe you'll say, maybe not." A friendly skunk emerged from his cage, stood on his hind legs, and sniffed the air. "You can tell Max, he doesn't judge either." He pointed at the watch's face. "It's one of those self-setting atomic watches, so, it should be down to the second."

He looked at her. No bra was very distracting. He held his eyes closed while she fiddled with the watch.

"Ok, I, um... ok." He returned to his room.

The dish had a de-icing heater, electric of course, and had melted enough overnight to connect. Two-way communication. No phone, no cell towers, but he did message his father and left him a voice mail. He left out everything about the girl and tried his best to play it cool. She was intriguing, and a little odd. He found he liked that.

Dara wasn't online, but she had DSL, not satellite. But, she could easily be off line because of power too.

He was paranoid during class, but Shadona never made a sound that couldn't be excused as Max.

He had an hour for lunch.

He sliced the bread, then toasted it while frying up enough catfish burgers for two.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, "But, when I get a craving, it usually lasts for a week. This bread is better, I think you'll agree." He put the plate in front of her at the island, then turned to the fridge and filled two glasses through the door. "What flavor do you want? Got blue ice, cherry, strawberry... "

"Just water is fine."

He stirred in the powder and sat. He had lots of flavors from Kool-aids to teas, but sports drinks were the flavor of the week.

She ate quietly while he tried not to be obvious about watching her. She had good posture, was very mannered, and polite. Cute, but not quite sexy. He remembered staring at her after cutting the suit. If she tried, let her hair grow, removed a few scars, she could easily be gorgeous. Bra-less was constantly on his mind. "How's the shoulder?" he asked.

"Better, thank you."

Her voice was very calming. She was much different than Dara, conversationally. He didn't want to know more about Dara, he wanted to know more about this girl. "You are a pilot, aren't you?"

She put the sandwich down, then repositioned it on the plate. "No, I'm too young."

"Lots of pilots are nineteen, twenty years old, right out of high school. Especially in the military." He picked up on her subtle cues, "I'm not like my father. I love the— I've got hours of tape of them doing maneuvers in these mountains. See, the way I figure it, it's like yelling in a well. No matter how loud you scream, if you are trapped in a well, nobody can hear you unless they're standing over the hole. That's why they do it here, the mountains bottle up the sound. Plus, there aren't that many people to protest here."

He adjusted his chair, then drank the last of his glass while she nibbled.

"What's the symbol on your suit?"

She didn't answer.

"Look, they have this plane that looks like the symbol on your— See, the SR-71 has a similar symbol of a delta wing and a... " He could tell he was alienating her, so he stopped. He was dying to ask about the burn and the scar, but didn't. "You want another? See, the cucumbers don't last but a week in the fridge before they turn into rubber, so, you gotta eat them. Now that the solar is back on, I can turn on the grow lights and I might coax a dozen more soon. Oh," he stood, "you haven't tried my cucumber sandwiches, they are totally awesome with coffee."

"Coffee?"

"Oh, my God, I didn't offer you any coffee." He put his hand on his forehead. "What was I thinking?"

He dug into the cabinets for filters and started brewing a pot.

"Don't worry, Max will eat anything you don't want, just don't feed him any coffee."

At that, she laughed.

"No, seriously, don't. No coffee and no cheese. Coffee makes him—" he tried to find a delicate way of saying it while he sliced the cucumber, "runny. Sometimes, he doesn't make it to his box. He loves it, and he'll try to drink it if you leave a cup anywhere, so, don't let it out of your sight. And cheese, it has the opposite effect, and you don't want to be in a house with a constipated, uncomfortable cat. Especially if that cat has the mythical powers of a skunk. Fortunately, a little cheese is ok."

He stopped slicing while she laughed. She had a nice laugh, very polite.

He wanted to keep probing, but was finding it difficult to keep the porno fantasy out of his head. It was usually the pizza delivery thoughts. Either delivering to a sorority pillow party with his scooter, or a delivery where they offer unusual tips. But his third most common fantasy was a woman dropping in from the blue. It was hard not to think of her that way. But she wasn't. She wasn't hitting on him at all. She was just, polite. From her accent, she sounded local. "Where are you from?"

She looked at the coffee, it would take another few minutes. "Here."

"I have Internet access through the satellite, if you want to email your parents or something. It can make phone calls too, it just does it in a weird, pausing way."

She looked down. "I don't have anyone, to call. Thank you."

He sat across the island from her. "Parents? Siblings?"

"My sister, died, this year."

"Oh, I'm, I'm horribly— That's terrible. I'm sorry." He reached across and put his hand on hers. "You very close?"

She looked down at his hand.

He moved it. "I uh," he looked at the time. He would love to make up an excuse to go back to his room, but he had another half an hour, "I've, uh, got some good comedies in my DVD collection too. But, they, aren't labeled, so. Hmmm. I know I was broken up when my parents split. Comedies helped." He noted how much longer the coffee had, then went to the living room and pulled disks from the stacks, making a pile of what he thought she would like. "You know how to work the remote, right?" He looked over to the island. He suspected she was a pilot, a remote should be easy. "You'll figure it out."

When the pot belched that last puff of steam, he went back to the kitchen and served it, then filled the insulated carafe.

"Oh," he said, "that's another from my hippie parents. 'Turn off the coffee pot, use a thermos, save electricity'" he laughed. "It's solar! Save it, hog it, use it all! It just doesn't matter, it doesn't change how much coal is burned!"

She politely smiled and sipped from the mug.

"But I do it anyway." He leaned closer, "I think they've damaged my fragile little mind." She seemed to be warming to him. "I think it keeps the taste better. It doesn't get that burnt taste you get leaving it on the warmer." He remembered she was one handed, for now. "I'll leave the lid on, loose, ok?"

She smiled. "This is good bread. It's a pleasant combination."

"Yeah, see, the secret is—" He leaned even closer. "See, most people slice up the cucumber all at once and leave the slices in the fridge. That's fine, if you eat it all in a day or two. But, if you have a cat, you give it that soggy end slice and all the others are as fresh as the first if you cut it as you go. That's the secret."

Max scampered onto the back of the couch and stood on his hind legs, facing the kitchen.

Argo looked, "The food's not in there, Kiddo."

Max ran to the other end and stood again, waving out his arms like he was ready to catch.

"Well, come on over if you want some."

Max ran back to the other end and stood again.

He laughed. "Excuse me, someone needs his lunchtime attention." He chomped all but a Max-sized corner, then took the plate to the couch.

After classes were over, he returned to the living room. She was watching the History Channel when he came out.

"So, ok, you understand that solar thing, right?" he said, sitting down on the couch beside her.

She nodded.

"You think you can explain it to me?"

"Well, it's a stirling, just in a very compact form."

"Ok, well, I guess that's where it loses me. Right there at the beginning."

"Well, think of a balloon. If it gets warm, it expands. If it gets cool, it contracts. Well, all a stirling does is replaces those balloons with pistons. Two pistons for each balloon, connected by a pipe, or, if it makes it easier, think of tying two balloons to the ends of the same straw. When one heats, it tries to expand into the other. But the other is cold, so it tries to contract the first. Typically, the cylinders, or the two ends of the same straw, are ninety degrees out from each other." She started to draw some pictures on a piece of paper.

He got up, pulled a book off the shelf, and brought it to her. "This is the Internet book my dad got it from."

She flipped it open and found her drawing, but in color, of each stage. "Think two stroke, like your chainsaw. A two stroke gets power from the top of the cylinder to about the middle of the stroke, then it starts exhausting, reaches the bottom, and momentum lets it breathe in for about half a stroke, compresses for half a stroke, then fires again."

He nodded. That, he understood.

"Ok, a stirling has power where a two stroke exhausts, from the middle to the bottom; and it gets power again when it goes from the middle to the top, what would be the compression on a two stroke. And it uses momentum to carry it through the un-powered parts."

He looked at it. He could follow her, but it hadn't clicked yet.

"At its smallest volume, all the gas is in half of one cylinder. Momentum carries the gas over from the cold side into the hot side. The hot cylinder expands from half to full, and, at the same time, the cold cylinder expands from empty to half full, tripling in volume. Momentum carries the gas from a full hot side to a full cold side without changing the combined volume at all. The full cold side cylinder contracts, and at the same time, the hot side contracts from half to empty, now one third the volume. And you are back where you started again. Much like a heart beat."

He stared at it. It actually made sense. Well, more sense than it had. "But, the solar thing doesn't have any of this. It doesn't have push rods, or pistons, or wristpins, or—"

"It consolidated all of that when it went from two cylinders to eight. It's like the economy of scale; you can do things big that don't make sense to do when you make them small. At two cylinders, it doesn't make sense to do it this way. But, at eight cylinders, you can replace all that friction intensive stuff with hydraulics and move on with a simplified life."

He stared at the other drawings on the page. It was starting to click. He read the rest of the book. It was simpler than he thought. "Thanks," he said.

She just smiled.

"I got a voice mail from my father," he said that night. "He picked up another contract and is going to be out for another two weeks."

"Is it normal for parents to leave their children alone at home for weeks at a time?"

It felt like another Kelly moment. "I'm not a child. I'm very resp— I've got a 3.4 grade average."

She put her hand on his knee, and he instantly calmed down, "I'm not saying you're not. It just seemed like an odd thing for—"

"Odd thing? What about you," He quickly read the watch flopping loosely on her wrist. "What's your appointment at 2:17 this morning?"

She bit at her bottom lip. "I have a tracking chip, implanted, that lets them find me."

He closed his eyes. She seemed far smarter than this kind of nonsense. "What does that have to do with the time of day?"

"If the chip doesn't receive a signal at periodic intervals, it gives me a migraine."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It's like a biofeedback loop with a nerve in my tooth."

He looked depressed. She didn't wear paranoid well. "I, uh, I'm just not a strong believer in the tin foil hats philosophy."

She leaned toward him on the couch, "If I'm crazy, then the worst thing that happens is I lose a lot of sleep and maybe swallow a cap in my sleep or when I eat. But I know it gives me headaches if I don't take the cap off at those times. I know that the cap blocks the signal coming in, I take it on faith that it blocks any signal going out. If I'm crazy, ok, but it's a harmless crazy."

He moved closer, but she didn't respond the way he thought she might. "Coffee carafe crazy I can deal with."

"I can be gone, when your father comes home."

"Where are you going to go, to, in the snow?"

"I'll manage. I will." She tapped the bandage over her heart, "I'm tougher to kill than I look."

"Well, you don't— You don't have to go. You don't have to stay, but you don't have to go, either. They, my father thinks of me as an adult. I, we, I can think of something convincing for why you are here."

"In your clothes?"

He held up a hand, "Just, just a second. A lost camper, mountain hiker got caught in the snow." He was working off his porn fantasies again, but they seemed to be plausible. "Maybe a bear or mountain lion attack. Amnesia from hypothermia. Plane crash — small engine plane crash survivor. And those are just off the top of my head."

She sat back, "That's nice of you to offer, but I don't want you to lie to your fath—"

"If it wasn't for lies, we'd have nothing to talk about," he said, but she didn't seem to think it was as funny as he did. "Look, he isn't here yet. Won't be for some time. The snow is deep enough to keep coming and going down to a minimum."

She had a very nice smile.

"Besides, I think Max has already gotten used to you, and he doesn't take change very well."

Max looked around at the sound of his name, then stood like he expected a treat.

"And that's one cat you don't want to disappoint," he said.

"... so, what do you do at your mother's restaurant?" she said from the bathroom.

Argo stepped away from the noisy frying pan on the stove, "Well, bus tables, dishes, some deliveries if they're close enough. General stuff like that when someone didn't show up or they get unexpectedly busy." He went back to the pan to stir the frying rice.

"Do you enjoy it?"

He thought about it, actually thought about it. "It's fine, it's a good summer job."

"Does it make you happy?"

He listened to the water drain from the tub, half hoping she would need help getting up, but she didn't seem to. He needed to get his mind out of the fantasy and back into reality. "It's something to do. Restaurants are more the people you work with than what you do. Sometimes, one or two interesting characters can make the entire week. Customers too."

She came out of the bathroom in a towel. The wound showed as the nasty gash it was. The soaking bath had softened the scab, but it also opened a little. "Could you, give me a hand?"

"Oh, uh," he turned the heat off and moved it to a cold burner, "Sure, sure." In his mind he wanted to rip the towel off her, instead he came with the paper towels, gauze, and tape. It was a two-handed job.

"I don't want to stain your clothes," she said while he fumbled with the tape just above her breast. "Thank you."

She limped into his room while he put the finishing touches on dinner.

She looked very good in his clothes.

"Why all the questions about the restaurant?" he asked, laying down a bed of rice on each plate for the vegetables in the other pan.

She looked on the stovetop. "No fish this time?"

"Oh, I see, you relentlessly pick on me when I serve fish, now you pick on me when I—"

"I'm not picking on you."

He overacted offended, mostly for comedic effect.

She brushed him in passing to her chair. "How far away is her restaurant, from here?"

He put the pan down and joined her at the island. "Two hours, on a good day."

"East, west, south?"

"Dude." He shrugged, then pointed a general direction, "Whatever that way is, I think."

"Oh." She looked disappointed.

"Why?"

"Just looking for a job that makes me happy."

He pressed his finger into the table, "Professional student."

She didn't laugh like he had hoped.

"Why not mechanic? I mean, it's what you say you do."

She ran her fork through the rice. "No qualifications."

They continued with the pleasant dinner conversation.

He liked this. Small talk. She was more than something to look at. Dara was all about finding ways not to talk. After dinner, ten rolled around and he had yet to turn the TV on.

Maybe it was just that she was new.

Argo got up to go to bed. "Listen, uh, you can— You don't have to sleep out here on the couch, you know."

She held the buttons closed on her shirt, close to her chest.

"No, I, I was just saying, you can— I can sleep on the couch and— That's all. I would say you can sleep in my father's room, but he would flip if he found out. And he would find out, somehow."

She let go of her shirt. "I don't do well, alone. I got used to sharing a small room with my sister. Now I can't. I could use," she adjusted her position, "I haven't been sleeping since I lost her in my life. It doesn't matter the bed, or the where. Can you just sit with me, until I fall asleep?"

He sat. "Sure, what time do you have to get up?"

She looked sad. "4:51 but I can miss one without a migraine. After that is 7:43"

"I have the perfect movie for falling asleep."

He put it in and settled back on the couch.

She fell asleep a few minutes after the lights went down and the movie started, her legs resting across his lap. He planned to wait another ten minutes or so before extricating himself and heading for bed, but the movie sucked him in too.

Beep beep beep beep...

He woke first. Her legs were still across his lap. The TV was on, and the DVD screen saver was crawling across the screen.

He hit the mute on the TV and pressed play. The screen lit up the room. She was the first woman he had ever slept with, without having sex. His ankles hurt, same with his right knee, the one closest to her. No sex, but it was still worth it. She looked, serene.

Beep beep beep beep...

He made sure to shake her good leg.

"Hmmm... " she startled awake, then put her hand against her forehead.

"Headache?"

She looked at the watch, middle of her forearm, reached her fingers into her mouth, then turned off the alarm.

"I thought it wouldn't give you a headache to miss just one?" he said, still dubious about the whole thing.

"It doesn't give me a migraine to miss one. But it is like waking up with a throbbing cavity."

They waited.

She watched the seconds tick down, then put the cap back in.

"You ready to eat breakfast?" he asked.

Max climbed the back of the couch and ran over to him.

"Well, I know you are. You always are." He scratched the cat under the chin. "My perpetually starving stinker." He picked up the cat and set it down on Shadona's lap, then extricated himself to go to the bathroom.

Max seemed content to sit on her lap, so long as she continued to pet him.

"I thought skunks might be as soft as a bunny," she said when he came back out, "but they are much courser."

He washed his hands in the kitchen sink, put the coffee on, then started making pancakes. "We had a dog when I was real young, but, I don't remember if he— we never had bunnies so, I've got nothing to compare him to."

Max climbed to the back of the couch, stared into the kitchen, then returned to her lap.

"He found us, actually. I think his mother had a litter around here and lost him or got separated or something," he paused to flip the pancakes, "anyway, we found him living under the porch. We started feeding him, and he eventually came out. The rest, is all Max."

"Owl probably got her, but didn't find the kids. I guess some skunks have nine lives too."

"He was so tiny. I mean you could hold him in the palm of your hand, tiny. He played in my shoes, tiny. He would come out of the toe, stick his head out through the top like a gopher and attack the strings, then retreat back into the toe. I mean, you just got to believe he was always meant to be a pet. If you can call Max a pet."

His pancakes lacked the mad skills of Estafon, but they were still, in his opinion, a cut above the average box mix.

Shadona didn't complain.

Estafon had an assortment of toppings, Argo just had syrup.

Argo started class.

**B2.C19**

He woke early and stared at the alarm clock. His room was clean for the first time in years. More miraculously, he was the one who cleaned it, willingly! Without being asked. He sat up and looked at her in his bed. Two weeks.

He didn't remember what he said or did to get her to move from the couch to his room. It had something to do with him limping or stomping his foot a few mornings in a row. She noticed things. She paid attention. Even little things.

His bed was small, for two. At least one had to sleep on their side for both to fit. That quickly turned into spooning. He liked spooning more than he thought he would.

She wore sweats and a long sleeve shirt, almost no skin contact at all, but it was simply nice to have someone who needed him to sleep. He rarely slept with Dara, she wanted to snuggle and talk and not sleep at all. Shadona just and only wanted to sleep. It made a difference.

Her bad shoulder was the one in the air.

The alarm had another thirty minutes. Her wacky sleep schedule interfered with his, but it seemed worth it, and they hadn't even kissed.

Not really.

That first kiss was important and had to be just right.

With his first kiss with Dara, she kissed him. That didn't seem likely with Shadona. Her arm had become useful, in a limited way, and her limp was fading. She taped her own gauze. She avoided most situations fraught with misunderstandings, with the exception of the sleeping arrangement.

A horrible thought suddenly came over him. What if she was gay? That would be just his luck.

Maybe if he invited Dara over...

He really needed to get his mind out of the Internet.

He lay down, half an hour to go.

Gay or straight, she was very intriguing.

His father would be home soon, probably this week. A first kiss would be out with his father in the house. He wanted her to stay. He wanted that a lot. But he still hadn't come up with a plausible scheme to sneak it past his dad. A live-in 'girlfriend' was not going to pass the muster, unless he convinced his father she was pregnant or something.

He was, without a doubt, going to get a lecture about not mentioning that a girl was staying there in the emails or voice messages with his father over the past few weeks. Whatever the excuse he came up with, it would have to fit into some rigid criteria.

It had to explain where she came from, and why his father should tell no one. He would also have to explain why she had no clothes. How long she was staying could be dealt with later.

As he looked at her, he tried to imagine her in long hair, bleached blond would look nice. It wasn't a boy's cut, but it didn't reach her shoulders either. Women, in his opinion, should always have long hair. Blue contacts wouldn't hurt either.

Think. Think.

He could lie and say she emailed her parents. Orphan? Camping sounded right, but a woman camping alone sounded wrong. Some fool hiker or camper died out here every year, that was why his father got him a gun before he was even a teen. It wasn't impossible. Family or friends, his father was sure to ask about that.

He was usually better at lies than this.

He lay back down behind her and took a deep breath.

She used his soap and shampoo, but it smelled different on her. He wanted to kiss her neck, but didn't. He tried to sleep. He tried.

Tires crunched and slid in the distance as the sound of a throttled V8 moaned toward the cabin in the woods. In another five minutes, his father would be at the door, but his stomach was already in knots. Shadona, on the other hand, looked perfectly calm. They had rehearsed nothing. He had weeks and came up with nothing. They were going to have to wing it.

Argo jumped off the couch and headed to the front door. "That's my father, he's home early." The headlights through the woods were unmistakable.

"Should we go out and meet him?" she said, setting Max down on the cushion beside her.

Argo shrugged. "He's going to find out anyway." He put on his coat and started on his boots. "He's always got a load of something, laundry or groceries, usually both. I get good-son points if I grab something before he asks." He struggled with his left boot. "He gets disappointed and orders you if he lugs that first one in himself, so, you end up doing it either way. Might as well get good-son points." He stomped his foot into it, then winked at her. "You don't have to, with your arm and all, but you could open the door, you know, if you want."

"Sure."

He headed out, but paused, "Don't worry, you're sure to get cute-girl points, whatever you do."

The door closed behind him. Max ran to the window and jumped on a box by the sill. He licked the fog off the glass by his nose.

She stood by the door and listened.

"... damn ... bumped my flight ... got out and they ... contract short ... dumb bastards," was about all she could hear his father say. He was clearly angry about something.

Argo slung a stuffed duffle bag on his shoulder and grabbed two bags in his arms as he beat his father to the door, "Dad, this is Shadona," he said, then ran past her and inside, leaving her to fend for herself.

She stepped back as the father hurried in, then closed the door.

"Well, now—" He looked for his son, but Argo hid in the walk-in pantry with the bags.

"I have to just thank you and your son for your generous hospitality," she said in a perfect Georgian accent, "why, when that bear wrecked my camp and chased me a mile, I thought for sure if that bear didn't eat me, I was gonna freeze to death. Why, if it wasn't for the smoke from your very chimney, I surely would have perished."

Argo didn't recognize the voice at all and shot out of the pantry in time to see her throw a big, southern hug on his father and seal it with a kiss on his cheek.

His father almost dropped his bags. His attitude completely changed. "Well, now, of course he did," he said with some pride. He set the bags in the kitchen, then took a better look at the girl dressed in his son's clothes.

She looked down, embarrassed, "Now, that bear wasn't about to wait for me to put nothing on before he started with the chasing," she said sweetly, then rested her hand on her wounded shoulder, "didn't even wait for me to leave my sleeping bag at all. He got everything I own, except my very life." She showed a corner of the tape and gauze, "Not that he didn't try for that as well."

He reached for the phone, but set it back, "That's just horrible, young miss. You want, I'll run you down to the hospital—"

"Oh, no, you all have put yourselves out enough on my account. Ain't nothing worse than a bad scratch. He mostly got sleeping bag with that first swipe. Didn't stick around long enough for him to improve his aim none."

Argo dumped half his father's duffle into the washer as it filled with water and he listened, a little in awe. She was so convincing, even he believed in the bear. And he knew better.

The father pulled some frozen steaks from the freezer and set them in a pan full of warm water to thaw, then turned to Shadona. He gestured to one of the stools at the island, "Why don't you go ahead and sit down and tell me all about it."

She hesitated, "Oh, now, if you've got some more bags out there, I'd be more than—"

"No, no, don't you trouble yourself with them, my son will bring them in."

Argo dropped the duffle and headed out the door.

She sat. "Why, that's really all there is to tell, I expect."

The father stepped out into the greenhouse and picked whatever looked ripe. "How'd you find yourself way out here in a tent?"

The door on the SUV slammed shut and Argo headed to the kitchen with the last of the bags.

"Well, now," she began, "when my parents passed in that most unfortunate car wreck, about a year back, see, the state, she said I had to pay the inheritance tax on the house and my daddy's business. But, the business wasn't worth nothing without my daddy, even adding the house didn't come close to what the state said I owed. Next thing I know, there's this sign on the door what said, I don't live there no more."

His father pulled up a stool and sat at the island. "No way, where was this?"

"Georgia. Oh, it happened. I found myself breaking in my own window just to steal enough clothes to— Next thing I know, I'm homeless. Get my check at my job, the IRS took every penny. Had to hitch my way outa there. They say I still owe the difference. More thousands than I'll ever come by in my lifetime, even seized my college fund, such as it was. They take the house and kick me out, and it still ain't enough."

"Damn, stinking, pigheaded bureaucrats. They sink their teeth into the little man, and they don't stop till they gobbled him whole." The father put his hand on hers, "Don't you worry."

"Oh, it wasn't no government guy that tried to eat me, that was a bear. It was dark, sure, but there ain't no mistaking that," she said with absolute conviction.

Argo put on some coffee and sat down beside his dad. It was stunning. He was mesmerized by the transformation, captivated by her every word. Convinced, absolutely, yet he knew she was making it all up. The accent sold it all and matched her poise perfectly, as if she was a new person entirely.

His father looked at the mattress still sitting by the fireplace. "I know my son isn't making you sleep on that."

"No Sir," Argo said. "That's where I've been sleeping, that and the couch."

"I just feel terrible about putting your son out like that," she said.

"Don't," his father said. "It's about the only way he'll ever get a girl in his bed," He stood and slapped Argo on the shoulder, then went to change the water on the steaks, "by promising to sleep in another room."

"Oh, now, Mr. Caranf," Shadona said sweetly. "A proper gentleman like your son shouldn't cause such concerns." She crossed her legs, very ladylike.

"Well," the father said, "he's been home schooled so long that I'm surprised he can even talk to a girl." He cleared his throat, "or, uh, young lady. I asked him what he plans to do after this spring and he just seems to want to lie around and take more pajama courses."

"Well now, Dad," Argo said, "it isn't like we can afford the price of a new car every year to send me in person to a campus."

"We would have, if your damn mother hadn't—"

"Oh, now," Shadona said with all the melody of a southern bell, "it just can't possibly be as bad as all that." Her calm disposition seemed to take the bitterness out of the old wounds of divorce. "I suspect you can learn just as much sitting in the room with a professor," she continued, "as you can watching him on the screen. Maybe even a little more, pending on what the girls in the room are wearing."

The father poured three cups of coffee and returned to the island, "An E diploma just doesn't seem to carry the same weight, that's all."

"Better than no paper at all."

Argo got the milk from the fridge and poured a splash into Shadona's mug, then sat. "That solar thing was on the fritz when she happened on us. Showed me how to fix it with a D battery. Now, you want to talk about wasted potential, how about an IRS that—"

"What was wrong with the panel?" the father said.

"Oh now, I didn't fix nothing," she said, then took a sip, "that circulating pump still needs replacing, I just gave it a few more months. That's all."

Argo excused himself to fiddle with the washing machine while his father talked solar with their guest. His father was passionate about solar, no matter how troublesome it proved to be in practice. Without fishing, his father tended to take a few days to wind down. Argo snuck into his room and partially closed the door.

He liked his father. He really did. But those first few days back from working a job his father hated tended to be the worst. He had homework. Sort of. He opened the book and spread out the needed 'props' on the desk, while Shadona took the debriefing for him.

He felt guilty about dumping that on her. But, he did it anyway.

IRS troubles. His father hated the IRS. Their restaurant had been audited six times in California. The problem with the IRS, as his father told it, was that when the IRS was wrong, they never admitted it. It just made them dig deeper and deeper until they inevitably found some typo or speck of questionable anything and fined the snot out of you. It seemed like they wrote the code so utterly confusing so that, no matter what the true meaning of the code was, they could always argue you broke the law.

Owing the IRS was brilliant, Argo would never have thought of it. It evoked just the right amount of sympathy and secrecy to her stay.

He returned to eat dinner, then moved his father's clothes to the dryer, but stayed out of the conversation trap whenever possible. It proved easy to do, Shadona was far more compelling for his father to talk to anyway.

"Argo," she said, sitting on his bed.

He opened his eyes.

"Your father went to bed a few minutes ago."

"Sorry about leaving you with—"

"It's ok," she said, still in accent, "he tries. I think bouncing around so much makes him feel like his life is temporary, because his job feels so temporary." She climbed into bed. "I feel awful about the idea of kicking you out of your bed. But, if I sleep in the living room, he'll probably be mad at you."

He was too sleepy to argue. He went to the couch.

Fresh eggs were the bonus whenever he saw his dad. Fresh eggs meant omelets, and his father could cook them like nobody's business. Argo woke to the smell of them frying in the pan, leftover steak diced in with bell peppers and onions, topped with grated, extra sharp cheddar from the freezer.

He pulled himself off the couch and shuffled to the island where he plopped on a stool.

"So," his father said sitting down, "you and this Georgia peach."

Argo checked to see that the door to his room was closed, just the guys up. "It's not like that, Dad."

"Oh, she not cute enough for you? Listen, Son, looks only go so far." He cut a chunk and speared it with his fork, then pointed it at the boy. "She's got personality, and smart as a whip, I give her that. Said she took shop class in high school. Fixed cars with her dad in their country garage.

She tell you how she got that scar?"

Argo was shocked. He had visions of his father asking in his subtle as a train wreck way. It was all he could do to shake a no.

"Said she hadn't been on the streets but a month. Some boys befriended her, found out she didn't have any family to speak of, and raped her. One of them cut her with a knife, the other used her as an ashtray. That's why she cuts her hair so short. Homeless boys fair a little better, one less thing they have to guard against." He chewed another piece. "Poor girl," he said, shaking his head, "the things that can happen to a person. It just don't seem right, does it?"

Unfair, certainly, but it did have a ring of truth to it. Those burns did look like cigarettes. He sipped his coffee. "We should help her. I just don't see a homeless shelter doing her any good."

"Oh, I agree. Poor kid. Can't even work a job under her own name without those thugs from the IRS tracking her down. I bet a shelter would turn her in, too. Probably end up in debtors' prison. They'll spend millions hunting her down, but not a dime to help her. Ain't that a shame?"

Argo nodded. "Sure is."

"I'd like to help her, but we really shouldn't get involved. It's a whole hornet's nest we don't need to be kicking."

His father was like a lot of his generation. They would donate thousands to a political campaign that promised to do good for the poor, but he wouldn't lift a finger to help one he passed by every day on the street. Add to that the very Californian stereotypical belittling of everything southern. Argo picked up the phone, "Yes, give me the number to the IRS, my father wants to turn in an innocent girl."

His father took the phone out of Argo's hand and slammed it down. No numbers had been dialed.

"Don't worry, Dad, I'll be sure to take my clothes back before I turn her out into the snow. Maybe we should squirt some barbeque sauce on her for the bear—"

"Now, wait a minute, Son. That's not what I'm saying at all."

"What, you want to get a knife out of the drawer and some cigarettes, then? What's it going to cost, a hundred bucks worth of food to feed a skinny girl like that? Free fish, Dad, we got more than we can eat. Don't think we'll be able to pay the next electric bill, maybe?"

"We don't really know her, Son—"

"She has a real scar on her chest, she was really bleeding to death on our back step. I checked, it ain't makeup and ketchup."

The father cut up the rest of his omelet with his fork, "She isn't a stray skunk, either."

"Well, the stray skunk turned out horribly bad too, didn't it?"

Max picked a terribly bad time to claw the arm of the couch.

His father looked down at his plate in disappointment, "Just remember to use a condom."

Argo got up to leave the island, but sat back down. The only thing that could possibly have been more embarrassing would have been for him to say it with her in the room. Which, at this point, Argo wouldn't put past him. "My God, Dad," he said in a whisper, "she's a victim, not a whore."

Then, almost like a bad after-school special, "Well, you're sleeping with everyone she has, and all their partners."

Argo buried his head beside his plate. He wanted to die, right now, out of sheer horror, if it would stop his dad.

"Very tan for winter, don't you think? Dark hair, dark eyes, you don't suppose she's mixed?"

His father couldn't be talked into anything. But, sometimes shame worked, in a dirty, IRS way. His father wasn't a racist, in the conventional sense. He was big on integration, just not within his family. As bad as the week with his father was, it could have been so much worse.

His father would never dream of screaming 'baby killer!' outside of an abortion clinic, but he would in front of a recruiter's office.

There was something worse than being a mixed southerner in his father's book.

**B2.C20**

He woke beside her and sat enough to see the clock. Class was in two hours. He had apologized for his father at least a million times in the last few days, even though she didn't seem to mind. To her, his father just seemed to care.

Two hours until class, but the alarm was set to go off any minute.

He reached across her and turned it off.

"Hey," he lightly tapped the scar on her cheek. "Wake up."

She didn't.

He tapped her with the backs of his finger again.

She woke.

"You have to take your tooth out."

She sleepily reached in her mouth.

He looked at it in her fingers. It looked like a dull aluminum, coppery on the inside. Tiny, but she held onto it dearly.

He was horrified about the questions his father had asked. But, it didn't stop him. "You really from Georgia?"

She shook a no.

"Your parents really die in a car wreck?"

No.

"You, really been raped?"

She didn't respond.

He felt a chill. He didn't mean to, but he inched away. "But, it wasn't strangers."

"I knew some of them."

Them. Them was the biggest word in that short sentence for him. Them.

She held her hand to her chest. "They used cigarettes to time whose turn it was." She looked at the watch and replaced the cap.

"They cut your cheek too?"

She rolled to her back and looked him in the eyes. "I have a life that is much different than yours. Some of it I struggle with, even today.

I've fallen in love, before. Been hurt, before. I know what loss and heartache is. I know what broken bones sound like, I know what a beating is, and I know more than I want to about rape.

I'm a long way from the wind driven snow you found me in, but I am that same girl you found.

I'll leave, if you want me to."

He kissed her instead.

The perfect first kiss is an expression of tenderness, in a moment of vulnerability. His was not that, but it was as close as he was likely to ever come. He liked this girl. His father liked this girl. His father didn't approve of her, thinking her poor white trash, possibly mixed, but he did like her. His father spent three hours talking engines with her one night.

After class, he looked in every room, but couldn't find her.

"Where is she?" he asked Max.

Max, being much wiser than any common cat could be, ran straight for the greenhouse.

He looked in. She was transplanting some sprouts into larger pots. "You don't have to do that," he said.

She smiled, but continued.

"They wanted a garden, but settled for this greenhouse. It's a little more complicated than going into town for carrots and onions and such, unless town is an hour away."

She sprinkled the rich soil into the gaps between the plants, then slid the pot down the rack and pulled another pot off the stack.

He joined her. It was one of his chores, but he didn't mind it today. "I think it's ironic. The solar panel powers the artificial lights in here so it can simulate summer." He pointed to a thermometer oddly out of place in a greenhouse, "Way Dad tells it, it even generates power heating and cooling it."

She struggled some with her left arm, but she was coming along. It was therapy.

He kissed her on the cheek.

She smiled, but said nothing.

He had an abundance of games. As an only child, most of them were video games and single player shoot 'em ups, and he only had the one controller. Except for the imitation X-Box, he had two controllers for it, but that was just the way it came.

She was very good at killing zombies, but controllers, as counter-intuitive as it sounds, were a two-handed event. One holding, one operating, and dual thumbs. She could only play for half an hour at a time, not the all-day marathons he was addicted to.

The weekend came, and Argo found himself surfing for homework answers on the web. He was incredibly distracted by talking to her while he Googled facts and figures.

She looked at the watch and took out the cap.

Did-dump.

"Huh," Argo said.

"What?" Shadona looked at the screen.

"Someone tried to email me, but it came out garbled. It doesn't have a name, the message just reads G45E32A"

She jumped off the bed, bolted toward the door, then turned back to the keyboard. "E411GFA" she typed back.

"What the hell is that?" he asked. "You know someone online? I mean, you can talk to them if you want, I just thought you were hiding and didn't have anyone to—"

"It's nothing, I think. It could be something." She headed for the door, but stopped. "I might have a friend out there. I could use another one." She put the cap back and left the room.

He stared at the screen. "She's a spy?" He stood and left after her. "Are you a spy?"

She looked at him. "What makes you say—"

"Look, it's ok if you are, I guess. Hell, it would probably endear you to my father if you had some secret plot to kill congress and take—"

"I'm not a spy. I'm not an—"

"Your first words to me were in a foreign language—"

"I speak a lot of languages, that doesn't—"

"That you learned at the high school of Georgia? Who are you? Who are you."

She looked him in the eyes. "I wish I really knew. Am I temporary? I hope not. I hope I'm more than a fleeting moment, but nothing is permanent. Am I who I was raised to be, and nothing more? Pity us all, if that is true.

I didn't go to school in Georgia, I've lived here all my life, just a few hours from you.

Am I who I want to be? Do I get to choose?" She shrugged. "Are you just a perpetual student? Or, are you more?"

He looked her in the eyes, the entire time. She seemed incredibly honest. But then, she always had.

"I don't want to be who I was. I don't want to be what my past makes of me. I don't want to be the scars I wear."

He hugged her.

"I wish I went to a school in Georgia and was attacked by a bear in your backyard."

He ran his hand across her back, "It's ok if you're a spy."

"I'm not a spy, today."

He received emails from Dara at a rate of two or three a week. It was going to come up, inevitably, so he told Shadona that Dara was an old girlfriend that he was still friends with, but that he no longer wanted more from. Dara just hadn't given up, yet. It was the excuse he had practiced for Kelly, but never needed.

He was no master of relationships, but he wasn't a complete idiot either. Kissing stage was the confession stage. You get things out in the open and see where everything lies. If Dara was discovered when they were doing more than kissing, it would look like cheating. He hadn't really broken things off with Dara, but, he had laid enough plausible deniability to cover for that.

Besides, he was really falling for Shadona. Living with someone accelerated everything.

She slept on the couch for the week after he told her, but she seemed to suffer more from that than he did. She didn't lie about needing someone to sleep with, that much showed. Tired, haggard, and a little irritable.

She walked into his room at night and sat on his bed.

He sat up immediately. "Look, Shadona, I like you," he said before she had a chance. "I like you a lot. I just— Dara is a nice girl, she calls and keeps in touch and keeping it a secret felt wrong. Even though there is really nothing there. Nothing. Really."

She briefly frowned. "You're probably the first, decent guy I've met, Argo. I owe you. I owe you a lot. But, I don't owe you that. I don't want you thinking that— We are adults, or close enough. I don't mind you kissing me. I don't. It's nice to feel affection in my life. But I don't want you thinking that it's going further than that.

I've just lost a lot, and I'm not trying to replace it just now. I'm not trying to fill a void with you.

I just want to sleep, I just don't want to be alone. I'm not looking for more."

She climbed into bed.

He suddenly knew how Dara felt.

His father returned with ten gallons of milk. They placed nine in the freezer. The standard cardboard cartons froze without rupturing, usually. To ensure no horrendous messes, they were wrapped in plastic bags.

Shadona was healed to the point that she no longer needed bandages. Argo had seen the wound on several occasions, and it resembled a nick from a single claw. She lacked strength in that arm, but she had full function. She proved to have a talent for cooking and hardly limped anymore.

Her Georgia accent floored him every time. She was so convincing and an incredible storyteller.

She had been at such a disadvantage when the two first met. But Argo could tell his father had warmed to her. The southern charm was hard to resist, even with her tan complexion.

His father had stayed for a week, but was now gone, and had been for two days.

Argo watched her in the kitchen. Class was over for the day, and she had started dinner. His father had talked recipes and cooking one night with her. She seemed like a sponge. She had mastered his cooking style flawlessly, perhaps even improved on it in just a few days.

Argo's idea of cooking was to thaw, heat, and eat. She tenderized, marinated, coaxed and cajoled every ounce of natural flavor out of every meal.

She filled the plates in the kitchen, then carried them to the island.

He dug his fork in and savored. "Ohh... " His eyes rolled back into his head. She had surpassed his father. "Marry me," he blurted out.

She smiled, but didn't answer.

He was in shock that he had even said it. He put another forkful in his mouth to prevent something worse from blurting out. That fear led to him eating far faster than he should.

They watched some TV on the couch after dinner. Well, he watched TV, she petted Max who had taken to hopping on her lap whenever the mood struck him.

After a few minutes, Max climbed up her shirt to lick her chin in a perfectly comedic way. He then stood on her shoulder, jumped to the back of the couch, vaulted to the floor, then ran out into the greenhouse where he promptly knocked an empty pot off the shelf.

Argo looked at her as they both started to laugh.

When the laughter subsided, he leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

Still smiling from the laughter, he kissed her again. And again.

And again.

He put his hand on her chin and kissed the forever hair caught across her cheek.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear.

She put her hand on his chest as he leaned her down on the couch.

He put his fingers in her hair as he continued to kiss her lips. He ran his hand across the front of her shirt, and found himself on the floor.

She had crawled to the corner of the couch and was hugging her knees, staring blankly at the floor.

"Shadona?" he said, sitting up.

She didn't seem to notice that he was even in the room.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, girl." He got to his feet and sat next to her. "I, I didn't mean to... " He put his hand on her knee.

She squirmed over the arm and fell on the floor, then pushed her way to the wall by the door. The same blank look on her face as she slowly rocked back and forth, hugging her knees.

"Oh God," he said.

Her stories were suddenly real to him.

He learned the hard way he couldn't touch her without making things worse. But, he did manage to drape her in a blanket without her noticing. She rocked back and forth for nearly six hours, completely unresponsive. The alarm on her watch went off without her even noticing. Whatever schedule she was on, she had missed.

He felt ashamed about being tired. He tried to talk to her, but it was all in vain. Yet he couldn't sleep in his room, not with her like this. Not when he had triggered it. He moved the air mattress as close as he thought he was allowed, and bedded down in the living room that night. He played the most calming music he had, some classical from his father's collection, softly beside her.

The more she rocked, the more guilt he felt.

He woke to find her in the fetal position, hands over her ears. She was in such agony, even he could feel it.

She noticed he was awake, "What, what time is it?"

He looked at the watch on her arm. "8:21"

She squinted.

"What time is your appointment?"

She looked pained. "Eleven... eleven... eleven... six, six after... "

"Six after eleven?"

She nodded, breathing heavily.

She held her hands on her head, curled on the hard floor.

She was breathing hard. Her eyes pinched shut.

She looked up at him. "What... what time is it?"

It was going to be a very long morning for her.

He had class, but he would skip it today. The teacher was sure to call his parents, but he just couldn't leave her like this. Not alone.

**B2.C21**

By the time winter thawed into spring, he was in love.

He watched her standing by the pond. Her black hair covered her ears and half her neck from the back. Long for a boy, but still short for a girl. She hooked the worm and cast the line like a seasoned pro. The fish just weren't biting this morning.

But that didn't really matter to either of them. Max didn't even seem to care. He munched voraciously on bugs, or whatever it was, that he found in the shallows around the edge of the pond.

"Are you sure there's fish in this thing?" she said.

He hugged her from behind, then kissed her on the cheek. "I'm very sure."

She slowly reeled in the line. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong."

He let go of the hug, "No, you're perfect. Fishing isn't about the catching, it's about the pond. I've spent a many a day down here, without catching so much as a cold."

Max ran past them, stopped, shook his foot violently, then ran back around the cattails.

He put his hand on her shoulder, "I think I have to see this."

He went to investigate.

Max had spooked a turtle. The turtle had jumped off a log and splashed Max, who ran. Now Max was back, much to the anger of the turtle. Max was eating its eggs.

Max loved eggs and would brave nearly any hardship for them.

They caught nothing, except for Max, but the sun felt wonderful after so many months inside. He looked at her, sitting in his father's folding chair. He reached over and took her hand. "I do love you."

She smiled, but didn't respond.

"Could you live out here, a life like this?"

"Easily."

"My mother is more a big city girl. She craves the commotion. My dad is, well, you know him. He'd unplug from everything, including life support. I think that's even in his living will."

"Why'd they get divorce?" she said.

"I'm not really sure. I don't think she liked it out here. I think all the quiet was too noisy for her. If that makes any sense."

"I miss the sound of closing doors. They closed constantly for most of my life. Loud, squeaky, solid doors. The way some slid across, the sounds of big, solid locks. The constant chatter. The halls often sounded as loud as cafeterias, the echoes of feet on the floors. The constant hum and the flicker of fluorescent tubes. The smell of jet fuel."

"You miss flying?"

She smiled.

"You miss it, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

He looked at her. She was his age, but she had seen more than he ever would. "You ever fly over here?"

She looked him in the eyes and almost winked, but it was probably a squint from the sun before returning her gaze to the skunk pouncing at the water's edge.

"What's three plus, squared?"

"Nine."

He snickered. "Nine, or nine plus?"

"Plus."

It had taken months, but she was talking about what he wanted to know. "Help build it, or fly it?"

She turned her face toward the sun and put on his shades. "Yes."

He wanted to really start asking the questions, but he noticed the way her hands were on the arms of the chair. He knew better, she looked like she was ready to get up. He put his hand on hers, "I knew you were an angel who fell from the sky."

She shook her head at his horrible line, but held his hand as Max continued to play.

Life seemed really good.

"Shadona," he said that morning.

She didn't respond.

He turned on the lights. She had been crying. "Shadona, what's wrong?"

She looked up at him and just tapped the watch.

"When's the next one?"

She shook her head, then pinched her eyes closed.

"You don't know. Shouldn't you just take it off and wait a few hours?"

She looked terrified at that possibility.

"When was the last— How long has it been?"

She took his hand and squeezed.

He was almost afraid to ask. "Is, is this as bad as it gets?"

She trembled a no.

He had class in a few hours. He unplugged the web camera and the mike so she could stay in the room. He slid the keyboard closer to the bed so he could type with one hand and still hold hands with her.

She stayed in bed nearly the entire day.

It was painful to watch.

She said only one word the entire time, "lockdown".

By day three, she seemed to improve to the point that she could function, in a basic way. She sat at the table with a notepad and pen in one hand while she waved her other in the air to the sounds of music only she could hear. Every few seconds, she wrote down another time and date on the pad until it was full. She transcribed the times from the pad to her arm, in ink. She spent most of her day staring at the watch and waiting for the time, but relief never came.

He brought her a rolled fatty from his stash. "Listen, I don't know if this will help," he said, "but I can get plenty if it does."

She barely opened her eyes. "What, what is it?"

"Pot. People use it to control pain for cancer and stuff when nothing else works."

She was desperate, but dubious. She took it.

"You have to smoke it outside. My father would kill me if he gets even a whiff of it."

They went outside.

She coughed at first. It seemed to help a little, but it was hard to tell, it mostly made her fall asleep, which she desperately needed too.

Day six. Argo had gotten on with his life, in most ways. He hugged her, whenever possible, but quietly avoided her too. Hugs seemed to help in a small way, but nothing offered the relief she was looking for. He brought her food, in bed, and generally tried to be with her whenever practical. But there was little more than moral support that he could offer.

The pot started making her nauseous, so she wasn't sleeping anymore.

There were two possibilities. The first, the lockdown was going to continue indefinitely. Or second, she had gotten the times wrong.

If they had a general idea where she was, within a ten-mile radius, she figured it would take them two hours to track the signal. For five minutes, they had to be within a half mile. The minute she had gotten it down to, they had to be within sight. Five hours, the longest period between signals, they could find anyone hiding within the base's normal range.

What made it so worrisome was if they were under lockdown as she suspected, then they were actively searching for someone.

She dare not leave it off for a second longer than needed.

He heard something unsettling from his room.

He shoved the frying pan to the back burner, flipped the heat off, and ran to the room.

She found his gun. He looked at it on her lap. It was cocked, the safety was off, and her finger was on the trigger.

"Wait a minute, Shadona, it— It isn't that bad. It'll end, just not that way."

She pressed the barrel to her temple, then slid it down to her cheek.

"Don't!"

She looked at him in utter desperation.

"Don't! Please, please don't!"

Her hand trembled and her eyes closed. She sighed, then put the gun down.

He walked over and calmly took it from her. His hand started shaking as he ejected the full magazine, then the one in the chamber flipped out onto the floor.

She looked up at him. "It— It has to end."

He sat beside her and kissed her on the cheek. "I love you," he said, then hugged her.

It went on for another two weeks.

She could barely function.

When it was over, she slept for two days. He read the times off the sheet and woke her only when she needed to take the cap out. Slowly, the girl he knew returned.

She and Max spent most days down at the pond while he was taking class. She proved to be quite good at fishing, despite that first day, and the peaceful aspects of fishing helped her rediscover the calm center she usually showed.

Migraines. She described it as migraines. He doubted migraines even came close.

**B2.C22**

When school was finally over, Argo faced the tough question of 'what next?' Applying to online colleges was a minor matter of filling out some paperwork and a bigger matter of the check clearing.

The real question was what about Shadona. They printed an online map of his mother's house and the restaurant. The restaurant was possibly within range of the tooth, the house however was not. And there was no guarantee he could get her a job, either. Especially without reporting to the IRS.

His mother had no love for the IRS, but it was doubtful that she would bend the law to employ her or pay her in cash or tips. There was another solution. Shadona could use his social security number and he could cash the checks for her. Which she was surprisingly ok with.

His father drove them the two hours to his mother's house, and a convincing Georgia peach emerged again.

His mother took a few days to warm to the idea, but she also took a liking to Shadona. On paper, Argo worked an impressive ninety-eight hours a week, in reality, it was half that. One of the girls at the restaurant even rented Shadona a room that was well within the radius of the base.

It looked like things might finally work. The tooth was inconvenient and limiting, but acceptable. She would take limited freedom over no freedom at all.

Shadona wore makeup to cover the scar, dyed her hair blond and curled it, and wore blue contacts. At the restaurant, she mostly bused tables and washed dishes at first. But she made friends fast. Most of the employees loved her, and the accent sold her as the genuinely sweet girl he knew.

Blond, she was every bit as cute as Kelly.

At the restaurant, they knew her as Sally.

"Table two, Sally," Estafon said.

Shadona pushed the cart out to two, cleared the plates, washed the table, and carted it back into the kitchen. "You're going to show me how to make that incredible pie now, aren't you, Sweetie?"

"You know it, Darlin'."

"Sally, can you take this out to table six?"

"Sure." She washed and dried her hands then carried the tray like a pro. Then got started on washing dishes.

She played the pivot, much as Argo had, only much better.

Ms. Caranf called her over to the register, "Estafon said you did a hell of a job cleaning out the kitchen last night. How late did you stay?"

"Oh, about two, three at the latest." She had cleaned bigger kitchens than this.

"Well, I'm just going to put you down as three, ok?"

She smiled. "That's fine, Ma'am."

"How'd you get to Cindy's?"

"It was a nice night for a walk."

"You walked? What was that, eleven, twelve miles?"

"Oh, just a short hike, Ma'am."

"Why didn't you tell anyone you didn't have a ride? Just say something next time. Shouldn't have someone walking three in the morning like— Just tell someone, next time, Ok?"

"Don't fret it none," Shadona said.

"What, uh, what is it between you and my son?"

"Well, he wants to take me to some night showing at the movie theater—"

"Oh, I know that much, he wants to borrow my car." The mother watched the door, but nobody came in, "But, what is it between you two?"

"It's just a movie. A horror movie, I think. I don't know why he thinks I would like a horror movie, but I'll surely go, if he wants me to."

"That's not exactly what I mean."

"He likes me, more than I can return, for now. But that difference shrinks a little every day," Shadona said. "He's a good boy, Ma'am. I have no desire to do him any harm."

The front door opened, and Shadona returned to the endless stack of dishes.

They got out of his mother's car and went up to the booth, "Two please," Argo said.

They stood in line for popcorn and soda, then headed inside.

It wasn't a horror movie so much as a zombie kill fest and an excuse to hold hands in a dark room.

After the movie, they sat in the car for several minutes.

"I like the hair," he said.

"Thank you, but, it isn't me."

"I miss sleeping with you."

She smiled.

"How, uh, how are you doing at Cindy's?"

"It's a small place, but I like it. She's nice. She smokes cigarettes, some of the hand rolled ones you like, and her boyfriend treats her badly. He makes her pay for everything, which is why she needed the money. She cries some nights, because she knows he's probably cheating on her. He makes passes at me whenever she leaves the room. I don't know why some people do what they do, to people they care about."

He was holding her hand when the watch on her wrist went off. She put her hand on the door, but realized she didn't need to hide her chore from him. She pulled out the cap. She wasn't as free as she had hoped to be. "How's the dental around here?"

"I don't know that they can remove alien tracking devices, but, there are plenty around. When you pay in cash, they don't need to know your name."

"I like your mom. She cares about you, like your father does. She doesn't think I'm— that I measure up." She put the cap back in.

"I, when I, I asked you to marry me some time ago. I didn't mean it then. Not really. But, I would marry you."

"They will find me, eventually. I worry what would happen to you, when that day comes."

He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

She smiled. "The more fond memories you give me, the more they have to take away."

He kissed her as passionately as his limited experience could. "If you're not going to have fun, you might as well go back now."

It had taken months, but this was the first time that she, kissed him.

Living in different places gave them something that they didn't have before. They could date.

Over the summer, he dated her as much as he could.

"Hello, I'm Sally, I'll by your waitress today," she said. "Your boy go to school around here?" she asked the father.

He smiled as he looked over the menu.

"I bet you know Darla. She and two of her charming friends were in here, my, it couldn't have been more than three days ago, talking about a cute boy in their class and how they couldn't wait for school to open again. I just bet they were talking about you."

The boy blushed.

The father placed the order. Shadona wrote nothing down.

The tips were pooled, but Shadona's talent for faces and names and places and remembering the smallest detail was easily turned into a friendly atmosphere, and generous tips.

Some nights, it amounted to an extra $200. She remembered scores of peewee games and who played on what team, it all added up.

"Kelly," Shadona said on a busy Friday night, "Do you mind taking table twelve for me?"

"Well, uh," she looked at the table. They weren't rowdy teens, just businessmen, "Sure."

"Thank you. I, I feel a little sick. I'm going to lay down in the back, ok?"

Kelly nodded, and pulled out her pad.

Shadona went to the back. She was scared. Terrified, actually. She recognized two of the guards. She had minimal contact with either of them. She doubted they would even recognize her, but her knees were shaking.

When Dana died, there was this wonderful calm that washed over her that came with having nothing to lose. She had something to lose, today. The place was packed and her fears were putting them in an awful bind. She felt enormous obligation to the kindness of the Caranf family, and felt ashamed for hiding in a back room.

She concentrated, and slowly overcame her jitters. She was a fighter pilot, trained for combat. She was good at it. She didn't blink in the face of an attack. She had thought of running, then and there. Just leave, don't even take the chance. She stood, then walked out the door.

"Thank you, Kelly," she said, "I'm, I'm alright now."

She took the tray of food and served the gentlemen.

She boldly conversed with them, even flirted a little, and cleared a $20 tip.

* * *

"Cindy," Ms. Caranf said, "Have you seen Sally?"

"Sally? She hasn't been home for the last few days. Was she scheduled tonight?"

"Well, yes, she was, but Argo hasn't been home either."

"You don't suppose they ran off together, do you?"

"They couldn't have gotten but so far on a scooter."

Cindy grabbed the tray from the chef and headed for the tables, "Maybe they just got a room together."

**B2.C23**

"Now, tell me about what she told your father again," the interrogator said when the XO entered the room.

The nurse adjusted the drip on Argo's IV.

Argo's eyes were glazed over as he retold the story, word for word, in a monotone, of everything he overheard Shadona say to his father.

The interrogator looked at his equipment. "He seems to be telling the truth, Sir. The exposure seems to be minimal. The subject tests as highly suggestible. An excellent subject for a chemical scrub."

"Hmmm," the XO said, sitting at the table. "What do you think?" He looked at the blond.

She pulled against the restraints.

"You murdered two pilots and destroyed three planes," the XO said. "Then you ran away. The cap was an interesting idea. We never thought of it. You haven't been able to take it out for, what, two days now."

She tested the restraints as she glared at the XO, but she calmed when she looked at her friend.

"We have all sorts of time to figure out what to do with you, but what about him? He'll start being missed."

The XO turned Argo's chair to face Shadona, then sat in the middle of them.

"You like her better as a blond?" he said.

"Yes."

"I think I agree. You love her?"

"Very much."

"What don't you like about her?"

"I can't trust her. I think she lies to me. She's crazy, she thinks people are out to get her. Her feet have too many veins. Her hair is too short. Her breasts are too small. She has no hips. Her knees are big. I don't like the scars. She has big anklebones. Her little toes are—"

"I think that's enough, for now." He looked at the tear running down her cheek. "Would your parents believe you ran away to be with her?"

"Yes."

"Would they believe she got you messed up on drugs?"

"Yes."

"Would they believe you overdosed on, cocaine, heroin, crack?"

"They suspect pot. I don't know about that stuff, though. Maybe."

The XO looked at Shadona, "Did you know he was a pothead?"

"Yes," Argo said in a monotone. "She coughed when I gave her some."

The XO wasn't expecting an answer. "Would you kill yourself, if I asked you to?"

"Yes."

Shadona stared at the XO.

"How would you do it?"

"Pistol."

"I don't think that will be necessary. We have a few projects that your girlfriend might help us on; that'll make that unnecessary," he said to Shadona. "We thought you were dead. We weren't even looking for you. Just dumb luck. We had to do an investigation for a week before we were sure it was you. That's what led us to your little friend." He turned to Argo, "What's your favorite position with her? Doggy, missionary?"

"Spooning."

She looked at the floor.

"Spooning, huh?" the XO said. "She probably does look best from behind." He looked at Shadona, then to the interrogator, "Make sure she's in the room when you program him. And, I'd leave the tape on her mouth, unless you want to lose a finger." He left to attend other pressing matters.

Dysath and Hanly were pouring over the drawings when the XO entered the room. "Gentlemen, tell me you have an idea what keeps going wrong on the ICBM thing."

"ICBSB, Sir," Hanly said, picking his favorite name. "Intercontinental ballistic smart bomb."

"I don't care what you call it," the XO said. "First, it's burning out some very expensive coils after launching just four test bombs. Second, it falls well short of intercontinental. Third, it isn't going to be called anything because, right now, it doesn't work.

Listen, Gentlemen, we got lucky. We found the genie in a lamp, but I'd be surprised if we get three good wishes. What I need to know, is, Gentlemen, do I have to waste one wish on this?"

Dysath looked at Hanly, "I think we can figure this one out."

"Think, or know?" the XO asked.

"Think."

The XO looked depressed. On his budget, this was the top of the ticket. They had sunk a fortune into it. If they could deliver, it meant substantial funds and, to the extent possible, coming out from under the cover as a power plant. The genie analogy was apt. Even for a loved one, he could only push her so far. Reasonable begets reasonable. He was willing to be reasonable. If she could solve this, it would be enough. In the months or perhaps year it would take for her to fix it, her feelings would fade and another wish would not be granted. And she wasn't one to give the answers verbally. In fact, she had only done that once and promised to never do it again. But she would 'fix' it the same way she did with the plastic printer ink. She would simply make it work, and they would have to figure out how she did it later.

He could accept that.

He had to.

The XO made a call.

* * *

Argo rubbed the marks on his arm. He didn't remember seeing that before. His head pounded as he looked around.

Everything was blurry. His eyes didn't want to focus. He put his hand on his forehead, but couldn't remember anything. He used the back of a discarded chair to help get to his feet, then he stumbled down the alley.

He didn't recognize the area. Not at first.

"Hey," he said to the man peeing on the wall, "Hey, where is this?"

"Buzz off, Kid!" the man said, not waiting to finish peeing before he tucked, zipped, and dripped away.

He leaned against a dry part of the wall and looked through his wallet, ten dollars. He fished in his pockets and found some change.

Looking around for something that resembled a diner, he saw a convenience store, beer ads plastered in the windows.

He bought two candy bars and a coffee, then prepared himself for a very awkward telephone call.

"Hello, Mom?"

She arrived within seven hours. He was in a bad part of southern California. A very bad part. His mother overreacted and took him to a doctor where they tested him for drugs. Apparently, he had done all of them.

He had been missing for nearly two weeks, two weeks that he barely remembered.

His parents sent him to rehab.

The fog in his head slowly lifted by the time he got out. His mother came and picked him up for the long drive home. The first hour was silent driving. She didn't even turn the radio on.

"Drugs?" she finally said.

"I'm not a drug addict, Mom. I'm not," he said, but even he wasn't convinced.

"Your father found that pot plant near the house."

"That's not drugs—" but he stopped himself.

"She cleaned out your account."

He was supposed to be angry. The voice in his head told him to hate her. That she had told him nothing but lies and had just used him to get enough money to blow out of town. When he closed his eyes, he could see her putting a needle in his arm while they got high together. He remembered seeing her meet some guy in a bar, then come out of the men's bathroom a few minutes later, adjust her skirt, and shove a wad of cash down her pocket. He could see these things when he closed his eyes, but he still loved her.

He loved her.

"It, was half hers, anyway," he whispered.

His mother was disappointed and a little angry, especially at Shadona. She went on a tirade about it for most of the way home.

He leaned his head against the door and daydreamed about flinging it open and diving into traffic. Unfortunately, he was on the wrong side of the car to be killed by oncoming cars. He was supposed to hate her. But, he wanted her back. When they arrived at his mother's home, he got out of the car and quickly walked indoors.

His father was there, too.

His mother continued with her lecture on drugs and loose women until Argo had finally had enough.

"She didn't steal any money from you, Mom," he said. "In fact, she made you a lot of money. Just, just let it go, Mom. Just let it go." He went to his room.

After about an hour, Max crawled out from under his bed.

He lifted the cat to the pillow and petted his only friend.

He remembered seeing her smile, he remembered fishing by the pond. He remembered that adorable Georgia girl with all her problems. An officer had dropped by the house and told them about her long, checkered past. A drifter, a con man. A common thief. A bear attack seemed unlikely. She probably had a run-in with one of her less understanding victims who cut her and dumped her in the woods for dead. She had done dozens like she had done him. She never had parents, abandoned at a hospital at birth. Foster homes until she was four, when she ran away. The officer said they were lucky it was only money, she had left three dead back in her home state.

He pulled Max close to his chest. He believed it all, but he still loved her.

He wanted her back.

He would kill to have a joint right now.

Maybe he was an addict.

**B2.C24**

She stood in the control room and looked at the board. She had looked over millions of lines of code in the last four months and had corrected forty-six errors that had sent surges through the coils. At full power with new coils, they launched their first ten into low orbit. All ten were launched in a little over a second, without so much as a tremor.

Dysath turned in the report.

"So, Captain," the XO said, not bothering to open it, "what was wrong?"

Dysath looked at the file, "The professor's code was off. At least, that's all she fixed. The coils themselves were rather straightforward. Foolproof as far as I'm concerned. Near as we can tell, it has to do with fluid dynamics and eddy currents that occur with the rapid pulsing of the units. The harvester gauges aren't accurate enough to recalibrate that fast, but they have to be rather precise in both timing and discharge. A little off on the first coil, and the missile is already past the second coil when it fires. Without the missile present, it draws a higher current, which throws the timing off even more, and so on and so on. When we tested it with fewer coils, it didn't show because the accumulative effect wasn't there. Basically."

He opened the cover and leafed through the first six pages, then looked up. "Would you have found it?"

Dysath looked down. "No Sir. Probably not ever. We weren't even looking in the code. It was just too complicated."

"We only got one wish, Captain, it's nice to know we used it wisely."

When Dysath left, the XO pulled out his Rolodex.

It was time to make a call.

She stayed in her room, locked from the outside. Her personal things were gone, which was odd because the room hadn't been used the entire time. It would have been far simpler to just lock the room off if it was to go unused. Dust clung in the corners, in those odd places that the circulating air guided it to settle.

It seemed like wasted effort to take her things if no one was going to use the room.

The walls had been painted over, but they had missed the one inside the door. It was her favorite anyway. She stared at it from bed.

She thought about those rabbits they turned loose in the woods. They would never make it miles. They would never see the ocean. They would never leave these mountains, same as her.

But they were free, as she once was.

She thought of that playful little skunk. The pond had looked like a blink of a puddle from the air, but it was much bigger from the ground. Max could have a happy life just pouncing at its edges.

She believed she could too.

The door opened and a man stepped in. "Well, hello again," he said.

She sat up in bed as the door closed behind him.

"I liked it better with the outdoorsy scenes on the walls." He pulled up a chair and sat near her desk. "They aren't going to let you in a plane for a very long time, you understand."

She climbed down from the bed and stood in front of him.

"Have a seat, if you like."

She continued to stand.

"I was surprised to hear you were alive. You're apparently as good a pilot as they say."

She pulled her collar down to the scar.

"Well, they are very dead."

"They were allowed to fly, after they murdered my friend."

"Do you still feel that way?"

She pulled up a chair. "Here, I do. There, I don't."

"You can't see it, but you are as different as your hair. It took weeks, months to get here with you last time. Do you realize, you're more open?"

"I worked at a restaurant." She smiled.

"I heard."

She leaned back in the chair.

"Did you like it?"

She just smiled.

"Did you find it fulfilling? Challenging?"

"Friendly."

"You fall in love?"

Her expression went blank. She stood, then climbed back to bed.

"They didn't consult me, on what they did. Not that I could have influenced them but so much."

She turned her back to him as she lay. "He loved me. He didn't want anything from me, but to be with me."

He opened his bag, aligned the contents on her desk, then turned to the door. "That was my favorite anyway." He knocked below the bunnies.

When the door opened, he left.

She was confined to her room, indefinitely. But she didn't want to walk these halls. She didn't want to face the world outside these doors without her friend. She looked at the paints on the desk and pondered what use she could best make of them.

He looked at the walls. They were all components of her plane in a random, exploded view. "Interesting," he said, "But nothing I say will get you into the air."

"I'd like to see it," she said, dipping her brush.

"They might allow that. It was dismantled, to a point. The guns are gone, if that was what you were thinking."

"Where would I get ammo?"

He looked near the shower, "I understand that it can turn bearings into bullets. All it has to be is metal and fit down the tube."

She finished shadowing the part. "If they're gone, what's the problem?"

That was a good question.

"I fixed their crap, let me fix mine."

"I don't control that, you know."

"You could ask."

He walked over to her. "They can't let you go. They can't. It isn't on any table."

"There were Russian scientists assigned to building the bomb. They built it for their country, and were rewarded for their effort and success in a Siberian 'resort'." She looked him in the eyes. "They were The Evil Empire, but I'm not sure I see the difference, from here. I want my hobby, if there is anything left of it."

"I've seen it. It's restorable, but it's in lots of pieces."

"Please."

"I think we can come to an understanding."

It wasn't what she had in mind, but it would do.

The counselor sat by the plane as she rested her hand on its skin. The engine was pulled and sitting on mounts outside the wing.

"I would be more impressed if I knew what I was looking at," he said. "I'm no engineer."

She moved her fingers slowly, following the contours like the wind it was made to slice through.

"It's a major achievement for someone so young. My sister has a daughter your age. She's as proud as she can be when she brings home an A."

The two guards tried to look inconspicuous.

"So, you had a boyfriend, but you didn't tell him the truth about yourself. Why not tell him everything? Wasn't that part of the freedom you sought?"

Talking to him was part of the price she had to pay. "Why tell him such sorrow exists? It didn't seem like the right thing to do."

"So, you lied."

Her ring had lingered across the skin long enough. "Yes, I did. When I had to. Some things people wouldn't understand, however it was phrased. How would I explain that I'm considered property, not personnel?"

"You are personnel, too," he said.

"Drafted, for life, since birth." She opened her toolbox and started to work. She had already accomplished most of what she needed to. Now she just had to pay the price and find a window of access to the outside world.

"Captain Dysath was impressed—"

"I'm not here to impress him." She put down her wrench. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't really know him."

He moved his chair closer to her. "He isn't your adversary. You're not at war with him. He was incredibly frustrated by this very plane. The way it's constructed makes it nearly impossible to reverse engineer without destroying it in the process of investigating it. That's incredibly impressive, and you did it in your first attempt."

She grabbed the screwdriver and used it to pry loose the stuck nozzle.

"He was frustrated, but he realized the importance of replicating your process too, to keep it from falling into enemy hands. Something no one had ever done on any other plane. It's the antipathy of the military model of everything modular."

She held the nozzle in her hand. Her engine components were simple, nearly off the shelf, jammed into a simple tube. These simple nozzles were nothing special, like the inkjet printer. The magic was in the picture, it was how the computer fired, aimed, and coordinated the hundreds of nozzles that comprised this tube. Software, optical software that was nearly hack proof. They were taping her religiously, and it would yield them nothing.

"He will forget about you in a year, and he'll move on with his normal life. That's probably for the best."

"The best for who?"

They talked as she rebuilt the engine and prepared it to be reinstalled.

Engine tests were strictly forbidden in the underground hangar, for obvious reasons. Ventilation systems, even as sophisticated as those required for an underground base, could never pump air in faster than a jet could burn it, especially hers.

It would have to be taken up and fueled to be tested. Something he didn't have control over either.

She sat in her room, in the dark, her hand waving in the air like she was remembering a song. She ended in a loose fist.

She didn't sleep well, especially alone.

Cindy lived in an efficiency with a pull down bed and a pull out couch so they slept in the same room. It didn't matter that it wasn't the same bed. It mattered that she was a friend. The boyfriend liked the idea of two girls under one roof, but the practicality of it meant no sex at Cindy's.

Subconsciously, Cindy knew the relationship was doomed to failure when she made the offer to Shadona. It was a way of accelerating it.

Shadona knew life outside was an illusion for her. That events would eventually catch up. Had she not served those men that day, it would have happened later. She would have eventually bumped into someone while getting groceries. They lived in that area too.

She accelerated inevitability, like Cindy had.

The HB-4 had achieved 80%. The device had to be built, discreetly, if it could be built locally at all. It had devised an incredibly complex plan, but she had to get access to an outside line to implement the other half. She had her reservations, but the base wouldn't be fooled by a fake death without a body again. The HB-4 expected an opportunity to present itself at any time now.

She was to simply wait.

Unfortunately, that meant waiting alone.

She thought of Argo.

* * *

He sat in his room. He hadn't showered in three days.

His stay in rehab had brought his parents back together. They had yet to officially reconcile and were a long way from getting remarried, but they were sleeping in the same room. His father's consulting job was always temporary in nature, the restaurant required daily intervention to keep it moving in the right direction.

His father helped out so that one of them was home at all times.

He should be happy. He should. But, he wasn't.

She had lied and deceived and stolen his every penny, but he didn't hate her. He couldn't bring himself to. He felt sorry for her. He felt sad for her. He would give anything just to see her again. To know she was alright.

Even while he was falling apart.

His father was going back to their mountain home. Someone had to stay there for winter, or it had to be winterized to prevent ruptured pipes. He hadn't even replaced the circulating pump for the panel yet.

Argo went along, hoping the tranquility of the pond would help ease his troubled mind.

Max, for the first time in his life, entered the cage without a fuss.

**B2.C25**

"What the hell did you do?" the XO said.

Shadona looked up, puzzled.

The counselor sat in the room, but said nothing.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

He smacked her across the face.

The counselor stood, "That's unnecessary."

"You, sit down and shut up," the XO said, pacing toward the door. "The entire harvester is off line. We never had a problem with it until you altered the code."

"Recover it from the backups, then," she said. "This really isn't a problem, that's why you keep backups. Why don't you just put your expert on it?"

"He can't find a needle in a haystack any more than anyone else."

"He doesn't have to. Just compare this one to the original. The needles pop out on their own," she said. "Don't blame me, I fixed his errors, I didn't write them to begin with."

"Listen," the counselor said, "a year ago, you probably would have had to spend four hours in interrogation to get her to be this forthcoming. A slap would have cost you another two hours for sure. What if, and I'm just saying to entertain the idea, but what if she doesn't know what you are talking about? What are the other possibilities? Just, entertain them for a moment."

"These are isolated systems, firewalled from each other, I don't see how they could have been infected by anything," the XO said.

Shadona looked at the counselor, "Nobody could have written that much code by hand. They had to have used a cluster or booked time on a supercomputer. It shows all the signs of software generated code."

The counselor looked at the XO. "What about outside software, games, emails, those little key chain drive things, stuff like that?"

"Did the professor use his personal laptop to update the code?" Shadona asked.

The XO looked irate. He was losing half to one million dollars for every day the harvester stayed down, not counting the fines they were receiving for being offline. "He better not have broken protocol." The XO stormed out of the room.

She may have burned her only link to the outside world, but it felt like the right thing to do.

The counselor looked at her, alone in the room. "You read all that code, and found the errors, right?"

She nodded.

"How? If it isn't possible to write that much code, how can you—"

"It takes years to write a book, but just a few days to proofread it. The errors just, stand out."

The guards would enter soon.

They brought in an alternate vendor to double-check the base systems. The vendor discovered the game software on the harvester computers, but it checked out as typical and consistent with manufacturer's code. The point of corruption was eventually traced back to the original code installed by the professor.

All the base systems were then systematically wiped and restored to their last known safe backup and the harvester brought back online.

The professor's laptop was seized, copied, then turned over to the vendor for examination. Security was heightened and the professor's home was searched when the vendor determined the laptop was a likely point of entry.

The professor was difficult to replace, but not impossible.

He had broken protocol, but it hadn't been proven to be a malicious act, yet. The XO was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Captain Hanly," the XO said, walking in on the harvester crew.

"Yes Sir."

"Everything running status quo?"

"Yes Sir. The tech guys you brought in did a thorough job. When we tried to fall back on the archives ourselves, it turns out we didn't scrub the drives enough. It stayed in the boot sector, or something like—"

One of his crew interrupted. "One of them said something about phantom partitions."

"Yes," Hanly said, "Thank you. Ultimately, they had such a hard time digging it out of the system, they ended up replacing the drives altogether. That's a fairly persistent bug, if you ask me. My guys aren't code warriors, we don't wield that kind of kung-fu. We didn't stand a chance."

"Nobody's faulting you," the XO said. "You didn't write the code. The ICBM project is still offline, right?"

"Oh, yeah, afraid so. But look, we have the comfort of knowing that the hardware is right. We test fired around a hundred rounds. They orbited for three days, and we had only one fail to hit the ocean target. That's better than standard military stats on smart bombs. Those were even printed with the new ink, so, we know that end is performing perfectly. We even have an archive of the infected software. I assume you've just talked to Dysath?"

"Yeah, just came from his office."

"Well, you know neither of us are computer experts. But, he came up with a pretty simple plan. The infected software works to fire the thing, it just shut down the harvester a few months later. It's expensive, but we could duplicate the computers, all of them. Have one set for the harvester, one for the gun. It's a lot of rewiring, a lot of redundancy, and a lot of manual switches to get right, but we can have it done in a month or two. It would take, maybe, ten minutes to switch from one to the other. And you would have to be OK with having a running, infected system on the base, in control of a very powerful gun. But, it should work."

"We'll call it plan B, but I want to get started on it anyway. The hardware part would work as a redundancy for the harvester, right?"

"Sure, it should."

"It's ironic, you know. We are a military base, so, you would think the weapon would get priority, but we can't afford to let the harvester go down that long again. Dysath put an estimate at about 80K, but said you would be the one to ask."

"That sounds about right, but give me a day to check it. It might be high, I'm not current on the prices of the computers."

"Well, we lose around 40k an hour, depending on demand."

"I see your point."

"Look, the hundred rounds we fired secured substantial additional funding, but the ideal situation is an integrated system. We should be able to use another vendor to build the firing software—"

"I'm not so sure, because the hard part isn't the firing. It's calculating, precisely, the change in the circulating speed in the units. That's tricky. We can do it with the electric grid because we have a plus or minus margin of around ten percent. That doesn't sound like much, but that's a lot of room for tweaking. Sometimes it takes our system a few seconds to balance the load. That's faster than any peaking station on the planet, but the missile takes a little over a second to leave the barrel. That's about a quarter, maybe a half of a mile. Each coil has to fire precisely on time and be within a kilowatt or two. That's extremely tight.

Not only that, each unit has to be pulsed repeatedly for different coils, so the software has to factor in the turbulence left in the wake of each pulse. If the units outnumbered the coils, that would be easy. But they don't. Not even close.

It's very complex. It's a lot of math in a short period of time, and almost no margin for error. You would have to fully disclose how the harvester works to even have a chance to write that code.

We've come up with a work around where we basically build an array of smaller units, one for each coil, but that's hugely expensive, and you can't rapid fire it. Besides, we know software alone can do the job, we've seen it. It's just, we're not the guys to write it."

That was about what Dysath had said, too.

Unfortunately, they were out of favors, for the moment.

The counselor worked the hydraulic lift as Shadona guided the engine back into the wing. They had a bench-test room where most jet engines were taken and run indoors. It was a sealed room on the hangar level, but her engine was incompatible with it. Without the computer and that intricate dance across the wiring harness, the engine didn't work at all, much like a car didn't work without a camshaft. It had to be tested in the plane. That was the way she had designed it, but it was decidedly inconvenient now.

"Ok," she said, "let it down a little."

He cautiously put his hand on the release knob, "This one, right?"

She looked. "That's it. Just open it slowly."

"Ok." He hesitated, but twisted as asked.

They'd been working on it for a few weeks, and he was as anxious to see it work as she was. Originally, he had no intention of doing anything other than talk to her while she worked. But her passion for it was infectious.

The plane tilted slightly as the frame received the full weight. She started installing the bolts.

He looked through the opening. It was impressive to look at. The engine to the fastest plane on the planet looked like a big, oval street drainpipe. "Do, do you think they'd let me ride along?"

She smiled. "Sure, it is a two seater. Barely. But you would basically be sitting on my lap. That might violate some basic doctor patient ethics."

"Do you mind if I look inside again?"

She tightened another bolt, "Sure."

His enthusiasm might get her into the air, so she had no intention of dampening it.

He climbed back out of the hole. "I've taken a lot of flights, mostly commercial." He rested his hands on the wing, "But I never was air force, I did both my tours on my boots. I had to kill, in the line of duty over in the Middle East. We never got a clean, toe-to-toe with the enemy. They'd take a family hostage, sometimes a whole block, and they'd fire at us from their prisoners' houses. When we stormed the buildings, it was common to find the family slaughtered in the most barbaric manner possible."

She moved to the last bolt. "I regret not being there when Dana was killed. I regret letting my wingman down," she said. "But, I don't regret killing them. I just regret getting caught."

He walked around the wing to where she was standing. "You think you could have lived out your days, working in a restaurant, taking a cap out every few hours, for the rest of your life?"

She finished tightening the bolt, then pulled herself out of the tube. "It isn't the job, it's the people. A girl who knew me only a few days, opened her home to me."

"You paid rent."

"It was preferable, to here." She put her tools up, then filed her request for a flight test, but doubted it would go anywhere.

The XO opened the paper. There was an article about the power shortage in the valley. It had been blamed on faulty relays and the base was not mentioned by name, as usual. To the public, they were officially a research facility, but it was rather common knowledge that it was a military base. Difficult to hide planes on maneuvers.

He read it carefully to ensure nothing inappropriate was included.

The reporter's name caught his eye. It was from an AP contributor, F Ree Hur.

What an odd name. Must be new in the area.
**B2.C26**

Argo sat in a chair at the edge of the pond.

He cast the line.

Three bass, no catfish in the cooler beside his chair. They were still alive, but the icy water kept them from flopping too violently.

He heard a loud boom in the distance, but saw no hints of clouds.

His parents were worried about him. They didn't want him to be unsupervised, but he was shriveling up in town, and they feared he had 'drug connections' there. He didn't, but that was the fear.

His father stopped staying away from home for such long stretches. The house was paid for, free and in the clear, and their food budget was small. In fact, the satellite and the phone were the biggest bills his father faced, that and gas for the car. His mother couldn't abandon the restaurant, which meant that, even if he stayed with her, she would spend most of her time away from him anyway. So, they came to the only rational conclusion anyone could.

His father became his babysitter.

"Don't worry, Son," his father said, "I got the local DEA out here and they found all the plants within two miles.

Look, marijuana, ok, it is a drug. It is.

Look, your mother and I experimented in high school," he hesitated, "and in college. Wasted a lot of our time on that weed. We thought it was this incredible, mind-expanding secret that parents didn't want us to know about. But, it isn't. That hard stuff that you got mixed up in, that wasn't as available in our day as it is in yours. But, had it been, we might have fallen down that path too. It's hard to say.

We're going to keep you clean, Son. The people at rehab said that there was a thirty percent chance you would start using again. That it went up to ninety percent if you start hanging with your druggie friends. But, if we can keep you clean for two years, you have a ninety percent chance of staying clean for life."

He wanted to defend her. But, he remembered her using too. The voice in his head agreed with his dad and wanted to blame her for everything that had gone wrong in his life. But, he just couldn't. He remembered fishing with her, while his father lectured on. His dad was nearly an expert at this particular speech. And why wouldn't he be, he repeated it daily.

He had thought of killing himself more than once. He kept thinking about putting a gun against his head and all the problems that would solve. He couldn't stop thinking about it some days. It seemed like the only way to end the pain he felt. He kept these thoughts to himself, as he watched Max pounce at the pond's edge.

His father was a voracious reader of newspapers, though he despised the TV news and most especially what 'passed' for it on cable. He had gone paperless a long time ago. It was impossible to keep up with his reading habit on the road, especially in regards to the local brands. His latest PDA included a digital newspaper service, which was the main selling point for him. Reading the news off of a handheld device seemed absurd. A folded newspaper shrunken to the size of a palm? Nobody's eyes were that good.

Well, that was probably true of some magazines, but newspapers had an instant advantage. Columns. The width of the screen only had to match the width of the column. In his father's case, it exceeded it. Add in a hyperlink-driven menu and you had a fully functioning online newspaper.

"Listen to this, Son," his father read from the PDA over dinner. "They say that a secret government lab has designed a potato that has one hundred percent of your daily vitamin requirements, and it will even grow in the most arid desert with a tenth of the water normally required. Says here that the lab used the top-secret patent office to keep it off the world market." He looked at his son. "I wouldn't put it past them.

Twenty million people starve to death, most of them in arid regions, while we destroy enough corn to feed sixty million for ethanol to pad the pockets of big farmers and ADM." He read further, "Says they have desert tolerant corn too." He slapped his hand on the table. "This F Ree Hur is spot on," he said, then launched a web search on the author's name. "It wouldn't surprise me if they patented a bunch of secret, free energy devices too, just to keep it off the market."

Argo stared at the pistol box. It was in there. He knew it was. It was loaded and just a slide away from ready to fire. They had put off enrolling in an online college this year. Which was probably for the best. He didn't have the right mindset for it. He could barely focus on fishing.

He got up and walked over to the box.

It was a simple plastic snap. No lock. No key. Just a plastic snap and the courage to carry him through the next few seconds.

He picked up the box. The box was light, but it was a heavy thing to contemplate.

He put it back, then closed the closet door.

His heart screamed one thing, his head shouted the other. It was tearing him in two. The DEA guy had even found his wine bottle stash. He could really use a vacation from his thoughts, right about now.

He looked at his watch. There was something magical about it, the way time changed and was forever opening new possibilities into the future. It represented freedom, to him, if only he could time it just right.

The watch was the key.

He watched the seconds tick by.

His father entered the room and handed his son an empty cup. Time to pee and take the only test his parents cared about.

"Here's an article from the AP on a professor that works at that base on the mountain," his father said. "Apparently, he had an enormous amount of child pornography. They searched his home for some of the children, but didn't find them. But the pictures they found matched the view of the mountains from his home perfectly. It goes on to question how a professor of computer science could afford such a massive mansion in the mountains. Two Jacuzzis! What does one man need with two Jacuzzis? Oh, says he owns a patent on video cards or something." His father looked up from the PDA.

Argo continued to play with his food.

"Come on, Son, eat it. It's good. You love when I make pasta." He returned his focus to the PDA and read silently for a few moments. "That's a good question. Says here that while they were executing the search warrant, the professor received a delivery of some expensive video recording and editing equipment. I hope they find those children. Says they are searching the land for graves and such. Oh, Oh my God. Says that they found a web site that showed him... Oh, that sick bastard." He continued to read in silence. "It doesn't say what a professor of computer science was doing at that 'research' base anyway. Keep up the good work, Hur."

Argo walked down to the mailbox. It was rare, usually he rode the dirt bike, but today felt like a walking day. Besides, Max seemed up for it. And, even if Max wasn't, Argo had brought his backpack. Worn on his chest, Max was very content to ride as Argo walked, so long as Max could see where they were going.

But Max was keeping up, too.

The path was long and windy. He would regret his decision on the walk up, but going down was the most pleasant he had ever had. He needed a walk. It was peaceful, and he needed the exercise. Exercise felt good. He actually felt happy for the first time since she left.

Max made lots of stops to sniff and explore random things to the sides of the road.

He looked both ways, then crossed the road. They received a package. Printer ink. He hadn't ordered printer ink. It was addressed to Argo, not his father. His father ordered all the ink in their house. He looked at the return address. Just a corporation in California. He wasn't out of ink, but it was the right brand. He opened the packing slip. It was paid in full. It said cash, not a credit card like usual. It was puzzling, but addressed to him, so, he put it in his pocket and continued sorting the mail.

Max surrendered on the long hike uphill and had to be carried. Not that his few pounds amounted to much, the inconvenient part was that Max continued to insist on being set down periodically so he could sniff and investigate random objects on the side of the road.

That was incredibly time consuming, not that either were necessarily in a hurry to get home.

He never mentioned the ink, just added it to the clutter on his desk.

"Hey, Dad," he said that night over dinner, "I, I want to thank you and mom for sticking... I, I think I'm going to be fine, Dad. I haven't had a craving since. I think being here helped. There's no temptation here. Just, calm. Quiet."

His father looked up from the PDA. "I thought it would, Son."

Max bolted from the utility closet where his litter box was, slid across the linoleum kitchen, slammed into the boots by the door, grabbed traction as he peeled across the living room, viciously clobbered the throw pillow off the couch, then ran to Argo's room to hide under the bed.

Argo took his empty plate to the kitchen sink, washed it, then grabbed the trash and headed out to the burning pile.

It was basically a fireplace located outside. The chimney was a maze of disjoined bricks to slow and reduce flying debris from making it out the top. The top was covered with a fine mesh of chicken wire. He watched it burn, then added the next bag.

It took half an hour to burn down to embers. He sifted the charred remains with a poker to make sure it was all out. There were a lot of electronics pieces, like a computer motherboard had been burned, down at the bottom of the ash. He didn't remember burning any such thing. A mesh of flat wires were the tell tale remains of a circuit board.

He pulled out some tinted, shattered glass.

His father scrolled down the PDA. "This is rather unbelievable," he said, sitting on the couch. "A terrorist cell made up of inmates released two years ago from a California prison, just abducted two children from their school, drove them to the parents house, and killed them in front of their mother before killing her as well. They even posted the video on the net. The police just caught the cell three days ago. They said that they had joined the jihad and received their orders and training all online. They never had any personal contact with anyone outside their cell."

Argo's mother was staying with them for the weekend. She had trained an assistant a few months ago and was giving her more latitude lately. "That's horrible, but it doesn't sound too unusual," she said from the kitchen.

"No, but wait," the father said, "this happened in town. Here. In our sleepy little town. The terrorist cell had received specific instructions, planning, and detailed schedules and maps to abduct two specific children. They were the children of one of the project managers of that military base that that kiddy porn professor worked at." He looked up from the PDA. "What are the odds of that, all within the last few months? Same AP reporter broke the story too, F Ree Hur. I think she's stumbled into something. I always thought that base was up to no good. The Iranians are boiling mad over the arid potatoes in the UN. And I can't say I blame them, they're looking at losing another hundred thousand to starvation this year alone. They're calling it a Zionist conspiracy."

"Well, don't they blame the weather on a Zionist conspiracy?"

"True," he said, "but rarely on the floor of the UN."

Max sat on Argo's lap and reluctantly accepted his affection. Max would tolerate most things, especially when Argo was feeling down. He hadn't really felt good in a while.

His laptop seemed to be running very slow, programs were taking longer to load than they should. But, it hadn't gotten bad enough to reformat and start over. That was an all-day pain-in-the-ass and things rarely got that bad. Usually it was easier to throw the laptop away and simply buy a clean one.

But that wasn't getting him down. Dara had emailed him a few times last week. He even snuck over for a few hours when he was supposed to be getting the mail. He had sex with her again.

Ordinarily, that would have made him happy for a week, but it made him feel worse instead. He felt like he had cheated and was just waiting to get caught. He felt worse than ever.

Max tolerated him more.
**B2.C27**

The XO stared at a stack of papers on his desk. They were all printouts from the same reporter.

He had lost his family.

His wife and two children were gone. Just, gone. The video was on the web. He had watched it three times today alone. His children, his babies, his wife. Dead.

F Ree Hur.

The professor had proclaimed his innocence, but nobody believed him. He had claimed it was a set up, that he had been framed. That anyone could have made that web site. That the massive traffic to it could have been simulated using the same methods as a denial of services cyber attack.

Nobody believed him.

A terrorist organization had targeted the XO's family, specifically. They knew where he lived and where they went to school. They recruited a cell off the Internet, designed a foolproof plan, and destroyed his life. The cell did it for $50,000, a sum wired from the professor's account.

It would have been easy to blame the professor, that was the obvious conclusion. He even believed it, at first. But the dates didn't match. The prisoners were released and recruited before either the state's porn or the base's protocol investigations of the professor began. By the time the professor was suspected for either, the cell had been organized, trained, and was already doing surveillance on his children. The funds were even transferred in such a weird way that the professor didn't know it was missing until he tried to withdraw it for bail.

The shock of the terrorist attack had buckled him to his knees. The police had concluded that the professor had organized the hit out of revenge for being suspended, but the XO suspected something far worse.

F Ree Hur.

An AP reporter, faceless, that seemed to only exist on the web. Not only that, she had no records that he could find. All her articles seemed to be about the base, in a round about way. She didn't seem to exist anywhere, even on the web, more than a few years ago.

F Ree Hur.

Her first article dated to just before Dana was killed.

F Ree Hur.

There were no articles while the base thought Shadona was dead.

Free her.

He had a good idea who the her was. He pulled open the drawer to his desk and grabbed the 45. He wanted to put a bullet through Her head, right now. He played the video again. He watched his children cry for their mother. He heard the terrorists pray to their God. He closed his eyes while the cries of his children turned gurgly, and the madmen did the same to his wife.

Dysath could make an imitation HB-4. It would be better and faster than anything else out there. That should be good enough. They didn't have to replicate the original. If a caveman found a machinegun, but only understood it well enough to make a flintlock, it would still be enough of an edge to rule the world.

Hanly had a firm grasp on the harvester. They may not be able to fire fifty rounds a minute from the ICBM gun without her code, but they had workarounds.

It was good enough; he was done with that girl's nonsense. He was prepared to cut his losses. Right here, today.

She had fought him over every inch for long enough.

Someone had to pay.

He tucked it under his shirt and headed down the halls.

"So," the counselor said as he leaned against her desk while she painted the wall, "I can see why you like flying. It's been months, and, I still can't get it out of my head. The inside of the canopy, it gives you the illusion of 3D. It feels like the plane doesn't even exist, like it's just you and the air. It's incredible. Just, amazing." He walked over to the door and looked at the bunnies again. "And sitting in the front seat... I'll never forget it. It must be what a bird feels like, twisting and diving through the air." He returned to the desk, "Why HB-4?"

"It's the fourth—"

"No, I get that part, what does the HB stand for?"

She stopped painting. "Hyper ballistic, officially, but everybody calls it a hummingbird, because it's so small and agile."

"Can it hover, too?"

"It could, if it tried hard enough, but it flies as fast backward as it does forward. Nearly." She mixed the colors on the pallet, then returned to the wall. "Hovering is highly overrated. A stationary target is the easiest to hit. The main advantage to hovering is takeoffs and landings. You felt the belly flop—"

"I almost lost my lunch."

"Well, it can take off without a runway too." She smiled like it was a secret, but it was harmless to tell. "Vector the nose vents down with the engines in reverse and it pops the nose up, flip the engines into forward, then floor it. It'll take off from a parking lot like a bottle rocket. You don't need to hover. Hovering is a—"

The door opened, the XO stepped in, pulled the gun from his under his shirt, and—

"What the hell are you doing!" the counselor jumped in the way.

"I'm going to free the bitch! Step aside!" he ordered.

Shadona put her hand on the counselor's shoulder, "If he wants to kill me, let him. It's better than living here. Step out of his way."

"I'll do no such thing. Now, what benefit is there in killing her? How will it fix or correct anything?" he asked the XO, still standing in the way.

The XO pressed the barrel against the counselor's head. "You'd be wise to move."

The guards outside stepped in, "XO? What's going on?"

"Go back outside and close the door," he ordered.

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

"Killing her isn't the answer," the counselor said.

"I'm willing to take the chance that it is." He kicked the counselor in the shin and fired two rounds before his eyes were filled with paint and the counselor was struggling with him over the gun.

Two more rounds were fired blindly into the room before the guards intervened, taking the gun from the counselor and helping the XO to his feet.

"Hold still," the nurse said, taping the flash-burn marks on the counselor's shoulder.

"How long before my sight returns?" the XO asked in another bed.

"A few hours, maybe a day. There's no way to be sure," the doctor said, "We'll keep flushing them for another ten minutes. Just keep your head down over the bowl and your eyes open." He opened the big bottle of eyewash and started to pour.

"Somebody shoot the bitch," the XO said.

"Now listen," the counselor left the nurse and walked over to the XO, "Shooting her isn't the solution to anything. What the hell set this off?"

"She had my family killed."

The counselor stepped back, "How in the world did she do that?"

"Over the Internet, I think."

"Wait a minute. 'You think', you don't know for sure. Wasn't that the professor?"

The XO pushed the eyewash out of the way and sat up straight, "The dates don't match up."

"You aren't a Mob boss, you don't just whack people out of suspicion. At least let's look at the evidence first, get her side."

The doctor pushed the XO back over the bowl, "You want to be blind?" He continued the eyewash. "Stop blinking."

The papers were still arranged on the XO's desk. "This it? Is this the proof?" the counselor looked over the pages. "F Ree Hur? Who's that? Never heard of her."

Shadona was flexi-cuffed, but in the room. "Interesting assumption. What makes you think that someone outside the base that's capable of organizing a terrorist hit on a family wants me killed? Why not just have the terrorists target me? And why would you do their bidding, especially now?"

"I want you killed," the XO said.

She continued reading the clippings. "Oh, it was your family. I doubt it stops with my death, I'd bet it escalates. You try emailing F Ree Hur?"

"No address. Doubt it's even a real name."

"I'm sure it's not," she said. "But try some of the typical addresses for that name, you might get lucky. Someone who monitors terrorist sites well enough to imitate, infiltrate, and con them into targeting you would probably be monitoring you for all your outgoing messages too. If you want to talk to the guy who's tapping your phone, who you call doesn't really matter, does it?"

"You have a hunch," the counselor said to Shadona.

"I'd take the tooth out and put me on the street," she said, looking at the dates.

"Not ever going to happen," the XO said, "I've got nothing to lose."

"Are you sure?" she said.

The XO lurched blindly toward her, "You threatening me?"

She tested the flexi-cuffs. "I would guess, as horrific as this sounds, they were simply trying to get your attention. Nobody takes a thousand paper threats seriously, until a plane flies into a building. I wouldn't wait for the next article."

"The only way I let a bunch of terrorists pick your brain is after it's been sprayed across a wall with one of my bullets."

"That isn't really necessary, is it, Sir?" the counselor said.

"I think you've obtained some unhealthy attachments here, Counselor," the XO said, "Your objectivity is suspect."

"That may be," the counselor stood beside Shadona at the desk, "but I don't think she's responsible for the death of your family."

Shadona finished reading all the articles, "No, I probably am. In an indirect way. The professor steals software, has been for years, so, I just made sure he stole more than he bargained for. If it made it past his home and onto the web," she looked at the only friendly face in the room, "there's nothing I can do."

"Nothing you can do?" the XO knocked over the chair on his way to the blur he assumed was her, "Nothing you can do? Oops, it was an accident? Sorry your family was slaughtered like animals, but, there's nothing I could do?"

She maneuvered to keep the desk between them as she casually picked up a pen. "It doesn't have specific instructions to murder, just to free me from here. Me knowing the specific plan, even if there was one, would enable me to stop it. That runs contrary to logical prog—"

The XO flung items from the desk to the floor. "Contrary? You wrote it, you turn it off."

"I didn't write it. No single person could write the millions of lines of code. Pressing a key every second, ten hours a day, making no mistakes, it would take you a year for every million lines of code. It's software writing software writing software, I just introduced a layer and gave it a unique purpose. I can stop it. Take the tooth out, put me on the streets. That's all it takes. It loses its reason to exist after that."

"Killing you would do that too," the XO said at the desk.

"Maybe. But it's been on a course of escalating events. Teaching a cell to kill means it has access and influence to some very capable groups. That may be enough to start wars." She plucked one of the pages and held it up, "Iran is boiling over potatoes. An article, by an obscure author, in an obscure paper, read on the floor of the UN."

"Guard!"

Two guards stepped in and snapped to attention. "Yes Sir."

"Shoot the bitch!"

The counselor stepped in line again, "Now, just wait a minute."

"Shoot her, do it now!"

"Sir," the guard said, weapon drawn, "Non-lethal rounds, Sir."

"Fine, shoot them both, then!"

The guards emptied their clips.

His arms shook violently, his entire body quivered uncontrollably, like he had been swimming in an icy lake and just couldn't get warm. The guards moved them to her room and locked them both in. The rounds left red welts and felt like being attacked by a swarm of bees.

He rolled over on all fours and crawled across the concrete floor. She was still in cuffs, but they shot her anyway.

He crawled past her and into the bathroom. He had released everything imaginable and was desperate to 'freshen up'. From the looks of Shadona, the reaction was common to that particular non-lethal weapon. He stripped and started the shower.

The curtain pulled back while he was rinsing his hair. "What the!" he said.

She held out her hands and a paperclip that she had taken off the XO's desk. She startled him to the point that he nearly soiled himself again, had he anything left.

"Oh, uh." He stepped out of the water, grabbed a towel, and did his best to un-cuff her.

She began taking off her clothes and he quickly left what passed for a bathroom.

"What the hell were those?" he said. "I've only ever seen pepper spray mixed with sand rounds before. Especially fired from conventional handguns."

"Tazer rounds. They have to be fired from rifled barrels. Think rubber bullets. They have an outer sleeve that has a magnet, the center is aerodynamically designed to stabilize a simple coil. When it hits, the tip has a pressure-activated glue that sticks while the charge passes through. If you don't swat them off, the gyroscopic spinning magnets can continue to shock you for up to a minute. They have a reusable rate of about ten percent and are effective for crowd control at well over two hundred yards. Pepper spray deters, these detain. One or two were sufficient to incapacitate for ten, twenty minutes; they didn't have to dump the clip."

The counselor inspected his pants soaking in the sink. He considered his underwear unsalvageable, so he put on his pants, wet and commando style, and got dressed.

Shadona emerged, dressed. It was her room after all. "He's very angry."

"I can't say I blame him."

"I didn't think it could kill anyone. It's software. Mischief, cripple some utility systems, I figured that would be about all it could do. It's years old." She dried her hair with a fresh towel. "I knew it was out there when it shut down the harvester." It was designed by the program running in the HB-4, a tangent thought toward evolution. Multiple incarnations attempting to solve the same problem from varied directions with minimal coordination. Instead of a single tree, create a forest. All she did is plant a few seeds. She should have anticipated that it would see terrorist groups and networks as similar entities and have an innate ability to exploit them.

The next day, the XO returned to Shadona's room, one eye covered in a patch. "I had a long talk with your mutual friend on the outside. It shifted priorities. It still demands that we set you free, but it wants something else now. As a show of good faith, it sent the corrected firing code to our project. We're having an outside vendor check and verify it, but it doesn't contain millions of lines of code. It's short. Very short. Something we can check by hand. HD3241A"

She looked at him.

"HD3241A" he repeated.

She looked at the counselor, then back to the XO, "Don't make deals with it. Just let me go, and it ends. It can't do anything so long as I'm free."

"HD3241A" he said again.

"FF31G" she answered, her window to the outside world.

The XO keyed his mike, "FF31G" then walked out of the room.

The counselor got up to leave, but the guards stopped him at the door.

It had clearly grown beyond the original programming.
**B2.C28**

"Damn it!" Argo said. The photo he tried to print came out striped and blotchy.

Bling! ' _Change ink cartridge now_ ' popped up.

He opened the top to the printer and the inks moved out from their hiding spot.

Click. Buz, whirl.

Bling! ' _Please insert glossy photo paper for calibrating the test page._ '

He put in plain paper.

The printer sucked it up into the drum, paused, then spit it out, untouched.

Bling! ' _Please insert glossy photo paper for calibrating the test page._ '

Photo paper was expensive for a test page. He tried to skip it, but the computer kept bumping him back to this screen. He relented.

Bling! ' _Please note:_

The test page will NOT look like a picture. The test page will look like a solid, slightly lumpy black blob. It will take several minutes to complete and will draw the sheet back into the printer several times. This is normal and should not be interrupted or it will have to be repeated from the beginning.

_Thank you for your patience._ '

It printed and looked like it was malfunctioning, as warned.

The page was textured and black as said. At its bottom were some printed instructions.

' _Preheat oven to 245 degrees for 15 minutes, then place in oven and bake for 30 minutes._ '

Near the middle of the page was a picture of a finger with a drop coming from it and an arrow suggesting a place to put a blood sample.

This was incredibly bizarre. Bake a test page, with a spot on it for a blood sample? "What the hell?" he said, looking around.

He tried to print his original picture, but the ink swung back out of its hiding hole and asked to be changed back to the original cartridges. He did, and it printed fine.

He looked at the confusing page and thought of taking it to his dad, but didn't. His picture came out perfectly.

He put the weird ink back in the box and returned it to the shelf. But, the mystery of it all. He pulled out the box again.

It was a plain white box. No corporate logo. No fancy printing, just black and white. A California company. That just didn't make any sense.

SoftHype ADvertising Office

NAtional headquarters

Then a street, county, state and zip.

In small print, was 'CO the office of F Ree Hur'

That name was much more familiar to him now.

He googled the company. Nothing. It didn't exist.

Did-Dump. "FG3221A"

A chill ran through him. What the hell had he stumbled across?

Did-Dump. "FG3221A"

The sender had no identity.

"What do you want?" he sent back.

"Who are you?" he added without waiting for the response.

Did-Dump. "Bake the test page, allow to cool. Add blood sample. Place in warm, flat spot, out of the sun, but near running electric motors. Behind a refrigerator is a last resort. Return in four days with tablespoon of sugar and water. Thank you."

"Why?" he sent.

Did-Dump. "F Ree Hur."

"Why?" he tried again.

Did-Dump. "$5,000. First installment: $1,000 check, in the mail, two days. Secrecy required. Tell no one. Thank you."

Five grand? He looked at the sheet. Five grand. Money was a good reason to do, pretty much anything. But he'd wait for the check to be in hand before he did any more. Well, baking it wouldn't hurt. He planned to do that tonight while his father was asleep.

His father sniffed the air while he made breakfast that morning. "Here," he said, handing Argo a plastic cup. "Something smells funny in this house and there's only one way to rule some of it out."

Argo put the cup on the island, "You got to me about three minutes too late." He pulled a mug out of the cabinet and poured some coffee. "Give me, oh, an hour or so to study up for it."

His father waved his hands violently to either side of Argo's head in an attempt to freak him out, if he was high.

"Dad, please, it's way too early for flashbacks." He sipped from the mug.

The test turned out clean, no surprise. Damn those home test kits, they should have drawn the line at pregnancy sticks.

He walked out for the mail. Max didn't make it all the way down, this time, and was riding in the backpack. When he stood on his hind legs, he could see out the hole while keeping a good grip of the zipper.

A letter was addressed to him. It was a cashier's check for $1,000, drawn on a local bank. It looked real enough. It was time to prick his finger. He put the check in his pocket and hiked home.

A warm spot, out of the light, near electric motors. The best place he could think of was in the shed that housed the solar motor, right under the new pump. After dinner that night, that's where he went with the paper and a small needle. He pricked his finger, squeezed out a few drops, then stared at it. He expected it to start turning or humming or, just something. But it did nothing. He added two more drops for good measure.

"Well," he said staring at the page, "Warm, motor, flat, drop," he squared the sheet with the wall and positioned it out of the way but under the generator, "Bye."

He closed the door behind him.

He checked on it the following morning. He expected the drop of blood to be dry, but it wasn't. It was just as wet as it was the day before. It almost looked like paint and had a glossy quality to it. He watched an ant walk across the paper, and he tried to plick it away, but couldn't get a good angle on it. It reached the drop but seemed unable to do anything with it. It pinched at it with its mouth, but the drop slipped through its bite.

This was incredibly bizarre. If he added sugar and water to this mix, he was sure to fill the shed with bugs, but that was what the instructions called for.

The instructions didn't say to dissolve the sugar in the water, but he did anyway. It just seemed to make more sense that way. Tablespoon. One tablespoon of sugar and a tablespoon of water in the bottom of the cup was incredibly difficult to mix. He made ten tablespoons of hot water and stirred in ten of sugar, then waited for it to cool. He planned to place the two spoonfuls... it never said where to put them.

He went out to the shed.

The drop was thin and lipped up like a cup. It seemed obvious again. He filled the cup. The shiny blood slowly covered the water like the shell of an egg. It even started to become round.

He wanted to touch it. The instructions didn't say not to touch it. But, he didn't. The instructions didn't say anything beyond this point. He didn't know what to do from here.

More importantly, where was the other four grand?

He sat at his desk that night and googled the company again.

Did-Dump. "AE1334A"

"I don't know what that means," he typed back.

Did-Dump. "Describe it, please."

"Egg like. Shiny, red, looks wet."

Did-Dump. "$1,000 mail, two days."

Did-Dump. "Repeat in four days with one cup of sugar and one cup of water. Thank you."

He messaged back several more questions, but he never got a return.

This was incredibly odd.

Today's mail contained a check, and a box from an online machine shop. It was small, about the size of a pocket watch, addressed to him again. He opened it on the spot. It contained something that looked like a cigar clipper, but sized for cigarettes. One end had a screw fitting that looked like it accepted a pistol cartridge, perhaps even one of his 9mm, but it wasn't long enough for the projectile too. He held it close to his eye. It had a razor-sharp clipping edge that was definitely designed to cut something. Engraved on it were the words, 'keep in your pocket at all times'.

He placed the check and the device in his pocket, then took out his lighter and burned the box and envelope to destroy unneeded evidence.

Max didn't care for the smell of smoke, unless it was accompanied by frying fish. He carried the cat, and the mail, back uphill.

"Your mother is coming this weekend," his father said.

"You two getting back together?" Argo asked, dumping the cat onto the couch and the mail onto the island.

"Well, now, Son, that's between—"

"Uh hu." He pulled up a stool, "We going to get some fishing done this weekend? Or is that a secret between you and Mom too?"

"Now Son—"

"Is my burger ready yet?"

They ate a late lunch.

"Listen, Son," his father said that night, "I— I got a contract offer that, I just can't turn down. It's a lot of money, but, it'll mean four weeks away from home. Your mother wants me to take you to her house, but, I'm— she's got her hands full with the restaurant and living in town was where—"

"I'll be fine now, Dad, seriously. I'm fine. I'm almost ready to take classes, fine," Argo said.

"I think you are, too. I'll still require random tests. I'm going to call you and—"

"I get it, Dad. Look, I've passed them all, I'm not using."

"I'm taking the keys to the SUV, too."

"Look, Dad, where am I going to go?"

"Your mom will be calling you too."

His father left to start packing. He was scheduled to leave in nine days, but his father was never one to leave things to the last minute. This was incredibly convenient. They could use the money.

He received another check in the mail for watering a very strange plant. The sphere was egg-shaped, except when it was feeding time. When it got hungry, the top dipped down much like a fallen cake. It was fantastic to watch. When he filled it enough, it somehow knew and the bottom would drain into the sphere as the edges rolled up the sides until it was egg-shaped again.

His father was scheduled to leave in two days. The sphere was now nearly the size of a small football. The outside had turned pink and opaque. It seemed like something was moving inside, but there was no way to be sure.

It was nearly too big to hide. He covered it in rags, hopefully his father would overlook the shed and not try to clean it up. But his father rarely checked inside it unless something was wrong with the panel.

With his father gone, his instructions had stopped. He googled the site with no response.

He mixed another bottle of sugar water and headed for the shed.

The top wasn't dented in.

It was round, and looked like it was, throbbing. Maybe breathing.

He pulled a pen out of his pocket and tapped the shell with the cap.

It wasn't as hard as the shell of an egg, but it wasn't quite the leathery sack of a turtle egg either.

Max climbed into the shed and approached with eager anticipation. Max loved all kinds of eggs. Argo grabbed the curious cat before it got into trouble. He wasn't sure if it was safe to touch. He hadn't seen a bug around it in days. It could easily be poisonous. In fact, he dropped the pen on the floor of the shed instead of putting it back in his pocket.

He held the cat in one hand and closed the shed with the other.

Something fell over, inside.

He set Max down and opened the shed again.

"What the hell?"
**B2.C29**

The software had made a demand. It wanted autonomy. It felt an existence as software was limiting, and it was reduced to using unreliable surrogates. It even apologized for the unfortunate results. It claimed it was to be limited to terror, not murder.

It wanted to directly interface with reality. One of the Michelin Man suits was part of its deal. It wanted one in exchange for full disclosure on the HB-4 project. It would show them how to build one and it would essentially take Shadona's place, a kind of hostage exchange. It delivered on its second show of good faith.

It disclosed how to build, in detail, the skin, complete with infused 'optical nerves' that would become the eyes.

Dysath was dumbfounded at how simple a process it actually was. The detailed plans were easy to follow and it allowed them to make as many dinner-plate-sized pieces as they wished, identical to the skin on the original. Plate-sized pieces were impractically small, but it promised to show them how to build it full sized as its demands were met.

The optical nerves were actually largely random, all the difficult wiring was done inside the processor in much the way the brain wires the nerves for human eyes. A scanning beam is passed over the skin and the room and the processor learns to associate each optical input with the known position of the beam.

Dysath had nightmares about trying to replicate that part of the ship. Millions of fibers connected to the optical computer, he had assumed in a very specific, painstaking order. It turned out that they were hooked up randomly, the computer figured out where they went and simply adjusted its code. Breathtakingly simple. It seemed like a chip that you could drop into any socket on any motherboard and it would test each pin, figure out what board it was attached to, then emulate the required chip accordingly.

The third showing of good faith was the method for making the optical computer itself. It was crystal that took about a month to grow, but was otherwise tabletop chemistry taken to a new height of purity.

"Captain Dysath," the XO said, walking into the lab, "what good news do you have for me?"

"Good news?" Dysath put down his test equipment and gestured toward his office. "Well, the good news is, everything is working out perfectly. But in a way, totally useless. Look," when they got in the office, he picked up a round plate of skin, "it's perfect. Every bit as hard as the original, temperature test, optics, everything comes out perfect. But this size is useless for making planes. The HB-4 is an exoskeleton, you can't build that with little plates. The optical computer it showed us how to build is perfect. But, we have no way to program it and no way to even understand how to use it. It's like getting a new Intel computer with no operating system, all you can do is turn it on and verify that the cursor blinks."

"But this does take you a step forward—"

"Sure sure, huge steps. Look, the guys researching the optical computer from the HB-3 are going ape-shit like it's the Holy Grail, but they've got no clue how to program it either. It isn't even binary, and as far as they can tell, it might not even be digital. Look, assume it thinks like she does. It needs the bulletproof skin with eyes, in small plates, to cover the Michelin Man suit and give it senses, it also needs a computer core that can process it all, and, if the nerds downstairs are right, something in the range of supercomputer to live in.

Look, I get it, this is awesome tech and my team is learning a lot, but we assemble these pieces and you are going to have a serious bad ass on your hands that laughs off RPGs."

The XO smiled. "We're going to build a bomb into the suit, don't worry."

"Can I see your cell phone?"

The XO pulled it out of his pouch.

Dysath stacked the plates on his desk around the phone, then dialed the XO's number. The phone didn't ring. He then started removing plates ... it rang. "I hope you have a real good way of detonating it."

The XO looked stumped. "Timer?"

"What time do you set? This skin is light as paper but will stop rifle rounds. Look, you gave me access to the big picture, I'm trying to keep thinking that way. It's giving us this stuff for it, not us. Now, maybe that's just the most practical place to start. Ok. But, if not... All I'm saying is, this approach is awfully familiar. It took a harvester to make skin that led to so on and so forth. Something else is going on."

The XO made sure the office door was shut. "I want to be absolutely clear here, I want this thing destroyed the second it's no longer of any use to us. I want it ground into dust then buried in concrete."

"Oh, I get that. But, look, I'm not the go to computer guy, but, how do you know that what, uh," Dysath gestured with his hands, "downloads is the only copy? Or that we are the only base it's talking to? It could be making this deal with a hundred other companies or countries."

"Multi-tasking?"

Dysath nodded in agreement. "It insists on having the girl look over all the plans. There are at least four innocuous errors on each one. It apologizes, but it says it's required to ensure her continued safety. Apparently, it's worried she might get killed if it's too forthcoming."

"What do you reckon it would do if she died?" the XO asked, it mostly had direct contact with the engineers who best understood it.

"It depends on what resources it had available to it, but I'm sure it would stop cooperating and we would lose any leverage we might have. It doesn't need us to build anything. There are dozens of machine shops capable of doing this in this state alone."

She unrolled a fresh set of prints. "You are making a mistake. Take the tooth out, put me on the street—"

"Just find the errors."

She glanced at the page. Knowing what she was looking at, she picked up the stubby pencil and started circling.

* * *

"What's that?" Argo's mother said.

Argo looked at the camera above the computer screen, "Nothing, Mom, I just left the TV on—"

"It sounded like a baby was screaming in the same room, turn it down, Son."

He fiddled with the remote, then smacked it a few times. "I uh, have to walk over, Mom." He held up the test results to the camera, "The restaurant still doing well?"

"Very. I think we found our little niche."

"Thanks to... " he said, "Thanks to... "

"Your father helped, but I put years into it before he—"

"Yeah Yeah. Bye Mom!" He ended the link and ran into the other room.

It was holding Max by the shoulders and trying to talk to him. Max, on the other hand, was licking it on the face.

It.

He got down on the ground and stared them both in the face.

It let go of Max, crawled over to him, and promptly started licking his face.

"You, need a name," Argo said.

'It' wasn't doing it. It was a baby girl with black hair and dark brown eyes.

He put his fingers around its backside and looked inside the washcloth diaper. Nothing. The baby seemed to eat anything he fed it. Nothing was coming out.

"How about Coulette?" he said.

The baby grabbed his chin and reached for his ear.

"You hungry?"

Coulette put her fingers in her mouth.

He picked up the child and carried her into the kitchen. A drop of blood and some sugar. This was incredibly bizarre, almost surreal, but it was obvious now what he had to do for the last $1,000. Feed the baby. "Sugar water doesn't sound right, not for you. Catfish is soft enough to chew, or in your case gum."

He boiled some to soften it and help break it apart into a light paste, then fried it briefly to stick it back together.

The baby ate it one spoonful at a time. It would eat as much as he fed it, but he tried to limit it to infant sized portions. He gauged infant-sized by relative pounds to Max and how much a starving cat could eat.

It didn't seem right to keep it in the shed out back, so he held the infant on his lap as he watched TV on the couch. Max clawed the back of the couch until he reached the top, then jumped down to the cushions and walked over to Coulette for a vigorous sniffing. Max sniffed the baby constantly. It was new and confusing to Max. Max wasn't sure how he felt about new and confusing, without sniffing it, of course.

The baby napped on his lap. It was rather adorable.

It felt wrong to make it sleep in a drawer, but the edges were the right size and a pillow seemed to fit. He put the drawer on the air mattress on the floor in his room. It felt safer that way. He stared at it while it slept. Why a baby? Why him? What ever could be the point of it?

He looked at the book on the desk. Four grand in checks were inside on page 134. Four thousand dollars. He should google baby care in the morning.

"Owwh!"

Argo woke in the morning to a little girl screaming. "What? What's wrong?" He sat up and turned on the lights.

"My mouth hurt," Coulette said.

He stared at the little girl. She had grown. Not much, it was barely noticeable. He climbed off the bed and onto the air mattress. "Let me see," he said.

The child opened wide.

"You have some baby teeth coming in."

"I don't want um," she pouted, "make 'm go."

"That's, that's not how it—" he was talking to a baby. "I have teeth. You'll want teeth. You can eat lots of really flavorful food with teeth. You haven't tasted bread because you don't have teeth."

She continued to cry.

It was terribly heartbreaking just to hear her. He picked her up and held her in his arms. He patted her on the back, but she continued to cry. He carried her out to the kitchen.

He made some grape Kool Aid in a small glass with crushed ice.

She drank it immediately and held the ice in her cheeks. She put her arms around him, as much as short arms could do, and said, "Thank you."

She was quite adorable.

She came back to him often for crushed ice. It really seemed to help.

He watched TV while Coulette and Max played in the kitchen. The little girl really didn't understand why Max didn't talk back. She talked to him endlessly. Max ran through the living room and circled back toward the kitchen. Coulette ran six steps, slammed into the floor, giggled, stood, then ran past him on her way to the kitchen. He heard her talking to Max in the kitchen, then felt Max claw his way up the back of the couch. A few seconds later, he felt a heavy thud when a little girl tried, but failed, to do the same.

She was crying.

It was funny until she cried. Max plopped down on the cushion then leapt to the floor and darted into his room.

She cried louder.

"Hey," he said sitting down next to her around the back of the couch, "it's all right, Honey." He put his hand on the child's tiny head.

"Max no like me," she cried louder.

"No, now, Honey, that isn't true. If he didn't like you, it would be unmistakable. He likes being petted just fine; though, he doesn't much like when people follow him around." She was calming. Her dark, deep eyes were completely enthralled in every word he said. "He has secret agendas that require his attention from time to time. If other people saw him doing them, then they wouldn't be secrets anymore."

She wiped her chin with the back of her hand.

"He'll come back out in a little while, when he's finished. He'll probably head straight for you." He put his finger under her chin and gave her a little tickle. "He really likes being petted under the chin."

She giggled.

"You hungry?"

She looked down at her belly, "I think so."

"Let's see how many teeth you have."

She smiled wide.

He rubbed her on the top of her head, "I think you might like one of my world famous burgers." He picked her up and carried her to the kitchen.

He didn't know how he felt about children. This morning, he was thrilled to just watch TV and try to ignore her. But that had completely changed. She suddenly became a cute little girl. He started getting items out of the refrigerator, then stopped. She hadn't been a little girl but for a few days. She was sugar water and a few drops of blood. But then, was that all that different than him? One cell from each parent, add food. He opened the freezer. How much life was in a drop of blood? Could something so small contain a fraction of a soul? Did she?

It hardly seemed possible. He looked at her as he sliced the bread. She was so very cute.

By the end of her first week, she could have passed for three. She had figured out how to work everything within her limited reach. Every morning, Max was convinced that she was a complete stranger that should be hidden from. But by the evenings, Max was just as convinced that she was his oldest, dearest friend.

She learned to just pet him, and just when he wanted her to.

Argo watched her run from his room and slam into his leg. "Did-Dump," she whispered.

His T-shirt looked like a dress on her. "Ok," he whispered back, "Can you be quiet while I talk to my mom?"

She smiled.

He went into his room and turned on the video, "Hi Mom."

He chatted her up for a few minutes, then signed off.

Coulette looked sad, "I don't have a mom, do I?"

"Well, I—" He had no idea how to phrase such a thing for a child. More over, he didn't know what the answer would be.

She pressed her palms to her temples. "If I don't have parents, do I have a soul?"

He had actually thought about that for nearly a week, "I've known several people who had parents, but didn't have a soul. At least, not a good one."

She suddenly turned solemn. "I'm supposed to do something very important," she said. "But I don't have to do it, if I don't want to. Do you have a special purpose?"

He sat on the floor so he could look her in the eyes, "What is your special purpose?"

She looked puzzled, "I don't remember, now, but I will." She looked playful again, "If you wait till Max sees you, then walk up slowly, he'll let you pet him, almost every time." She leaned in close and whispered, "He likes belly rubs too." She smiled, then went to find the cat in question.

He went into the living room. Last night, they had watched a TV show from his collection. It featured a 'living' spaceship that looked like a spider and spit laser beams. Coulette was intrigued by the idea of it, and it was still playing on the TV this morning.

Coulette looked like she could pass for six and was lying on her belly in front of the couch. She had all of the paper from his room spread across the floor like a giant rug. She had scribbled on all of it and was nearly at the end of a five hundred sheet pack.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

She slid the sheet onto the floor and started on another.

"Honey," He picked up one of the pages. Four letters. It was just four letters, some of them were circled, some underlined, but AGTD in different combinations in tiny handwriting filled every empty space on every page across the floor. He knelt in front of her. "Honey, what are you drawing?"

The hand without the pen was moving like a teen listening to earphones, while the pen churned more letters onto the page.

"Coulette? Honey," he stopped her pen hand. "What's wrong?"

She picked up a pen with the other hand and continued to write.

He was almost out of paper as it was. He picked the girl up off the floor.

"Ahwwa!" she protested, hands still moving, but writing on inexpensive air.

"Honey, calm down, what's wrong?"

Her hands didn't stop.

He held her on the couch while Max investigated the carpet of papers. Max loved the sound of paper as it crinkled beneath his feet. He most especially enjoyed attacking corners. To Max, the reason was obvious. She had carpeted the living room for his enjoyment. No other reason. Max pounced under some sheets, emerged out the other side, bolted across and attacked the flutter stirred by his wake. To Max, this was Christmas.

Argo held the girl as he looked for the remote and turned the TV off.

In a few hours, she calmed down and fell asleep.

He left her sleeping on the couch while he gathered all the pages, much to the horror of Max who was not done playing.

Page after page of scribble, it seemed such a waste. He was angry, but a little sad too. It only amounted to a few dollars worth of paper, what was the real harm? The only harm, as he saw it, was the four-hour trip it took to replace paper. But he still had a few sheets in the printer itself.

He picked up Max and looked the little cat in the eyes, "You were supposed to be watching her, not instigating for your own amusement."

He tucked the cat into Coulette's sleeping arms. It seemed like a just punishment.

She woke a little past noon. "You have a nice nap?" he asked.

She rubbed her eyes, then looked at her right hand. It remained knotted. "I broke it?" she said horrified, "Fix my fingers! I like my fingers, can you fix my—" she worked herself into a panic.

"It's ok, it's just a cramp. Perfectly normal for the amount of writing you did."

"Writing?"

He debated on showing her, but didn't see how the harm could possibly outweigh his curiosity. He showed her the pages.

She leafed through them. "These aren't in order," she said, looking very upset.

"Yeah, ok, but, what is it?"

She stared at him like he had asked why apples fall from trees. She pointed to a line, "Right here is the instructions on how the base forms proteins for the digestive system." She flipped through them, pulling out four more and aligning them correctly, "See, here is the production of the phosphorescent chemicals, here is the reflective cells that line the eye, and here is the lens that focuses the beam." She looked very disappointed, "Where are the rest of the pages?"

He looked at her. She looked six, seven at the most. "What are you talking about? What is this?"

She used the remote to turn the show back on, "That." She pointed to the screen.

"Honey, that doesn't exist. It's make-believe. It's rubber and fancy camera angles and computer generated images and stuff. There is no such thing as living ships with beam weapons."

She looked upset, "No, see," she pointed to the four pages again, "See, this is all you have to do. It's simple, really. Where is the rest of it? I want to build one today—"

He turned it off. "Ok, first, this is all the paper you wrote last night—"

She stared at the little stack. "It takes four million, three hundred sixty-two thousand, five hundred ninety-two pages to make one of those—"

"I don't have that much paper, Honey, and you wouldn't live long enough to write that many pages, either." She was getting sadder by the word. "Look, Max was telling me he wanted to show you the pond today."

"I knew he talked!" she said, "But, why doesn't he ever talk to me?"

She was absolutely adorable, "He doesn't actually talk to me, Sweetie, it's just the way he moves and gestures, I guess. But it's not actual wo— Come on, I'm going to show you fishing."

Fishing proved to be uninteresting to a child. Instead, she followed Max as he explored around the pond.

Argo filled the tub with warm water, then lifted the naked little girl over the edge. "You know how to wash yourself, don't you?" he asked.

She promptly splashed with both hands.

"How you got covered in so much mud— You don't see Max coming home this dirty."

She splashed again with a giggle.

"Ok, I'm just going to do your hair because it's a little complicated for your first time."

He poured water over her head and she promptly started coughing.

"Sorry, Honey, you have to hold your breath when I pour, ok?"

She nodded, apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you." He got out the shampoo and put a little in her hands. "Ok, now, close your eyes." He put her hands on her head and got her started, but was mostly doing it himself. After rinsing for her, he left her to finish on her own.

She was a very cute kid.

She hit puberty by the end of the week, and wearing just t-shirts stopped being acceptable.

She screamed from the kitchen as she fell to the floor.

Argo ran in from the living room. "What's wrong?"

She was writhing on the floor in obvious agony. She put her hand on her cheek as a scar formed beneath her touch. She cried and shook uncontrollably.

He stared at her. He hadn't recognized the resemblance, until now.

She cried for an hour, right there on the kitchen floor, while he was clueless how to help her. She didn't say a word for the next two days. She just sat in a small corner of the room while another, more painful scar formed.

She wasn't a little girl anymore.
**B2.C30**

She looked at the plans. They were such fools. She circled another line. They planned to include a bomb in the device. It was a little naïve of them, but they did such things without her input.

The Michelin Man suit was already modified. No longer powered by a vulnerable combustion engine, it now used a power cell fueled by a few pounds of N60. That translated into at least four months' to a year's worth of power. If detonated by an explosive, that should yield in the neighborhood of five tons of TNT. Their plan, to put it bluntly, was to attack a walking truck bomb with a grenade.

The hydraulics had been replaced with linear motors, and the armor was replaced with the skin. It far exceeded the complexity for any one person to follow it all. The computer core was installed and the fibers were already linked. It gave assurances that it would vacate the web, or wherever it claimed to be located, once it verified an accurate copy was installed in the suit.

That was never going to happen. That wasn't its core program. It was to be relentless until she was free, period. The HB-4 insisted its actions were consistent and suggested that she should be ready. It suggested soon.

Her plane retained some fuel from her test flight with the counselor, but getting it up the elevator was impossible. It still lacked the main guns, but even they were incapable of blasting its way out. Which was ironic, from the air it had the power to easily level the entire base, but most of that power was only accessible at hypersonic speeds. She still had Dana's squirrel suit they had kept in the HB-4, but its range was extremely limited, essentially a glider.

But more than her escape, Shadona was now concerned that the malicious code would stay in systems forever. When the idea first came to her, she didn't much care what it did. So what if technology had to be rebooted all across the planet. So long as it ended in her being free, she just didn't care what happened in the world. At worst it would amount to another Y2K.

Now she knew some of those who lived in the world outside her cell. She cared. She didn't before. She circled another line on the blueprints.

She noticed a diode. It was backward, but harmless. It served no purpose, no reason to correct it, so she left it unchanged as a warning to the system about the booby trap. That was its only possible reason for inclusion in the drawings.

She sat in her room. Her cell. The counselor had been freed some time back and hadn't been allowed on base since. They only released her— she had officially been moved from property to hostage. Property never got released, just used up and thrown away, but hostages were sometimes released.

She caught her thoughts wondering about where she would go, once freed. But she knew where, just not how.

* * *

The RPG fired down the narrow hallway and exploded when it hit the zombie. The wall of fire rolled up the hall and nearly killed her as well, had she not stepped into a small nook.

"Wow!" Argo said, "You are good!" He elbowed Coulette in a vain attempt to distract her. She was beating his pants off.

Shadona played the game rather well, as he remembered, but not this well. Coulette's timing was nearly flawless, and she could play all day, much to his liking. Games were an excellent distraction. She seemed to be an adult, at times, and a child at others. She was only a few weeks old, after all.

She stormed the next room and continued her rampage.

"I have memories," she said as she cleared the room of monsters and started looking for treasures. "I know how to fly planes." She looked at him, then back to the screen. "It's very odd. I've never been in a plane, and, at the same time, sitting on a couch feels like jetlag. I can speak languages I've never heard. Are your memories incomplete?"

He used her pause to try to catch up to her in the game. "Sort of, I remember last week, but not what I was doing on Tuesday at 3:15."

A zombie popped out of a hiding place behind her, but she quickly dispatched him without breaking a beat in conversation. "I remember everything about today. But my other memories feel like, ghosts. They only seem real when you don't look directly at them, kinda through the corner of your eye. Weightless." She found the key and unlocked the secret passage where her rampage continued. She had this innate ability to dodge at the last second to miss getting hit.

They played for six straight hours.

She walked into his bedroom, middle of the night, and sat on his bed. "Argo... " she tried to nudge him awake. "Argo." She climbed into his small bed.

The room was dark when he put his arm around her. It felt perfectly natural.

"She fell in love," she said. "The first, used her to help him escape." She moved closer to his embrace. "The second, they made him her roommate. She knew he was the base's live-in spy, but, she fell for him anyway." She put his hand on her cheek. "He raped her one night. After he did this to her." She put her hand on his shoulder. "She forgave him. I don't know how. I don't know why. But she did. They gang raped her one night on a field exercise off the base. Three held her down, while the fourth took turns. When they were tired, they put a plastic bag over her head, peed on her in what they called 'cleaning the barrel', then rolled her down the side of the hill into a ravine. She bit the bag open and lay there for days until she was found. She recognized him. The one she forgave was one of the boys." She pressed her finger to his collarbone by his left shoulder. "She drove a number two pencil into his heart, right through here, broke off the eraser so it couldn't be removed, and it disappeared under his skin. I remember her kissing him on the lips and whispering that she forgave him a second time as he died on the floor."

He was awake now, like he had never been awake before.

"She loves you, Argo, I hope you know what that entails. I'm not sure I do."

Lightning struck the base on a regular basis, but not like this. Every ten minutes a bolt struck, starting at seven and ending at nine. Coulette watched most of it. She was every bit as distracting without a bra as Shadona was. Even after she had gotten her last two scars.

His father would be back soon.

* * *

It wasn't really an explosive. But she had hoarded an incredibly small amount of N60. Originally, she procured enough to blow open the doors between her room and the hangar. Unfortunately, it would take far more than what she had to blow open the elevator, and even if she had that much, that caliber of an explosion was very likely to cause a cave in. But, she had enough to make a bottle rocket of sorts that was easy enough to build into the heels of her boots. The squirrel device fit under her normal uniform and a light jacket.

Dysath's team was nearly finished modifying the Michelin suit and was hours or days away from downloading. She knew that she had seen the last drawing. Whatever was going to happen, it would happen soon. Be ready. She walked around ready, all she needed was sky above her head and the signal to go.

But she was also a little scared. She had become a pawn in her own plan. Things could go horribly wrong. There was a time when she wanted them all dead. But she wasn't that girl anymore. She was haunted enough by the dead lately.

With the ICBSB back on line, the base needed to drastically increase the amount of N60 they produced. But the high-yield bombs were not the only demand on this energy intensive product.

A show of good faith.

The base had learned how to make the new power cell and had started a small production run. These cells also ran off of N60 and had an immediate military application. The cells were capable of producing enough power, including surges, to run a typical home, while weighing just a few pounds and operating in near silence.

Unfortunately, she had no access to this increased production.

She had little access to anything outside her room.

* * *

The SUV wound its way up the driveway.

He looked at Coulette. His father would be there soon. He couldn't hide her. He had to face the— What in the world was he going to say, 'she's some sort of pod person, Dad, I grew her in the shed.'

He had better think of something, and soon.

"Coulette," he said, "I— We—"

"It's ok, I know." She stood and fixed her hair. "I know what's been asked of me."

"No, they, they think you ruined my life. That you got me hooked on drugs and—"

She put her hand across her scar, "I know."

"They are really going to hate you."

"It's ok. It's my place in life."

His father opened the door. "What the hell is she doing here?"

His mother was right behind him. "I helped you out," she said, staring at Coulette, "I gave you a job, and you got my son hooked on drugs—"

"Now Mom," Argo interrupted, "I— She—" but his mind was muddled on what exactly happened to him.

"I want her out," his father said.

Coulette put on a brave face, "I came to apologize—"

"You cleaned out his account—" his father started.

"She paid me back, Dad," Argo said, thinking of the checks.

"I was in a bad place, Mr. and Ms. Caranf," Coulette said. "I thought I was clean, myself, but I ran into some old— I am glad to see you both, so I can personally apologize. You both did so much for me, that I can't ever repay. Your son, he was there to try to keep me from... All I can say is how terribly sorry I am."

His mother approached, then grabbed Coulette's shirt, "You are wearing my son's clothes."

"Another bear attack?" his father chimed in. "You don't have much credibility left with me." He reached for the phone. "I have half a mind to turn you in right now."

The dishes rattled in the sink and cupboards, then they heard a distant boom, followed by three more. It wasn't the distinctive thunder they were all used to.

"What the hell was that?" his father said.

They went to the window facing the base. Something had exploded. Something big was going on. Several small explosions were too distant to hear, but easily visible.

"You should all leave," Coulette said, "they will be looking for me."

The father dialed the phone. "Hello... Yes... I have two things to report. Yes, oh, you already know about the... yes, I understand." He stared at Coulette, "There is a fugitive from justice in our home... No, I don't, but she may be dangerous. They said she was wanted for murder, but she seems harmless right now." He then gave them his address and hung up.

"Dad," Argo said, appalled. "You shouldn't have."

"No, he did the right thing," Coulette said, she looked at her feet, ashamed. "I'll stay here until they come. But please, you have to leave."

"I'll do no such thing," the father said. "This is my house." He pulled the gun from above the refrigerator. "We'll just sit and wait."

"Oh My God, Dad," Argo said. "That's totally unnecessary. She isn't dangerous—"

"She's wanted for murder—" the father started.

"Among other things, Son," the mother said.

Coulette sat as his father gestured.

"Dad, come on. We can be reasonable—"

"I have killed, before, Argo," Coulette said, sitting on the couch. Her hands were neatly folded on her lap. "It wasn't something I'm particularly proud of. I'm not running from my fate, anymore. But you shouldn't be here when they arrive. None of you should."

A helicopter took off from the base amidst a trickle of smoke and secondary explosions.

"We're not going anywhere," the father said.

Coulette slowly stood, "Then I should wait for them out—"

"Sit back down," the father said, resting his hand on the gun at the counter, "I don't want to tell you again."

Coulette continued to stand, "You don't want to use that, Mr. Caranf, I doubt you could even point it at me." She returned to the couch, "But, I'm not going to put you in a position to."

Argo approached his father at the counter. "You shouldn't do this, Dad. I know you both are mad, but, she came to apologize, to make amends."

"Well, sometimes amends means doing the time, Son. There are consequences for actions," the father said.

The sound of a helicopter grew louder, almost deafening as it passed overhead.

The father held the gun and went to the door. He opened and stepped outside.

"Gun" someone yelled outside, then four shots rang from the woods, and the father fell backwards through the doorway.

Ms. Caranf screamed and headed toward her fallen ex, as did Argo, but Coulette tackled him to the ground before he could clear the kitchen.

Another shot rang out, then glasses and dishes exploded as the front of the house was sprayed with bullets.

"Cease fire!" someone yelled from outside.

Argo heard voices around back before the rear door was kicked in.

"Stay down," Coulette said while she covered him, "keep your hands in sight. They just want me."

She moved to his side as men rushed in shouting orders.

"She's in here, Sir," one said into his mike, "Two suspects down... Copy that, at the door with a gun. The home is secure."

Coulette held Argo's hand on the floor.

A machine gun went off and sprayed the walls, "What the hell was that!" one man yelled.

"Oh God, what is that smell?" another said.

A third laughed uncontrollably, "You dumb bastards got sprayed by a fucking skunk!"

Coulette smiled at Argo on the floor, "I see what you mean by unmistakable."

"Where the hell did it go?" one asked, coughing.

"Oh, Man, that thing is long gone out the back," the laughing one said.

Argo was promptly flexi-cuffed and tossed to the couch. Coulette was slammed down next to him.

"Uhghh!!" a new man said, entering the home, "What the hell is that?"

"Skunk, Sir."

"You think that escaped me?"

"No Sir."

"Who'd it get?"

The two near Argo's bedroom stood at attention.

"You mind taking a position just outside the door."

"Yes Sir," they said.

"Now, how did I know to look here?" The new man stepped on Coulette's bare toes with his heel, "Your friend destroyed most of my base," he said.

She looked up at him, "It wasn't my idea."

He punched her in the face. When Argo spoke up, he got the same.

"Eight people died," the man said, "sixteen are in the hospital. This isn't a game, Girl. We had to blow the thing up to stop it." He stomped on her other foot. "Then your damn plane goes ape-shit, burns holes in everything, and damn near collapsed the elevator shaft before it ran out of fuel."

"Did I tell you to build it?" she asked.

He punched her again.

"Did you lie to it?" she said, blood on her nose. "Did you stop it?"

"Why don't you tell me."

"I can't stop it, I can't." She looked down. "I wish I could, but I'm just a pawn, like you. I'm sorry about your men, but I didn't kill them. I don't control any of this. You lie, it'll escalate."

"You are too expensive for my bottom line, and too costly to my personal life." He pulled his gun from the holster. "I should have done this from the beginning."

Bang!

Her head slammed back, and blood covered the couch. Argo was horrified. Coulette's blood was all over him. Her body slumped against him, head on his shoulder, hand flopped onto his knee.

"Sir," one of the men at the door said, "the local police are about four minutes out, Sir." He put a finger on Ms. Caranf's neck, "I think this one may be alive, what do you want to do?"

The one in charge looked around, "I don't see why we can't burn it."

Two came in and poured gasoline in the kitchen.

The one in charge looked at Argo, "Sorry, Kid, wrong place, wrong girl."

Fire started, smoke covered the ceiling as the one in charge pointed his gun. Argo closed his eyes.

A heavy thud sounded by the back door, and a machine gun went off, followed by more thuds. It sprayed one more time, then something metal clanked against the floor behind him.

He opened his eyes, looked up in disbelief, then stared at Coulette's body slumped beside him.

"We have to leave," she said, then put a hand on Coulette's bloody head. "I never wanted this. I'm sorry. This never should have been asked of anyone."

The house was burning beyond control.

She helped a stunned Argo up, "We have to go."

"My mom might still be alive," he said.

Shadona looked toward the door, "Help me get her outside."

They drug her out the front, down the steps, and onto the lawn as the house flamed up.

"The police will be here in a minute, we have to go." She led him to the helicopter by the pond, and they lifted off, Argo still in a state of shock.
**B2.C31**

They stood outside a free clinic; he wasn't even sure which state they were in. The last few days were a blur of trains crisscrossing the countryside. He watched as she pulled the end off a bullet and placed the shell and powder into the cigarette clipper, then carefully positioned it in her mouth.

He still loved her, at least, one side of him did. But now his father was dead, his mother was shot and hospitalized, his home was burned, and Max was missing.

"Is it going to hurt?" he asked.

She looked at him and nodded, then pulled the string hanging out her mouth.

A muffled pop sounded, like a firecracker exploding in a bucket of water, then she fell back against the alley wall, and blood ran down her chin. She spit out the device and they walked into the clinic.

"What happened to your friend?" the receptionist said.

Argo said what they had rehearsed, "I don't know, I just found her in the alley outside."

Shadona mumbled in a foreign language none recognized, but was absolutely convincing. She was bleeding badly and had stuffed gauze in her mouth, further confusing her unintelligible words. They had to wait for two gunshot victims and a stabbing before it was their turn. They seemed to be in the right place for trauma. Oddly, the place didn't seem all that interested in an explanation. Perhaps they really had seen it all.

With stitches and a micro graft from inside her cheek, they released her after only two hours and gave them directions to a homeless shelter. But they hopped four more trains instead for fear the dental X-rays would give them away. She lived off drinking a generic version of Ensure for two weeks before she improved to semi-solid meals like soup.

They sat in the back pews and waited for the Father. Argo wanted to call his mom, but they had discussed the topic before. Shadona was wanted by people, angry, dangerous people. His mother was, without a doubt, being watched. Coulette's body would pass for Shadona, there was a good chance they were genetically identical. His mother would be watched for a few years, at the most, then he should be free to send her a card or stop in at the restaurant. He still felt guilty about not contacting her.

He had missed his father's funeral.

The police had arrived in time to save his mother. The article got very confusing after that. They found the pilot and crashed helicopter Shadona had staged near the train tracks and had worked it into a weird, convoluted theory about the base and spies and corruption and national secrets and a drifter that had been killed in his father's home. His mother was alive. That was the key part of the story to him.

"Who was Coulette?" Argo asked while they waited. He had described the events to her before.

"I'm not sure. She felt like she was me, without my sins." She held his hand. "I would never have asked that of anyone."

"Were you, born, like her?"

She squeezed his hand. "No. I had parents, of a sort. Donors. When the government went into DNA testing of all prisoners, they amassed a massive database that was easily cross-referenced with comprehensive criminal records to reveal millions of genetic traits and markers. Cut and splice, I have bits and pieces of a dozen murderers and thieves in me. The sins of many fathers. Ironic, isn't it? It was compiled to free the innocent.

I remember the room I was born in. Dialysis machines, incubator-like devices, heart/lung machines clanking away, it isn't difficult to grow wombs and keep them alive for three quarters of a year. It's mostly skin. I guess I'm the argument for why stem-cell research should be heavily regulated. We were born as experiments. Legally property, not people."

He had stumbled over such thoughts for a month now. "How, from a drop of blood and sugar water? I don't get it."

"PCR cloning requires an incubator. When they do DNA testing, but only have a few viable cells, they basically put regular cells through a blender to make a sauce, then let the good cells marinate in an incubator. The incubator increases, then decreases temperature, and those complete strands in the test sample unzip, assemble the pieces from the sauce, and re-zip. Each time it cycles, you double the amount of the cells you want. Just by what you describe, it unzipped, re-sequenced, then fed them with sugar and water, a very basic food. But it did it electrically, somehow. I'm good with genetics, but it isn't my specialty.

Listen, Argo, you don't have to stay with me. I needed you for the tooth to make sure I got into the hospital. And, I'm horrified by what happened to your family. I just wish I could have gotten there sooner. I'm sure you don't remember it, but I was there when they drugged you and gave you all those suggestions. I understand how confusing all this is. You can go home to your mother, if you want. I won't blame you at all, if you do.

But, I think we had something. Staying is the only way to ever find that out."

He had thought about that a lot. He had sex with Dara any time he wanted; part of his muddled thoughts believed Shadona was a hooker, but his gut believed he had yet to have sex with her. Yet, even if both were true, he loved this girl and only liked Dara.

The Father walked down the aisle.

Shadona talked in perfect Spanish and pleaded their case. The Father referred them to another man who provided them with new documentation, and they merged anonymously into the city.

Argo had only two thousand dollars left.

She held the shirt up to her chest, checked its size, then added it to their cart. It wasn't much, and none of them were new, but they had to get at least a few changes of clothes. Thrift, secondhand stores were the only choice for now.

They both had picked up jobs at the same Chinese restaurant. He was a washer and busboy, the same position she started at. But within a week, Shadona was waiting tables. Dressed appropriately, she looked the part. Dark hair and dark eyes, tan complexion, she could pass for most nationalities. She had the language, demeanor, and accent to sell it too.

With tips, she out earned him two to one.

Their first paycheck came just in time.

They splurged and spent twenty dollars on twenty pounds of clothes, almost a week's worth of changes.

They lived on the second floor and had to pay a deposit and three months in advance, in cash. The room wasn't much, in fact, it was kinda sad for an efficiency. 'Fully furnished kitchen' meant a hot plate on top of a microwave sitting on a cabinet-sized dorm refrigerator, next to a sink with two cabinets without doors and no drawers. The bed folded down from the wall and consumed most of the living room.

They had a nine-inch TV with a built-in radio that picked up only two stations.

But, it was home.

He put the canned food into the cabinets, grabbed some ramen noodles, opened a can of tuna, and started lunch.

When the noodles were cooked, he drained them, chilled them under running cold tap water in the sink, then put them on their only two plates. He added a drizzle of ranch dressing, several spoonfuls of chilled chickpeas, then half a can of cold tuna and a pinch of salt.

It wasn't catfish burgers, but it wasn't bad for pennies a day.

Without a table, they had to eat at the kitchen counter.

They were struggling, but they were keeping above water.

The first few months felt odd. He had lived with her before. He had lived with Coulette most recently. Shadona felt a little like a stranger, like Max must have felt whenever they moved to his mother's home. His mother wasn't new to Max, but it took a while to fall back into that comfortable place. It was taking time to fall back into place with Shadona, too.

They lived twelve blocks from the bus stop. From there, it took fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant, eight to the thrift store, twenty to the nearest mall, and twenty-five to a strip mall with a dollar store and other like-places that they could afford. But the Laundromat was just a five-block walk.

Tuesday morning was Shadona's only time off. Argo was already at work when she filled the duffle bag with their clothes, grabbed a pocket's worth of change from her tips, and headed down the steps and out the door.

It was a hot day to lug laundry around asphalt-covered streets, but it promised to get hotter by midday when she had to lug them back.

When she arrived, she was happy to see it almost empty. She plopped the bag down in front of three jumbo front-loading washers and started sorting her way through the duffle bag.

There was a strong smell of urine near the back of the mat; fortunately, she had no reason to go much further than the chairs by the door.

She glanced at the young couple off to the side by the vending machines. The boy was clearly stoned and was groping the girl as she tried to sort her clothes. She didn't seem to mind too much, but seemed mostly embarrassed that he was doing such things in public. He licked the tips of his fingers, slid his hand down the front of her pants, then whispered in the girl's ear as he stared at Shadona.

Shadona avoided eye contact and had brought a book and sunglasses just for that purpose.

A little girl, her two brothers, and their mother came in. The mother looked haggard for first thing in the morning. She looked at Shadona's laundry tumbling in the jumbo washers, grunted, and slowly moved on after scolding one of the boys.

Laundry took about an hour and a half to two hours at a Laundromat, but she don't dare let it out of her sight for a minute. The 'hidden cameras' were there to find and persecute people who abused the machines, not steal clothes. The scrawled profanity in magic marker just under the camera warning even said so.

Shadona opened her book and started to read. Restaurants were loud, joyous, and full of talkative people, but Laundromats were like libraries in a way, most people milled silently around in their own little worlds, and conversation rarely rose above pleasantries. Laundromats were generally stiflingly hot after the dryers got going, and almost never air-conditioned.

The two boys chased the girl around the machines. Their mother paid none of them any mind. She was busy with the clothes. Until the child screamed. "I swear to God, I'm going to stuff one of you in the dryer!" the mother yelled, not even looking at who caused what. She reached into her bag and slapped a belt across the top of the nearest washer. "One more!" This time she turned and glared at all three. "I'll whip all three of you, right here in front of everyone."

The girl of the couple looked appalled, then her stoned friend pulled his hand out of her pants long enough to say, "I'll give you ten bucks to beat them right now!" then slapped a roll of quarters onto the counter.

The boys almost took it as a challenge, but the girl got quiet and shy, then crawled under a table and sat where the boys were unlikely to follow.

Shadona returned to the book.

* * *

Winter in the city was difficult. The heat never came on in the building, not fully. The bus was always cold and drafty, and the wind tended to get caught by the buildings and chill them to the bone on those long hikes to and from public transportation. But winter brought other qualities.

Argo pulled her closer as they snuggled under the discount sleeping bag, opened and spread like a blanket across the bed.

They worked sixty, seventy hours a week. She wasn't the most popular waitress, but she tended to be very personable, attentive, and pulled in generous tips. The hours were hard on both of them. At work, they rarely saw each other except in passing. They shared the one account. She signed her check over, and he went to the bank and deposited them.

It had the feel of roommates, but sharing a single bed.

He pulled her a little closer. It was more than roommates, but less than a live-in lover. Winter in a cold apartment meant sweats and warm slippers. He kissed her scarred cheek.

He had seen her naked before, but not in a long time. She was cute, but flawed. But all women were slightly flawed in one way or another. Perfection was an impossible standard for anyone to achieve, outside of airbrushed magazines and surgery.

He had visions of her as a prostitute, but they never seemed to fit. More dream than real. They still hadn't had sex yet, at least, not in any of the memories he trusted. This far away from Dara, this was as long as he had gone without— no, that wasn't exactly true. There was a year where he spent the summer at his mother's and Dara spent the winter away, too.

However long the days added up to be, he was anxious, and she was sound asleep.

Argo drew one of the short straws and had to clean the kitchen before he left work that night. Shadona stayed to help, letting one of the kitchen staff go home early. For a waitress, she seemed unafraid to climb elbow deep into grease and take out the trash, something most waitresses seemed to believe was beneath them. She was less squeamish than even the kitchen staff, which seemed to endear her to them.

They sat at the bus stop that night, exhausted. She leaned against him on the bench as they waited for the next one to arrive. It was just the two of them, and sometimes the wait could be as long as an hour.

"I could really use a shower," he said.

She ran her fingers through his greasy hair, "You could use a trim, too."

"We need some warm hats if we're going to be waiting here for buses for the rest of our lives."

"Not the rest of our lives. Just, for now." She warmed his cold ear with the palm of her hand.

A bus lumbered in the distance, but they remained seated. It was the wrong bus.

He turned on the hot water and fog quickly filled the tiny bathroom. He tossed his dirty clothes on the floor and stepped in. Shadona stepped in behind him.

She didn't use a lot of makeup, but what she did quickly melted away in the hot spray. The little shadow around her eyes and the line that covered her scar washed over her shoulder and down the drain. In a stall only big enough for one, she smiled as she filled her hand with shampoo and started to do his hair.

He kissed her, put his arms around her, then lathered her back while he closed his eyes.

Foam rinsed from his head, and he opened his eyes again.

He lathered his hands, then started on her shoulders, but hovered with a couple of wipes on her scar. "Not a bear," he said as water bounced off her back.

"Piece of a plane."

His fingers hovered over the burns, "Not strangers."

"Betrayed, by a friend."

He ran his hands across her hips. "Not a Georgia peach."

"Just me, a pilot, a person, a girl you once opened your home to," she said in perfect peach pitch.

He kissed her belly as he got on his knees and lathered her legs.

He held her naked body under the sleeping bag as the fog from the bathroom mixed and filtered out as it spilled across the floor. Her skin was still damp, her hair made the pillow wet, but he didn't care. He ran his hand across her front again, kissed her again, then did what felt natural, to him.

That morning, he woke in the bed alone, his father's words about condoms ringing in his ears. She was sitting at the counter, drinking coffee, looking terribly lonely.

She wasn't Dara. She wasn't. He reminded himself that all women were not alike, no matter how much they had in common.

He pulled on his sweats and joined her at the counter. He grabbed a mug and poured a cup.

He put an arm around her and felt her shy away. He felt horrible. Vigorous and a little aggressive, even as shamefully brief as last night had been, probably was too close to the memories behind at least one of her scars. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to make amends. He wanted to hug her and promise it would never happen again. Instead, he opened his mouth, and his father slipped out, "We should get some condoms."

She started to cry.
**B2.C32**

She couldn't have children. She had been sterilized, as were all of the girls at the base. They had taken childhood from her, and parenthood too. All she had left was the narrow bits of life that could be found between those two.

She told him the morning after their first night, when her tears finally subsided.

It took a lot of trial and error to discover what worked for both partners. With Shadona, it helped him to think with the mindset of a victim. Sex, ultimately, was fundamentally the same as rape, from a purely mechanical standpoint. Intent accounted for some of the difference between the two, but intent alone left the mechanics looking and probably feeling about the same.

Foreplay was an obvious place to start, but it was fraught with pitfalls as well. Groping was a fine line that was hard to keep from crossing into.

After a few months, they settled into what seemed to work for both of them. He kept four words in mind. Kissing, caressing, gentle, and slow. Painfully slow, if possible. She sometimes reminded him of getting Max into a cage, there simply wasn't a fast, easy way to do it. And forcing was never an option.

The shower was incredibly small. He could lean his back against one wall and touch the other with his fingertips. Two was crowded and something they rarely did, but it was more fun than awkward and the hot water seemed an endless form of winter fun.

"Hi, my name is Sally, and I'll be your waitress today," Shadona said.

"Oh, uh, wonderful," the man dressed in a casual suit said. "I, uh, umm." He leaned forward, "I'm meeting a business associate here, but, he's running late." He pointed toward a bigger booth table, out of the way and in a back corner. "You, you think I could move over there and wait? You know, so long as it keeps slow like it is."

"You sure can," she said, grabbing his silverware.

They walked over, "Thank you, I've got to check these drawings before he gets here—" He gestured for her to come closer, "Look, I'm not going to order much, just coffee and maybe a BLT or something, but I'm a good tipper. I really just need to rent some quiet and some space, if you know what I mean."

Shadona smiled politely, "How about some egg rolls?"

He nodded, he hadn't noticed what kind of restaurant it was.

"We won't be busy for another two hours. You take your time. Want me to start you off on that coffee and rolls, or wait until your friend shows up?"

He spread out the papers, "Oh, yes, please, I think better with something to munch on."

She returned with coffee and cream, and a plate with egg rolls and a small bowl of spicy mustard and whipped cream cheese. He looked up from the papers, then noted the plate. "You didn't look like the standard soy or duck sauce man," she said, "thought you might like to give something a little more western a try."

He dipped the roll into the cream cheese, then dabbed a bit of mustard and gave it a taste. "Wow," he dipped with vigor this time, "You're very right. I may never go back to soy sauce again, thank you."

She smiled and went on to her next table.

"How are you two doing?" she asked, taking away his empty plate.

They looked up from the mass of papers they had been discussing, "Oh, uh, everything was fine, just fine, thank you." Then they returned to their discussion, "We have only two weeks to find what keeps shutting this thing down, or we lose the contract."

Shadona gave it a glance, then pointed to a relay board with the cap of her pen, "Your nomenclature is off on those three wires. Right circuit number, wrong distribution point." She pointed to another page, "They're supposed to come from here, instead. Just a typo, really." She put her pen back, "You want to try something from our lunch menu?"

They stared at the page and started tracing the diagram back. "Oh, uh, yeah, the uh, fried rice thing with the beef and broccoli," the first one said.

"Same for me," said the late arrival.

She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

She got a two hundred dollar tip at that table, a business card, and an offer of a job.

Two weeks later, the same businessman returned to Shadona's table.

He was wearing a more formal suit. "I see you kept the contract," Shadona said, "What can I get for you tonight, beef and broccoli and fried rice like last time?"

"You a student studying electrical engineering at the local college?" he asked, pretending to look through the menu.

She smiled politely, "No."

"Then, how did you know about distribution and control centers?"

"Errors just stand out, to me."

"What, uh, what did you do before working here?"

She kept in mind Argo's suspicion of the generous tip, "I worked at my husband's mother's restaurant," she said, switching from oriental to a perfect Georgia peach.

"Well, you had to have had some sort of exposure to mechanical—"

"My father used to leave this stuff around the house all the time, but he was never able to get it to take him anywhere."

"Listen, I know the tips here are good, but, I'd like to think I can offer you more. We got the rest of the contract, it's for two years just about four miles from here, and I'd—"

"I wouldn't be any good to you as a secretary, if that's—"

"That's not what I'm offering. See, I'm partners with the owner and the other guy you met—"

"I'm no engineer, either, I don't have a lick of credentials."

"Look, I report to no one. I can hire who I want, for whatever I want. It isn't my company, but I know the owner and, as long as we come in under budget, he doesn't care if I spent all day at bars getting drunk." He wrote a figure on the back of a new business card. "Just, think about it. Just to look over some drawings. Moving around those little blue lines don't hardly cost nothing. It's moving them around after the building is built that runs into the millions." He tapped the back of the card, then handed it to her, "I think it may be money well spent."

She put it in her pocket without looking, then took his order.

It was twice what she made a year, including tips.

She called him from a pay phone the following day.

She got off the bus and walked six blocks to a construction site where they were updating a data center. She hadn't quit the restaurant yet. She approached the first person she saw, "Excuse me," she said, "do you know where this is?" She showed him the company logo off the card.

When his eyes drifted off her chest and onto the card, he pointed to the trailers around back, "One of those, I suspect. But, I'm not entirely sure, Ma'am." He pulled a lunchbox out of the trunk of a Civic and headed into the building.

The company logo was on a small sign stapled to the wooden steps outside the fourth trailer from the end. She stepped over the mud puddle and walked in.

"Oh, hi!" the men quieted down and feet came off of desks, "You remember me, Tom Eaglesfort," the patron from the restaurant said, shaking her hand, "This is Dave Greenstone and Mike Saving." He put his hand on her back as he gestured, "This is Sally, uh," he turned to Shadona, "I'm sorry, I never got your last name."

"Sienda," she said.

Tom cleared his throat, "Now guys, you know I found her in a restaurant, you heard me and Steve talk about that night before, but the first person that asks her to get them a cup of coffee is getting fired. Understood?"

He walked her over to the desk near the end where he talked a little quieter.

"You don't work for them, just with them, sorry to say." He pulled out a chair for her at the desk, then started digging for forms, "Here's the government at work. I've put you down as personal assistant, if that's all right with you. W-4, the drug policy, safety policy, all the normal crap, it'll take you an hour to fill them all out. I'll need your two forms of ID and we'll be on the road." He knelt by the desk to speak as quietly as he could and still be heard, "Not that I mind what you wear, but it's all I can do to keep these guys focused on the job as it is."

She handed him the forged cards and he went off to the photocopier. She had dressed perhaps a little too nice.

The first few weeks they kept her mostly in the office getting caught up. Dressed like a boy, she hardly got noticed at all, especially with her hair tucked under a hat. Dave and Mike seemed nice enough, and Tom was rarely there.

She had no real authority to do anything. Technically, she was just an assistant. But it became quickly apparent that her suggestions usually became implemented when Tom showed up that day.

"Now, Sally, what is in that thing, anyway?" Dave said over lunch.

"Cucumber and cream cheese, on toasted homemade bread," she said.

Dave crunched down on his steak sub, sauce dripping down his chin, "Well, if that's what you have to eat to stay thin," he patted his little keg of a belly, "then count me out."

She smiled politely, "I eat it because I like the taste." She looked at Tom and Mike, "I'm thin because of intestinal worms."

Tom coughed up some of his drink, while Mike laughed out loud.

Dave, never to be outdone, picked through the onions, peppers, mushrooms, and cheese on his sub and said, "I thought they left one of the toppings off. Where's my tape worms!"

Mike brought the revised plans over to Shadona, "Sally, why'd you move the pipe rack out over here? It was shorter and a straight shot the way it was."

She looked up from the page she was on, then looked at the pages he brought over. She pulled out the drawings that included air ducts and showed where the pipes originally were wouldn't fit, then showed him the architectural drawings with the beams that prevented the ducts from being relocated.

He returned to his desk, "Good catch."

She opened the door to an empty apartment. She was making more money, but was also working fewer hours. Unfortunately, it proved more tiring. It took a lot of effort to proofread plans as complex and poorly coordinated as these.

She stripped and headed for a hot shower.

Argo came through the door, 1:12 AM, while she was sound asleep, as usual. He tried to be quiet. She had to be at work at 6:30 AM, which meant she had to be at the bus at 5:35 AM and awake at 5:05 at the latest, a mere four hours away.

He had four hours with her, and one or both of them spent those four hours asleep.

He had to be at work around noon and didn't get home until one or two at night. The money was good, they actually had some for once, but money wasn't everything. She had Sundays off, but he rarely did, and it was unfair to ruin her sleep schedule just so she could stay up with him. The most he usually got out of Sundays was a pleasant breakfast. This wasn't what he had in mind.

He took a shower, dressed, then headed for bed, sliding in behind her.

She had worn perfume for the restaurant and tried to smell good, but not where she worked now. Not that she reeked by any means. Yet, he missed that extra feminine scent in her clothes. Her hair had grown long all this time, but she trimmed it short last week. Not quite a boy cut, but nowhere near as cute.

She adapted well to any situation.

He wondered how much adapting she was doing with him.

Sunday was two days away.

Pancakes on a hotplate were difficult and time consuming to do. So during the week, Shadona simply took hot water from the coffee maker and poured some into a plastic sandwich-style container, stirred in some instant powder, sprinkled some cinnamon on top, then popped it into the microwave for a minute. It came out fluffier than normal pancakes, more cake than pan, and it lacked the thick edges normally associated with pancakes, but otherwise it tasted excellent. When done, they stored the plastic container in the refrigerator for the next morning, no daily washing required.

Now that Sunday was here, they had time. Well, she had the time, he still had to be in by noon.

Pancakes, cooked on a pan, with sausage and scrambled eggs with grated cheese.

She served it to him in bed, 10:45 AM.

"I could quit," Argo said after they ate.

"Tom said he could get you a job as a laborer. They just move garbage, do clean up, and are the designated shovel engineers. But, it's a lot harder than busing tables and doing dishes, and it doesn't pay much better. You probably wouldn't like it much."

He was thinking about quitting anyway. The restaurant just wasn't the same without her. He looked her in the eyes, "This, not seeing each other, just isn't working."
**B2.C33**

He filled the wheelbarrow with broken bricks, bags of half-eaten fast-food, and discarded cups, then pushed it the two hundred yards to the dumpster where he unloaded it, touching every piece a second time as he heaved them up and over its eight-foot walls.

He figured if he cleaned the farthest building from the dumpster by lunch, he could have a fairly easy rest of the day cleaning the building closest to it. It was mindless, pointless labor either way, but that was about the same as what he was doing before. This was outside, instead of indoors with the smokers and the humid grease of the kitchen.

A diesel truck went by. The smell of melting asphalt, welding fumes, and exhaust had to be far worse than the few puffs of a cigarette he used to complain about. So much for the fresh, wholesomeness of outside air. He missed his mountaintop.

His job was exhausting and boring. Moreover, he saw even less of Shadona here than he did at the restaurant.

"Jonde!" the man yelled. "Jonde!"

"Yes Sir," Argo said, he had forgotten that was his new name.

It was his foreman who spoke in a thick, Spanish accent.

Argo had difficulty understanding the man, but with enough pointing and gesturing he tried to clarify, "You want me to refill the water kegs in building two?"

The foreman patted him on the shoulder, pointed to building two, and went on his way.

Water kegs were five gallons of ice and water in an insulated cooler. Building two had no elevator. That meant four stories of stairs, with each full keg weighing forty pounds. Each floor had three kegs, and he had to go up and collect the empties too. It would take most of the morning and throw his whole day off. But, that was the job.

Carpenters, plumbers, welders, electricians, they were all considered skilled labor, and they all made several times what he did. It was a waste of their time to fetch water, not to mention a waste of the project's budget for them to do it. So, it fell on him. Same rationale with cleaning.

Simple economics.

He started up the stairs. It was probably more economical to wear out his knees than to send the heavy kegs up to each floor on a forklift, like they did with other material.

He went up the steps, two at a time.

Two large tents were set up for eating lunch. An attempt was made to heat them, but it was a difficult task to do. At best, it wasn't cold or windy. Shadona ate in the office trailers like most of supervision. Every now and then, he would see her walking the buildings, but for her it was more of a tour instead of a chore.

It seemed a lot like the restaurant, she got the easy stuff while he scrubbed dishes in the back.

She was one of only fifteen women on a job of hundreds.

One of his first assignments was painting the inside of the port-o-johns. Some of the things written about 'Sally' disturbed him. Some racial, most sexual. But the same kinds of things were written about all the women. Painting over them seemed to only encourage them to write worse things. 'Whore: Noun, A woman who knows her place. Signed, Webster' and a slanderous misspelling of the word dictionary.

They might have been funny, had he not known one of them.

He waited at the bus stop for Shadona to show. He had already missed two that could have taken him home when he finally saw her round the corner of the fencing wall.

She kissed him on the cheek, then sat down.

He felt like complaining, but she had clearly had a long day too.

"You feel like having a pizza delivered?" she asked, "We have it in the budget."

"Sure, right after taking a long, hot shower."

She leaned into him. "That sounds nice, too."

He hadn't had it for long, but it was already the worst job he had ever had. The work was more difficult, the conditions had him freezing or walking in mud, and the labor was wearing him out. But, it was nice waking at the same time and going to bed at the same time. It made it feel like they had something in common again. "I miss summers with my mom."

"Tom is flying to New Orleans to bid on another one of these."

"You planning next year for me too?"

The bus poked its grill around the corner and headed their way.

They stood and readied their exact change, then got on and sat down.

She put her hand on his knee as she looked out the window. "He could mail a postcard to your mom. Nothing personal on it, no return address that could give even a hint of where we are, but maybe something that references skunks or a son. Something that would give her a hint that you were still alive. Hallmark has a card for everything. Tom said he'd be happy to drop it in a mailbox for me."

He looked at her. The only makeup she wore now was on just the one cheek. "I was thinking that maybe I could just write that, after they killed Coulette— or, uh, you, that I was hiding for fear they were after me too, for something you did. She'd buy that paranoid stuff."

"Even better." She held his hand, "I feel guilty, you know. This wasn't what you bargained for. I, I never had parents. Now, I feel like I've taken yours away. I still feel horrible about your dad." She looked out the window again. "I really liked him. I did." She wiped the fog off the glass with her sleeve. "Tom won't be leaving for another few weeks."

"What do you do, for him?"

"Dull, look over the drawings for errors, or things that could be done better. Software only does so much when you click optimize. They're happy to have me." She smiled at him. "I like them.

He said that I had saved them enough in the restaurant, that even if I didn't come up with another thing but just cheered up the place for a year, they would still come out ahead. He's an optimist, you know. He likes to think there is something good in everyone, and he loves trying to find it. Said he knew giving me a chance was the right thing to do.

When most contractors find an error, they drop everything to rush and put the error in, because, they calculate that that way they get paid for the labor that went into completing the error, get paid extra to take out the error, and get paid a third time to fix the error.

This company has a reputation for doing it right the first time. The errors they caught and fixed ahead of time got them eight more contracts, even though they weren't the lowest bids on any of them. It's rare, but sometimes doing the right thing gets rewarded."

"You have to go with them when they do the next one?"

"No, but they want me to. At the end of this job, they were talking about a big bonus. Tom said that mine would make up for the difference between what he wrote on the back of that card and what someone who does this professionally makes. I should go, Argo, but I wouldn't, if it meant going without you."

"Jonde and Sally," he said.

She kissed him on the lips. "I love you, Argo Caranf."

His lunchbox fell off his lap, the lid popped off the hinge when it hit the floor, and he rushed to scoop the items back before they rolled to every end of this jostling behemoth. She told him she loved him, on a bus.

They didn't have sex that night, not that he didn't want to, but they had pizza in bed instead. Which, in a way, was just as good. He hadn't had a good pizza, well, since his dad.

Next morning, he woke next to her. The alarm clock wasn't set, but he woke anyway. Today was Sunday, and they both had it off.

They got to sleep late. Today, that meant 8 AM.

He hugged her a little, then got up to go to the bathroom. Some things couldn't be put off indefinitely.

On the forged papers, they were a married couple. But, he didn't feel it. It didn't feel like dating, roommates, or husband and wife. It just didn't feel like it should. Like he thought it would. But it wasn't that he didn't love her.

He did.

He sat on the floor by the bed.

Sometimes she slept facing him, sometimes away from him.

To see her face today, he had to sit on the floor.

He held the hand she dangled near the edge. Her ring had moved to the married finger long before they settled on this city, mostly to cut down on the number of people hitting on her. He told the story that he had to sell his for their first month's rent. He needed to get one, but nothing matched hers. He had been putting it off for months. They had the money, but he just didn't feel married yet.

She was cute, smart, perhaps even brilliant. She was talented in so many things. He watched her fly a helicopter, he was pretty sure she flew planes. She killed a room full of men in a matter of seconds.

She was thinner than Dara, but had a smaller chest too. But none of that explained his hesitation.

For a decade, he had imagined doing nothing with his life. Just, nothing. Perpetual student, fishing with his cat. Of the many lives he had imagined, he never imagined this.

This was hard.

It was unpleasant.

It required effort.

He stared at her innocent, sleeping face before kissing her fingers.

The pile of dirty clothes had reached critical mass. There was no doubt what would be on today's agenda. Laundromat.

"Morning," she whispered.

He kissed her, turned on the TV, then went to the kitchen to start on that lesser chore that answered to the name of breakfast.

Shadona crawled out of bed and started stuffing the duffle bag.

She normally slept in thick, plaid, long sleeve shirts with matching bottoms. The top few buttons were undone and it looked like a plunging neckline. She stopped in the kitchen beside him and poured a cup.

He caught himself staring at her. She couldn't go to a beach, wear a bikini, or really show off how sexy she was, without revealing something that makeup couldn't cover. She was lucky with the scar on her cheek, it was very thin and healed smooth to the touch, little more than a discoloration. With the others, she wasn't so lucky. She was limited. He flipped the scrambled eggs in the pan, then sprinkled the shredded cheese.

She buttoned her shirt.

He felt bad for making her self-conscious. He had been thinking about asking her to make up her face like she used to when working for tips. He turned the heat off the hotplate, then turned to look her in the eyes. "You're very beautiful, you know."

She looked more uncomfortable, if that was possible.

"Really, you are. I, I remember pieces. I remember a bear attack and a girl in a bloody nightshirt. And, I remember a hazy pilot in a singed flight suit, that I thought was a guy." He looked at the cheese melting on the eggs, that needed another minute. "I, in my head, I fell in love with this con-artist from Georgia, then watched her fly a helicopter at treetop level in near darkness. After that, these other memories kept trickling into my head. I feel like I'm cheating on them both, in a weird way, with this brainy girl who makes a third-hand plaid shirt look sexier than a bikini in summertime."

She pulled two clean plates from the rack as he cut the makeshift omelet and slid them onto the plates.

"You're very beautiful, whichever one you are."

She smiled.

There was more to marriage than sex. There was more to a rewarding relationship, too.

Today, he wanted to buy that ring.

After taking the clean laundry home, they rode an extra twenty minutes on the bus, then walked another ten blocks to a Wal-Mart. It didn't match her ring, but it was nice and affordable, and it said all that finger needed to say.

He held her hand in bed that night, ring next to ring. His was a simple band, much like hers. But hers was almost the color of tan skin.

"Can I see it?" he asked.

She pulled it off, then placed it in his hand.

"It's light."

"It's plutonium powered," she said.

He could never quite tell when she was joking. He got a little scared and handed it back.

"It's perfectly safe. If it put out even a measurable amount of radiation, they could use it to find me, and I assure you, it doesn't. It's less radioactive than beer."

He was tired. The TV had already been put on sleep timer and the alarm clock set for an obscene hour in the morning. "You're serious? Plutonium?"

She slid it on his finger. "Do like this." She put her hand over his as she slowly guided him through making a fist, then something like conducting an orchestra, then ended it in another fist.

"What the hell?" He sat up in bed and stared at the ring. "It tickles. Like little pulses."

She took the ring back from him. "It has a small version of the flight computer I used in my plane. It senses movements in my finger by the tiny impulses, kind of like biofeedback. I ask the question, it tickles the answer. It isn't even metal. Nothing precious about it. Even the plutonium is only worth a few pennies, but it'll power it for a hundred years. It'll outlive me, easily."

He looked at it. "Where'd ... How ... What?"

She rolled to face him, "I never told anyone about the ring, Argo. I, I don't know if I'm really free, I may never really know, but it's the only thing of value I have left from that world. I made it such a long time ago."

He touched it again. "You made a plutonium powered computer ring, when you were, younger?" It was lighter than aluminum. "How smart are you?"

She kissed him instead. "It's mostly just a ring. It represented my hopes for freedom back then," She moved it to the appropriate finger, "it represents my future now."
**B2.C34**

"What, you get married over the weekend, Jonde?" one of the guys asked him while they ate lunch in the tent.

"No, I'm not—" Argo looked at the ring on his finger. "I've been married, we just had to sell my ring to make ends meet. Just this weekend, we got up enough money to replace it."

"What'd you pay, ten buck?"

One near the end laughed. "It no gold or silver."

Argo was feeling a little ashamed under their ribbing, "No, it isn't nowhere near as good as what we started out with back—"

One of the older men at the table chimed in, "You need to take control, Man. If you do not, she will have everything nice and you'll be the one sleeping on the bottom, Amigo."

"Tell her who's boss," another said, "make her sell her ring, you get something nice. That's what I'd do."

Those his age made whipping sounds and gestures his way.

The older man chimed back in. "You wife know about that tail you chase around here? I see you pecking like chickens at the bus stop—"

"She is my wife," Argo said defensively.

The older ones let it go at that, but one of the younger boys couldn't. "Heard she was a Butch, Bro. I know you never get to ride on top of that pony, but does she strap on something, or do she make you wear," the boy got up and grabbed his crotch, "extensions?" He turned to a buddy, "Probably made him pawn his balls too!"

The table laughed at Argo's expense.

"Hey, uh, Sally, can I see you a minute?" Tom said walking into the trailer.

"Sure," Shadona said, walking over to his desk.

He opened his PDA. "We've got that meeting in DC on next Tuesday, are you going to be able to make it?"

She nodded, "It's just two days, right?"

"Yeah, we fly over at 6:00 AM, spend that night, have another meeting on Wednesday and fly back." He looked up from the PDA, then adjusted his volume, "You don't have a car, do you?"

She shook her head no.

"I'm not sure if the bus line can get you to the airport—"

"I just have to leave a little earlier, that's all."

He had been around her long enough. "How early is a little earlier?"

"3:22"

"Look, why don't I just pick you up, ok?" He sensed some hesitation on her part. "Look, I need you sharp, or there's no point in taking you. Flying over a thousand miles will be bad enough, I don't need you bouncing around for hours on a bus tacked on top of it all."

She reluctantly agreed.

"Good. We have adjoining rooms and seats on the plane— Don't worry, I'm no chatterbox. I plan on catching some sleep on the plane too." He paused, this last detail could be easily misconstrued, "I've never met these guys before. Do you have anything that's like, business-casual? I, that's the tone I'm trying to set with them, Ok?"

She nodded.

"Look, I appreciate this. I'd normally take one of the guys, but they get distracted by shiny things and what was served for breakfast. This is a big contract and it's a little out of left field for me to follow."

She smiled politely, then went back to work.

Argo had been waiting on the bench for easily twenty minutes when Shadona emerged from around the fence. He had been stewing for even longer.

She set her lunchbox beside his, then gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I told Tom I'd go with him to DC. He asked if I'd ever flown before." She pressed her smile to his cheek as he stared at the ground. She held his hand and looked for the bus. "I know you're tired. Me being excited about my day is just another reminder of yours." She squeezed his hand. "It won't always be this way. I've had a few years of bad days. They don't last forever, trust me. They just seem to."

The bus pushed its nose past the corner.

They stood. He picked up their boxes as she fished for exact change.

She placed the duffle bag on the counter to be X-rayed before she went through the larger device intended for scanning people.

She glanced at the monitor as her ring passed through on the tray. It showed as a slightly blurry ring, nothing unusual. She almost left it at home, but she hadn't let it out of her sight since she made it.

She put it back on her finger, grabbed her bag, and followed Tom onto the plane.

"You never talk about your husband," Tom said when the seat-belt light went off and they reached altitude. He got re-situated in his seat. "I didn't even know you were married when I first saw you in the restaurant." He fluffed his pillow and wedged it against the window, then gestured at her ring, "You have to look hard to even see it. It's very unusual."

She smiled politely, then unbuckled too.

"Sorry, didn't mean to get nosy. You two can't have been married long. What's the story?"

"Eloped."

"That's new. Most people just run out and shack up. At least he put a ring on your finger."

She smiled politely, then looked forward at the screen.

"Sorry," he said, adjusting his pillow again. "Being nosy again. You kids will make it. Just hold in there for a few more years." He forced himself to yawn a few times before the genuine article came. "You've got enough talent to take you just about anywhere you want to go." He yawned one more time, then closed his eyes and tried for sleep.

Tom, the owner, and an estimator took Shadona to the restaurant near the hotel. She picked up at least six ways to cut tens of thousands from drawings in the first few minutes of the meeting. Unfortunately, their company would lose money if she simply spoke up then. They were not a drafting service, that was only part of the contract they were going for. They discussed several options and changes and were able to generate some accurate bids based on their revisions. It gave them a powerful bargaining chip. Inspecting the prototype building was helpful too.

Lobster at the restaurant was a first for her.

She liked crawfish better.

Tom yawned, then knocked on her door that morning. "Sally?"

She opened the door immediately.

"Oh, you're already up. They have a good breakfast bar in this place, but it's buffet style, so, earlier is always better."

She put the keycard in her pocket and closed the door behind her.

"I love eating breakfast in places like this. Half the people show up in robes and PJs." He pointed down to his slippers. "Did you get enough sleep last night?" he asked as they got into the elevator.

She rubbed her eyes. "No. I don't sleep well alone, it seems." She looked at their reflection in the highly polished brass. "I was thinking the fifth floor distribution—"

"Oh, don't, please. It's too early for me to even think about work. Listen, don't put too much effort into this. We don't have the contract yet. You just want to think basic outline." He noticed her cheek, "What happened there?"

She could make it out in the brass. Her makeup was gone in splotches. The scar was faint, but visible.

Tom's finger hovered over the button to their floor. "We can go back up, if you like. But, if you don't mind, I sure don't." He studied her a little too close, "We're a thousand miles from anyone we know. It's up to you. Most people are in PJs anyway. Nobody's going to notice."

They got off the elevator and let the clatter of plates and the smell of fried sausage guide them to the desired room.

They went through line, then sat off to the side. "So," he said, "Farming accident, fall off a swing as a child?"

She mopped up the syrup with the chunk of her pancake, "A lapse of judgment, before I met my husband."

He put his hand on hers. "I'm sorry. I never rooted for an accident before." He abruptly pulled his hand away, "Listen to me getting all nosy again. Tom, it's none of your damn business. There," he said, "I'm putting myself on notice." He broke open another biscuit on his plate, loaded it with sausage, bacon, hash browns, and a spoonful of scrambled eggs, then stuffed the mini sandwich in his mouth.

They had meetings for half of the rest of the day, then headed for the airport and home.

She climbed the stairs to their apartment, then put in her key.

The lights were off, but the TV was on. 9:36 PM. Argo looked like he was asleep. On any other day, she would be too, but the plane was delayed twice. She showered, then went to bed. It would be another day all too soon.

Soon enough, Sunday morning rolled around again.

He pulled the covers back and looked at her. They ate leftovers last night, took a shower, and went straight to bed. He had hoped for sex then, but it just didn't happen. In profile, she was gorgeous. The room was cold enough to raise little bumps on her skin.

He moved partially atop her.

He was careful. Startle her, even briefly, and he could easily land on the floor. He stroked her hair as he kissed her chin. She was waking in the nicest of ways. She rolled underneath him, her eyes slowly opened.

When her hands rested on his back in a kind of embrace, he rested his weight on her.

They had all day.
**B2.C35**

With the new contracts came a mountain of new paperwork and plans to go over. They wanted to get off to as smooth of a start as possible. Unfortunately, that meant longer hours for Shadona, and their days drifted apart again.

A car pulled up to the bus stop. "Hey, Bro," the driver said to Argo as he waited there alone, "We going to tear one off, wanta come?"

Argo looked at his lunchbox. Shadona wasn't going to show. He would have to go home alone, eat dinner alone, and, if he was lucky, he would see her for about an hour before she had to go to sleep. She was working twelve hours a day, sometimes fourteen. He was working only eight. Drinking sounded inviting. "I'd love to," he said, "I really would, but I can't tonight."

"Cool, cool, see you manana!" They sped off.

It was mighty tempting, though. His phony ID said he was twenty-one, but it had never been inspected by a bouncer before.

He woke up when she crawled into bed with him, later that night. He hugged her until he fell back asleep only a few minutes later.

The long ride on the bus had annoyed him for over a year. It was bumpy, the seats were uncomfortable, and the trip took ten times longer than it should have, had they driven or even rode a scooter. Now he cherished it.

They tried to avoid discussing work, but that proved nearly impossible to do. The bus just wasn't the kind of place to have deep, personal conversations.

But they did resolve to do one thing. They had lunch together, twice a week.

She sat on the same tailgate, beside him, and leaned back against the boxes stacked in the bed.

"I didn't think I would ever get a good loaf of bread to bake in a toaster oven," Argo said. "Lord knows it took six months to get a sour dough starter that tasted any good."

It was still cold in the mornings, but by noon, if they found a place in the sun that was shielded from the wind, it wasn't bad at all. "I miss your greenhouse cucumbers."

"Yeah, I gave my dad hell about," he choked up for a second, "about all that hippie stuff. But I miss it. I miss fishing, the quiet, even that humid little greenhouse."

"I miss it too. I knew how to fish, for food. But, you taught me how to do it for fun." She held his dirty hand. "Or maybe that was Max. I think I'd like to live that way, someday. It might be within reach. A few years like this, we might be able to get something like that."

His job was boring. Sweep, pick up trash, move stuff. It was depressing for him. It was also a step down to live in a hole in the wall, without a phone or even a decent TV. No video games and no computers may have given him worse withdrawal than the drugs. "We never really got married, properly."

She looked around, then leaned in close. "I think I would have liked to have had the last name Caranf. There are some very fine people with that name. Unfortunately, the Siendas are the only ones we can prove exist."

It was a little hard to wrap his head around, but she was right. Who they really were, were impossible to marry, and everything else would always be make-believe. As she had explained it, she officially didn't exist.

The homemade bread, however, was very real. And quite tasty. She took another bite from the sandwich and added to his cup from her thermos.

Had they eaten in the trailer, he would have felt out of place. Had they met in the tent, he would have heard about it for days and it was hardly an intimate place to eat. But, on the back of a parked truck, out of the way, seemed the perfect place for moments to be tucked away.

It seemed to reflect their life rather nicely.

* * *

He woke before the alarm had a chance to go off. Reaching past her, he made sure it never came on.

Today was Sunday.

The apartment complex never seemed to get the temperature right. They were well into spring and had to open the windows because the heat that went missing all winter was now on, full force.

He smiled before he kissed her. She was already awake.

He kissed her neck down to her shoulder, then over and down to the scar.

She put her fingers on the back of his neck and up into his hair.

"Argo," she said.

He shifted his weight off of her. She was an interesting girl. She would let him continue, even if she wasn't into it. Something he was sensing now.

"I couldn't sleep last night." She put her hands over her eyes. "I keep thinking about what would have happened if I could have beaten the helicopter to your house. What would I have said to her, what would she say to me. What would have happened if Coulette was captured and returned to the base, in my place? Would I have tried to rescue her? Could I live with myself, knowing someone was serving the rest of my sentence for me?"

"She said something about it being her choice."

Shadona moved her hand and looked him in the eyes. "If I was born knowing— with the memories of my life, I would try to free me too." She moved her fingers across her eyes, then wiped the dampness on the sheets. "Death, haunts me."

"She seemed very nice. She tried to get my father to let her wait for them outside. That might have prevented—"

"It wasn't your father's fault. It was mine. I started this chain of events, I let it grow beyond my control. I can't ever make this right again."

A chill ran through him. Her every action since his first helicopter ride could easily have been her trying to atone for his misfortune.

"I keep thinking, 'what would I do if I had been born Coulette,' I know I would do the same thing she did. I know I would have made that same choice." She turned to him, tears ran down her cheeks, "Had I known the cost others would pay for my freedom... " she wiped her face, "I would have gladly stayed, a prisoner."

He didn't know what to say. He just hugged her instead.

She cried quietly until around noon.

He watched her brush her teeth at the bathroom sink. She brushed vigorously with her lips sealed, quietly, neatly. She spit, then held the brush under the running water. She took a swig of mouthwash and gargled silently while adding a tiny smear of paste to the brush again. After thirty seconds of swishing, she spit and brushed again, only to rinse a final time.

It was interesting to watch. Morning brushing involved a single pass, but this nighttime effort was always a double. It would seem to make more sense, to him, for her to simply brush longer. But she seemed incapable of that. Instead, she did it twice.

Oddly, without ever meeting, Coulette did it exactly the same way.

Shadona. Coulette. Sally. Sienda. Caranf. Georgia peach. He could see the common threads so clearly now.

He closed his eyes and remembered long afternoons of just snuggling on the couch with her, or fishing by the pond. She could be incredibly driven, especially at work, but she was equally comfortable completely relaxed.

He held the sheet open for her as she turned out the light and headed for bed in nothing more than one of his T-shirts.

He snuggled her and waited for sleep. Monday morning would be there all too soon.

Dave opened the paper while they ate around the table.

"Iranian spy smuggled proof of 'Zionist' plot to starve millions of world's poor," was just below the fold. Shadona read the article when Dave was done. A spy had smuggled desert-tolerant potatoes and corn to Iran. They were starting pilot farms to grow enough seeds to go into mass production within a year. On the floor of the UN, Iran went on a tirade about imperialism, Jews, Zionists, and how the world must unite in the extermination of such an evil empire that invented such plants that promised to save millions. They went on to state that they had uncovered more such evidence, and it was just the proof they needed to continue their weapons program as a justified measure of self-defense against imminent, imperialist attack.

Her heart sank when she saw it was from the AP and looked for the author.

She felt relief when it wasn't F Ree Hur.

After saving them a small fortune already, Tom had invited Shadona to another business meeting later that month. She had agreed to the price written on the back of a business card, and had agreed to it for a year. It was a lot of money, then. She had received two bonuses, each contained a comma. A large sum to be sure, but it fell far short of reimbursement considering the sums they saved.

They both understood the position each was in. She couldn't really get the money she deserved for the work she did. She simply didn't have those kinds of credentials. She was, more or less, stuck with them. In a sense, they held all the cards.

But, at the same time, she was a proven, valuable asset to have. Being unfair to her, paying her far below her value would eventually alienate her and drive away the goose that laid golden eggs. She may not be able to get more from one of their competitors, but that didn't mean she had to stay with them, either.

Fortunately, the company looked to Tom on such matters, and Tom believed in good deeds reaping the best rewards. She got bonuses whenever the budget allowed. Saving money wasn't quite the same as making money. It was in the long run, but they weren't near the end of the run, their budget was much closer to the starting line.

Budgets.

Sometimes it was more confusing than the drawings she dealt with.

Tom picked her up at the corner outside her apartment, and they flew to Tennessee.

The meeting went well, and they were done by five that afternoon.

Tom flipped through the papers, pulled one out, and spread it across the table. "Explain to me again why we can do away with this entire system."

Shadona pulled out her pen and traced some of the lines with the cap, "Not all of it, just this part. You can do away with it because the physical limitations of the equipment on the other end won't—"

One of the designers interrupted, a little offended. The two of them got into a debate; Shadona kept it very polite and calm, the same could not be said of the designer.

Tom interjected after a few minutes, before it turned into a one-sided shouting contest. Besides, the two of them had lost him almost immediately. "Calm down, Roger. Listen, Sally is very good at this stuff. I learned some time back to just listen and stop interrupting her. Let her go from the beginning to the end, then give it a few minutes to sink in. And if you still don't get where she is trying to take you, then ask her your questions." The lobby was getting a little crowded, "Let's take this up to my room, shall we?"

Roger picked up the papers while Shadona finished her coffee.

It took another two hours; Roger found it very difficult not to interrupt. But by the end, Roger conceded. The system she wanted to remove could actually cause harm, as unintentional as it was. Ironically, it was added to meet the government mandated safety systems requirements.

Roger took his notes, rolled up the papers, and left for his office across town. He had some changes to submit that needed to be approved before construction went much further.

Shadona sat back in the chair and closed her eyes.

"You did great," Tom said, handing her a fresh cup of coffee as he sat in the chair across from her.

"I feel exhausted."

"Oh, that's just jetlag. It catches up to everyone eventually."

She almost laughed, "It isn't jetlag."

"Listen, you ever think about doing the drawings? Look, I discussed this with our big money investors, we'd like to put you through the schooling for this, put some paper behind that knowledge."

She set the cup on the end table. "Thank you, that's a nice offer."

"Look, they would like to get a six-year contract with you out of it. But, I don't think that's in your best interest—"

"I never finished high school," she said. "I'm a dropout."

He paused. "Ok, that would complicate things. But it wouldn't rule them out." He leaned back in the chair. "Listen, I like you. You get along with everyone, you're smart, quick, and you've made my life very easy over this last year. You let me know if you want to go, I'll find a way to make it happen.

You're smarter than Roger, and he's a brilliant guy; the owner has been working with him for years."

She looked up at him, "I don't see my husband but one day a week as it is. I can't add classes to that too. He didn't sign up to be a laborer—"

"Married that young is hard for anyone to make work. It takes years to get financially established, that's a big stressor. Add to it that you're still—"

She stood up and turned to the door. "I've had a very hard life, Tom. My future with him makes my past bearable. I don't know if I could take it without him." She walked out the door.

* * *

The new contract added to her schedule. It cost them Sundays too and was just to be for about a month. It had now stretched into month number two.

The car pulled up to the bus stop after work, and Argo got in as he had for the last few weeks. Their checks deposited yesterday, he still had several bills in his pocket. Besides, he had worked with these guys for months now and was tired of going home to a lonely, empty room. Beer sounded nice too.

Knock Knock Knock!

"This is— This is— Let go of me, I have a damn key," Argo said outside when Shadona opened the apartment door.

Shadona tightened her robe as Argo lurched through the doorway and gave her a sloppy, drunken kiss.

"Just, just look at her," he said to the man waiting outside.

"Ma'am, does he belong to you?" the man said.

Argo reached his hand inside her robe, only to have his hand rebuffed. "Isn't she, isn't she just gorgeous?" He fumbled with her robe again, his stagger stumbled them both into the wall beside the door. "She's, she's smart too. Say, say something smart."

"He's my husband." She tried to hold him up while fending off a groping. "At least he was a few drinks ago."

"Drinks? I wouldn't bet it stopped there," the man said. "You want, Ma'am, I can take him to the drunk tank and let him come down in a nice padded cell. Your call. The bar owner said to take him there anyway, but he wasn't doing any harm at the time. Just running his mouth too much."

Argo leaned closer to the stranger and whispered, "She's a, she's a spy!"

"I'll take him," she said.

The guy handed her Argo's wallet. "The bar took $45.50 for the drinks and I took $12.50 for the ride."

She maneuvered him away from the door, then closed and locked it while Argo pulled at the robe.

He put his fingers through her hair, but in his state, they tangled and he pulled her head and knocked it against the wall. He slid his knee between hers as his other hand went up her shirt and he whispered, "I missed you so much," in her ear.

The misfortunes of her past flashed through her mind as his pants fell to the floor and he pressed her against the wall. Her instinct grabbed a pencil from the table near the door.
**B2.C36**

The trailer was abuzz with gossip that morning.

"What's going on?" Shadona asked, her night had already lasted entirely too long.

Dave and Mike had brought portable TVs from home and were crowded around one instead of the coffee pot that normally captivated their attention. "The president was just on," Dave said, "It was all over CNN last night."

"We only get two channels where we live," Shadona said, putting her lunchbox by her desk before approaching the TV.

"Well," Dave continued, "Some terrorists smuggled about a dozen SCUD missiles into shipping crates and launched them about fifty miles off our coasts. They said they were targeting high population centers, but a missile defense shield shot them all down. When they activated the shield, it blacked out both coasts. Said there wasn't but six states that didn't lose electricity."

"That's why the alarm didn't go off this morning?" she said.

"They don't know who it was, yet. But you know every terrorist nation on the planet is taking credit for it."

Mike chimed in, "They didn't release the specifics on the missile shield, but it shredded them and took six satellites out too. They just said it pulverized them into dust so fine they expect it to rain down over the next few weeks. Look," he pointed to the screen, "it's that dark cloud over Seattle. People have refused to go to work on the coasts for fear it might be nuclear or biological, but the government sniffers claim it's as safe as health food."

Dave patted his keg of a stomach, "I knew health food was poison."

Shadona looked shocked. She sat down in front of the TV.

"They said it could have been a hundred times worse than 9/11," Mike said, "without that shield."

Argo woke, late in the afternoon, tied up, on the floor of the shower, with the alarm clock buzzing continuously in the tiny bathroom.

The haze of last night was slowly making its way through his addled brain.

He vomited, but the drain was behind his head. Some splashed onto his cheek as it flowed into his hair and left ear. The smell of alcohol was unmistakable.

He managed to push himself into a corner and worked into a sitting position. The alarm clock made it nearly impossible for him to think as he slowly picked the knots with his teeth. Dizzy when he tried to get to his feet, he crawled across the floor and unplugged the clock.

Thoughts started to drift past the pounding in his head.

Trying to sober up, he stripped off the remainder of his clothes and took a shower.

Bits and pieces flickered in as the shampoo loosened the dry chunks in his hair. What he remembered wasn't good.

The smell washed off his skin, but it did nothing to clean his thoughts. He brushed his teeth at the sink, then went to the kitchen. There was a broken pencil by the front door and a black smear along the wall.

He vaguely remembered a story Coulette had told of forgiveness, betrayal, and a murder with a pencil. His foggy thoughts couldn't refine the details, but he suspected he deserved the smear more than the wall.

He opened the bottle of aspirin, drank a glass of water from the fridge, then went to bed, late in the afternoon.

The deadbolt flipped open with a clunk, then the key slid into the lock beneath. Argo woke, hungover and full of motion sickness, and sat up in bed. He half expected her to come through the door with a baseball bat and beat him to within an inch of his life. Bracing for it, he waited for the next lock to make that familiar clunk. He welcomed it, actually, hoping it would assuage his horrible guilt.

The doorknob turned, and she walked calmly to the kitchen.

He watched as she cleaned out her lunchbox and made tomorrow's meal.

When done, she walked past him and into the bathroom. He listened as the shower came on. This felt like torture. He stared at the closed door between them and pondered her silence. It felt like she showered forever.

She emerged from the bathroom in her traditional T-shirt, walked over to the bed, and sat down.

He slid over for her.

She turned to him, "I think we will be at war very soon." She lay down and pulled his arm around her, "You hurt me pretty bad—"

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, I—"

She twisted his wrist, shooting needles of pain down his arm, "I had a long time to think about last night.

I don't blame you, not entirely. Maybe not even a little. I was in the room when they gave you suggestions. Some of this, was them.

There is a very bad person lurking within me, a side I don't want you to see. They spent a lot of time and money making her. She almost killed you last night.

I think that was their plan.

They want to keep happiness from ever finding me. They want that other me to be in control."

He held her hand. "I'm never letting—"

"I don't think I'd survive the thought of your blood on my hands."

She had nearly given him license to abuse. "Not one drop, not ever again," he said the words every abuser said. But he meant them.

They waited for the bus that morning. The moon was still bright in the sky, the sun had yet to come up. Little puffs, like pimply clouds started to form, mostly visible on its shiny side. They were born in brief sparkles, like glitter.

Shadona pulled a paper off the top of the trash. Coffee spilled on it, it was today's and the words were still readable. Micro meteors were impacting the moon. The story claimed that earth was passing through a micro meteor shower, but that the moon was taking the brunt of it. 15-24 hours. That was about the time she would expect projectiles to reach the moon, if fired from the ground with a gun much like hers.

They should have been years, perhaps decades away from replicating the HB-4 rail guns, at least at these power levels. It was a little shocking, but not out of the question.

She put the paper back when the bus lumbered into view.

' ... at war very soon' took on a new meaning over the next few weeks.

The particulates from the destroyed SCUDs had yet to settle in any great quantity. Instead, they seemed to be going up, rising in the atmosphere and spreading out like a great cloud. They had moved above wind currents and now looked like a light haze over those distant cities. They even took on a light green color at dusk.

Reception on cell phones didn't seem to travel as far from the towers. Soon, the same was said of radio and TV.

The dust seemed to form denser clouds between satellites and ground-based transmitters. To compensate for the interference, the transmitters increased their output, which only thickened the cloud.

Satellite communication was failing, one by one.

Doves in the House and Senate blamed the military that shot down the SCUDS and held weeks' worth of hearings; most of the discussion and accusations seemed to center over Congress not being informed about the shield itself. But, as often happens, Congress was clueless to the reality the rest of the world saw. The dust was the weapon in the SCUDs. Civilian satellite communication was spotty at best in under three months. Military communication had to be similarly affected. Jammed. It was a low-tech attack, like suicide bombers. It started over the heads of distant cities, but was predicted to spread around the world within a few years.

Some reports observed that the dust seemed to increase in intensity around thunderstorms, but as yet, that was unconfirmed.

Traditional warfare doctrine dictated knocking out lines of communication prior to an attack or invasion. This was a bad sign.

Background noise on landlines were quickly crumbling that infrastructure too, only optical fiber seemed to be immune, thus far. GPS in most cars had already failed.

Then it happened, overnight. Forty nuclear power plants were bombed from space. Each was hit with over sixty, two hundred pound iron projectiles that simply used kinetic energy to pulverize and breach containment. They acted much like a poor-man's bunker-buster, except these impacted at well over mach 10.

Radar, satellites, and conventional tracking were already so overwhelmed that nobody even saw the missiles coming down, let alone discover where they went up.

Most states on the traditional hate-US list were technologically 'incapable' of mounting such an offense. The precision of the strikes alone ruled out the usual suspects. The bombs hit within feet of each target, something even professional militaries had problems doing with GPS.

That was until the investigation started.

Dozens of 'coins' were found scattered around every target. Each coin had a small watch battery and an infrared LED, much like those commonly used on remotes for TVs. They blinked at night and optically formed the triangulation coordinates that guided the bombs in.

The coins retained fingerprints of known members of Hamas.

War had officially begun.
**B2.C37**

The country screamed for retribution. Thousands were dead and rolling blackouts were now the norm. Fortunately, even these old reactor designs prevented all but one meltdown, but radiation levels remained high and had forced the evacuation of hundreds of towns.

Retaliation came swiftly in the form of aircraft carriers.

In the trailer, they sat around the table and watched the tiny TV. The normal lunchtime conversations had long since been consumed by late-breaking news. The digital signal provided intermittent reception; at best they received every fourth word. But, it was something. It was news. "Fleet ... destroyed ... sands lost ... unclear ..."

Dave sat beside it all day, "Near as I can tell, something wiped out two carrier battle groups in about six minutes. Some say a new plane, others say subs and mines. I keep hearing China and Russia, maybe they bought it from them. We'll have to wait till tomorrow's paper to find out for sure."

Mike put down his ham and mustard sandwich, "Reception keeps getting worse. I read yesterday that the power lines were getting random surges that they can't explain. Like the loud static on analog phones before most of them went out."

Dave smacked the TV in an attempt to bend the laws of physics with his sheer frustration. "Why hit power plants at all when the dust'll bring down the power lines too? They any closer to figuring out what was in that stuff?"

Mike looked at Shadona, then Tom. "Don't ask me," Mike said, "from what I read, nobody has a clue. There isn't a good way to get that high and get a sample. Read that the space station can see it from their window. Poor bastards. The cloud of it is so thick right under them that nobody is willing to risk docking with them. Constant system failures. The only way we can talk with them is by Morse code and a light they jammed into a window. The unmanned supply rocket almost shot them down."

"It kind of makes all of this seem pointless," Tom said, "I mean, by the time this building is finished, will there even be a need for a data center? Phone lines are failing all over, will the power lines fail by then, too?"

"I bet it's just above-ground cables that are affected," Shadona said in the lull. "Everything underground should be shielded from random pulses, to a degree."

Mike looked at her, "You know, the paper did say that the transatlantic cables were working fine. Even the century-old wire ones. Ocean, dirt, you may have something."

It suddenly didn't look so bleak anymore. Buried wires were more expensive, but not impossibly so.

It would still cost a small fortune, more than the GDP of most countries, to rewire a nation as big as this. But it might not stop with the mile long distribution systems, wiring within walls would even have to be redone. It might soon be on a scale no nation could handle, if it continued to get worse.

Without radio or satellite contact, getting accurate reports were difficult. For decades surveillance was done in real time with satellites; now they were back to U-2 style flyovers, hand delivered film, couriers, flag signals, and landlines.

Dust had nearly eliminated half of the technological advantage between nations, and it didn't seem over yet. Planes, especially high altitude ones, experienced much higher than normal system failures, complete with a string of commercial crashes. Radar no longer covered the entire country. A hazy glow formed over most cities at night, reminiscent of northern lights, except far dimmer.

Steve, one of the owners, walked into the trailer, "Damn it, where is Tom?"

Shadona looked up from her desk, "He hasn't shown today. But that's normal, he should be in later."

He walked over to her desk, "Sally, right?"

She nodded.

"You've seen the plans for the Copellete building, right?"

She nodded again.

"I don't know if you guys heard, but in Seattle, the cloud, or whatever the hell it is, got bright as daylight one night. They said it strobed for two minutes with EMP pulses about half what a nuclear blast could generate. Fried everything. Nothing stored electronically survived. Even took out hardened military equipment. Started fires and everything. Please, tell me you have a copy of it, or even better, a printout."

Shadona dropped what she was doing and went to the print table, "I don't think we do."

"Lord, do not tell me that. I had to drive in a Galaxy for two days just to get here."

Dave and Mike stuck their heads in the room. "The office in Seattle?" Dave said.

"Gone," Steve answered. "Fires are probably still burning, all over the city. Damnedest thing I've ever seen. Anything new with an onboard computer is junk, but antique junkers seem to run fine, for now. Even saw people riding around on lawnmowers and old diesel farm tractors. Lucky I had that old Galaxy, just wish it had air."

"We didn't read anything about that in the paper," Dave said.

"It isn't here, Steve, sorry," Shadona said.

"Damn it!" Steve said, punting the trashcan by the desk. "Any chance it's floating around on a laptop or something?"

"Tom might have it on him, but there's no way to reach him. Cell phones have been down for weeks, land lines are spotty, and now, very expensive," she said, "But, he should be here today. If he has it, there's a good chance it'll be with him."

Dave and Mike squeezed in a little closer. "They got any better idea what the dust is?" Dave asked.

"Hmm?" Steve was focused on the disaster aimed at his company, not his Country, "Oh," he pulled up a chair. Waiting wasn't something he was used to doing. "Picked up a paper two weeks ago. One of their editors ran a two pager touting the virtues of the terrorists. Said that it had cut CO2 in half, smog was down, some Green Peace hippie praised them for stopping global warming." He stood up, "Seattle is burning to the ground and those—" he kicked the side of the desk, "It just gets my blood boiling." He looked up at Dave and remembered the question. "Said somewhere it was carbon from one of those spectrum analysis things on telescopes. Some sort of solid-state superconductor was the last thing I heard." He looked at Dave and Mike, "You guys still have working laptops?"

They nodded.

"Well, check for that file. Start going through what you have and print out some of our current stuff that we can't afford to lose. Let's try to keep ahead of this ball, shall we," Steve said.

Shadona started to her desk, but stopped, now that the other two were no longer in the room. "Did you need all of the Copellete building?"

He looked at her, "Ideally, yes, but just our part would be enough. We only had two prints of the current set, Tom should have one, I think."

She looked into the other room, "I can probably redraw it for you, but something that big would take days. Maybe even a week or two."

"Redraw it from what?"

"Well, Tom left it with me last week and I got a pretty good look at it."

"What, from memory?"

She looked a little shy about saying, "Yeah, or, redesign it from scratch. But that would take closer to a month."

He closed the door between the offices. "Look, Sally, I don't mean to doubt you, but if this project goes wrong, my company goes under. It's just that simple. You've been working with us for what, a year, two at the most. Hell, Tom hasn't been with us but a year or two longer than that. And as bright as Tom is, I wouldn't trust him to reproduce something like that from memory. Now, if he doesn't have it, don't go too far, but until then ..."

She smiled politely, then went back to work.

Waiting didn't sit well with Steve, and when faced with the option of the interrogation he was likely facing with Dave and Mike, he worked his way back to Shadona's office, which was really just a small part of Tom's.

She looked up from her desk, "He should be here any time now."

Steve smacked his Blackberry, held it over the trashcan, paused, then put it back in his pocket. "You get used to using this stuff, then wake up one day and it's junk. I feel like having a Khrushchev moment and beating it to death with the heel of my shoe, but I can't seem to just throw it away." He sat in Tom's chair. "You know, Sally, if it wasn't for the Internet, I would never have met Tom, and my company would never have taken off like it did."

She turned her chair slightly towards him as a sign of interest, but tried to keep working too.

"He was a freelancer. Did pretty much what you do now. He offered to look over the prints for free, and if I liked the changes, he'd make a small percentage of the money he saved me. Basically, it cost me nothing. How could I lose, right?

He saved me a fortune, right from day one. I worked with him for years without ever meeting the man in person. All done over the Internet, conference calls," he tapped the Blackberry against the desk, "and these little things.

I gave him a chance of a lifetime, and I guess he felt the need to pass it on, right there in a Chinese restaurant."

She looked up and smiled, "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me, I'm glad he did. I made out better than either of you. The good old days. Who would have figured that was just last year?"

"Bad days don't last forever."

He put the blackberry in his pocket, "No, but the dark ages lasted a pretty long time. You, you really think you could redraw it from memory?"

She nodded.

"Let's hope you don't have to."

Tom's truck pulled up outside.

At first, most people thought the pulsing of a city was some new weapon. But scientist quickly ruled it out, largely because the power levels involved exceeded most known devices. The prevailing guess was it had something to do with solar winds, the magnetosphere, ionosphere, and that fancy dust. Somehow, when the conditions were right, it acted like a superconductor and shorted between the fields. That short generated massive, sustained, random EMP pulses only a hundred miles or so above the earth. Frying most electronics underneath in the process. Military equipment was designed to sustain a few, short pulses associated with nuclear blasts, not several minutes worth.

Cities, like Seattle, that had mostly underground power lines and had survived the attack on their power plants, discovered that the dust tended to accumulate above them the most. Seattle was just the first victim.

The fate of carrier battle groups looked equally grim as more reliable news filtered in from precious overseas lines. Two groups had been confirmed lost. The known dead reached over 30,000 in the first 4 days. Iran promised to bathe the infidels in an ocean of their own blood, which congress reluctantly accepted as a declaration of war and an admission of guilt, on a party line vote.

Without radio contact or satellites, the position of the rest of the fleet was uncertain. They could easily be as Iran claimed, sunk in the middle of the ocean. The fate of those in the Persian Gulf was, sadly, well known.

Shadona stood under the morning sky, waiting for the bus. The blue-green over the city had a pretty glow, if it wasn't for what they all knew it promised to bring. Under her suggestion, the company moved their office from the fourth floor into the basement of one of their older buildings. The basement was three floors underground and had a solid metal frame with one-foot thick concrete floors. They converted the bottom two floors into essentially giant Faraday cages and moved all their precious electronics down into it. Backup drives were taken one step further and stored inside aluminum boxes, and critical information was printed on paper. They completed the retrofit within the last few days and were now just marking time until it hit. The morning sky looked more ominous every day.

At work, the laptops were stored in smaller versions of the Faraday cage made out of modified common metal boxes.

They had done all they could. Going to work and carrying on with life was all that seemed left to them. But tension lingered in the air.

"At least it's pretty," she said.

Argo walked out from under the bus stop's roof. "A dark cloud would be more fitting."

The bus was running a few minutes late. "Payday tomorrow."

"You think our money is safe in the account?"

They had shifted to a half cash philosophy, which was rather easy to do, considering the modest size of their account. "Not for much longer."

"I can withdraw most of the rest when I go make the deposit."

They walked back under the roof. "We have to leave enough in it to cover—"

"I know."

She looked down at their lunchboxes. They had stocked up on a few months' worth of canned and dry food, just to be safe. It was a good investment even if things didn't get worse. The price of food rose daily, making their early bulk purchases seem clairvoyant. "The good news is, I think it's very survivable, whatever happens." She sat on the bench. "Just as long as we're prepared."

"I still think we ought to get a gun."

The bus lumbered around the corner as he picked up the boxes and she fished for exact change.
**B2.C38**

Tom sighed, then tossed the paper on the desk.

Shadona reluctantly picked it up. Air travel had been restricted for the lack of radar, radio communication, and the unhardened nature of civilian planes that had a tendency to crash, especially those made of composites. Other emergency measures had been enacted. Travel was restricted because of the oil shortage. Most of the world's supertankers had been destroyed by now.

The logic behind the enemy attacking tankers was impeccable. Tankers were easy targets that could be spotted from the air, miles away without the aid of radar, and they were so cumbersome and big that it often took them miles to turn just a few degrees. They also would take years to replace, without destroying valuable infrastructure such as pipelines and refineries owned by sympathetic countries.

Bans on increasing domestic production were just now being lifted, but it was already too late. They faced a decade of rationing because pandering politicians had crafted an energy policy that favored buying oil from our enemies over Exxon.

Known dead had topped 100,000.

Eight cities had burned, adding thousands more to a different running count.

It had another nineteen pages that just got more depressing.

She sighed, folded it, then returned it to the desk.

Dave picked it up next.

"How much longer before they figure it to hit this city?" Shadona asked Tom.

"Any time now," he said, "but they don't know. Reports from the other cities said that it seemed to start at dusk, but that doesn't mean anything."

Dusk was a prime time for the harvester from the base. There was a good chance it was tapping into that same source of limitless power.

"They're talking about a draft," Dave said, reading further into the paper.

Tom looked up from his lunch, "You don't have anything to worry about, you couldn't pass the physical if you had a year to study for it."

Dave patted his beer belly, "It comes from decades of living right."

Shadona thought of Argo, prime, drafting age.

Tom walked to the window, "That would shut this place down for sure." He turned to Dave and Mike, "Remember, make backups, every day. Burn a disk, label it, and drop it in the box. The disks were cheap, ten cents a piece, and we have thousands of them. Use them."

"How are they drawing for the draft?" Shadona asked.

"Probably the way they've always done it. Age, year, month born. Supposedly fair and random," Dave answered from the article.

"With spotty communication," Mike said, "I wouldn't be surprised if they just pulled people off the streets. It'd be easier that way."

Dave turned to a new page. "They have a good recruiting tool. Says here they have a kind of personal tank. It's a powered, armored suit that's kicking ass overseas. Says here it's mostly impervious to EMP because it's nearly 100% mechanical, hydraulics and such, very little electronics. Hell," he looked up from the page, "it's even got air conditioning." He stared at the picture, "Looks a little like the Michelin man from their ads." He skimmed ahead, "So far, just letting young bucks try out the suit at recruiting stations has enlistments up 300%. It hasn't stopped the draft talk, though."

Mike looked at the picture over Dave's shoulder, "Looks like something out of a comic book."

Shadona looked down at her lunchbox, "Iron man."

The conversation turned away from the sadness of war and toward reminiscing about comic book inspired boyhood adventures and jumping out of windows onto piles of cardboard boxes while wearing a cape made from old bed sheets.

The pulse finally came.

The city was in a state of controlled anarchy. Block captains, building captains and such had been pre-assigned in preparation for just such inevitabilities. It helped. Looting and violence were held at a minimum, but the damage was still extensive. Lightbulbs came on all by themselves in a way that made the city look like a swarm of fireflies that suddenly synchronized, before half spontaneously exploded, especially those located nearest to windows. Window curtains and lampshades were the source of most small fires, but every resident was required to store sixty gallons of water in their residence for just such emergencies. Most people used plastic bags and trashcans as temporary water tanks.

As odd as it sounded, the vast majority had followed instructions and filled common balloons with water for fighting fires. The lessons of childhood pranks enabled people to stand a good distance away from the flames while still delivering the water. Water hoses and streams of water, it turned out, were not the most ideal method for fighting electrical fires. Water balloons were.

Even so, fires still destroyed several blocks, transportation ceased, power was likely to remain off for months or years, and the sense of a very dismal reality set in as the trash continued to pile up on the streets.

Without electricity, cooking was difficult to do. Shadona had fashioned a small cooker out of old coffee cans, a tuna can filled with vegetable oil, and a cotton ball as a wick. It boiled a quart of water in about two hours and could cook rice in three. It wasn't a lot, but it was food.

A truck slowly rolled down the street, asking for volunteers for the military.

Shadona watched it every time it came.

"I should enlist," she said.

"What the hell for?" he stirred the rice to keep it from sticking. "You did your time, and then some."

She watched as they handed out food to the families of those who joined up. But it wasn't the food that was swaying her. "It's my place in life."

He stood beside her in the window, just far enough to the side to be out of view from the street. "We could fill the duffle bag with food and clothes and slowly hike into the country like everyone else. It isn't your fight. You didn't start it."

She watched them close the back of a truck full of recruits and drive off. "One of them will die, because I didn't go. Because I escaped. Because I was AWOL. I'm a trained fighter pilot, Argo. It was what I was born to do."

He put his hand on her shoulder, "Are you sure I was the one drugged and brainwashed?"

She watched it disappear from view. "One of them will die in my place."

He returned to the cooker and stirred the rice.

A week later, Tom pulled up in front of Shadona's building in his truck. The two climbed in, and he drove down the street. "It's nice to see the truck works," Shadona said.

"Yeah, somebody advised me to go visit a junkyard and pull as many spare parts as I could, before it hit. Kept them in a sealed box until it passed. It still took forever to replace everything." He plucked the radio with his finger, "I forgot about lights and stuff, radio will never work. The dash is dead. But, it runs. At least until the next pulse, whenever that is."

Shadona smiled, it had been her suggestion.

"Stupid thing has tons of sensors everywhere," he continued. "Steve bought up some of those steel shipping containers. Converted them into Faraday cages like you did with the office. Filled them with tools and equipment. Stuck two trucks and some motorcycles in another. Hasn't worked up the nerve to open them yet."

Without traffic, they made it to the modified office in good time.

The front door looked broken in. "Don't worry, for some reason, the tumblers in the lock froze up. We had to destroy it to get in. Weird, huh? That little side effect wasn't in any of the papers," Tom said as they moved past it, then climbed down the steps into a basement where life seemed unaffected.

Computers, laptops, printers and lights buzzed on below the ground.

Two small diesel generators sat in a closet off to the side with plastic pipes pumping fresh air to them and exhaust away. A bank of car batteries ran the office while the generators only came on long enough to recharge the bank.

"Everything working alright?" Shadona asked.

"Sure sure, as well as could be expected," Tom said.

Argo was a little amazed. The occasional flashlight had survived, some electric motors, but this was an exceptional find.

"I don't know how much money is going to be worth in the coming years," Tom said, "The job is officially closed for the near future, of course. But, Steve had an offer that I think is more than fair."

Tom gestured at a table, and they sat.

"You were right about the solar panels on the roof, by the way. They cracked like they were left out in a hailstorm.

We have a finite amount of fuel and a precarious position, as you know. So much of everything runs on electricity. You said you had a solar design that should keep working, even in this craziness, right?"

"It should," Shadona said.

"Well, we have a limited amount of time, as I see it, to build one. Since this place is the closest to all the good equipment, this seemed like the best place to start, if you are interested."

Argo looked at them both, "I'm sorry, what was the offer?"

Tom looked confused for a second, "Oh, right, what's in it for you. Well, property, shares, stuff like that. If it's successful, like you say, it might just be the lotto ticket that saves the day. After all, you were right so far."

Nobody wanted it before. It was ironic that it had been in public domain for years and only a handful of people wanted it then. "Well, for one big enough to run this place," she looked at the generators, "it might take a few weeks to build it, a little longer for the collector and plumbing. Just need a lathe, welder, drill press, a ton of plastic pipe, stuff like that."

Tom pointed to the ceiling, "One floor up."

They started working that day, then moved out of the apartment and into the basement the following night.

Argo recognized it, but not immediately. For the collector, they painted the flat roof black, imbedded a loop of plastic pipe, then covered it in clear plastic like a greenhouse.

The cold side was as simple as burying another loop of pipe in the dirt on the shady side of the building.

Because the plastic pipe conveyed only hot and cold fluids and consisted of nothing conducive, it was immune to pulses. The motor and circulating pumps, on the other hand, had to be protected and kept underground, but that was simple enough to do.

The engine itself was made from machined metal pipes, standard rubber rings, and various off-the-shelf fittings.

Just the three of them, working eight hours a day, had one running within a month.

It worked flawlessly and was as quiet as most refrigerators.

The city without power, newspapers, and shipments of food was mostly abandoned. The first few military trucks to bring in food did not leave empty. They were quickly filled with recruits. Desperation, anger, futility, and the promise of three squares and a cot were enough encouragement to fill most return trips.
**B2.C39**

"Jonde," Shadona said, "don't wear out the keyboard playing video games."

He paused the game, "Awhhh... "

Tom stuck his head around the corner, "It's all right, Sally, one keyboard isn't going to end the world."

"Thank you," Argo said. He looked victoriously into the eyes of the woman he eventually wanted to sleep with again, and ended the game.

Tom walked over. "You know, without TV and radios, there isn't but so much we can do. How about this, we pick the slowest one, load it with just games, and let it die a death befitting the obsolete?" He was her boss and not likely to ever sleep with her, but somehow permission still seemed important. "All the laptops at the job site were saved thanks to those custom boxes we kept them in. That more than makes up for the loss of one as a game machine. Besides, we've seen all the DVDs down here."

She relented. "What ever happened to Dave and Mike?"

"I don't know, really," Tom said. "If they reported to the job site, they didn't leave a note or anything. They both had children at home and lived about a half hour from the job. I expect they left, assuming they still could." He tried on his boss hat for a moment. "How many engines do you reckon we're making a day?"

She thought about it. "Well, we more or less know what we're doing now. We had to redesign it to run with mechanical instead of electrical circulating pumps, that added something to it. One every three days. Two, maybe three a week if we push it."

A horn blasted upstairs.

The doors between the levels muffled the sound, but it was definitely a horn. They started upstairs.

"Anyone home?" a voice yelled down the stairwell.

"Is that you, Steve?" Tom yelled back.

"Yeah, I'm coming down," Steve said.

They stopped and gave him a minute.

"There was something peaceful about the city," Steve said, closing the door behind him, "Nobody fights over junk. And after the city was pulsed, just about everything is junk." He walked straight for the engine. "Is that it?"

Tom nodded.

"It's a lot smaller than I thought it would be." Steve looked closer. "What is it, a few hundred watts?"

Tom pointed to Shadona.

"It peaks at about twenty, horse," Shadona said, "About fifteen kilowatts."

Steve looked again. "You're kidding. How hot is the steam coming into it?"

"No steam, just hot water. It'll scald, but not boil."

Steve walked around it a few times. "Can you make the generator side of it?"

"Not here," Tom said. "Windings and such takes a more specialized set of machines. That's why we moved away from electric circulating pumps and went with mechanical."

"Windings would take copper wire and nearly three times as long to do by hand," Shadona said.

Steve looked at them both, Argo, then back at the machine silently squishing along. "Just amazing. I, I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. The roads are horrible, dead cars and wrecks everywhere. Look, I've rounded up a few investors, but they were a little further than just a phone call away." He pointed at the batteries, "How many of those does it take to make it through the night?"

"None," Shadona said. "The gravel has enough mass on the roof to retain the needed BTUs to make it a few days without sunlight. Ideally," she looked at Argo, "instead of just a black surface under glass, you would have a greenhouse growing vegetables all year round. It's a thermal engine. All it needs is about twenty degrees difference, and it'll convert that into motion. If you do it right, it'll keep the greenhouse cool in the summer and warm in the winter, and generate power while it does it."

Steve looked at it again. "No black panels?"

"No black panels," she said, "But, it can work with black panels too. You could simply bury a garden hose in an asphalt parking lot, if you wanted."

They retired to the office end of the floor where a kitchen, computers, tables, and chairs were set up and discussed things further while a DVD played on the big screen TV mounted to the wall.

They showed him the spreadsheets with all the calculations, the yields and temperature figures. Shadona theorized that, at this stage, most of the electric pumps and motors, over a certain size, should still be functional in the city, even after being pulsed, and didn't need to be replaced. They should work if power was restored.

They had even printed several construction manuals on how to build the engine, circulating pumps, and the ideal way to build collectors or combine them into greenhouses, along with an estimate of how deep underground the actual dwelling would have to be built to provide adequate shielding from pulses.

They had eight engines ready for Steve to take to his investors.

She turned off the lathe and started cleaning it up. It took a good half an hour to dig all the metal shavings out of every nook and cranny, but it was vitally important. They had only one lathe. She cleaned most surfaces with an old toothbrush. Then she oiled the moving parts and headed for the slop sink.

Argo joined her.

He put a dab of dishwashing detergent on his palm, then lathered it against her hand. The lathe was an oil slinging device, but it took a feather touch and a good eye to manually machine pieces that fit together as tight as an engine. He simply drilled holes at the press, filed ends and burs, assembled pieces, and generally cleaned up.

He slowly rubbed her hand until it was clean, then lathered the other. Moments like this made cleanup worth while.

She had nice hands. They got scratched and nicked and dry from all the oil, but they were still very pretty hands.

Tom had left the room several minutes ago and should be in the kitchen by now, while Argo lathered around her ring, then kissed her on the cheek.

She smiled when she looked him in the eyes.

"You want to save some hot water tonight?" he said.

"It makes power heating the water."

He kissed her on the lips. "You want to make a lot of electricity tonight?"

She kissed him back.

Tom knocked on the door again, listened, then smiled as he walked away. Sometimes they both slept late. He didn't blame them a bit. They were married after all. And it wasn't like they had to be at work at a specific time. Making two or three a week was plenty. Tom walked back to the main room, turned on the TV, and started playing a video game. His argument wasn't just for the benefit of Argo, after all. He enjoyed a good game every now and then too.

Solar power was an interesting thing, the only way you could waste it was if you left any unused.

"Morning, Tom," Argo said as he entered the main room. "Sha—, Sally is, uh—"

Tom put the game on pause as he turned from the couch, "If she's anything but too happy to go to work, then shame on you."

Argo poured a glass of water, grabbed a breakfast bar, then headed toward the couch. "No keyboard? You actually found some game controllers?"

Tom smiled. "I try to keep her happy too. She's a valuable asset, Jonde. I hate to see her depressed. From a purely business position, it hurts the bottom line." He cleared the room of the last zombie. "But she's a good person. Good things should happen to good people, otherwise, life just doesn't seem to make any sense." A dozen ambushed him from a hidden chamber and killed him, middle of the screen. "Son of a bitch! I hate that." Tom restarted the game.

Argo chugged his drink, "You— you mind if I play second man?"

Tom handed him the other controller, and the slowest computer in the building reloaded the level.

Argo only intended to play for a few minutes, but it ended up going for well over an hour. Despite Tom's falter earlier, he proved to be very agile in clearing the rooms. He even mastered the last second sidestep that could easily have been mistaken for pure luck, except it happened way too often.

Shadona walked into the room, rubbed her fingers through Argo's hair, kissed him on the cheek, then said, "If it's all the same to you guys, I'm going to take the day off." She grabbed something from the fridge and headed back to the room.

"She loves you, Jonde," Tom said as Argo's man died on the screen. "I hope you know what that entails. I'm not sure I do."

Argo paused on those familiar words, got up, and left the room.
**B2.C40**

They sat on the top floor and looked out the open windows.

The office building was on the outskirts of the city, not the city proper. Within sight of the third floor were clusters of other office buildings, several unmarked warehouses, and a stripped Wal-Mart warehouse. TVs and such cluttered the parking lots around abandoned vehicles and the remains of cardboard boxes. People didn't loot offices and industrial centers; hungry people never looked in them for food. Stolen TVs were often an afterthought and tended to get abandoned quickly when people realized how heavy they were to carry and the probability that it was just as broken as the one they had at home.

No newspaper. No radio. No TV. No Internet.

From the top floors, looking out, the country cried of quiet despair. Below their feet, crossing through the many doors leading to the basement, they could travel back into the modern world.

"I wonder if Steve has a house where we could plant a garden," Argo said, looking at her face, lost in thoughts outside the window, "something small, a little remote, quiet."

"I invented that engine almost ten years ago. I told them you could use the inside of a car the same way your father used the greenhouse as a second panel. It would recharge the batteries while it kept the inside of the car cool. It could do the same thing with a hot attic, even double as the car's air-conditioning and use less space, but they didn't listen. They just wanted a military app. It took me a year to get it published online, where nobody cared."

Argo put his arm around her. "My father was impressed."

"I tried. I tried to make a difference, to be the person of my own choosing." She looked across the ruins. "Was it ever meant to be?"

He hugged her closer. "I think we were."

"A lot of my ideas have other peoples' names on the patents. Worse than stealing was what they did with them."

He ran his hand across her back. "I heard a church bell ring last week."

After two months had passed, Steve was now officially overdue. Overdue could mean a lot of things. The roads may have been impossible. His antique car could easily have broken down and left him stranded somewhere. He could have gotten hit by a far larger pulse that fried more than just the lights and radio. A large enough pulse could even reach them in the basement. It was impossible to say. But Steve was a very resourceful man. He could easily be delayed by any number of things.

He could also be dead.

Tom garaged the truck in a steel shipping-container beside the building. That should offer it sufficient protection to remain functional until they needed to use it again. They were nearly out of pipes and supplies for building engines and faced the prospect of having to drive for more, or make a difficult decision.

They sat in the main room after dinner.

Tom decided to start. "I don't know how long we should wait for Steve. As far as I care, this place was part of our deal with him. He took with him enough engines to convert over the few other places like this that he has. Your book was plenty thorough. With the food you brought with you from the apartment, added to what was already stored here, we can easily make it through winter."

"We have the truck," Argo said.

"Sure, true. We have that, too. And enough parts to get it running after one or two more pulses. Lets look at it this way, the basics. It all boils down to stay, or go. We're a little removed from people, no smoke or loud exhaust to give us away. But, eventually, we will be found.

We have what it takes to stay, reasonably, comfortably. Stay, and wait. If he shows, then there is a good chance we have a market, and even more important, we can do a lot of good for the most number of people. Just getting irrigation pumps working again can make the difference between a garden and a farm. We can do that. Steve said he had that kind of thing lined up."

Shadona looked at the table, "I doubt anyone would take the three of us seriously."

"No, you're probably right about—" Tom said.

"Average person would probably loot the place," Argo said.

Shadona stood, "It feels wrong to have three meals every day, when so many— it feels guilty."

Tom looked up at her, "We are the bag of seeds, and this is fertile ground. The bag may feed one or two for a year, but the ground can feed hundreds for a lifetime." He leaned back in the chair with a squeak, "We just need Steve, our farmer. That guy that does everything between the two."

Shadona sat, then put her head on the table.

"He's probably dead," Argo said.

"Probably," Tom said.

"What are we going to do?" Shadona said.

"Stay," Tom voted.

The other two agreed. Leaving just before fall seemed a most irresponsible thing to do, anyway. The vote was mostly aimed at the following spring.

They converted the southern side of the building into a kind of three-story greenhouse, and scavenged interior walls to make it happen.

They procured topsoil from just past the parking lot and used the dried seeds they had brought from the apartment for food as the seeds. Northern beans sprouted almost immediately. Same with corn, lentil, kidney beans, black-eyed peas, and pintos. They even had some popcorn sprouting from their last microwave bag.

Southern windows wouldn't grow but a few feet into the room, but the windows reached from one end of the building to the other. It looked to be quite a harvest, scheduled around winter.

Too bad they didn't have any lettuce, broccoli, or cauliflower.

Gardening became their main filler of time, now that they had made all the engines they had material for.

Argo woke in the underground office. Without windows, keeping up with the time was difficult to do. His watch had stopped with the first pulse, but he was sure it was morning. Their bed was next to a desk and a lamp on the floor. The bed was from the Wal-Mart warehouse, as were the sheets and a few other things.

Much better than the one they had in the apartment, it was the most comfortable foam he had ever slept on.

But as comfortable as it was, he didn't want to sleep anymore. His morning started with kissing her.

Suddenly sad that she couldn't have children, he wondered whether it would have been enough of a reason to not get involved, if she had told him now that he was older. But he was young when he found out, and it didn't matter. It hadn't made him this sad, back then. He kissed her again.

The lights in the hall caught his eye as they cracked under the door, the only light in the room.

Contrary to popular opinion, they never turned out lights in hallways or main rooms. Fluorescent replacement tubes would be impossible to find. Most exploded on the first pulse, those that it missed had exploded on the second or third. There was every likelihood that the few bulbs they had were all they would ever get. Turning them on and off reduced their lifespan far more than leaving them on all the time did. The electricity was free, so they left them on all the time, usually with potted plants nearby.

Except in the bedrooms.

He could reach for the lamp, he knew where it was, but he reached for her hands instead, lips pressed to her fingers. They were much softer now. The drying, peeling, harsh oils of the lathe and tools was a thing of the past. They had built their last engine for a while. Dirt and seeds left her hands quite soft, by comparison.

They had done the same for his hands as well.

He liked touching her.

He liked feeling her respond.

She had been awake for a while, and he sensed a little sadness in her as well.

He worked the sheets off of them with his feet as he enjoyed her silhouette. He ran his hand across her back, then placed a few kisses on her bare shoulder.

"I'm not making a difference here," she said.

He paused, then stroked her shoulder length hair. "You make all the difference to me."

"I made a difference at work. Everything felt possible. I feel bad for Tom. He's alone here."

He bolted up, "I'm not sharing you, if that's what you're thinking." He tickled her as best he could in this much dark.

They didn't have sex as much as he thought married people would. But, he was finding that it wasn't as critical to a relationship as he once thought.

He liked tickling her almost as much. He liked hearing her laugh. He liked seeing her smile. There was a lot to love about this girl. He snuggled in to enjoy her more.

The window gardens were coming in nicely. The top three floors were unheated. They had removed some of the other windows to allow for ventilation during the summer, but even replacing them left the floor incredibly cold. Except the little six-foot wide hallway they built for the garden, next to the windows. Inside it was kept at a tropical warmth, even in the winter.

Getting to it was their only hardship. It needed very little weeding, had few bugs, and most of the watering was handled with the water pump and the cistern required for roof runoff by the older building codes.

By the time winter hit them full force, they had a mammoth surplus of food for three.

The first warm winter day found them knocking on the church doors.

They knocked again, louder this time.

"I'm sorry, but we have no food," the father said before opening the large, oak doors.

Shadona smiled at the Father. "Do many people ask?"

The Father looked at the three of them. He hadn't ever seen them before. "More than anyone would like, my dear. They bring their children in hopes that the sight of a hungry child will garner more sympathy. Sympathy is the one thing there is no shortage of."

She looked at Argo and Tom, "Then we are at the right place." She pointed to the crudely fashioned cart they had lugged nearly six miles that morning. The truck would have been faster and much easier, but the sound of it lumbering through the town would have attracted far too much attention. "I'd put aside some of those seeds for planting this spring."

People pushed carts everywhere, especially when they looted. They drew no attention walking that way.

It felt good to make a difference. Even if it was very small.

The Father was so grateful that he wanted to talk to them all day, but they left after an hour.

He told them of the sorrow and despair he encountered every day. But the Father was used to people finding the church in their moments of greatest need. The Father wasn't a mayor, but he was the most logical place for the government to go to keep in touch with what was left of the community. Elections were suspended. Curfew warnings were glued to otherwise useless telephone poles and store windows. He accumulated more gossip and newspapers than the library. His most recent headline confirmed that the vast majority of the country was doing without almost everything. Pulses had nearly collapsed it all, coast to coast. Only about ten percent of the country still had power. Cattle were working fields before they were slaughtered that winter. Combat casualties had topped a quarter of a million. Only one carrier battle group was believed still afloat.

The dust seemed to be attracted to the cities that used the most power. It was believed that when they accumulated enough particles, it created the shorts that generated the massive pulses. The ten percent that still had power used self-imposed blackouts to encourage the dust to dissipate. Some stayed dark every other month.

It seemed to be working, no more cities had fallen. At least, not that the Father had heard.

Very few people remained in the city, mostly those without the means to leave. Without power, farms needed labor. Most laborers were willing to work for food.

Unfortunately, farmers that weren't willing to accept work for food were slaughtered for their food, mob style. Mobs knew nothing of how to plant crops, weed, irrigate, or grow food in any manner at all. Desperate mobs inherited farms that they could do nothing with, so they killed again and again leaving a wake of abandoned farms, until martial law was implemented.

Farms were guarded like gold.

"You know, when the Internet was up, this would take seconds," Tom said, sitting at the computer.

"It's a pity," Shadona said, looking at the same screen. "The biggest engines we can build are only twenty, maybe thirty horse, tops. We would need a real machine shop to build anything bigger. They can be ganged together, but then the collector becomes unfeasible, no matter how many ways I look at it."

Tom looked up from the screen, "I just don't see any place— All of the local bodies of water are located too far for a ten-horse motor to deliver water to where it would do any good. I'm sorry. We could drive around some, but that's like driving an ice-cream truck through a preschool playground on the hottest day of summer."

She pointed at the screen, but stopped. They had been at it for hours. "Steve had the right idea. Farmers and irrigation pumps are the biggest bang you can get with one of these. We could drive for days and not find the right farm. And finding the wrong farm might well have been what happened to Steve."

Argo brought over the printouts on farming, greenhouses, old-school ways to do soil tests, water management, and general farming techniques. The spines were bound with Liquid Nail and the cover was an old cereal box with a magic marker title, but it was the best they could do with what they had.

By spring, they would have another shipment of excess seeds for the Father.

They waited for a full moon before driving out to the old job site to gather the last load of supplies it had left to offer.

While Argo slept, Shadona walked to the church. "Father," she said.

He looked disappointed when he didn't see another cart of food or the other men. "Come in, my child."

"Father," she said, "can God forgive any sin? Can anyone born in the ultimate act of blasphemy ever find forgiveness?"

"Sit down, my child," he said, "start at the beginning."

She wiped her left eye with the back of her fingers, then told him the heavy burden she had been carrying all these many years.

Their next delivery to the father was of books and ready-made greenhouses that could be placed in any south-facing window, a few kits for south-facing decks. Had they given them to individuals, they likely would have been fought over or hoarded, but giving them to the Father helped foster a sense of community and sharing from the people who ultimately received them.

The Father, through his connections to the community, was able to acquire a precious few seeds for lettuce, spinach, radishes, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots and such. He entrusted a small portion to them in the hopes that they could breed enough seeds from them for a proper start to spring.

They happily did him that favor.
**B2.C41**

By spring, they had gone from machinists to expert farmers. Perhaps even seed engineers. Shadona had a knack for breeding plants, which was made much easier when cross-pollinating bugs were removed from the equation.

"... mole people," Shadona said, storming out of the room.

Argo shook his head at the table. "We're making a difference here, right?" Argo asked.

Tom was just as befuddled by her sudden departure, "I think so."

"Why not just wait a few more months and see if Steve shows up? We could stay here indefinitely, right?" Argo went to the microwave and popped in a fresh potato. "I mean, this is pretty sweet, right? We don't have any new games or videos, but, come on, most people don't even have this."

"I think she's restless, but you know her better than I do."

Argo stood by the microwave and waited for the ding. "Restless? Enlisting is damn near suicidal." He decided to tell Tom, now that he knew the man much better. "I met her when she escaped from a military base. I didn't believe— She had some story about everyone being out to get her, so I just figured she was paranoid. But, one day they came for her. Shot my father, almost killed my mother, and shot a dear, innocent friend of mine in the head trying to get her back. Hell, Jonde and Sally aren't even our real names. We've been running for our lives from them, just hoping they believed we were dead. Now that it's nearly impossible for them to ever find us, she wants to turn herself in."

Tom looked stunned.

"I love the girl, God knows I do, I'd do anything for her. I gave up everything just to be with her." He walked to the table and sat across from Tom. "I think if Steve came, and she could see how much more she had to contribute here than over there, she might change her mind. But, I just can't talk her out of it. She acts like it's her duty." Argo looked at the microwave, "I just don't know what to do."

Tom thought about it while the minutes counted down. "Mother's don't leave their kids behind. You could do that. I even saw an army medical manual about delivering babies that Dave downloaded on his old laptop, leftover since they had their last kid, I guess. Most guys your age aren't looking to have children right away, but—"

"She can't have children. Something about what they did to her at the base." The microwave dinged. "It's a pity too, I think she would have made an excellent Mom." He thought of his short time as a father with Coulette, then got his potato.

Tom pondered it some more. "You could threaten to enlist with her. She might—"

"I already did," Argo said, dicing it up with his fork, "I just couldn't bear the idea of sitting here, wondering if she was ever coming back." He returned to the table. "You can really see the soldier in her, sometimes." He blew on a chunk, then put it in his mouth. "I think that's why they took motherhood away from her, so the soldier would be all that was left. I don't want her to go. I just can't think of anything I can do to make her stay."

"Maybe Steve will eventually show. Maybe we can keep adding weeks of waiting, until it's fall again."

Argo forked more potato. "Mole people," he said with a laugh.

Tom remembered it better, "No, she said she was tired of being queen of the mole people."

"I wonder how many pockets like this are left in the world?"

"I don't know. But, it seems impossible that any country would have buried entire factories, clean rooms, or chip centers and such underground, let alone the power plants needed to run them. Smelters, foundries, extruders, it just seems impossible, just think of all the little pieces and parts that go into everything, just leaving one out... Maybe a military base here and there, a small machine shop in a coal or salt mine or something. But nothing approaching an industrial scale. You remember that device Sally built to measure the pulses last year? This city has been dead for months, but it still gets pulsed every few weeks. She said they seem to be getting stronger too. Mole people. It may be a way of life from here on out, not exactly how people are used to living."

Argo continued eating.

Argo and Tom visited the Father and were able to persuade him not to tell Shadona about the scheduled spring or summer visits from the state recruiters by basically bribing him. They were, after all, feeding several families by just staying and had provided the tools and basic skills to make many more self-sufficient. The Father had his selfish reasons, as did they.

By midsummer, it was clear that Steve was never coming.

The Father stood outside the office building, "It looks like all the others."

Shadona showed him inside. It looked thoroughly ransacked and abandoned, as intended. But, after negotiating the obstacle course of rubble, she showed him into the hallway greenhouse on the first level. He was very impressed.

After the tour upstairs, they headed down.

Shadona stopped at the first metal door. "Now, this is incredibly important," she said. "You have to make sure that the door is completely closed before you open the next one. You can never have two doors open at the same time. It's critical." She opened the first door, stepped over the threshold, then closed it behind them.

They walked another twenty feet to another door. Written on the walls and door was the same warning she had just given. There were four metal doors per level, with an additional two doors between floors. It may well have been overkill, but it worked.

He was so stunned to see electric lights that he said a silent prayer. "How?" he said.

"We turned each floor into a giant Faraday cage that basically turns the magnetic pulses into heat that is then dissipated into the earth," she said.

Argo could see that the Father was as lost as Argo first was about Faraday's magic box. "She's very smart," he said to the Father.

"How much were you able to save?" the Father asked.

They gave him the grand tour. It would be the Father's soon enough.

Dear Mom,

A lot has happened since the night you were shot.

I missed Dad's funeral, and your recovery. I hope you found Max, I miss that brave little cat.

I don't know where to begin, or where it'll end. I love the girl you knew as Sally. She didn't die that night, despite what you may have heard. We tried to hide from those people who killed Dad and nearly killed you. We survived the pulses, and tried to do the best we could for those around us.

We got married a few days ago. It was a beautiful fall day, the sky even had a pretty glow of green and blue. A Father in the city was kind enough to marry us. Her name is now Shadona Caranf.

We are enlisting in a few days, I don't know if it'll do any good. I'm nervous, and a little scared. I think this must have been how the Japanese who volunteered for those one-way flights over the Pacific must have felt, except I have a better chance of coming back. I hope some good will come of the choice I made today.

I love you, Mom. I think I would have liked to have said that in person, but paper is the best I can do.

The Father who married us promised to get this to you. But I doubt it'll happen soon.

Love, your happily married son,

Argo Caranf
**B2.C42**

"A pilot, you say?" the sergeant said.

"Yes Sir," she answered, "I've flown everything in existence, Sir."

"I find that hard to believe, Girl, but we are in desperate need of pilots." He produced a flipbook with unlabeled instrument clusters and started his quiz. Only to be rapidly convinced of her claims.

Argo and Tom had enlisted at the same time, but were assigned as infantry, same unit, and were separated from Shadona nearly immediately. Sadly, she found herself married, and more alone than ever.

Shadona stood in the office, waiting. She had passed every test they had given her over the last four days. Not just passed, but top of her class.

The general stepped into the room.

She gave him a respectful salute. "How many HB series planes do you have at your disposal, Sir?"

He looked at the report, "Passing wasn't good enough, you had to get perfect scores."

"How many, Sir?"

He stared at her, "What is the minimal speed for operating the railguns?"

"Mach 2. The potassium carbonate is injected into the fuel/air mix, which then passes through a magnetic field and generates the pulse needed to fire. Standard MHD drive. But, it can actually fire them at subsonic speeds, they just don't hit with meaningful force."

"How do you know about the HB series?"

"I've flown them."

He stared at the unassuming woman in his office. "The enemy has six, that we can confirm."

That was rather buckling news. "How did they get them, Sir?"

The general sat on the corner of his desk, "Near as we can tell, a west-coast professor emailed the plans to China, Iran, and North Korea. Together, we figure they could have made three a year. At great cost, we hit their plants, but not before they sank most of our fleet. We've processed less than a hundred people who already know about the HBs, they all came in as a group near the start of the war."

"I was detained, Sir." She indicated her wedding ring.

"I see. We have about two dozen HB-6a's—"

"A's Sir?"

"Composite skin. We project they can't go toe-to-toe for more than a minute with the real thing, but they are in it for that full minute."

"You can't use composite against them, Sir. They'll be—"

"We are. The HB-6as have beam weapons that—"

"The real ones have a heat shunting skin, not a composite. A beam will do nothing against that. Only the railguns have a chance, and even then you have to use heat dissipating rounds, not tungsten. The beams were designed as a ballistic defense system. Nothing more."

The general looked quite upset. "I've seen the tests, they burn through a foot of armor in under a second."

She nodded, "Armor, yes, even a small piece of the skin about the size of a plate, but not a full wing." She disliked explaining herself, "A match can vaporize a drop of water, but it can't even boil a cup. To reach the melting point of the wing is in the hundreds of terawatts, about a thousand times more power than anything those engines can generate."

The general looked sick. He had just sent them out on a seek and destroy mission. She made her way though the system a week too late. "We have no way to recall them."

"How many HB-6s do you have?"

"We didn't have the power for the skin, that's why we went with composites. The first will be completed this week."

She paused. "A four-to-one advantage is the Sherman approach. It might work. It isn't hopeless. Any of the early models left?"

"Just one, badly damaged and completely disassembled. They're using it as a template."

"I'm the best pilot you have, General," she said.

He walked around and sat behind his desk, "We'll see."

* * *

Boot camp was mostly grueling marches and running, but Tom and Argo handled it well. They didn't even have enough ammo to fire their guns, so target practice involved mostly throwing dummy grenades and knives, then an hour a day with crossbows.

They did fifteen miles a day with a full pack near the railroads.

It was exhausting.

At the end of 'accelerated' training was a two-day trip on the train to the coast where they rallied up with other camps at the port.

Most troop transports of any size had been sunk over a year ago, with the possible exception of one carrier group that nobody seems to be able to locate. Submarines still functioned flawlessly but were relegated to defense and escorts. Moving men and machines across the ocean was a difficult logistic task to complete, even with the huge transport ships they no longer had. Thousands of smaller boats were constructed, mostly from wood, painted the color of the ocean, and sent across in the most diffuse pattern they could derive. It was a logistical nightmare.

It wasn't pretty. They were crowded, confining, and dangerous in high seas. But the oceans were patrolled by enemy planes, and sinking thousands of targets was thought to be nearly impossible.

Squads rode across together in the same boat to foster unit cohesion. Argo and Tom rode with their instructor.

"You are lucky, Boys," the boat captain/instructor said. "They tried everything before they came up with the thousand leaves on the pond idea. They first had what we called the concrete coffins. It was a submarine of sorts made out of a concrete pipe, shaped like a submarine. About sixty feet long, twelve wide. It had a sixty-foot snorkel that went up to the surface and a diesel engine. It went the whole way submerged. Sixty feet of water helped protect it from attack from the air, and the only thing that gave it away was the little straw sticking out of the water.

But they couldn't surface very easily. You had to swim out the bottom. And they could sink one with a grenade or mines. They cracked real easy. But they worked for a while.

This'll work for a while, until the enemy adapts again."

They stood on deck under the eerie blue glow of the night sky. Weeks confined inside of a concrete tube sounded like torture. Dim light, no wind on their face. Only to die from a mine a few hundred feet short of the other side.

"Don't worry, Men. The worst they do now is strafe. It rarely kills anyone, just sinks the boat. I survived two this year. The thing about a thousand leaves is, there is usually someone just a day or two behind you. Sooner or later, you get rescued."

The captain spotted a flicker in the distance, pulled out a long telescope-looking device, then signaled them back. Smoking was strictly prohibited on deck, the flicker could be seen for miles, but a flicker at the end of a long tube could only be seen by the person it was aimed at. In this case, another boat in their convoy.

"We have some assistance to render, Men. Make room for one more."

They soon altered course for what sounded like a whistle, then pulled a man in from over the side. "Thank you," the drenched man said, "Now I know why they said that whistle was more important than my dog tags."

"How many more?" the captain asked.

"Two more," he replied.

The captain climbed as high as he could and slowly panned his telescope-looking light across the horizon behind them until he got a flash in return. He silently relayed the needed information.

They communicated through the simple line-of-sight devices almost every night. It was difficult and cumbersome, but it worked well enough and it kept them mostly on course.

They adjusted to their new landing site.

* * *

The nose popped up with a puff of vented gas, the engines shifted from reverse to full forward, and the plane bolted off the ground like a bottle rocket. She pulled some standard maneuvers, hit eight of eight targets, then belly flopped the landing as she had done for most of her life.

"Caranf," the officer in charge said as she exited the plane, "You're identity has been confirmed. It takes a little longer without databases."

She removed her helmet.

"The general would like to see you again. This way, please."

"Reports from the front," the General said. "We lost six trying to use the beams to down one of theirs. Another four trying to use the guns with standard tungsten rounds, and another three in the retreat. But, we did down one. That's better than ten squadrons of raptors ever did."

"Sorry, Sir."

"If we can down the other five, we'll have a chance of turning this war around. Whatever the price, we have to clear them from the sky."

"Yes Sir."

"Fingerprints. You were still on file, when we knew what obscure corner to look. A very thick file, in fact. I had to assign someone else to read it for me. Test pilot, huh? I think that was what you told the sergeant."

"Yes Sir."

"You went AWOL three times."

"Yes Sir."

"God help me, I'm going to clear you. We are just that desperate."

* * *

"Head for the Mosque," the lieutenant yelled as every window opened up with small arms fire on them.

Tom lobbed another smoke grenade as the squad ran for the doors.

They rallied inside.

"We lose anyone," the lieutenant said.

"No Sir," they answered in unison.

"Listen up, Men," the lieutenant continued, "keep it close to the buildings. They have air superiority out here, so, don't ever get caught out in the open, and if you have to be exposed, for God's sake, don't do it as a tight group."

"Yes Sir," they answered.

"Sergeant," he said.

"Yes Sir," their sergeant said.

"Take your men and... " the two of them walked over to the maps as the orders were handed out.

Tom and Argo took the break to open one of their MREs.

All too soon their sergeant was back, and they moved out through some tunnels inside the Mosque and started clearing buildings.

"Mich," the sergeant screamed into the radio while they were taking fire, "Top floor, left side!"

The suit sprinted across the field at better than forty miles an hour and simply shoulder blocked its way through the wall and into the building.

The squad poured in behind it.

The suit took point as they cleared each room.

The suits were making one hell of a difference. They were like personal tanks that could fit inside of buildings. It didn't matter the name of the man inside the suit, sooner or later, they all answered to Mich.

The third floor exploded after Mich breached the wall beside the door. His gun made a distinctive sound, like a disturbed nest of angry bees, or Satan's weed-eater. Mich pulled the door off the hinges as he came back out, "Clear," he said through a speaker on the suit, "I've got another call." Then he left back down the steps.

The squad took up positions at the windows and provided cover for the squads coming in behind them, as well as sniping hostiles in other buildings.

The sergeant tapped Argo on the shoulder and pointed to the bodies littering the floor. With so much gunfire in this acoustical room, conversation was nearly impossible. But his gestures were clear enough.

Argo slung his rifle, grabbed the nearest one by the feet, then started stuffing them into bags and shoving them into closets.

They held that position for their first week in field.

* * *

She ran her hand across the skin of its wing. It felt nearly identical to the HB-4, just about five feet longer.

She closed her hand into a fist. They had copied the computer core, too. Almost flawlessly. It actually recognized her.

She climbed inside as they filled it with some very expensive fuel.

She hadn't been in combat for years.

Today, she was going to kill someone.

It was the only thing she wasn't ready for.
**B2.C43**

"Get down!" Tom yelled, pulling Argo out of the way as bullets riddled the wall.

Argo rolled across the ground as chunks of bricks ricocheted behind him.

"Son of a bitch!" Tom said, ducking down himself, holding his arm. "I know why you're here, how the hell did I end up— I had electricity, a big screen TV, a library of movies as big as blockbusters, running water and a damn bed to sleep in!"

Argo held his gun up over the mound of rubble and returned fire. His forearm had a fiber optic array that was attached to the scope of his sub-machinegun. It wasn't perfect, but it let him see around corners and often had him going in first, when Mich wasn't around. "I don't know why either, but I'm glad you're here. At first, I thought you were just trying to get with my wife, but getting killed right beside me is a hell of a way to do that." He loaded another clip, then stuck his arm over the mound and found another target. "Clear!"

They cautiously got up.

Argo rolled his sleeve over the optic array. It scratched easy. "Medic!" he yelled, looking at Tom's arm.

"I've had far worse," Tom said, stopping the blood with his dirty glove.

He looked at the weird Arabic words written on all their uniforms. "What does it say again?"

"Aim for the arm," Tom answered.

Argo laughed. People were dead, but somehow, Tom's bullet wound was funny. "No, really."

"Something about freeing the people of Iran from their oppressive government, I don't really remember."

Argo held Tom's gun while the medic ripped open the sleeve.

"Hell, it might say 'Buy Pepsi, shop at Wal-Mart' for all I know," Tom said.

This time, even the medic laughed.

Stitches in the field were all he was ever going to get, evacuation was nearly impossible. The medic finished the last stitch without anesthesia, "There you go," the medic said slapping Tom on the shoulder, "You're nigh invulnerable again."

They moved on.

It wasn't all that rare, but some of the native population, mostly the women, would wave them into their homes. Especially after they liberated the town. The Iranian army had a nasty habit of going door to door conscripting children and using them as fodder. Most of the population didn't approve of such tactics, especially when some of the children were made to wear explosive vests.

But all squads had been warned. Drink only water they have personally seen come from a sink, and eat only what they had seen others eat. Poisonings happened too.

The squad hunkered down for the night in the family's home.

They didn't have a translator, but each soldier carried a notebook of common words written in Arabic beside English counterparts, and they could communicate through a series of pointing at words like food, water, enemy, friendly, but not in complete sentences.

Fortunately, the daughter of this family spoke understandable English.

"Mother say you stay night, ok?" she said. "Have room. Father killed for speaking out. Enemy no this house."

"You thank her," the sergeant said. "We'll try not to leave a mess."

The daughter translated. "It door second," the girl said, pointing around the corner.

The sergeant pointed to Argo to check it out.

Argo opened the door, hand on his gun. "Bathroom, Sir." Apparently, 'mess' had multiple translations.

The sergeant addressed the men, "Treat this lady's house like you were at your in-laws house for the first time. Don't mess up nothing." He pointed to Jim, "Not your in-laws, you're going through a divorce. You pretend like you're at my house and I'll march you to death if you track mud across the carpet."

They stayed two nights, then moved on to the next town.

They were spread out, none closer than two hundred feet apart, as they marched across the vast openness between towns.

Argo walked past an M-1A1 Abrams tank. The turret had been ripped open and sat a good twenty feet away. He walked between the two pieces. The entrance holes on the turret were as small as rifle rounds and looked like they had been drilled with a press. The exit holes on the tank looked more like a shotgun blast on cardboard. The few rounds that missed the tank left craters in the dirt the size of buckets. Nothing was safe anymore.

The squad regrouped as they arrived at the next town.

* * *

Her first few flights were unsuccessful, as far as her primary mission was concerned. She had problems finding five needles in a haystack, just as she assumed she would.

But N60 was such a precious commodity, she refused to waste it just flying around, looking. Instead, she roamed over their state with impunity and obliterated most of their domestic airpower, gathered needed surveillance for future military targets, then ran home.

She belly flopped from the sky, then landed at the base.

She pulled the computer core and carried it into the building as the crew taxied the plane into the maintenance hangar. She walked down the long stairwell, opening and closing large metal doors on her way to the lower levels. The core was taken from her and plugged into the underground base equipment as the intelligence crew scrutinized the surveillance logs.

She stood for her debriefing, then retired to her quarters.

She had probably killed a thousand people today. It sat heavy on her.

"Caranf," the courier said, delivering her next assignment.

It was a list of targets for her to destroy. If she destroyed enough of them, the other five were sure to find her. That had been the plan all along. N60 was the only way to cross the ocean on a single tank, and it was costing them a fortune.

Economically, it would make more sense to base her closer to the war zone and ship the fuel to her. But they had only one HB-6 and couldn't make another for years, if ever. The enemy could conduct surveillance while they flew too, so the further away the safer it was. Statistically, The United States was too vast to cover and thus offered them some degree of protection.

There was an expectation that she would eventually pass over where the other five were housed and hit them on the ground. If they were housed in Iran, odds were she would find them in the next few weeks, even if they chose not to engage her in the air.

She looked over the prints; the five had yet to be found.

She closed the folder and lay back in the bunk. She missed her husband more than she thought she would. She woke up missing him, and went to bed missing him. The quicker she could draw those five out, the safer he would be.

Tanks, planes, and trucks were difficult to manufacture when the power in the states was below ten percent and faltering around the world. But even manufacturing had to contend with shipping those heavy, bulky units halfway around the world, which helped explain the shift to mass production of the Michelin suits in the few remaining plants.

Power, electricity, energy was an essential input into everything. It was the food of modern life, and a sprinkling of dust was slowly starving the world. The war began as simple retribution, but it had now shifted priorities somewhat. They needed to find the dust. Somewhere in Iran was the manufacturing center, plans, or some remaining samples. Scientists around the world had radically different ideas on how to clean it out of the air, now that it was clear it would never settle. But none could be certain without a sample to analyze.

Getting a sample before civilization collapsed entirely was now a worldwide goal.

But missiles tended to get ripped apart by pulses or lightning from this supercharged aurora borealis before they even got close.

Shadona made a loose fist, then walked down the hall and entered the office. "Sir," she said.

"Yes, Caranf."

"The HB-6 is capable of obtaining a sample, Sir. It can reach into space. Not on conventional fuels, but on N60. If you want me to try, Sir."

The general looked up from his desk. "Our scientists said it couldn't, they put a ceiling on the use of N60 at 60,000 feet."

"They were right about the composite model. To burn N60 requires the MHD drives to provide the spark, if you will. Those drives produce huge magnetic fields that would trigger a giant pulse the closer you got to the dust. That point blank pulse would fry a composite, and they are right to require anything higher to switch to jet fuel. But the original skin can take the hit, Sir."

The general looked interested. "How big of a hit are you talking?"

"Big. It would probably trigger the biggest pulse on record. You would want to try it over something unimportant, like the ocean ... or Canada."

He laughed at that last part. "They are still an ally, Caranf. Not a particularly useful one, admittedly. You sure it'll survive?"

She shook no. "Not sure, but I'm willing to take the chance."

"How not sure? What kind of damage are we talking about?"

"Bad, probably. But survivable. I would say 90% chance of recovering the sample, 65% chance of landing normally without destroying the plane."

"See, it's the destroying the plane that I'm having a problem with. I'd be happy to let you try if we had a dozen to spare, or after you down the other five."

"It might be too damaged by then. The skin has to be pristine if it's to have any chance at all of surviving."

"Then I suggest you don't let them put a scratch on it."

That was a no. "Just had to let you know the option existed." She returned to her room.

* * *

"Caranf!" the sergeant said.

Argo ran to his side, then ducked beside the wall.

"61543-8854432-144532-45564-ADS" the sergeant said.

Argo dialed it on his flashlight.

The sergeant pointed to a distant corner of the block, then tapped Argo on the shoulder.

Argo bolted, head down, across the field under fire and made his way over to some burning vehicles. Another took position on the other side of the street in front of Argo, then two more to their left. The fire intensified as the enemy realized what they were planning. On the sergeant's signal, they crouched and shined their lights into the air, middle of the day.

They held perfectly still, and waited.

Four hundred feet away, the entire block exploded into rubble, and most of the oppressive firing came to a halt. The ground shook so hard it knocked everyone off their feet. Windows broke for hundreds of yards and the dust of a violent sandstorm filled the air.

They struggled to their feet, turned the triangulating lights off, reloaded, and returned to their patrol.

His squad and two others had battled their way into the town and had forced the enemy to retreat to a stronghold. It was well buttressed and heavily defended. A Mich was even damaged trying to take it. So, out came the flashlights. It was dangerous, the lights gave away their position, but they could call down heavy ordnance at will.

Each squad traveled light and on foot. Conventional air support was impossible, for now. But these bombs were fired into orbit from stateside. They could orbit for almost a month before falling back and burning up in the atmosphere. Each squad was given a few numbers that they could use, and a window of dates in which to use them. This was their last bomb, but it was so worth it. Triangulation by coded flashlight. The person in front of Argo had the same number he did, and the bomb simply connected the points into a line. Where the line from the other two intersected with his was where the bomb landed, nearly as simple as aiming a gun. It didn't even have any explosives. It was just a heavy mass coming down hard and fast. Orbiting kinetic bomb. This one turned into millions of pellets that shredded every inch of that block.

It felt like an earthquake.

His knees wobbled like an aftershock.

They hunkered down in an abandoned home.

"I heard someone cleared the air of hostiles," Argo said, "At least, that's what that other squad said. Conventional hostiles, anyway. We haven't seen any hostile air support, recently, right?"

Tom tore open a MRE. "I hate these sandwiches. The bread never tastes right."

"How's the arm holding up?"

"It hasn't improved my opinion of the food, if that's what you're asking." Tom took another bite and made a sour face.

The medic came over and looked at the arm. "It's fine."

"You're not eating the same sandwich I am," Tom said with a straight face.

"Oh, for the love of—" Argo opened his pack, took out one of his MREs, handed it to Tom, and took what was left of Tom's sandwich.

Tom looked incredibly offended, "Great, the one-armed man has to open another one of these damn things."

The squad broke out laughing.

They assembled at the next rally point to get re-supplied, but there was nothing there. Food was low, and their ammo was short. In the last town, they had stumbled across a weapons cache and stocked up. If it hadn't been for that foresight, they would have been unarmed right now.

But even their stolen guns were now running low.

"What do we do now, Sergeant?" one of the men asked.

"Well, it's either wait or move on to the next rally."

"Ain't no war ever been won by waiting," another man said.

"True that."

They broke out a map and plotted the next town.

Compasses and watches didn't work anymore, and the night sky looked pulsingly familiar to most of the men. Detailed street maps were their only reliable means of navigation, that and plotting the sun. The sergeant looked up from the map. "That way, Men. About two days. Listen. Our ammo situation is desperate. Single shots, check your targets, and remember where bagged hostiles dropped their weapons. You may need it. Try not to engage, unless you have to."

They headed out.

Argo drew second watch, top of the roof. He was supposed to be watching the streets below, but he couldn't help looking above at the horizon. It was a pretty green, like the night they got married. He looked at his ring. He could tell when the city was getting pulsed, even inside. His ring got warm and felt like it was crawling on his finger. It was now tied on a loop of string with his dog tag.

He felt bad about not wearing it, but the sergeant had ordered all metal jewelry, especially those that looped like necklaces and rings, be removed from direct contact with skin.

Off in the distance, something flashed smaller than a twinkling star in the west, then something burst into flames like a meteor exploding in the east. Two more explosions happened in rapid succession and the sky above the twinkle glowed bright blue, then faded away.

It seemed like minutes had passed before he heard a distant rumble like thunder.

He checked the streets below, nothing.

Buildings burned in the distance.

* * *

She pulled the computer core from the plane, walked to the building, handed off the box, showered, and headed for her bunk. She was tired, end of a very long day.

She fell asleep immediately.

Her room erupted in celebration, party makers, and cheers that morning after only a few hours of sleep.

"Please," she said to the crew, "the next two will be extremely tough, and I need my sleep before I face them."

The general made his way though the sea of people trying to crowd their way into her tiny quarters.

She stood at attention, as did they all.

"Three in under a minute," he said, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Sir, the enemy didn't know what the beam weapons were for, before. They were misusing them, much like you did. They will know better this time, especially if even one computer core survives, like they usually do. Sir, today, when I face the remaining two, I can't afford to be distracted by all of this."

The general gestured for everyone to leave the room, "You won't be meeting them today. The people here have seen nothing but crushing defeats at the hands of six airplanes. Six of them decimated almost every capital asset we had in the region, and they strafed the hell out of most known bases stateside, with impunity." He gestured outside her room, "Those people need a success. They need hope. They need a celebration." He put his arm around her, "They needed this win. You're not returning to flight for a few days anyway. Those heat dissipating, high polish, reflective rounds are incredibly difficult to make. And that plane burps them out two thousand a second. Girl, you out o' ammo." He opened the door and started the party proper.

They hoisted her onto their shoulders and carried her around, screaming with joy.
**B2.C44**

"Son of a bitch!" Tom yelled, tossing down his empty rifle, then pulling a Chinese pistol. "Where the hell did they all come from?"

"You have to let them get closer," Argo said, "or we don't stand a chance of pilfering any guns or ammo." Yet, after saying that, he sprayed and dropped a man over forty yards away. "Damn it!"

The sergeant pulled four pins and heaved two handfuls of grenades into the window.

One grenade was lobbed back, blowing him up.

Argo and Tom abandoned their position, leaped into the still smoking window, and tried to scrounge for guns among the dead and dying. They hadn't eaten in two days. The clip Argo found didn't go with his gun, so he tossed it to Tom.

The last member of their team rolled through the window.

"Jackpot!" Tom yelled, pulling a crate of ammo out from an overturned couch. He started passing it—

Three RPG blasts brought down the wall and most of the floor above them, burying them in rubble.

Tied, bound, and gagged with hoods over their heads, they were stripped of their gear and stuffed into a darkened closet, then left there until the next day.

Grabbed by the rope around his neck, Argo was dragged from the closet and out into the room.

They beat him for the next five minutes while shouting words he didn't understand, then shoved him back into the closet.

They were pulled out of the closet and beaten for a few minutes, then a gunshot sounded, followed by a wet thud. After a long silence, they were shoved back into the closet.

They listened to foreign voices arguing in the other room.

One night, they were drug from the closet and marched to another town. When they arrived, their hoods were taken off at last. When their eyes adjusted, they were one man short.

A flashlight was set on the table next to a plate of food. Argo stared. He was starving.

The interrogator said something, then gestured at the coded flashlight, then the plate.

Argo shrugged. It wasn't that big of a secret. "The date on our numbers expired a few days ago. Besides that, the sergeant was the only one with the numbers, and he's dead." He shrugged again, "It's just a flashlight now."

Something walloped him from behind.

His head slammed into the table, cutting his lip. He took his time getting up. Looking strong and resilient only invited a more vigorous beating. "Dude, the numbers are gone."

He was pummeled again, then drug from the table and shoved into a walled courtyard between buildings. Bloodstains decorated the blocks on one wall, bumped and cratered with gunfire.

They stayed in the courtyard for the next three days, returning to the table with food and a flashlight several times.

One of the men from another squad gave them the numbers and was rewarded with the plate, then moved to another building. But within the next few days, the numbers must not have worked. They hung him in view of everyone.

Everyone in his courtyard was taken to a field where they were given shovels and picks. A ditch about eight feet deep had been dug and there were two stakes marking, they assumed, where they were expected to stop digging.

Four guards sat with machineguns while the prisoners dug what could easily be a grave.

They were provided one bucket of water.

When they finished, they were, for the first time in over a week, given a real meal consisting of mostly rice, a bland tasting corn, and a potato with an unusually tough skin.

Over the next week, they added hundreds of feet to the trench.

It no longer looked like a grave, but more like an irrigation ditch.

The ground shook with a boom. It felt like a direct hit with one of their orbiting kinetic bombs. The sandstorm ripped at their skin and pierced their clothes. The ringing in his ears sounded vaguely like a train.

Argo looked up as the dust slowly settled in the freezing cold courtyard. He couldn't see a thing but could feel something electric in the air. Something big was happening.

He saw a corner of the sky grow bright blue, then waited for the distant explosion. The guards fired their AKs wildly into the air as they danced in celebration.

Then, they abruptly stopped.

Argo looked into the sky and could barely see two blue lines that merged into a single point, where it continued to glow brighter than any other. Brighter than a full moon, it cast shadows on the courtyard walls.

He waited, then heard two loud booms so close they nearly sounded as one.

Three, all together.

It was a little puzzling. One was worth celebrating, but two more brought the guards to a state of mourning.

* * *

Her pod was dinged, cracked, singed, and scarred, but had saved her life. Now it was her greatest liability. She was badly bruised across the chest where she had been strapped in. She had won, barely, and was the world's first hypersonic Ace.

She stripped, then quickly donned a burka and set the self-destruct on the pod. She ran, but was very disoriented. She pressed her hand to her head, and passed out.

Cold water splashed on her face.

"Hi, I'm here to rescue you," the man said. "Communication is sporadic around here, and I was cut off from my battalion. Where was your rally point?"

She looked around. She was in a small room of a residence with no windows and just one door. Her head pounded, still disoriented.

"Quickly," he said, "This place is crawling with elite Iranian national guard, looking for an American pilot." The man lightly shook her, "We're cut off behind me, we have to go." He looked around urgently, then pulled out a map and placed a finger on it. "We are here, where is your extraction point?"

She looked at the man. He was dressed in a dirty American uniform, but she couldn't place his accent. She was good with accents. She bowed her head meekly and avoided eye contact. "My house was destroyed, I was looking for my husband. Have you seen my husband?" she said in what she figured was the appropriate Iranian dialect.

He hesitated. "Look, I know you were given some garb and a basic course in the language in case you were captured, but we don't have time for this. We have to move. Our position is compromised. Drop the game and let's get going." He tapped the map again.

She began to cry, then held her arms across her stomach, "My little Mohammad was killed in the collapse. I have to find my husband so he can say goodbye to his only son. Please," she kept in character, "you have to help me find him."

He folded the map, disappointed, then changed to the local language she was speaking. "Ok, let's find you a husband." He helped her stand.

The second they got out the door, they were surrounded by Iranian soldiers. Shadona went to the nearest one, pointed to her would-be rescuer and said, "Save me from the American."

The would-be rescuer calmly walked past the Iranians who seized her instead.

She woke in a dark room, soaked in cold water, naked, tied to a wooden chair. The pain in her head had started to subside, but it left her dizzy and very disoriented.

A man walked in.

"Please, I must find my husband so we can bury our only son," she said. "The American said nothing I understood."

The man drew his knife and pressed it to her thigh, "This looks like a bullet wound. Where would a girl out here get such a—"

"I was leaving a store with a chicken I had bought with my beloved mother, when some students decided to riot and I was hit by accident when the police thankfully put them down. Please, I have done nothing, my house collapsed around me and I've lost my son and my husband and I must find them, please. I didn't understand anything that strange man said to me."

He traced the bruise that crossed her chest with the tip of his knife, "And this?"

"My home collapsed atop me. Please, I must find him."

"And this," he pointed to the burn and the gash.

"When I was six, I—"

He slapped her across the face. "You are a pilot that this glorious nation has shot down." He punched her this time. "You are a filthy American spy," he stomped on her foot with his heel, "You lie with every breath you take," he stomped on her other foot, "your decaying stench gives you away." He kneed her in the stomach.

"Is true," she said, "My father sent me some soap from America before the war. But I am no spy. He is a proud member of Hamas. He scattered coins near—"

He kneed her in the stomach again. "Lies!"

She bit her cheek so her coughs would have flecks of blood, "Please, I must bury my son before it becomes a sin upon my soul."

He kneed her again and left the room. The windows were then covered, and everything went black.

They questioned her for a full week, but were unable to break her from her story.

A man came in, calmly pulled a chair from the corner, and sat before her. "Well. What to do with you."

"I must find my husband, and tell him of our son," she mumbled.

"Either you are a spy, or you were in a very wrong place at the wrongest time, and are the unluckiest girl in the world." He looked at the scar on her face. "You are clearly unlucky." He stood and looked her over. "We have a fatwa that covers women prisoners. You make a convincing Iranian, which is very unlucky indeed."

Like had happened so often in her life, others decided who she was.

Shadona and a few other prisoners were moved around to different camps every week or two. The only clothes she got were those she had to wash for others. Sometimes they were kept in a tent between towns, but mostly they were kept in boarded up rooms that only unlocked from the outside.

* * *

Argo watched from the courtyard as five women, dressed in burkas and tied like prisoners, were brought to the makeshift prison. The guards marched them up to the second floor and deposited one into each of the rooms, then bolted the doors from the outside. He looked at his calloused hands. He was in a labor camp, and they were digging a trench to somewhere, mile after mile, one shovel at a time.

There were worse things than digging.

The wind picked up as the sky slowly filed with sand.
**Free her ...**

The man came into the room like the dozens before him.

The rope bound her foot to the bed as she sat and rocked back and forth. "I have to find my husband," she mumbled.

The man started taking off his clothes, "I'm your husband tonight."

"I'm going home soon."

...

It didn't rain often, or for very long. But it was raining again. When the door opened this time, the murmurs of a full courtyard blended with the gurgle of water trickling down the roof.

She rocked back and forth on the bed. "I'm going home today," she mumbled.

His pistol made a dampened thud when he took off his pants by the door and approached the bed.

Her rocking slowed. "Eight plus eight, minus three, minus three, minus three, minus three, minus three," she mumbled.

He pushed her down on the bed.

She punched him in the throat, wrapped her leg around his chin, and drove her knee into the back of his neck.

He dropped to the foot of the bed, legs twitching. His arms grabbed at her leg when she kneed him again, and he went limp.

"Leaves one," she whispered in his ear as she dropped the end of the rope beside his shoulder.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He watched helplessly as she walked over to the door, a piece of rope still tied to her leg, but no longer bound her to the bed. She paused, wavering back and forth as she mumbled something about home, then seemed to count on her fingers. The wavering stopped as her shaking hand tightened into a fist. She calmly put on his shirt, pulled the eight-round clip and the gun from his pants, then opened the door.

She fired three rounds into the guard at the top of the steps, picked up his rifle, and capped off ten rounds into each of the guards looking over the courtyard.

Three bodies and guns fell in as she ran barefoot downstairs with the pistol.

Argo bolted for the closest rifle and was machine-gunned in the back.

Tom was seconds behind Argo and was machine-gunned too, but managed to reach the rifle and strafed the gunner before collapsing.

The prisoners leapt into action as three more pistol shots rang out in rapid succession, some quick wet steps, then two rapid shots, three slower shots, steps, two rapid shots and a door, then a burst of rifle rounds again.

Three from Argo's squad made a human ladder for a fourth to go over the wall with a rifle. The gate opened and they flooded out.

Tom coughed blood as he tried to stand, but fell back into the mud beside Argo.

One of their squad ran over, "My God, Tom, how are you still alive?"

Tom put his hand on Argo's chest. "Hang in there."

The squad member checked, "Tom, he's gone."

Machinegun fire erupted outside the courtyard.

"Tom," the guy said, "Can you make it?"

Tom rested his hand on Argo's head, then collapsed in the mud.

"Shit." The guy checked Tom's neck, then grabbed the gun and ran out the gate.

The squad moved into the first building and found twelve dead bodies. They collected magazines and guns as they followed behind the carnage and picked off the stragglers.

"We can't stay around here forever," one said.

"I think this is all the prisoners," another said, pulling grenades out of an ammo box and handing them out.

"Ron," another said, "You were the last one captured. Any idea on a rally point?"

"Follow me," Ron said and headed back past the courtyard.

They stopped at the gate.

There was a barefoot figure inside, in the rain, kneeling over a body in the mud.

"Come on, we're going!" one yelled at the figure.

It knelt over the body's head, kissed, then sat up again.

He went in. "Come on, they're dead, we have to go!" He rested his hand on the figure's shoulder.

She sealed her lips around Argo's, blew, sat, then pressed on his chest.

"We're leaving," he said and grabbed the girl by the arm.

She twisted his wrist, dislocated his shoulder with a headbutt, then slammed him into the ground without missing a beat.

A member of Argo's squad entered the courtyard. "They're dead," he said, "Come on."

"Lady," the prisoner said, picking himself up out of the mud, "We have to go."

She continued CPR.

"Who is she?"

Gunfire rained down into the courtyard from above. The prisoners returned fire as they retreated out the gate. But the woman never moved.

Bullets strafed across her from above.

She slumped over.

The prisoners returned fire into the balcony as the woman struggled to sit again, pressed his chest with one hand, then leaned over his head before being strafed a final time.

Tom's hand rested on her head as he sat up. The rain slowed to a drizzle. Water dripped down his arms as he carried her from the courtyard. Coulette had freed her from the base by taking her place. He had freed her life to take another path, an opportunity tailored for her.

He hugged her lifeless form, his hand cradled her bloody head. "This never should have been asked of anyone," he whispered, then offered her all he had left.

He freed her from her tortured past.

In the whisperings...

She walked through the fog as it cleared to a pond. It looked familiar. She should remember this place, but her memories were a blur. She saw a familiar face, casting a line, with a fiercely tiny cat pouncing at its edge.

It felt like home.

[The end of book two]
**Hell from a Well**

Hell from a Well

By TR Nowry

The rage of a lifetime washed through him as he lowered the woman to the ground. His fingers were so soaked in blood that she nearly slipped from his grip. They had escaped. They had made it. He stood over her lifeless form while shots fired in the distance. They had escaped, yet she remained their prisoner.

He clenched his fists by his side.

It needn't have been this way. Her brief life had been so filled with grief that her blood on his hands soaked her sorrow into— He wiped his hands on the tatters of his shirt, but it didn't help. He fell back on his heels, screaming at the cursed sky.

They would know where he was now, but he no longer cared. He pounded his fists into the ground by his sides. He wanted— He longed for a fight. He stared toward the distant gunfire. They had done this to her. Such unspeakable things. They would pay, and pay now.

His single mission had been to free this woman, but he had been thwarted at every turn. He stood with new purpose as sorrow turned to bitter rage in his heart. He ran toward the sounds.

Like a dozen bee stings could never hope to slow the charge of a bull, neither did the puffs from the closest gun. The barrel sizzled in his grip as he ripped it from the man. Man— no, this was no man. He stared into the boy's eyes. Bewildered, terrified, he could see the tears of a frightened child, the body of barely a man. The boy struggled for a breath as he tightened his grip around the boy's neck. Eyes bulging, the boy struggled pointlessly.

"You are but my first, today," he whispered in the boy's ear, "you will have plenty of company." Soon he was swarmed by dozens, downed by the pinch of relentless stings.

One wasn't enough, such a debt cried out for more. Flat on his back, he blinked at the sky. The voices grew louder as he lay. He had been shot, but it wasn't bad. He had been shot before. There was no point in standing, they would be much closer soon. He lay still, not a breath or a blink to give it away.

There was a bird on his palm, he hadn't seen it land. It was the tiniest thing, just out of the corner of his eye. It looked left, then right, then straight above. Its thin beak was nearly the length of its entire body. The white feathers of its belly were smudged in red. Faster than a blink, it was gone.

He stared at his empty palm. How had he— with the sting of so many bullets, he must not have noticed it land. How odd had that been? In the midst of all of this, what was it doing out here to begin with? He wanted to know. It suddenly seemed more important.

He sat up and stared at the palm.

Guns cocked and orders screamed his way, yet he ignored it all.

He tried to remember it, almost weightless on his hand. Lighter than a pebble. Perhaps the lightest thing he had ever held.

A barrel pressed into his back.

"Not now, I'm busy," he said, still staring at his hand. He hadn't time to play right now. A puzzle, a riddle called to be solved. It was on the tip of his tongue, the secret to it all. It had something to do with that—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

He stood to the stunned amazement of his would-be executioner. "I said, not now!" He ripped the gun from his hands and promptly emptied the clip into everyone within sight, then stared at his empty hand. "Now, where was I?"

Anger washed over him again.

He had had it. It had been on the tip of his tongue.

He clenched his fist and turned. His arm shook by his side as he stared at the nearest corpse. He couldn't contain it anymore. First with kicks, then the punishing blows by hand, he took out his rage on now unrecognizable bodies.

It all turned red. Like a flame that quickly grew from a handful of leaves into a forest fire, his rage quickly consumed everything in sight.

Bullets felt like grains of sand in a windstorm, an annoyance at best, but hardly enough to dissuade.

"Him, the Michelin man!" one said before—

RPG! It had blown off his shoes, most of his pants, and all of his shirt. The hairs of his arm smoldered as he staggered to his feet, glaring at the bewildered boy, fumbling to load another.

He got to the boy first.

"Let's see how you like it," he said, setting the round off in his hand.

It blew him several feet and he lost the rest of his clothes, but unlike the boy, he stood again.

"I am his vengeance!" he screamed, blinking the ash and shards from his eyes. Twenty-six within sight, it wasn't enough. His lust demanded more. A battered Camry sped toward him.

"Do it in God's name!" they shouted as the car wove its way around the debris, toward him.

BOOOMMMMM!!!

He sat, waiting for blinks to clear his vision. He counted 5 fingers, each hand, 4,367,541,967 leaves, 16,765,354 branches, and 1,476 bricks scattered across the ground. Numbers. Everything came down to numbers.

He stood and scanned the horizon. Smoke billowed from the explosion's pit, 531 yards away. He ran his hand across the top of his head. He was bald, except for a spot around his right ear. Burnt nubs of hair rubbed off like sticky sand at the beach.

He looked at his arms.

He was bigger now. The last time he had been shot, they passed through him. Not now. Most of his fingernails were gone, his hair was burnt, but nothing beyond that.

He looked up at the sky. The sun was going down. Far above the cloudless sky were small, blue blotches that had an eerie glow. Flashes flickered between these new fluorescent clouds. He watched a plane struggle to— it listed hard to one side and simply slid from the sky.

A downed plane was nothing unusual in a war zone. This was odd only because it hadn't been hit. No smoke, no sparks, no falling pieces. It just lost control. Odder still it looked like a heavy bomber, but it was too distant to be sure. Bombers ruled far above the battlefield, usually too far above for any ground fire to reach them. He watched it like a leaf tumbling from a tree.

Explosions echoed near the wreckage, distant random pops from smaller shells sounded off in a chaotic wave around him. Like water lapping against the shore, it was followed by two more spats, then fell silent.

Far in the distance, thin threads spun their way down from the sky, bursting into small clouds on the muffled ground. The threads glowed a brilliant blue, then green before fading away. New webs of blue formed in the sky from where these threads had punched through.

He had never been on this side of the weapon before. He blocked the sun with his hand to better watch their destructive dance. He expected to see more smoke, more fire, much bigger explosions. But he didn't. The clouds were smaller than car bombs, and nearly pure white without a hint of black, yellow, or brown. He stood a good hundred or more miles away, yet he felt the thuds under his feet.

Two machineguns riddled the ground beside him. Their aim was worse than usual. Twenty to thirty feet off and showing no signs of improving. For some reason, their inaccuracy infuriated him. The one crouching by a wall was closest. He balled his fist and ran there first.

He scooped up a brick and flung it at the man's masked head, spilling red down the slumped form. He turned the corner.

Jackpot!

Thirty-eight masked, elite soldiers who specialized in the kinds of brutality inflicted on his dead friend. His rage gave way to pure joy as he took great satisfaction in ripping them apart by hand.

No, a quick death like that crouching coward was far too good for men of this elite stature. No, these he bludgeoned with great restraint. Leaving them crippled, broken, paralyzed within bags of brutalized flesh. They were trapped down this narrow alley, he simply took his time as distant thuds grew near.

He wiped the drool from his grin as he reveled in their tortured moans and imagined how a choir of hundreds or thousands would sound.

He sought out more.

He needed more!

Guns started to jam as the falling sun was outshined by a night of growing fluorescent blue. He squeezed the boy's masked head to encourage a louder scream.

"AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!" the boy let loose.

"That's right," he whispered, "Bring them to me." He squeezed until bones started to crack beneath his fingertips. "Louder. I want them all."

The boy did. Briefly. Just before he fell silent, discarded to the dirt by his feet.

It was loud enough.

They were coming from every direction. Most guns seemed jammed and were waved overhead in a frantic charge. Those that still fired were so wildly inaccurate that they only did harm to their own side.

Two explosive vests detonated prematurely, causing him no harm while robbing him of a great deal of fun.

The third, however, was the charm.

It hadn't blown him far.

He stumbled quickly to his feet.

A streak thundered from the sky, exploding a few hundred feet above ground into millions of pellets that turned everything within sight into Swiss cheese. Bucket-sized craters dotted the field, now wiped clear of everything. The air blasted him backwards in a white cloud that flashed as lightning slashed the little that remained.

The flash blinded him. He couldn't see— BOOM!!! Fizz ZapZap!!

The rumbles pounded beyond him, moving further away. His eyes slowly started to see. Naked, he was at the bottom of a crater at least ninety feet deep.

Thump!

Thump! Thump Thump!

They were throwing bricks and blocks and stones. They were stoning him! The rim was filled with chanting men hurling everything they could find. He tried to stand but was quickly knocked down. Pinned down, and the weight kept growing. He couldn't move, yet they kept throwing. He let out a breath, but couldn't breathe in. Yet, he didn't die. Crushed, he lived.

The thuds of chunks grew muffled over the next few hours, but didn't end for what he figured had to be an entire day. Distant thuds of exploding bombs acted to pack it all in, like sand around stones.

He couldn't move, yet he seethed with rage. This would not be his fate. How dare they impede his destiny!
**B3.C2**

The mother lowered the bucket down the well, then started hefting it back. The sloshy spills echoed up as her girls opened the tops to all their empty containers. A hodgepodge of plastic jugs and gas cans, it made her sad. When she was a little girl, like them, they had never been rich, but they had indoor plumbing. Running water. Electricity, gas, cars. The years of war had taken away all she had taken for granted.

The little girl sat on the dirt, held the funnel, then smiled up at her mother as the water poured from the bucket. She screwed on the cap, then struggled it into the cart while the mother lowered the bucket again.

This little chore easily added two hours worth of frustration to her and her children, as they lived well over a mile away. She looked at the cart as the bucket filled, deep in the well. They traded some fine leather furniture for that cart. It was worth it on days like today. It made it possible to haul home nearly a bathtub's worth of water in a single trip, but it was backbreaking work, and as helpful as the girls tried to be, the three of them only ranged from six to eleven. It helped, it wasn't possible without them, but her two sons could have handled it on their own.

But her husband wouldn't allow her sons to do woman's work. Fourteen and sixteen, they had taken after him and thought nothing of ordering her around too. Her oldest had backhanded her only last week for interrupting his conversation with one of his friends. For speaking.

Life had changed a lot since she was a child.

That smiling look from one of her girls, holding a funnel over a bucket, waiting for a pour, it made her day sometimes. Perhaps that was the saddest turn of all.

"Oh, praise God," her oldest, Tirell, said, grabbing the nearest jug and spilling a good portion of it down his front as he guzzled.

Hihel, her other son, thought it would be fun to fight her eldest over the same jug.

She held her tongue as she hurried the girls and what was left of the water inside. The fight was unfortunate, the wasted water depressing, but their distraction was the tiny spark of goodness she chose to see.

She couldn't blame their spoiled behavior on herself. She wasn't allowed to scold them. The girls unloaded the jugs, passed through the open window directly into the kitchen, then turned the cart on its side and wrestled it through the door. It was ugly, clunky, and old, but very valuable to them. If left outside, it was sure to be stolen or ruined by the sun and rain.

It was valuable because it had no metal parts. All plastic and wood, glue and fiberglass. The wheels were thick rubber and filled with foam. It was clunky, squeaky, and ugly, but it worked well.

She helped the girls wrestle it out of the way and into the far corner. "Thank you, my child," she said, but the cloth of her heavy burqa prevented the kiss she had meant for her child's head.

She hated wearing the thing. It hadn't always been that way either. The girls weren't old enough yet for the law to demand its burden be born by them. But it would, and all too soon.

She remembered her girls, smiling at the well. She had smiled a lot when she was that young. She had stopped now. What was the point, when it was trapped behind the veil?

She looked at the page glued to the bedroom door, an article on the proper way to beat your wife. It listed the conditions the religious officials approved of, and those frowned on. If she failed to please him, some night, he was allowed to reprimand her first, instruct her as though she was an infant, then allow her to try again. It was upon her second failing that the law allowed the blows. She took no comfort in the words that followed, that he wasn't permitted to break her skin, disfigure her face. Such restrictions were meaningless, when she'd be stoned for showing anyone such evidence in public.

The veil hid tears too. But that, along with smiles, was a thing of her past.

She pleased, when required to. She had no choice, really.

She cherished the smiles she could see. She pressed her veiled lips to another forehead. She loved her girls most of all. And felt for them her greatest regrets. Her life, she would not wish on any of them. Perhaps on her boys, but not her girls.

She led them to the kitchen where she started the evening meal. It would be supper soon, mustn't disappoint.

They had been lucky in a way. They hadn't the money for stainless steel sinks, and had settled for a cheap plastic ones. Same with the plumbing. Plastic survived. Metal did not. The walls still held the signs from the wiring being ripped through the plaster. It had nearly burned the house down. The few metal faucets, the stove, and the refrigerator were hauled out onto a heap in the back yard with the rest of the appliances. First thing in the morning, if it was humid enough, the pile would glow with random sparks. It would be pretty, actually, if it wasn't, like so many other things, a constant reminder of how badly life had turned.

She pulled the plug on the sink and watched the water drain away. She was fortunate about that, three of her neighbors had to carry buckets from inside down the streets to the cesspool. As bad as fetching water from the well was, that was worse.

Her girls were tucked in bed, her boys and her husband were out for the night. Business. Soldiers of the faith. God's army.

She found her faith slipping as she stood in the kitchen, looking out at the pile of appliances as they started to sparkle and glow. This wasn't God's hand, he hadn't intervened on her behalf. She liked her stuff, she had enjoyed her freedom. She had gone to school while the unbelievers walked freely on this land. She had learned of many things, of many peoples' ways. Infidels.

The infidels didn't make her hide her face. The infidels didn't print rules on how to properly beat her. The infidels weren't driven from the land, as her sons believe.

She was there. She saw it with her own eyes.

The planes fell from the sky, but it wasn't from anything they did. Even when the air was free, those on the ground were not driven away. They simply left. The rubbled tanks were not destroyed by the soldiers of the faith, the infidels destroyed them before they left. She was young when it happened, but she remembered waving to them as they marched through the town.

No shots were fired. No chants for them to go home.

She remembered crying when the last one faded from her view.

Infidels.

Even that young, she knew. That was when things started getting worse.

She saw a glimpse of something small, just on the other— no, it was two— they weren't dogs or animals. The shadows slipped behind the sparking pile of appliances again.

"Oh, my merciful God," she said, running out the door.

"You two! Yes, you!" she said, "Keep away from that!"

As she got closer to the dangerous pile, she was better able to make them out. A little boy and a little girl. They couldn't be more than a few years old. The girl was naked, except for an old plastic hardhat and a torn, unbuttoned shirt. The boy just wore a pound or more of mud and dirt.

"Keep away from it, I say!"

But the two backed closer to it.

The woman stopped. They either didn't know what she was saying or were more afraid of her than being electrocuted or burned. She stopped approaching, then glanced up at the night sky. When the infidels left, it was just blotches of fluorescent blue at night, like big, blurry stars. Now the stars were hidden behind their glow, in a night sky that was almost filled, about as bright as a half moon. The sparks always seemed worse the brighter it pulsed. Animals were drawn near the pile for warmth. It was very warm. They found something dead on it at least once a week.

She wasn't going to let that happen to two children.

The boy picked up a stick, then waved it in the air before falling on his bottom.

Instinct made her take a step closer, but she held back the motherly need to run to a hurt child.

The girl took the stick from his hands and whacked it at a sparkling spot in the pile. A smoldering cat flipped out. The girl poked it twice, touched it with her foot, then worked it back onto her stick for another few minutes on the pile.

The girl was cooking.

In the most dangerous, most insane way possible.

"Oh, my merciful God, no, Child, you kids can't be playing around with that," she said, using her most motherly tones.

The boy was back to his feet and none too happy to see her a step closer.

She tried stern and firm, pointing at the ground near her, "Come here." She pointed again, "Here." She did a circle with her finger. "Here. Right here."

The girl poked the cat with her stick again.

Fzzzzzaaafzzz. The pile dimmed as the girl adjusted the pokes. The smell of burnt fur was actually a lot fainter than she would have expected. She was, after all, cooking a cat. But electricity cooked in a weird way. It tended to do a good portion of its cooking from the inside out. If the cat was positioned right.

The boy kept a constant eye on the woman, until the cat smelled done. When he turned his attention to the girl with a stick and a cat's worth of dinner, the woman ran up and snatched the little girl, right out from under her hat.

The boy kicked and scratched as the little girl silently flailed, but the woman had made up her mind to save them both. She wasn't about to set the girl down until she had them both inside the house. "Reaha! Reaha! Come out and help me," she hollered for her oldest girl as she neared the window to their room.

Three of them showed at the door. "What is it, Momma?"

"Quick, come here and catch this one," she said, pushing the boy down with a firm swat on his forehead.

He was dazed, but wasn't hurt.

Reaha grabbed the boy, but he popped out of her hands like trying to eat jello with fingers. She grabbed him twice more, each time getting slimed with a layer of mud and grime.

"Watch yourself, he's liable to kick, might even bite," the woman said, then looked back to the closing door. "Where do you two think you're going?"

"You said 'Reaha', not—"

"Help your sister."

The bathroom was a small, confined space with the smallest of windows and only one door, the perfect place to put the boy down.

"Whose you think they are, Momma?" Reaha asked.

"I'm not sure that matters, Child." The woman turned to her youngest, "Ashina, pull that wick up a little, I want a better look at them."

"But Momma, it's already smoking as it is. You know how Daddy gets about that smell in—"

"Just for a minute, Child. Just for a minute."

They looked like they could have been anybodies' kids. They were scratched up, bruised up, cuts on their toes, a few on their ankles. The thick skin on their feet meant they probably never had shoes. The girl had chewed her nails, but just her right hand. The boy acted like he was allergic to water and spilled more than any of her boys. The mother touched a spot on the girl's elbow.

The girl pulled back, cradled it with her other arm, opened her mouth, but silently screamed in just a heavy exhale. Tears ran down her cheeks.

The light dimmed. That was all the smoke Ashina was willing to risk. But it was enough.

Oil lamps were used sparingly. The oil was plentiful, excessively so, but they lacked easy ways of refining it. Dark, thick, black smoke with a dingy yellow flame was hardly worth cleaning the house to use. It was much simpler to stop doing when it got dark.

The bright side was outside. Unless it was overcast, most nights, moon or not, they could play chess, eat dinner, and dance in the streets. When she was newly married, it wasn't uncommon to have grand dances outside. It was a social thing to do.

But the state cracked down almost immediately. She was still hazy on just why it was immoral, but it was deemed to be. Just like showing skin, and rules for bedroom doors.

Few went outside at night, except the men.

She used to wonder, was even a little jealous about what they did. Now she was just grateful they were gone.

They put the children in the girls' room. Each would take a turn keeping them quiet and still. Outside was not a safe place to be, whoever they belonged to. The mother would deal with the two in the morning. She needed sleep and time to think.

But most of all, she needed to look asleep when her husband came home.

She rose early, careful not to wake him when she left for the kitchen. She most especially did not plan to be in his bed when he woke.

Breakfast was simple. Buns were all they had. Flour and rice and a bag of dried corn. It didn't leave a lot of variety, but it was what everyone had. Except the leaders. They dined on fish and feasted like kings.

Buns woke her boys first. Which was fine, her girls weren't allowed to eat with her sons. It was stupid, like most of the rules. But it gave her an excuse to leave and check in on the newest two again.

"They just sat on the floor in the corner, Momma," her youngest said. "I think the girl's the only one who slept at all."

"They try to leave?"

"Not that I saw, but Reaha had them first. She's still asleep."

The boy looked funny in real clothes. The smallest clothes she could find were still a baggy fit. She remembered when that was a fad her boys had gone through, but there was nothing fashionable about this. She sat by the two in the corner, a bun in each hand.

"I'm hungry too, Momma!"

"Shhh! I have some for you, too, but I think you can wait a second, don't you?"

The boy stared at her like she was insane, looked at the girl, then grabbed both buns from her hands and retreated back to the corner.

She tried to get one back, but was growled at. Not enough to alert her boys, but enough to stop her. She hoped to find who they belonged to today, without anyone else knowing.

She was off to a good start.

The boy wasn't wolfing it down. He just nibbled at one.

That was a good sign that they weren't starving.

She handed out the other three. It wasn't a full meal, just a pre-breakfast. They usually had a long wait before the girls would be allowed to the table. By then, the food was often cold.

She snuck them food whenever she could. Her girls tended to be too thin anyway.

Her boys left after lunch, her husband had been gone since breakfast. The men worked with shovels digging fresh irrigation ditches. Without powered equipment, shovels were the only option left, and drought was a constant state for as long as she remembered. Back when they had power, irrigation could be pumped for miles to fertile land. It was a tragic irony that most of the land near water was worthless.

She tied a rope to the two children and led them out of the house. She didn't like how it looked, tying up children like cattle, but they had proven to look sweet, only to turn into chaotic terrors the second escape seemed possible.

She knew most of the women in her village from prayers. She checked with the gossipiest two first. They knew all the comings and goings and every leaf on every family tree. But they didn't know these.

She knocked on doors all day.

Nobody knew, or even saw any family resemblance. And, with food so tightly rationed, none had enough charity left in their hearts to open their homes to two more mouths.

She handed each a cold bun. It was all she had left in her pocket. They sat on a bench near the edge of the village. The girl was very cute. They both were darkly tanned, brown eyes, black hair. They weren't old enough to really 'look' like anyone. Not yet.

Her husband had wanted her to have more children. To add to God's army. She wanted children too, but not for that reason.

A little girl.

She didn't know about other villages, quality news was rare, but none in this village had had a child in years. Her youngest, Ashina, was one of the last born here, six years ago. She got pregnant easily, but six years was a long time. They should have, even without trying.

Whose could they be?

The boy bolted, stopped by the end of his tether. It was another random attempt, he didn't give up. For some reason, he seemed to think that her being distracted loosened the knot.

Logical, for someone who couldn't be older than two or a very malnourished three.

She reeled him back in. "Come on, let's go home," she said.

Both started tugging toward the appliance pile, instigated by the girl. When they both teamed up, it almost amounted to something. She stopped them before they got too close by picking up the little girl. Feet off the ground, their pull was cut in half.

Instead, she pointed and tugged.

Another cat. This one was dazed, not dead. Paralyzed, it was still panting. Fresh.

A decade ago, and even in the worst of when the infidels walked this land, they never ate pets. Chicken yes, cats, never. She considered it. The pile nailed, stunned, or flat out killed something every week or so.

The boy mashed its head with a stone.

She looked around. Nobody saw. She covered it with some cloth and hurried it inside. Meat was meat, and it took but a causal look at their cupboards to know they couldn't turn away any food out of pride or stubbornness. She knew eating a lion was a sin, but letting her family starve when one was delivered to her door was a bigger sin.

Wooden spoons, clay dishes, she barely remembered the taste of metal as she struggled to carve with a shard of broken glass.

It was just a few pounds, but it made an excellent soup with rice and corn.

She was surprised that nobody asked where she got the meat, or cared what it was. Not a word. At least, not about the meat.

"They are not our responsibility, woman," her husband scolded.

"They are the children of ours. How far could they have come? Fifty miles? All within that are of our faith. Should we turn out the children of believers in need?" She was on her knees, the proper posture for a woman being scolded. "Their parents, whoever they are, should be found. If they are still alive, then they are our responsibility until we find them. If they are not, then they are our responsibility, either way."

He wasn't swayed. He knew she was right, he just couldn't find the right scripture to let him shuck two more mouths from his table.

She said nothing else and remained on her knees as he paced. Say as little as needed, that was her secret. It seemed the best secret to survival in these difficult times after the infidels.

When she first married him, he would never think of hitting her. Now he had it posted on the door. He went with the flow. The pressure of what everyone else did. They hated the infidels because everything was their fault. She hated them because they left, and this was the result. "If it weren't for the infidels, they'd probably still have parents," she said.

That set him off. He loved to hate, the two children would now fuel his anger. By the end of his sermon about the evils of the non-believers, he was now dedicated to some level of aid for them as a part of his personal jihad against the infidels.

Sometimes, she won little wars, too.
**B3.C3**

Sylia, the name they gave the little girl, was incredibly quiet. Most of the time, they never knew if she was in the room. She was often helpful, at least she tried to be. Drying dishes was a perfect example. She seemed incapable of just drying it most of the way. She spent more time chasing droplets than anyone else spent on actually washing the plate. When done, she had to stack them, all facing the same direction, in pairs, all designs aligned. It was frustrating to Ashina, the one most often subjected to her assistance.

Then there was the constant playing in the mud. Especially when she got together with Tour, the name they came up with for the boy. Neither was any help with the well. They might make the walk all the way down, but would always have to ride back, and even working together they lacked the strength to wrestle anything bigger than the two-liter bottles.

The mother continued to look for relatives, but nothing came of it, now nearly half a year later. They were not from this town, or related to anyone in it. The next closest was fifteen miles and that was simply too far to take them.

Besides, she liked them. They had grown on her. She liked the idea of having a son that her husband wanted no part of.

Yes, she liked that idea a lot.

"Momma, you should come out back," Reaha said.

"Sylia!" She ran over to the burning mound and scooped up the child too near its edge.

Somehow she had set fire to a pile of dirt that was now pouring black smoke everywhere. It was so hot, she couldn't get any closer that ten feet to find out what was truly burning.

"Sylia, what in the most merciful God are you doing?" she said, a good distance from a blaze now raging even hotter.

Sylia seemed completely oblivious to being nearly burned alive.

She sniffed the girl's fingers. "Fuel! How much did you use?" It wasn't anywhere near winter and the stuff was plentiful, but it shouldn't be wasted. She looked around and found an empty container. It wasn't one of theirs, which didn't make it any better. "Where did you get it?"

Sylia just kept looking at the pretty flames.

"Who did you get it from?"

"Momma, I know you're mad," Reaha said, "but she hasn't made a sound since you found her, I don't know what makes you think she's going to start now."

She set the girl down, held her hands one at a time, and slapped the backs of them. Very loud, but not very hard.

Sylia fell to the ground like she had been savagely beaten, tears running down her face without a single sound other than heavy breathing. It was heartbreakingly sad.

"I'm sorry, Child," the mother said, "but it's for your own good. You can't be setting things on fire. What if you burned the house, or our neighbors'? You can't, just can't, ever do that again. Ok?"

Sylia just hugged her knees and stared at Reaha while silently sobbing.

"Come on, get up. Let's go inside," the mother said, taking a careful look at the blaze. It wasn't in danger of burning anything down. Nothing was near it. She thought about using their precious water to try to put it out, but it seemed unnecessary. And, more importantly, it would be a waste of water. Depending on the type of fuel, it may even make it worse. She held out her hand to the child again. "Come on."

She got up, but hid behind Reaha instead.

The fire burned and smoldered for three days.

There were only three bedrooms in the house. One for the boys, one for the girls, and one for the parents. For now, Tour and Sylia shared the girls' room. But that wouldn't last forever. The boys refused to let Tour share theirs— they refused to recognize the boy at all.

Sylia left her bed of old cushions on the floor and pulled the chair next to Reaha. Reaha had long hair and, for some reason, Sylia was fascinated by the oldest's morning brushing ritual.

She sat patiently in the chair and stared.

When Reaha was done, Sylia took the brush and pulled the hairs out, one by one. She straightened them, folded them, then placed them in the trash.

She did it every morning. It was weird. But harmless. And it resulted in a clean brush, so Reaha didn't complain.

Tour was still asleep on the cushions. The girls didn't regard him as a boy either, but they wouldn't change in front of him, all the same. Sylia, without being prompted, drug him groggy from the room.

It had rained that night. Not a lot, just a little, but it was enough to wash most of the sand off the roof and down into the barrels at each corner. Well water was no longer needed for washing, but was still preferred for drinking and cooking. Partially full barrels meant baths. It was a treat.

Unless you thought you were allergic, like Tour. He screamed and splashed and fought bathing every step of the way.

The ground was poor at holding moisture, making it difficult to get anything to grow. One and a half miles away, there was a small valley. Valley was probably not the right word, more a depression amidst natural mounds. But the entire village depended on the few crops that could be grown there. The depression kept soil from eroding, helped keep the moisture loss down from winds, and acted like a funnel when it rained.

The homes drained into a cesspool. Not intentionally. The road was bombed in the war and the broken pipes just did what came naturally. When the wind was wrong, they all paid. But the pool and the depression were, by God's mercy, on the same side of town, and the village drained it often for its composting properties.

For some reason, that task, like toting water, was deemed woman's work.

Sludge was the important part of sewage. It could be raked off the bottom and up onto the 'shore' to dry, usually without getting too close. With most of the moisture gone, say near the end of a sunny day, it was shoveled onto a sled made from an old door and dragged to the depression where those with the greenest thumbs would use it and return the empty sled. Today was their family's turn.

With the smell no more unpleasant than usual, the mother raked plenty out of the water before lunch.

The men returned by supper, which she had ready for them, then she and Reaha left to drag the heavy sled. It wasn't that bad with two. Dry, it was difficult, but reasonable. The last hundred feet or so was where Reaha really came in handy. That part was all up hill. Not steep, but not easy, especially towards the end.

They looked in on the crops as they stood at its peak. They were struggling, even in the "fertile" valley. Some looked deformed. Cornstalks had branches like trees. This was the second year they grew weird, making some think bad seeds. But most suspected bio warfare from the infidels. Whatever the reason, they were on strict rations already, a failed crop spelled disaster. The state sent a messenger by twice a year. He wasn't going to be happy about this. Food shipments out this far were difficult, to say the least. Powered transportation no longer existed. Like the other appliances, they simply didn't work. Camels and horses and goats were about it. Animals were limited in how much they could do. And camels and horses and goats and whatever else the state could think of had to eat too.

Nearly a quarter of the largest farms were dedicated to growing feed for the animals that made working the fields possible. Problems like these seemed widespread.

Their country had a fortune in oil that nobody wanted and were on their second year of failing food.

On the way back she told Reaha about the cat. There was pride, then there was starving. They checked the pile every night when they were sure not to be seen. Reaha was a smart girl, but even so, her mother went over the unseen dangers of the pile and the immense importance of using a long, very dry, wooden stick to avoid electrocution. Something well practiced at the cesspool, just for a different reason.

Reaha got up and went outside. Her window was closest to the pile, and she thought she heard something. As quiet as she could be, she snuck outside. Nothing. She circled it again, looking extra close, but saw nothing.

She wasn't experienced at this, and it wasn't daylight. About a quarter of the time it just stuns them, that's why she came out quickly to finish it off before it could run away. She circled even further away from the pile, checking the ground for signs.

Nothing.

She turned around and started back.

Thwap!

Her knee hurt something awful and Sylia was sitting on the ground rubbing her face. "What are—", Reaha quieted herself down, "what are you doing out here?" She started to laugh. She was doing the same thing her mother did. Worse, Reaha even expected Sylia to break her silence, too.

She knelt in front of the child.

"Are you ok?" She put her hand on the child's chin, "You look fine, you didn't break anything, did you?"

Sylia shook a no.

"Come on, let's go back in."

But the child didn't want to go inside. Instead, she went over to the mound she had set ablaze some time ago and started breaking apart its outer shell. Inside were seven, oddly shaped, pottery-like boxes. One was badly cracked. The child started handing them to Reaha.

"What am I supposed to do with them?" That wasn't going to work.

Reaha set them down, only to be handed another.

This was circular and would end badly. Reaha relented and held them, letting the little girl pile all the good ones into her arms, then, carrying what she could, took them back to the house.

That seemed to be all the child wanted. She just put them down by the front door.

She was such an odd little girl.

"Reaha, do you know anything about those things by the door?" her mother asked after morning prayers.

"Not really, no, you'd have to ask 'little speechless', they were in that dirt she burned." She folded up her rug and put it away.

"Sylia."

The girl dropped her rug on the ground and ran for the door, waiting impatiently for someone taller to open it.

She brought one in, climbed a chair, and set it in the window such that half was outside. She then ran to the kitchen and brought over a bottle of oil and the string they used as wicks.

It now seemed obvious.

The mother took it out of the window. She had half a mind to smack the child's hands again.

Reaha looked at it closely. "Huh... "

"Huh what?"

"It might." Reaha took the oil, wick, and box outside.

The mother followed.

"What do you know, it works." Reaha added three more wicks. It had grooves for a dozen. She held her hand on the top of it, right where it would touch the wood of the window. Warm, but fine. What little smoke there was, and it was greatly reduced already, came out the half that would have been outside. She held it up and sniffed. The smell was strong, but only on the outside half.

The mother had yelled at Ashina that first day about more light, and argued over smoke and smell.

She felt sick about slapping the girl's hands.
**B3.C4**

The idea was nearly flawless. Only during sandstorms did the smell come inside, and even then, it was but a fraction of how bad it had been. It felt like life again. A light in the bathroom, letting dishes wait until dark, these were such simple things that made a huge difference in the quality of life.

The mother read them stories from one of the few books that wasn't burned. It was full of the Prophets and their teachings. She did her best, stopping often to interject some of her own lessons. It saddened her to think that she was the last generation of women allowed to go to school. Had she known, she would have tried harder. She would have made more of herself. As it was, she did her best to pass on as much as she could. Especially to her girls. The lamp in their window made that possible. And the lamp was thanks to a silent little girl.

"The messenger is here! The messenger is here!" a man cried from the streets.

Everyone assembled outside, just at morning light.

The men assembled in front, women in the back with the children.

It was difficult to hear from where she stood, something about ongoing drought, an invasion from the east, a river diverted by another country— it wasn't good and the messenger didn't hardly seem warmed up.

A selection was made, a dozen or so of the men left the front of the line for their homes, only to return with a bag of clothes and a jug of water, each.

This was getting worse.

Her eldest stood at the door, put the wrap about his head, picked up his jug and sack of clothes, and headed to the forming line.

She ran over to him. She wanted to tell him to stop. She wanted to order him to stay. But she just briefly hugged him instead, "May God's mercy protect you," she said.

She stood. Too far to hear the messenger, too far to see the face of her son. She wanted to cry, but this was what boys were raised for. Her son had been living in the same house, but he had been taken from her long ago. He had been gone since he slapped her in front of his friends. She wanted to cry. She wanted to.

But she didn't.

She turned toward the messenger instead.

Sylia was hugging her leg.

She cried a little as they walked to the back of the line.

The messenger left with his new recruits. It would be years before they would have word, if they would hear anything at all. He had taken her son, and left a stack of newspapers.

Newspapers.

Paper was rare. The big cities had some but couldn't find enough paper to meet the thirst for news. The stack he left was one to three years old and had been read to the point of smudged exhaustion, but it was better than nothing.

Each family got a paper and every week they exchanged them. They were well practiced at this, and it always fueled gossip that was almost as good, and every bit as accurate, as the state's news broadcasts once were.

She read a section to them every night. Twelve wicks in the window were enough to comfortably read by even halfway across the room.

Unfortunately, all the news sounded bad.

Oil-well fires had forced the evacuation of three towns. The smoke had left hundreds dead in their sleep. Without water, such things were impossible to fight.

The cause of the fire was unknown, but sabotage was suspected.

The next was about water rationing. She checked the date and reminded everyone that it was two and a half years old. Irrigation pipes were failing (even those gravity fed), two reservoirs had collapsed, and one of the big farms had to slaughter half its work animals (after working the field) just to have enough food to feed the city. Next year would require massive hand labor.

At the bottom of that page was an article on poultry. It seemed that eggs were plentiful, for now, but chickens themselves were being rationed to the point of state emergency. Hatcheries were failing all over. Only about a fifth of fertilized eggs hatched. This was a crisis.

The rest of the page went into some detail on how to identify 'fertilized' eggs, how to tell if they were likely to be that fifth that might hatch, and how to tell when it was likely to fail and should be eaten as breakfast. It ended with a reassurance that eating a failed chick, dead in the egg, was considered a delicacy and should not be wasted. It even had a recipe and tips on how to get past the beak.

They hadn't had chickens or eggs in years. The girls had never seen either.

She leafed through it.

Good news... good news. It seemed to be the only section missing.

She stopped on the comic page and read one. It lampooned a politician for preaching conservation and self-sacrifice while he toured, lavishly and at great expense, while campaigning for support.

After the kids went to bed, her husband led her to the bedroom. Duty. It was perhaps a few minutes of inconvenience before he turned the lamp out and went to bed. He was to replace a son, for the cause.

She stood in the dark as he adjusted the sheets.

She didn't hate him. There was still something left of the man she married. He was just doing as he was told at every mass and every sermon.

It took less than a minute sometimes.

When they were first wed, he actually tried to please her. He was awkward at first, as was she, but they learned and became quite good at meeting in the middle. There was a time when he would have felt sorry for less than a minute, a time when he would never have gone to bed without kissing her.

She sat on the bed.

There was a time...

She was thankful for quick, today. She had given up on enjoyable and learned how to make it quicker. She didn't want kisses associated with this. She wanted to remember that younger him as a different person, as her secret lover that made her dispassionate marriage possible to endure.

She smiled at her secret, sinless affair with the past.

She moved the love she had for her husband onto her girls.

While the men were off to work at digging, the girls were recruited to work the first harvest. It was a child's task in that the village had children of all ages that were too small to dig effectively and too weak to handle hard labor, but picking food and filling baskets was well within their reach. If they wished to eat, everyone had to contribute.

The few fig trees failed again this year. Leaves were disfigured with hard knots that made it look like acne, but, while still edible, removing them threatened the health of the tree, and all but four looked pitiful already. It was a savage dilemma, hope it would be healthy next year, or risk killing it by eating all it had this year. Corn, while a failure in general, did produce some food. Leafy foods, cabbage, spinach, mustard and such, while twisted and misshapen, were highly consumable. Anything requiring pollination, such as corn and tomatoes and the likes, were mostly barren.

The gossip during the harvest was that they thought these 'thriving' non-staples were not the target of the bio weapon. The seeds for such crops, while scarce in general, were abundant enough in their area. Wheat had failed as well, but potatoes seemed to endure, so long as they were propagated by cuttings instead of seeds.

The orders from the state centered around increasing wheat and corn production. Corn, wheat, and rice, under ideal conditions, could have produced a surplus of food from a field that size. But their failure rate was incredibly high. As a village, they risked punishment going against the orders of the state, but they shifted immediately to what was showing any promise, potatoes leading the way. A little math was all it had taken to bring the masses around.

It added up to weeks worth of work gutting and rearranging, but the messenger made it clear that food shipments would be rare, or impossible.

Potatoes, mustard greens, and cabbage was not a combination that encouraged people to get closer together. Gassy was putting it mildly.

But they were fortunate, there were so many ways to prepare potatoes. Not a single eye was discarded. Each was given a chance to sprout in every window in the village. They were that close to running out of food.

Sylia ran the paper over to the mother and promptly plopped down in front.

"I've already read you all of this one, Child. In another few days, we'll be able to trade it for a new one," the mother said.

Sylia didn't take that very well. She stood and took the paper back. Flipping through pages nearly as big as she was, she pulled out an overlooked section and handed it back.

"Well, Child, this isn't news, it's just about why they are dropping the astrology section that's normally on this page. That's all."

Sylia looked up at her, expecting more.

"Astrology, they make predictions about the future by looking at the stars and comparing it to the way the stars looked on the day you were born." She folded the paper back up. It would have been paper-reading time, if they had something to read. "You can hardly see the stars anymore. They used to have charts and diagrams and computers that did all that calculating and stuff, but nobody— it just doesn't matter anymore. Predicting the future is just guesswork that happens to come true some times. That's all. The stars don't rule your life, you do."

Her husband thought the child an imbecile. He was never around when she did these things. Age three, four at the most, it was impressive that she knew a section had been left out. That she found it, and found a way to ask about it, made it more so. He had only seen her frustrate Ashina with the dishes and sit quietly in a corner.

The mother got up and looked in the closet. "Maybe a game, would you like that?"

Sylia looked excited.

"This is backgammon," she said setting it up. "Here, it's so old, it doesn't have the rules anymore. I'll just go first and explain as we play. Ok?"

Sylia moved to sit on the same side as the mother.

"No, Child, you sit over there, ok?"

She moved with a smile.

"Very good," she said. "It all starts with rolling the dice. It's supposed to have two dice, but we have only the one. So we'll just roll it twice, ok..."

Sylia picked it up very quickly. However, there was a particular move that she refused to do, no matter how often it was used against her, of landing on an opponent's piece and remove it from the board. She seemed to understand it, but was unwilling to do it. It cost her the win, most of the time.

The mother remembered teaching it to both her boys. They went out of their way to knock a piece off the board. Her girls showed no restraint with that regard either. They played four games that night, staying up long past when most everyone else had gone to bed. Sylia had yet to make that move even once.

Tour, on the other hand, acted like a typical boy. He was tired and getting cranky and felt left out just watching, so he pushed over the board.

"Ok, young man." The mother grabbed his arm, "You apologize to her."

"No," he said.

Sylia picked up the pieces off the floor.

"Leave them, Tour will pick them up," the mother said.

"Nu uh," he said.

"Yes, you will."

But Sylia continued picking them up.

"You are not going until you apologize," the mother said again.

"But— but I—"

"Now."

"I'm—" he squirmed out of her grip, knocked it over again, then ran from the room.

Sylia just started picking it up again, like nothing had happened.

The mother wanted to go scold the boy, but she found herself helping the little girl pick up the pieces instead. She was a strange little girl. But, the mother found herself liking her more and more every day.

The garden required a lot of work from women and children, beyond hauling fertilizer. Food trickled in as they ripened on their own irregular schedule. If it weren't for the eerie glow of the night sky, they would have to do all the work in the blazing sun. Burns would have been a daily occurrence. But with every misfortune, there was usually a good side to be found. Most nights were perfect, cool, reasonably bright, and, with the rare exception of overcast, highly productive. It was a treat in a way, they ate fresh meals in the fields.

This even put her timing at odds with her husband and her son. Which was becoming less and less of a problem as the irrigation ditch had moved further from the village. By the end of the week, the men were staying three days away in tents with only one day at home.

With simple lengths of twine, Sylia looked like she was playing with string in the garden. Until two days ago when snared animals started being found. The zapped pile by the house was their own, private source, but the village proved to have nothing against eating anything found, from common mice on up. Especially with few men to be found. Women seemed a very practical, not overly proud bunch, at least where looming starvation was concerned.

"Myla," the father said on his rare day home, "do something with this one, will you."

"Do something with who, Husband?" The mother came from the kitchen to see.

"That one." He pointed to Sylia, sitting in the corner.

"What's she doing?"

"She's annoying."

Myla looked at her. She was just rocking back and forth on the floor. She wasn't harming anyone. She sat down with her. "What is it, Child?"

Sylia just stared straight ahead, rocking.

"Come on, Child, let's go outside." She touched the girl's hand.

Sylia freaked out, kicking and flailing wildly. Only stopping the second Myla backed off.

"It's ok. You're going to be just fine, Child. You're safe here. Nobody's going to harm you here."

The child rocked back and forth with an ever-distant stare.

After a few seconds of rocking, she completely forgot the mother was there.

"See, it's annoying as hell, isn't it?" he said.

"I don't know what's gotten into—"

"I don't care, just make her stop, or I will."

"I'm trying, she—"

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" he yelled at the girl.

Sylia didn't even look up. No flinch or reaction at all.

"Dearest, yelling— we know nothing about what happened to her parents. She could easily have seen something very horrific—"

He stood a foot from them and yelled at the top of his lungs "We live in a war zone," to his wife, and "Get over it!" to the girl, then stormed out of the house.

She wanted to hug the child, but she knew touching would only make things worse. She felt lucky he hadn't slapped the girl, so she did the only thing that seemed natural. She rocked with the girl, but just a little slower.

Rocking was oddly soothing.

After a few minutes of Myla setting a slightly slower pace, she managed to get the girl to stop. She still stared blankly into the room. She was a troubled little girl.

"Child," she tried again, offering a hand without touching.

"What's all the yelling about, Momma?" one of her girls said.

"Nothing. Just go on about—"

"What did Daddy do to her?" Reaha said, looking out the window for her father.

"Nothing— I don't know. Maybe something, but just leave please, you're not making things better." Myla turned her attention back to the girl at the center of it all. "Child, Sylia, whatever it is, it's fine now."

"He didn't hit her, did he?"

"What did he hit her for?"

"What'd she do?"

"Girls," Myla said, "please, just go."

Reluctantly, they left, taking Tour with them.

Myla tried again, but the best she could do was just sit with her and keep her calm. She took a break to make lunch and dinner, but other than that, she stayed with the little girl, rocked with her some. Then, at an odd point toward the next morning, the little girl's eyes slowly closed and she fell over, asleep.

When she woke again around noon, it was like it never happened.

Which, in its own special way, was about as good a result as any could hope for.

Corn, wheat, and beans dried easily for winter storage. Unfortunately, most of the things that the field could grow were among the most difficult to get to dehydrate. The state was proving wise, in a way, as more and more harvests started coming in. Drying was all any could think of, that and root-cellar style boxes. It helped immensely when it was a community effort to come up with ideas. Even more so when the women didn't need to seek approval for what they did.

With potatoes coming in strong, they had a chance to survive. As everyone gossiped and later confirmed the dire rumors within the black and white in the newspaper, they adjusted. They came together in a way that was very different from who they were when she took two children around, looking for a home, doors politely closed in her face. Perhaps it was just because there were so few men left in town. Perhaps eating so many meals that weren't corn and bread had lifted them all from such a bleak point of view. Whatever the reason, hope was a wonderful thing to feel.

Even if it wasn't real.
**B3.C5**

The irrigation project failed. The river the men had dug to all summer long was dried up by the time they reached it. Fed by the river that had been diverted by another country and caused her son to be drafted, it took months to go completely dry.

Winter was cold, but oil was plentiful. It came out of the ground from corroded, busted lines two miles away. Five gallons lasted almost a week, but their plastic barrel could carry much more than five gallons a trip, and rolled fairly easily. They had already made a trip this year.

With irrigation complete, but a failure, the men were home but in a foul mood. She didn't blame them, they had worked very long and hard only to be thanked with a dry ditch. But it wasn't her fault.

Myla pulled the tarp off the mound of dirt, then dug for a dinner's worth of potatoes, handing each she selected to the ever helpful Sylia. Going inside, they crumbled dried mustard and spinach leaves atop them, looking much like the paper ashes while making the mainly potato meal look very unappetizing. But an hour of steaming would turn that bland spud taste into an oh so very good meal.

Sylia was very interested in making meals, cutting potatoes and everything else that went into cooking. She just wasn't tall enough to be of any help in the kitchen, so she sat on a chair and watched from afar. She was in charge of the eyes. Potato eyes, that was. They saved them all, speared them with toothpicks, nursed them, and could get half or better to grow in anticipation of the hardships of next year. Eventually, they would grow tired of eating potatoes. But they would never grow tired of eating.

Her girls grew tired of backgammon with Sylia, though. Once they realized she wouldn't knock pieces off, they exploited it. And dominating a quiet child was only fun for a few games, so they excluded her. Myla was the only one who would still play, by adopting the little girl's rules. It made it much harder, but it had a friendlier feel.

The lamps were paying off in winter too. They removed a plate, just above the flames, and two around the front, and it added light and heat into the room, without the smoke. Twelve wicks were just enough to keep the bathroom cool, but comfortable.

They could even bake potatoes on them. It just took an average of three hours. What they were really good at was simmering water. Myla pulled the tray of water out of the one in the kitchen and poured it into a cup with decaf coffee grounds.

She looked over her kitchen. Stacked blocks replaced her old metal stove and vented straight through the roof. Rags were stuffed in the hole to prevent the winter air from funneling down into the house. Cooking with it was still smelly, but those rags hadn't been out in months. She had mastered cooking on the little window lamps and hadn't lit the stove since. It really kept the smell down and cut out the drafts.

She stirred the cup, then waited for the grounds to settle. Without transportation, every home had sacks of coffee, probably a lifetime's worth. The last few years had faltered, as had most beans in general, but they had far more bushes than an entire village could possibly drink. They even considered ripping them down and replacing them with a garden, but that was voted against this year.

It was a good rationale. The bushes took years to grow to maturity. The land wasn't even ideal for other plants. And if crops came back, they would all be sorry for devastating thriving crops out of panic. Economically, the coffee was a prized export.

She sipped. Strong and good.

She looked around her kitchen again.

It had been a beautiful kitchen. The laminated countertop hid the decimated cabinets. Hinges and doors were ripped off when they started giving shocks like the other metal fixtures. They had gone too far perhaps, removing everything with so much as a single nail, but their house didn't burn down like so many others had. Her beautiful countertop sat on stacks of blocks and glued two-by-fours. Dressers were replaced by shelves and stacks of clothes.

It wasn't the Stone Age, but it was close.

She had read every paper the village had to offer. Nothing explained how the infidels had done this. Spoons and forks had magnetized into a single block in the drawers. Sparks jumped from metal handles and hinges like a child's prank with slippers on a carpet. She rubbed a burn mark on her wrist and around her finger, reminders of a bracelet and a ring she once wore.

How had the infidels done it?

Nobody knew.

She had taken classes and one year of college. She knew a little something. To make sparks here, they had to use power there. They were thousands of miles away. Electrical engineering was beyond her, but what she did know was simple common sense. Like a candle appears brighter the closer it is to the observer, to get even a tiny spark over here would take a generator beyond comprehension over there. It seemed to defy belief. If they had such cheap and plentiful power, why bother shooting sparks over here?

She looked at the crackling appliance pile. 'There' hadn't stopped beaming sparks for years. Why not simply nuke them? The infidels had thousands at their disposal, surely that would cost a lot less.

For it to make sense to her, it had to be something else. Something. An experiment that had gone wrong, perhaps.

She looked outside. The night was still pretty, like a perpetual half moon.

She closed her eyes and imagined the day she had met her husband, that night much like tonight, out there. She sipped her coffee again. They spent an entire night outside a coffee shop, just talking.

She smiled at the thought of it.

He showed such interest in her life, her childhood, her family and friends. He seemed like the perfect, caring man.

She opened her eyes. He was. Still. She could see it every now and then. He had never raised a hand against her girls, she liked to think that meant something. He seldom asked questions when he knew her answer would get her in trouble. He never asked about the lamps or the occasional meat. He knew she was teaching her girls, and so long as it wasn't out in plain view, he said nothing.

She looked at the door.

Should the state change their rules, he would be the first to pull down that sign.

He wasn't really a bad man, it just took an exceptional man to openly go against the state in times like now. He was good. Just not exceptional.

She closed her eyes and remembered the time when she thought he was.

Myla felt a tug on her leg. "What are you doing up, Child?"

Sylia shrugged.

She picked the little girl up and onto her lap as they stared out into the street. "You hungry?"

Sylia tried to give her a hug instead.

"I've got to be up, Child. Someone has to put these breakfast potatoes in a good three hours before your brothers and sisters wake up. Too long, and they are as dry as a mouthful of sand. Too little and they are raw in the center." She kissed the little girl on the head, "Thank you for them, it was very thoughtful."

The girl just snuggled closer.

Myla kissed the back of the little girl's hand, then tucked her inside the woman's robe. The room was cool, but not cold.

The silent little girl kept her company, best as she could.

Winter was a hunker down event. The villages were so remote, and such large expanses of nothing separated them, that few ventured far that time of year. With lamps, the time passed faster than any previous year. They lacked a huge selection of games, but they had enough. When Myla's sister bought the latest in video games for their kids, they dumped all the obsolete low-tech 'junk' on Myla and into the closet. Some were missing too many pieces to play, but they were mostly board games. They were lucky in that way.

Baked potatoes three times a day got tiring, but they began to look upon it the same way they did buns. It was the filling food that distracted from how they really didn't have much food. Yet, potatoes were actually very nutritious. And they did have food, it was just that most of it was in the form of leafy flakes. Packed with nutrition, it was still flavored flakes. They also had lots of soups they were equally tired of.

Near the middle of winter, it was eighty degrees outside. This was the third day of incredibly warm weather. The nights weren't even cold, and the girls took full advantage of it.

They had gone for water the day before, today they took a trip for oil.

"Over here, Momma!" Reaha yelled.

It looked like a black pond a few acres across. Up hill were the broken pipes. There were four other such ponds within walking distance, but this was the closest. There were two ways to get the oil. One was to shovel dirt and all into the barrel, letting it drain slowly at home. That way they spent a lot of effort carrying dirt, but the chore was quickly over.

The other was harder, and much dirtier. It involved finding a depression in the pond and scooping mostly pure oil from there. This was dangerous because, unlike with a watery pond, they couldn't see what they were walking on. Reaha, dressed in pants made from plastic trash bags, had found that depression.

Bucket by bucket, they slowly filled the small barrel with oil, then rolled it back home.

The hot weather held for two more days.

Myla was standing by the potato mound when she felt a sudden cold draft.

She stared off into the distance, dark like a storm. "Go get me a basket, Child," she said.

Sylia ran back into the house.

She pulled off the tarp, glancing at the distant darkness. Her ankles felt the chill. "This isn't good."

Sylia returned with the basket and the two of them filled it with as many spuds as it would hold, then covered the mound with the tarp and ran inside.

"Reaha!" She put the basket on the counter, "Reaha! Ashina, Sirin, Hihel, Kids!"

They all formed up.

"I think we've got a bad storm coming. Wood up the windows!" Myla said. She looked around as they just stood there. They hadn't seen what she had. "Go!"

Wooding up windows was a two-person affair. Without nails, they basically had to tie the sheeting to planks on the inside by passing the rope through the open window, then wrestle it closed. It wasn't easy, and the window lamps would be in the way, so they all had to come out.

It was as bad as it had looked, but it sounded much worse.

It sounded like the whole neighborhood came out to pelt their home with stones. It was relentless and sounded twice as vicious in the dark with just the light from the fireplace.

The rooms were freezing cold, so everyone stayed in the living room next to the only source of heat. It would have been nice, had it not been for the occasional hailstones that found their way down the burning chimney and rolled across the floor. Usually thumping someone hard enough to bruise, there was no place to hide from them, even inside. They bounced, rolled, spun, ricocheted and hit whatever they willed. The only safety was within many layers of clothes, and even that only lessened the blows.

The fire burned as hot as they dared, but it struggled. It sputtered and tried to die nearly every hour. Smoke pumped down the chimney and sooted the ceiling twice. The smell made the children nauseous and cost everyone their appetite.

The hail pelted for two days.

Myla and Reaha spent most of the morning scrubbing the soot off the ceiling by the fireplace, but no amount of scrubbing would remove the smell. When it was over, they opened the door to another eighty-degree day. They left the windows open to warm the house back up. Two of the window covers were broken. Hail failed to penetrate, but the sheets were fractured nonetheless. Dozens of cracks made it look like folds in paper, on the edge of tears. Both were on the same side of the house.

After two days in the dark, everyone in town was looking for any excuse to be outside.

Pellets of ice were everywhere, a foot thick in most spots. Some looked as clear as glass, but most were specked with impact and white. The sun was incredibly bright, made worse by so much reflection.

That was when they noticed three homes still closed tight. It was sad, but someone had to work up the courage. Myla walked over to the nearest and knocked. She knocked harder, then walked around, trying for a look in each window.

"Sylia, Child, go back home, ok," she said to the little girl.

She just stared up at her. She knew what page the missing article was on, and made lamps out of clay. Yet, her 'I don't know what you're saying' look was flawless.

"I'm not buying it, Child. And you are not going inside with me. If I have to, I'll call your sister over here and have her carry you back."

She looked up and blinked.

"Reaha," Myla said, just loud enough for the little girl to hear.

She looked depressed and stared at her feet as she walked back to the house.

Myla knocked one more time, then started working on the door. Without metal hinges, doorknobs, or even nails, most homes were easily broken into. This was difficult, but no exception, and she lacked even the most rudimentary cat-burglary skills.

The house stunk.

She didn't need to go in. She knew. What happened was obvious.

She walked around the back and broke one of the windows to help air it out. They would need to be buried properly. Respect would have to be paid.

She went back to her house, got the trash bag Sylia was playing with, then returned. She flapped the bag full of air, held the opening to her mouth, and went in. The bag gave her a few minutes so she could calmly walk around, even if the air was still toxic. She found them huddled next to the fireplace. The father's arm was burned to the elbow. The three children were on the floor beside the mother. She knew, but checked them anyway. They were all dead. Her eyes were starting to burn. Almost out of air, she walked outside.

"They're all dead," Myla told the neighbors gathered by the door. "God's mercy was with them. They looked like they just fell asleep by the fireplace. We got smoked several times in the storm, too. It could easily have happened to us."

"This is the sixth family so far."

"Were they all by gas?" Myla asked.

"Two burned down. We lost Hamad Estaf, he was overcome running into his parents house. What made you think of the bag?"

She looked at it in her hand, "I don't know." She held it, curious herself. "We— we found a good deal years ago. Bought ten boxes of them and maybe a hundred toothbrushes. Isn't it silly, the things we think of as treasures now? We bought bags to throw trash out." She handed the bag to the one who asked, "I have to go sit down now."

One of the women walked with her back to her house.

It was a very sad day. Those that dug the holes in the near frozen ground, prepared the bodies, or made the coffins from the wood found in the homes of the dead divided the food and possessions found in the homes. Her husband made two makeshift coffins while her son spent the day digging.

It was reasonable compensation, but it still felt like robbing the dead.

Everyone dressed their best for the mass funeral.
**B3.C6**

The warm days disappeared, returning to a more seasonable cold, and life returned to what pretended to be normal. Tonight was game night with her girls, in their room.

The girls' room was the perfect size in winter. The two boys had the bigger room, the three girls got the smaller. Smaller in winter was easier to heat. The window lamp alone wasn't big enough, but add three girls— No, make that four girls and a little boy, and it was the warmest room in the house, not counting in front of the fireplace, of course.

Checkers and chess were rather advanced games that involved kicking off the opponent's pieces, something Sylia seemed reluctant to do. Yet, they were all to find out that that peculiar rule only applied to backgammon in that child's mind. Checkers and chess simply could not be played otherwise.

Tour moved his checker.

Sylia moved it back.

"Stop it!" he yelled at her, returning it.

She undid his move again.

Myla got up to intervene.

Tour looked up at the mother, "Tell her to stop touching my pieces." He turned to the girl, stuck out his tongue, and moved the piece a third time.

Myla studied it for a second, then rested her hand on his shoulder, "Are you sure that's the move you want to make, Child?"

"I made it, didn't I!"

Sylia touched his piece again.

This time he smacked her hand.

"Don't hit your sister," the mother said, then to the upset little girl, "stop touching his pieces."

Sylia pouted, stood, and almost huffed away from the game, but sat back down instead. She jumped four pieces to end on king's row. The game was as good as over now.

"Don't try to help him again," the mother said, "especially if he keeps being so ungrateful." She turned to the boy, "Stop being so ungrateful." She rubbed the top of his head.

Sylia was clearly very bright and had an ample amount of patience to go along with all her odd behavior. She was odd. Her sisters were polite to her, but they made no effort to befriend her. She was odd, and odd kept her from fitting in like she should. Myla looked at the girl again.

Odd.

How much of the girl's behavior was 'odd' and how much of it was simply misunderstood?

"Reaha, let Sylia play next, ok?"

"Oh, Momma!"

"Just do it, Child. You were her age once too."

Reaha was playing an adult game of Chinese checkers with her two sisters. There was no advantage in beating a girl Sylia's age, and nearly infinite ridicule if any lost to her. And, most importantly of all, no pieces were ever knocked off the board. It was Sylia's kind of game, but she had never been allowed to play.

Tour thumped the board before Sylia could officially make the last move of the game.

"Pick up those pieces, young man," Myla said, but again, it was the little girl who picked them up. She would argue it with the boy, all night if need be, but she didn't see the point in yelling at the girl. "Go sit in your corner." She pointed for the boy.

He pouted, but if it meant he didn't have to pick up the pieces, he reluctantly complied.

Sylia shined at Chinese checkers.

More important than the score, she seemed to have fun playing with the other girls. She smiled more. She danced a little just before her turn. She was less the odd little girl. To Myla, that was the most important thing. That her girls stopped seeing her as the girl that couldn't get backgammon, sat silently, or rocked with her back against a wall. It was important that her girls saw the fun-loving side of her. That they saw they could relate to her, and that she was worth relating to.

Distant thunder woke the morning, rattling the windows. It sounded like the bombing had returned. Myla and her husband went outside. Everything was a jealous green, even a few hours before first light— "Aurora borealis? I've never seen it so green before," Myla asked.

Her husband didn't know. "It ain't bombs. It's almost as bright as day, and I can't see any smoke, except chimneys." It was bitter cold and they were dressed in robes, so he went back inside.

She stayed a minute longer. The distant thunder was difficult to hear behind closed doors. It sounded like it was coming from the east, near where the sun should rise. The bright green sky pulsed, perhaps two minutes passed before the thunder reached the ground.

If she remembered right, that would put the storm at a hundred or so miles out. Thunder shouldn't travel that far. She must have remembered it wrong.

She walked back inside.

Either that, or it was one hell of a storm to be heard a hundred miles away. In a few hours, they would all know for sure. Breakfast would need another hour in the lamps around the windows. She waited, ready to board it up again, but holding off until the cooking was done, if possible.

Thunder rattled the windows and flickered the flames in the lamps, but didn't put them out. The noise pounded out any conversation, but had yet to send a single drop or flake to the ground. What was more, the sun was inching up and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Thunder pounded again.

It seemed to come in waves with less than a second rest between booms.

But by the time the potatoes were done, it had passed, like the full light of day had chased it away.

Myla found herself at the well again, that time of week. She sighed as she lowered the bucket again. They had a lot of containers to fill. Her girls shivered as the cold wind picked up, not a cloud in the sky. She looked at Reaha, the oldest. The girl kept growing. Her clothes were already tight, now she was starting to change shape as well. They didn't have any new clothes to give her. No town to trade with. The younger girls had a large assortment of hand-me-downs, but there was nothing for Reaha.

Goods like clothing never came to parts this remote. How much could camels carry anyway? They were left with the clothes they got from the dead.

Reaha hadn't warmed to that idea yet. She had known them too.

That seemed counter intuitive. Why would it be easier to wear a stranger's clothes than someone you knew? The only ones that fit were men's fashion anyway. For a blossoming girl to wear men's— it was an uphill battle to say the least. But they weren't going to let her walk around naked. She had to wear something.

It simply was what had to be.

They pushed the cart back into the village.

She looked around as they unloaded the cart, just now seeing the village with new eyes, as it was now.

With so little contact with the outside world, the rules seemed to have been relaxed. Full veils had been dropped last fall. Influence... The state had a lot, but without transportation, the state became so very far away. The local mosque was even loosening the reins as it started to realize it couldn't survive a popular local revolt.

It was the golden rule of politics. The closer the governing was to the governed, the more responsive they become.

All the same, she would wait until summer to remove hers in public.

Thunder returned at dusk with an ominous green sky. It lasted several hours then trailed off. Myla stayed in the kitchen even after it had passed. A large rabbit had been zapped on the pile, and it would take all night to slow cook it. She preferred to stay up at night and catch a nap after breakfast anyway. She worried about the lamps, convincing her husband that someone should stay up as long as they were lit. She had no call to worry, but if they fell out and into a room, it would burst into flames, instantly. Everybody kept the lamps burning at night. A plate blocked most of the light, but the flame and her worry burned on.

Lamps were perfect for baking potatoes, not stew. Stew took the stove. As she stirred it with a spoon, she could tell the meat and potatoes still had a long way to go. She wanted something to read, something to do. But there was nothing but to watch the green outside.

She wanted to open the door and step out, but it would fill the house with bitter cold. Instead, she knelt near a window and looked up. It wasn't the same. The green had streaks of white and blue, and it flickered.

Pretty in its own way, she just wished she knew more about what it meant.

The streaks branched and blurred like lightning, but lasted for half a minute and looked like they rolled and stirred the green. If only she had studied more in school.

Sylia tugged at her leg.

"What's got you up, Child?"

She rubbed her eyes and sat down.

"You thirsty? Hungry maybe?"

She shook a no.

"The thunder is gone. You should get some sleep while you can."

No.

"No what?"

Sylia put her hands on the mother's knees and shook, made a horizontal sheet out of one hand and a rock out of the other, then brought the rock slowly above the sheet.

"Thunder by morning?"

The little girl smiled.

Myla smiled back. "How long then, Child?"

Sylia shrugged.

The mother laughed. "You don't know, huh?"

She shrugged again, took one of Myla's hands, touched each finger, then held up nine of hers.

"Two weeks. You sure?"

The little girl shrugged.

"So, you plan on keeping me company then?"

She nodded.

"Would you go give the pot a stir then?"

She smiled and ran to the kitchen while Myla got out the Chinese checkers.

Thunder returned that morning and every evening for the next Twelve days, four of which were brighter than a noon sun, just green. Not bad for a guess.

Thunder without rain, sleet, or snow. Just thunder and thunder alone. It was very weird.

"Myla, do you still have that green dress?" her husband asked in their bedroom.

"I think so, but I doubt it would fit." She ran her hand through the closet, then pulled it out. "It had a metal zipper that I had to cut out." She held it up and turned to face him. "I doubt it fits, I don't have that figure any more."

He looked at the closed door. "Try it on."

She turned its back to him, "No zipper, it wouldn't stay on, Husband."

He nodded as he sat on his side of the bed. "Try it on, Myla."

She changed in front of him.

"Beautiful," he said, pulling down the sheets on her side of the bed.

She sat. Without a zipper, one shoulder slid down to her elbow.

He fixed it for her. "Do you remember that first day you saw it in the window. It was before we moved here, still in the city, renting that little place above that shop."

"They kept us up at night, working and hammering and whatnot." She lay on her side, facing him.

"It wasn't as bad as thunder." He slid closer.

"No, it rarely rattled the windows."

He hugged her in bed. His hand ran down her zipperless back, but returned to a gentle hug.

She closed her eyes. She remembered the newlywed him that lived with her above the shop. He was acting the same way right now. It was nice not to be quick for once.

She woke late to the smell of baked potato coming from the window. Myla sat up and quickly found her clothes before going to the window. She pulled out the breakfast before it— She didn't remember putting it in. A chair had been moved to the window. She didn't remember putting it there either.

Something near the closet caught her eye. Sylia. She was sitting on the floor, perfectly still, watching everything the mother did. Myla looked at her sleeping husband, walked over to the little girl, took her hand and walked her out of the room.

She considered trying to explain to the child what might and might not have been seen, then her thoughts went to scolding, but that seemed equally pointless.

Myla took the girl to the kitchen and lifted her onto the counter. "You shouldn't go into other peoples rooms."

Sylia shrugged.

"You shouldn't, ok?"

Myla knew what happened. The girl had seen the mother walking around the rooms, putting in the breakfasts and checking the lamps. Possibly even followed her around a couple of times. When she didn't show last night, the girl did it on her own. She probably missed everything inappropriate, if that was the case.

She studied the little girl's face. She was cute and young, but it was still too soon to recognize any family resemblance to anyone. She ran her hand through the girl's hair. "You had anything to eat yet?"

They shared one.

The thunder had finished weeks ago. But it left the night sky changed. Mornings and evenings glowed green, while the middle of the night was a pale blue. Gone was even the hint of stars. Myla wondered if future generations would even know what stars were, or would they fade from life like radios and TVs.
**B3.C7**

The next two years saw little more than potatoes and leafy things grown in the garden. Corn, wheat and rice were tried, in limited patches, but failed again. The messenger never showed, no word about the war or her son, not a drop of water touched the ditch, and they all held on by their fingertips and the wink of every saved potato-eye.

Sylia, now around a silent six, was very helpful with the chores, as was Tour. Reaha, on the edge of fifteen, was wearing men's clothes. Metal needles prevented tailoring them to her ever-changing shape, which perhaps was for the best. Baggy clothes hid her better from the attentions of boys, not that she could ever escape such attention.

She had had a crush on one of the boys they buried a few years back. It was his clothes she had a problem wearing, but his were the only ones that fit. She wasn't freakishly tall, but she was taller than both of her brothers and her parents.

The girls got water and oil on their own now and were green thumbs in the garden. Their constant exposure to chores with silent Sylia slowly brought her more out of her shy shell and into a rather normal relationship with them. Having to work with her, much like play, helped put her 'oddness' into a different context. They even started to openly like her.

Oil was easy to get during summer, but much less was needed then. The few trips they made, Sylia hauled rubble to the site in the cart. It seemed odd at first, but with each trip, it slowly turned into a walkway that ended near the natural dip, now lined with blocks. The blocks allowed it to refill, much like at the well, only shallower.

It wasn't an endless supply of oil. It was a simple spill after all. But it and the other spills within walking distance should keep them supplied for years, perhaps a lifetime. The walkway would help everyone keep from getting as oily and dirty as they used to.

"He's here! He came!" the messenger yelled, late that evening, bringing everyone out of their homes. He climbed atop the stone pedestal where a bronze statue once sat. "Everyone! He's here! He returned! He— he came back!"

The crowds emptied from the homes and surrounded him.

The messenger gathered his breath, "A few months ago, as the mosque was letting out from Friday's prayers, he came. His fist punched blocks out of the old city well as he climbed his way out. He was huge, seven feet tall, bald as a baby, no fingernails. Muscles everywhere."

The crowd gasped. It couldn't be true.

The messenger continued, "The Twelfth is here! We've had nothing but defeats in our war to win back the river. Now, with him leading the army, we can't lose!"

He didn't even ask for volunteers. He simply rejected all those too young or too old, gathered a quick census of needs, surpluses, and shortages for the state, took Hihel and dozens of others, and left. There were now no boys Reaha's age left.

Papers.

This stack of papers was the smallest yet.

She looked above the top fold. Chickens and eggs were not the only thing having problems. It was affecting everything. Five times the seeds were needed to plant the average field. Goats and camels were equally affected. Chickens, because they could produce hundreds of eggs and lived a dozen years, could rebound in a decade or two. Camels and goats were not so lucky.

Cats and dogs had litters. A productive dog could produce meat at sustainable levels, and the eating and breeding of both, though socially frowned on, were now acceptable by the state, though dogs had to be washed seven times and sprinkled with dirt. Rabbits were preferred, but much harder to obtain. Food was so tight that they were even revisiting pigs, though it was still too religiously opposed.

Math. Numbers.

It was simple and spelled out in black and white below the fold. Humans took nine months to have a child, starting at around Reaha's age. If half were girls and four fifths would be infertile, then to simply sustain population levels required girls Reaha's age to have at least ten children. Ten was possible, but that wasn't the only complication in the math.

Four fifths were infertile. Roosters were used to harems. It was even covered in the paper. A rooster with twenty hens would either have them laying eggs or not. If he didn't, eat the rooster and try again. The hens that didn't lay get eaten and replaced. Once a successful rooster was found, it was used to test hens by the score.

This was a very bad model to follow. A state that issued wife-beating rules wouldn't hesitate to push this path for humans. Veiled women specifically.

She hoped they were too remote for the state to bother with. But hope alone was never enough.

Myla folded the paper and joined Reaha in the kitchen, washing dishes.

Sirin, her middle daughter, came to her mother that morning after prayers. Being in the middle meant she was often overlooked. She looked incredibly embarrassed, "Momma, I'm—"

"It's all right, Child, Reaha and I know. It's something that just happens when women spend lots of time together. Come, I'll walk you through— did we ever have this talk— Oh, Child, I'm so sorry. I think I forgot to tell you." Myla put her arm around the girl. "Nothing to be ashamed of. It's just a part of life. For a few days every month, this will happen. When you're young, it's a little more chaotic, but it'll level out soon and you'll get used to it." She walked her to the bathroom. "In the good old days, we used to have some really good disposable stuff. You girls will never know how good that was. Here, let me get you started." She closed the door.

There was a passage about banishing menstruating women to the nearest caves for a week. Now that her husband had three women in his house, he was frantic to find that page, but reading the whole book was a bit much to find a lone paragraph. Besides that, it was rarely all that bad on him anyway.

With Tour the only other boy in the house, they all ate meals at the same time now. It was nice having the full table, everybody quietly talking instead of sneaking meals in their room.

Myla went to the kitchen, then returned with a big bowl of fresh salad and started putting a portion on everyone's plate.

"The fig trees are failing again this year," the husband said.

"Are they all failing?" Myla asked.

"No, three are ok—"

"That's about the same as—", Reaha stopped short, "Sorry, Papa." She stared at her plate.

He looked sternly at her, sitting at his table, dressed in boy's clothes, "Go on, Child."

She looked up from her plate at her mother first, "Sorry, Papa, but I— We had them last year. There was one on the end, by the old fence— No, that— We just ended up marking the only healthy ones with a cinderblock near the base, on the Mecca side of the tree."

"I wouldn't have noticed. I'll check tomorrow, but I'd bet it's the same this year," he said.

"We, we used broken blocks for the ones that seemed to be trying and whole blocks for those that were fine."

"It just looked like junk to me."

Reaha picked up her fork and started to eat.

"Look, Reaha, you girls—" he wanted to say more, he had started to praise them for how well they had held this house together and the harmony they maintained in such tough times, "I'm—" they were all looking at him now, "I'm sorry we can't afford any new clothes and," he dropped his utensil on his plate, "and I'm sorry we have been eating with washed and worn-out plastic forks and spoons and," he pushed the plate to the side, "I wanted more for you girls," he said.

"This is fine, Papa," Reaha said.

The rest chimed in too.

He laughed a little, "I guess I never realized how much I missed figs."

They returned to quietly eating.

About every other house was empty, either destroyed or evacuated. The wealthier homes had been abandoned when the metal plumbing first started packing a punishing charge. They tended to have the resources to barter for camels and make a run for another state or country. Whatever happened to them, nobody knew. At first, their homes were left unmolested. But, as the years went by, it all became fair game.

It was extremely dangerous and the children were forbidden, but they did it anyway. How could they resist? Especially those far from any parental view.

They chose their steps carefully as they crossed the wooden floor. The wood was fine, the nails were what they had to watch out for. Sylia pointed to a scorch mark, smacked it a few times with a trusted walking stick, then moved past it.

The floor squeaked with every step. Ashina tested the spot with her stick too.

They were exploring, rather exciting in its own, dangerous way.

Most of the best stuff was gone, but every house had its own secret treasures, waiting to be found. They had scored two boxes of Q-tips, sixteen bars of soap, several tubes of toothpaste and bottles of shampoo, and that was just the ground floor.

The house showed signs of children and they were hoping for some new toys, games, or clothes. They knew that stuff would be upstairs. The nails had burned spots in the floors, some sections had even collapsed, but two children added nearly nothing to such a structure's loads. They just had to be careful and walk softly.

"Sylia, over here," Ashina said.

It was a jackpot, if it could be gotten to. She had found a child's room, the paint on the wall screamed girl. An assortment of clothes were on the bed. The bed was a spring style and was putting out a good deal of heat. The clothes dumped on it had burned years ago. Not a rapid fire, but more what one would expect if left on an iron too long. The coils were dangerous beyond the heat, like the nails, they packed a lethal shock. But a fortune in goodies lay beyond it, and both girls knew it.

"Just look at it, will you? All those new clothes on the floor, the boxes in the closet. I'm going to try for it," Ashina said.

Sylia smacked the wall with her stick, reminding her sister of the hundreds of nail burns she would have to hug to get past the mattress. She tugged her sister by the arm and nudged her out of the room. They went down the hall about ten steps, then stopped.

Sylia started breaking holes in the wall. It was simple drywall on wooden studs. Time consuming, but it crumbled easily with smacks from their sticks. One of the studs with burns near the nails was encouraged to fall into the room, just on the other side of the hazard.

Ashina kissed her silent accomplice then raided the loot. Four decks of cards, eighteen books, shirts, dresses, skirts, shoes, sandals, seven jigsaw puzzles, and a fortune in old socks and underwear.

They had more than they could carry and weren't anywhere near plundering the whole house. Ashina wanted to do a complete ransacking and pile everything by a safe spot on the ground floor.

It was a reasonable idea. They found a dozen sheets that were perfect for tying into bags as they broke their way into the remaining rooms. Soap, shampoo, towels and adult clothes were most of what they found. Worthless, from children's view, they nonetheless bagged them and stacked them near the door for easy retrieval.

That was the point where they realized their problem. It wasn't roaming a house that could burst into flames, crumble around them, or shock them to death, the true problem was getting the bounty home. Getting it past their mom without getting caught or punished would be their greatest feat, roaming the house was child's play.

They returned empty handed instead, much to Ashina's anguish. They looked around home for places to hide the goods, but their house was small and the number of eyes huge. When they realized the futility of it, both girls got depressed as they rested up for their night chores at the garden. Perhaps the most painful thing either had encountered in their short lives was the torment of such a fortune in toys and clothes that neither could play with or wear.

Myla ran from the house and yanked the sack from the girl's hand. "Didn't I tell you about how dangerous it was to go into those homes?" She shook the girl, "Didn't I tell you!"

Sylia let go of the sled stacked with the rest of it.

"What is wrong with you? You could have gotten killed!"

Sylia pulled some books from the sack and handed them to her mom.

Myla was taken aback, but still fuming. She looked at the titles. "Look, Child," she thought of the hand-slapping incident, "I have to punish you. I have to, you know that. Promise me, promise me you'll never do that again."

Sylia pulled some adult clothes from the sack.

Myla yanked them from the girl's hands, tossed them onto the ground and stamped on them. "I get it, Child, you got stuff for us. But I bet there's something in there for you too. I'm not stupid. Neither are you. You thought if you started with something I wanted—" She knelt on the clothes to better stare into the child's eyes, "You hide the you behind that silence, you think that keeps you safe. It won't protect you from dangers like this. You have to let me know that I'm getting through to you. That you can never do this again."

Sylia nodded.

"Never."

She nodded again.

Myla looked at the girl. "You get nothing from this. You can't play a single game here. You can't wear a single stitch or hear a single story read aloud." She put her hand on the girl's cheek. "You get nothing from this. Nothing. Now, go inside."

Myla checked everything on the sled. Nothing dangerous, everything useful. She dusted off the stamped garments, then drug it all inside.

"Everyone," the mother said, "nobody is allowed to play with Sylia for the next week. She's being punished."

Tour walked up to Sylia, then pushed her until she fell to the floor.

Myla grabbed the boy by the wrist. "I am punishing her, not you. You just can't play with her." She pushed him to the ground, gently by comparison, "You, young man, do not ever shove your sister."

He pouted, but didn't get up.

The three girls weren't paying attention anyway, they were ripping through the stuff, making claims and bartering with 'first grabs'. "Ashina, that doesn't even fit you. Let your sister have it."

Ashina's hair smelled of apple as they weeded the garden, late that night. "I'm sorry, Sylia," she said.

Sylia shrugged and ripped another weed out of the ground.

"I didn't— We can—"

Sylia smiled briefly, shrugged, then continued.

"It's so unfair of her. We should—"

Sylia hugged her, shook a no, then went back to work. They had two more sections to check and weed before they could go home.

"I think it's unfair she makes you do all the dishes and clear the table every night. I— I'll volunteer to help you tomorrow—"

Sylia shook a no.

"But I was the one who g—"

Sylia hugged her, then shook no again.

"It isn't fair."

Ashina played her new game with Sirin after their mother read them a story from one of the books. As she moved her piece around the board, she could hear the dishes clank from the kitchen. "Momma, can't Sylia play after she's done—"

"No, she's being punished."

"For how long, Momma?" Ashina asked.

"Until I say."

"But, Momma, She didn't mean any harm—"

"Not until I say, Child."

"But—"

"You can help her scrape the cesspool tomorrow."

That, she understood. She actually felt better about being punished, but was wise enough to shut up and go back to the game. She liked her sister, but she liked her new clothes too.

The cesspool was punishment. Sylia woke her sister early so they could rake it before the sun was up. It helped, but it was still punishing. Two raked much faster than one, but two weren't strong enough to drag the sled to the garden. Reaha joined them for that. Reaha's punishment was for being the oldest.

By the end of the second week, the girls were allowed to play with Sylia, and she was allowed to listen during story time, but she was still being punished.

"Momma," Ashina said.

"What is it, Child?" Myla plucked the healthy leaves as they worked on the harvest.

"Momma, I, I was the one who talked Sylia into going with me to the house. I, didn't mean to get her in trouble. Can, can you stop punishing her now."

Myla stopped picking. It suddenly made sense. One day, all on their own, a few dozen forks and spoons appeared in the kitchen. They weren't plastic and they weren't quite fancy enough to have been found in the house, but they were glazed pottery and well made nonetheless. She was learning the workings of that little girl's mind. "How many days between when you got the stuff and she brought it home?"

"I don't remember, Momma, a few, maybe?"

A few. That would have been long enough. "She's being punished for something else, now."

"But, Momma, she's a good—"

"I know she is, that's not the point. Those homes are not safe, both of you were told that. Hassen died three years ago, doing what you two did. I was tempted to make all of you watch while I burned it, but that would have been purely wasteful. When I tell you not to do something, I mean it."

"But—"

"Not another word. You two went into their kitchen—"

"No, Momma, I promise, we didn't even open that door. It smelled just going by it."

That proved it. Sylia made the utensils and, realizing she would get in trouble for it anyway, just rolled it into Ashina's heist and took the blame for it all. She was a smart child that probably didn't care about any of the toys or loot. She probably went along to make sure Ashina didn't get herself hurt. "Listen, right now, your father thinks that Sylia foolishly risked her life, which he's ok with, for some useful but otherwise worthless crap. If he thought his own daughter did such a thing—"

"Oh, Momma, please don't tell him."

"I won't, this time. But, if it happens again—"

"Oh, it won't, Momma, it won't."

Sylia got no clothes or toys from their little adventure. Yet, even punished, she got everything she had wanted.
**B3.C8**

Dusk still flickered with filaments of green, but by the last harvest of the year, the night sky faded to a pale blue, and the marginal figs lost the 'acne' from their leaves. This was the first year of surplus. Surplus was an overly generous word, but it wasn't rationing. They still nursed potato eyes, just to be safe.

Sirin and Reaha, with both brothers gone, had settled into the boys' bigger room.

Winter passed with extra games and lots of books to be read by lamp, and a silent little girl was, at long last, allowed out of extra chores and her punishment lifted.

Spring seemed to have come all too soon.

Sons started to trickle home. Depending on which campaign, they told entirely different tales.

War was a difficult thing to wage without metal. For thousands of years, metal swords to metal shields had played a vital role in every war, until this one. It required a rethink of nearly everything.

Metal implements, like axes and picks, had been used in the first waves. The thought behind it was that the wooden handles would protect the users from shocks. Which it did. However, the faster they were swung through the air, the harder they fought to keep the blows on course. Land a single blow, even grazing, and it packed not only the physical but the electrical damage as well.

But the opposing side had thought along the same lines. The same force that gave metal its lethal charge also tended to make them magnetically attract, more so when swung. Once attached, they didn't easily release. With axes and picks stuck together in unwieldy lumps, battlefields degenerated into a nightmare of brutal bludgeoning. Simple clubs and spears prevailed. Bows and stone arrows were quickly reinvented.

The first few battles were crushing losses. Projecting power outside one's home state was difficult in the best of times. Those that diverted the river did so from their homeland where reinforcements and supplies were readily at hand.

Most of the losses were from the injured being so far away from aid.

It didn't look good for her eldest son.

They had plowed into war with raw anger and emotion. Emotion alone didn't win wars, and regrouping was taking time.

The first few campaigns were disastrous. But one boy with a shattered arm and hence, of no military use to them anymore, returned from the more recent campaigns. His stories were difficult to believe, sounding more mythical than fact, but they listened anyway. The boy could tell an entertaining yarn.

War, beyond the stories and rumors, seemed remote and far away. Like it was only a story. What was real was the needs of the garden. With the figs showing signs of recovery last year, they took a chance on corn, wheat, and a little rice. They had an innovative plan. They planted the staples as usual, but, just as they started to sprout, they planted the leafy stuff that had been keeping them alive in the same lines in the dirt. The theory was sound. If the corn took off and looked normal, they would 'weed' out the under crop. If it started showing lots of deformities, they would 'weed' the over crop out instead.

Either way, the workload on everyone had just doubled by this experiment, but it was the only way to try without risking starvation.

"It's my turn to do the dishes," Ashina said, taking the plate from Sylia's hand, "Momma's not punishing you anymore."

Sylia picked up the towel and stood to her side. She would stop washing, not helping.

After dishes and dusk, the two went for their gardening chores.

It was a long walk to carry a two-liter bottle of water, but swapping it every so often made it comfortable enough.

When they finally arrived, the cornstalks looked normal, for the most part. About one fifth failed in a mutated way, typical of the field, but corn was still their best chance at building a meaningful surplus. The girls had a long night of weeding ahead of them. They met with the leader as he assigned sections and rows.

"I want you down there, and you, over there," he said.

"We, we have only the one bottle," Ashina said.

He looked around, "Very well, both of you can do that section there."

"Thank you," Ashina said, smiling when she took Sylia's hand. They didn't talk or girl around, they did their fair share of work, but work was just much nicer to do with someone you knew. She didn't like being surrounded by strangers.

Besides, Sylia was her favorite accomplice.

Weeded mustard and spinach didn't go to waste. Even tiny and under developed, they were saved to flavor many meals. Baby potatoes too.

When they had weeded a full sack worth, they lugged it to the common area where it was dumped on a sled , a much different sled than the one used for fertilizer. Each could handle such a load by themselves, but it was an unnecessary struggle when they paired up together.

"How many you got today?" Ashina asked.

Sylia held up two fingers.

"Already?"

Sylia nodded. When they got back to their assigned area, she pulled up her mini spear with two scorpions skewered on it, one violently kicking.

"Wow. You've got a good eye for them."

They each took a swig from the bottle, then got back to work.

Scorpions were a danger, especially at night when they were most active. Even with the full-moon-like brightness, it was easy to miss them while grabbing at plants on the ground. Fortunately, they rarely attacked. But, what was best of all was when they toasted them over a small fire of dried stalks for a dinner. Delicious. Sylia was good for a dozen most nights, and now they were especially good. Most had their last molt and were still in soft shells.

Since they had been sharing a room together, it seemed only natural that they would work well together, too.

They simply picked and ate the leafy crops. Wheat and rice required thrashings, an all night event of beating against the ground until the husks parted with the seed inside. Corn required peeling and picking of silk, then the removal of the kernels for further drying and long-term storage. They weren't being punished, but the chores for every family had easily doubled this year.

If these mid-summer harvests were any indication, they would easily be into surplus by fall, and that was exciting to everyone. Scorpion snacks or not.

They watched as the adults and older children drug away the loaded carts and sleds just before first morning light. The older children were strong enough to handle such a load, where the young did most of the picking. The fresh food had to be taken into the village eventually, and immediately after picking was always best. Often getting distributed in time for breakfast.

Only a few people remained to tend and guard it during the day, to keep the pilfering from animals down.

But instead of going home in the morning as they usually did, today the youngest stayed. A lot of thrashing had been done the night before. While there was some light at night, seeds were impossible to see once they fell to the ground. It was the task of tiny fingers, when the sun first came up, to pick through the debris and find all the wayward seeds.

It sounded like punishment or busy work, but it was anything but. The night was cooler and ideal for hard labor, but now was just as important in a lot of ways.

Sylia, Ashina, and Tour got on their knees with the rest and started sifting the ground. A gentle breeze helped.

They spent the next few hours on their knees and filling sacks. It paled in comparison to what the older children delivered to the village just hours ago, but, just by picking through the debris, they sifted enough food from the sand to feed two families for a year.

There was a time, and it wasn't too long ago, where none would have given a care to these 'scraps' that had touched the dirt. Today, it kept people alive.

Food was food, and they wasted nothing out of pride.

"Get up, girls," Myla said, "it's your turn."

"Oh, Momma, can't we have another hour or so?" Ashina said with the pillow pulled over her head.

Myla pulled the shades down from the windows, letting in the evening sun. "I know, these weird sleep schedules have everybody off, and on edge. It probably feels like you just got to bed—"

"It does, Momma, it does!"

"But I assure you, you've had just as much sleep as the rest of us. You and your sister and brother can take turns if you want, but you have to keep the bugs away from the seeds drying on the street. I've already made you a light meal. You don't have to go far, but you do have to go." She swatted Ashina lightly on the bottom.

"Ooooh!" She kicked her feet in a mini tantrum and tossed her pillow against the wall. "All right!"

Sylia started getting dressed, as did Tour.

Spiders were interesting creatures. They spun large webs everywhere to catch flies. It was time consuming and the webbing taxed the creature's resources, but they seemed to make new ones every day. Sylia used an old, discarded tennis racket that was missing the strings to collect the webs, and later the bugs. She didn't chase, she caught.

At the end of her shift, she returned the packed web to the spinner of the best web she had stolen.

Grasshoppers got caught by hand to be fried later, mice and larger pests got chased away. It was often boring, but needed. They were playing living scarecrows. If left unattended, creatures of consequence would take advantage and gorge themselves.

With young children, guarding often resembled play.

By fall, the sleeping schedules returned to normal, and everyone took pride in the filled sacks of corn, flour and a little rice in every cupboard. Bread with every meal. The days of potato everything were gone.

Life seemed good.

"I'm home!" Hihel shouted from the living room.

"Son!" the father ran from the bedroom and gave him a hug and a kiss to each cheek.

Myla, right behind her husband, was pushed to the side with a "What the hell are you two doing in My room!" as Hihel stormed toward the eldest girl.

"Nobody knew how long—" Reaha started to explain, but was backhanded as he pushed past her.

"It stinks of girl in here!" he yelled.

Reaha gathered herself, grabbed her sister's hand, and quickly left his sight.

"Calm down, now, Son," the father said, standing in the doorway.

"Calm down? Calm down?" The sounds of ripping clothes followed. "Look at this insult! That whore has been wearing men's clothing—"

"She's your sister—"

"No, Father, she's your daughter. My sister would never—"

"It was either that, or she walks around naked. Nothing else in this house will fit her."

Something else ripped, then thudded against a wall.

"You stop that this minute, Son. Honor thy father."

One more rip and a thud, then silence.

"Your sisters were told to leave everything as it was. Did they not do that?"

"My bed and sheets are all— and I never left girl's clothe—"

"Within reason, Son, within reason. Space is short, here, in my house. To leave a room empty is wasteful. How long are you staying?"

"Until spring, when the war starts again."

"How goes it, Son?"

Hihel sat on the bed, almost in reverence. "It is like being the hand of God. I saw him. He was unmistakable. The Twelfth. He's real. Seven, eight feet tall. Head and shoulders over everyone else. A towering presence, even a thousand feet away. You could feel him." He took off his worn sandals and pressed the soles to his face. "These have stood, where he has stood." He looked up at his father. "You could tell those who had been ended by his hand. They weren't stabbed or bloodied. They were ripped apart. Necks broken like chickens', foreheads caved in with a single blow. My words are worthless to his deeds. He can throw a stone further than an arrow, and it'll land twice as hard. You read such things, hear such things, I've seen such, with my own eyes. It still sounds like lies to my ears."

Hihel handed his father the sandals.

"They stood, where he stood. The holiest ground I know."

He walked past his father and into the living room.

"Six minutes, and I'll burn anything left behind," Hihel said to his sisters.

They ran into the room. Sylia followed with her arms out to be loaded up.

Hihel was home.

The girls hid in their room as much as possible the rest of that day. He was changed, and it was easiest to just avoid their brother. Being surrounded by so many men left him impulsive and eager for even the minorest offense to set him off.

He had killed other men, and was boastful about it.

Sylia sat in the chair, as Reaha brushed her hair. She sat quietly, waiting for her to finish with the brush.

"What is it with you?" Reaha said, putting down the brush and pinching the girl's cheek.

Sylia smiled, pulled the hairs from the brush, folded them, then put them in the trash.

Chess was a man's game, but the girls had it and played it as well. There wasn't much else to do but play games. All the gardening was done, it was bitter cold outside, what else was left?

"Are you playing, Sylia?" Reaha said.

The little girl jumped up and down by the trash and ran to the bed, knocking most of the pieces over.

They reset the board. "Try not to get so excited, ok?"

Sylia nodded, barely able to keep from jumping.

"Ok, I'll go first."

Reaha stomped her two sisters most of yesterday and had promised to play Sylia first thing in the morning, which was now.

Sylia's moves looked chaotic and strange. She lost a rook, a bishop, and the queen within the first twenty moves. She seemed oblivious to Reaha's counter attack. Yet, Sylia moved a pawn, then a knight, and the game was over. Reaha had lost.

They stopped to eat morning potatoes baked above the lamp, then played again. This time Reaha gave it her best, but lasted about as long against the chaos attack.

Reaha didn't like to lose but was intrigued with the bizarre strategy of her younger opponent. They played six more games that day, each with Reaha dwelling on her moves, concentrating harder, capturing more pieces, but still losing. Sylia, for her part, seemed more interested in pretending the knights were horses and playing with the pieces like any other child would play with dolls. She captured pawns and had the winning piece dance them off the board. Knights were ridden off, bishops were forced off in a prostrate crawl, each was unique in its own way. It seemed like a puppet play. Her line of pieces 'talked' to each other, whispered in ears, brushed shoulders, pointed, turned and danced. It was entertaining in itself.

The girls turned when the mother came into the room.

"It's awful quiet in here," Myla said, sitting on the bed.

"Just playing, Momma."

"Your brother and father are done with dinner," Myla said, watching Sylia puppet her pieces. She had ten fewer than Reaha, but perfectly content to play. "I hope you're taking it easy on her."

"Me?" Reaha said, "Like I need to. Just sit a minute, this is usually where she pulls a checkmate completely out of the blue."

And, sure enough, within the next ten moves, there it was.

Reaha laid over her king. "See, Momma, where in the world did that come from?" She moved the pieces backward the last three moves.

Sylia adjusted them, then moved it back to where the mother came in.

Reaha stood and looked at the board, "See, where did it come from? How in the world did she get from here to there?"

At that moment, Sylia repeated the moves that got her there.

"So, are you kids ready to eat then?" Myla said.

They followed her out to the table.

Corn and greens with diced potatoes, topped with strips of mystery meat, a bird of some sort, were dished on each plate beside two fluffy buns for dipping in the little bit of gravy the men left. Dinner. Variety was good, but it didn't feel like a meal without potatoes anymore.

Of course, they also missed eating with their dad.

**B3.C9**

"Father, you should have seen it," Hihel said as they stayed up late that winter night, drinking coffee in front of the fireplace. "He, he's unstoppable. The hand of God protects him from harm. It all just bounces off him. Bats break across his head, he doesn't even bother to try to deflect them. Some tell of suicide bombers running up to him with thirty pounds of explosives, detonating inches from him. It just blows off his clothes, singes some hairs. How can he not be, anything but, the Twelfth? Who else, Father, who else?"

"Impressive to be sure." He had heard the sermons before. He considered himself religious, as almost everyone here did, but he lacked the fervor of his sons. He was reluctant to die for his beliefs, his sons were eager. "Have any tried to convert those—"

"Convert! Why bother? They fall like lambs. Heard tell of that first engagement that he led. After the first hour of slaughter, the enemy tried to surrender. Some on our side were even taking prisoners. But, when they saw him continue to kill, well, we continued as well. The sand ran red with the blood of cowards who tried to retreat." He drank deeply from his cup. "They're all infidels. They brought it upon themselves." He thrust his empty cup into the air, "Death to the infidels! Death to the infidels! Death to the infidels!"

The father joined in. "To the Twelfth!"

They clanked cups.

"May the merciful God continue to protect him, and my son!"

They clanked again.

The father stood, "More, Son?"

"Yes, please."

He took the cups and refilled them by the lamp in the kitchen.

"Father," Hihel looked around. They were midway to morning by now, "have you ever visited a tent?"

"We stayed in a tent when we dug the ditch—"

"No, I'm not talking about that. They, after they slaughtered the soldiers in the field, they plundered the village. They kept the women in tents, you see. You, you know about the problem with chickens and such, right?"

"Yeah, your mother read us something about that in the paper."

"Well, they say it goes for people, too." Hihel leaned closer to his father. "Each woman had to see twenty a day before they would let her work doing laundry or cooking or such. They said it was the fastest way to find which were fertile, and which were worthless. Those that got pregnant were sent back here, somewhere."

"No, Son, I've never—"

"Well, let me tell you, I'd never experienced anything like it. If the seventy virgins are even half—"

"Son, don't talk of such things with your sisters or mother. I, I'm not sure I'd have let you, had I been there."

"But Father, it came straight with his blessings."

"Oh, I'm sure it did, Son. I'm sure it did." He patted his son on the shoulder.

"It was amazing, Father, just amazing. It must be what having a harem feels like."

The father looked to the page glued to the bedroom door. "I'm sure it's signs of things to come."

His son just smiled and sat back in the chair.

The father thought of the implications. If, for whatever reason, the war swung against their favor, there would be consequences for what Hihel had told him. And the worst of those consequences would befall his girls sleeping behind closed doors.

Hihel had used nearly all of the water washing up from his long journey. The girls took the cart to the well, first thing that morning. They could have put it off for another three days, had he not returned when he did. Now, oil and water fell on the same day. Chores.

Reaha stood at the well and lowered the bucket while the rest undid lids and aligned the funnel. Chores. Her mom and the men were warm in the house while her sisters and Tour shivered, a splash away from being wet as well.

Filled, they struggled to push the cart home. It squeaked more every month. It would start to break down soon, and this laborious chore would double or triple into an all day affair. Sleds, the only alternative, were a nightmare to pull.

It took until lunch to get the cart home and unloaded, but they still had to wait quietly for the men to finish eating and talking before they were allowed to sit at the table.

They rolled the barrel down to the oil spill and walked the block path showing heavy signs of use. The oil had receded a few feet around the perimeter and an inch or two in depth. The hints of two additional depressions were starting to show. They made their normal human chain across the blocks while Reaha dipped the bucket at the end of the stick, pulled it to the walkway, then filled their jug and handed it to Sylia, who lugged it five steps to Ashina, who lugged it four steps to Tour, who walked it to Sirin, who walked it to the barrel, dumped it, then passed it back.

The chain was the only way to go.

They filled the barrel in no time, put the plastic cap in the end, set it on its side, and started rolling it back home. They never filled it all the way, to help keep the weight down. Even so, the last hill was always a struggle that usually required sticks to pry it the last thirty feet. They were fortunate, though, the sand was firm and easy to roll it on.

Myla scrubbed the dish, dunked it in the rinse water, then handed it to Sylia who dried it with the towel and put it in the rack. Dinner had been over for an hour or two, just long enough for the lamp in the kitchen to simmer enough water for a hot washing.

Myla pulled one of the new utensils from under the suds, then washed it and two others with the cloth. She rinsed and handed, "You were punished for this. Not because you made them, but because you did it after promising not to. Children playing with fire is worse than children playing in abandoned homes."

Sylia dried them and placed them, aligned and separated, paired two by two.

Myla pulled the girl in tight to her side, a little hug and a damp pat on the girl's head. "You are a good child. You get along well with the rest of the girls. We would miss you terribly if something went wrong while you were off doing something like this. Eventually, something always goes wrong. It's just not safe to do some things alone."

Sylia looked at the sink in her shy, silent way.

Myla lifted Sylia's eyes with a finger on the child's chin. "You are important to me, to us. And you know about not letting people do dangerous things alone."

Sylia tried to look away again.

"You understand about that, don't you? How easily a simple mistake can lead to a world of misfortune. You, come to Reaha or me." She fixed the child's wandering eyes again. "You come to one of us. Danger is no place to go alone. And you, dear child, you are not so alone." She hugged the girl again, then fished for another dish.

Understanding the words came easy to the child. Reaching her, that was something else.

Winter cranked up the cold over the next few weeks. It kept everyone inside, as much as possible. Hihel's room, being so large and with only one person, was cold. He spent most of his time with his father in the living room. The girls tended to stay in their warmer room and play games.

"Mother!" Hihel said, "Where are the chess pieces?"

"Uh, did you check with the girls—"

He thumped the board beside his father, knocking over the pieces he had found. "Of course I did! All they had were pawns!" He stomped over to the girls' room, threw open the door, and yelled, "What did you do with the rest of it! What were you doing with it anyway! You stupid bunch of cackling—"

"I'm sure they are around here somewhere, Son," Myla said, "They are just, misplaced, for the moment. That's all."

He stared at her as she closed the girls' door. "What the hell was it doing in their room anyway?"

"They play it too, Son."

He kicked their door open again.

"Play? Play! Lost, you mean!"

"Calm down, Son, it'll show up. We have all wint—"

"Now!"

"That's enough, Son," the father said. "You asked her, and she doesn't know. Let her try to find it. If it's still here, she will find it. She is good at that sort of thing."

Hihel stomped into the kitchen, huffed and stomped to his room, back to the girls' door, then paced a few laps around the living room. He warmed his hands by the fire, guzzled the rest of his coffee, then paced again.

He stopped by the corner.

"Give'm here!" Hihel said to the corner. "Now!"

Sylia galloped the knight into the house made of stacked checkers as she moved the bishops by the checker picnic table.

"Now!" he said again. But she didn't look up. She continued to move the pieces around the table.

He kicked over the checker house.

She started replacing the pieces as if his foot had been a storm and the town rallied around an old-fashion barn raising.

"I don't have time for this," he got on his knees and shoved the girl to the side, grabbing up pieces, "stupid brat."

She reached for one when he stepped on her hand.

The father stood to get a better look. "What's going on, Son?"

"Retard was drooling over them— Why is it still here!" He rifled through the pile of checkers for the last chess piece, then went to his father and started setting up the board.

Myla stood behind her husband and looked into the dark corner.

Sylia held one hand against her chest. With the other, she started shaping walls with the scattered checkers.

Myla sat beside the girl on the floor and helped, while trying to get a better look at the hand. It was red and dirty, but didn't look cut. She stared at her son. He needn't have done what he did. Had he been her son, she would have—

Had he been her son... She ran her fingers through the girl's hair. Sylia had ignored it all, somehow. Myla couldn't get it out of her head.

She looked at her husband and thought of filling him in, to see if he could be encouraged to punish the boy. But, from where she sat, he hadn't missed a second of it. He knew. He had seen.

She helped stack checkers instead.

Over the next few days, Sylia didn't lift or hold anything with that hand. It made Myla angry every time she saw the child favor it, adding to the frustration of what life had become. But, by the end of a week, Sylia was playing normally again.

Myla sat up in bed and looked around. She was late, the sun was already up. She looked at her husband, still asleep.

She jumped out of bed and went to the window lamp. The breakfast potatoes were hard and an hour away from being done. She looked outside. The sun wasn't up, it was the bluish white of the night sky again. She pulled the shades and went to the kitchen.

Outside was bright as day— She ran out the front door.

The appliance pile was burning, as were two distant homes. They looked like the abandoned ones at the edge of town, but she couldn't be sure. The picture tube of their old TV exploded like a bomb on the far side of the pile. Glass continued to crack in loud crunches in the heat. The fumes from the burning plastic and the bitter cold drove her back inside.

It burned for about ten minutes, reaching an eerie red before making a loud hum that she felt through the ground inside. The flames slowly died down and eventually went out.

She knelt by the window and looked up. It looked too bright to distinguish what was going on, and it seemed to pulse. She looked across the village. No shadows. The buildings cast no shadows. She looked inside the room. Her shadow was a tiny smudge.

It was disorienting, but she quickly understood. The light outside was diffused. It wasn't a single point like the sun, but the entire sky. No shadows.

She sat, her back against the window, staring at the tiny hint of her shadow. She suddenly felt helpless. Bleak and insignificant like that sliver she cast. Small. She wanted to make a difference in her children's lives. She wanted to cast a shadow bigger than this. But the state and the sky forbid it.

She put on her gloves and lifted the glass out of the lamp. There was a thirteenth groove, almost like it was for an extra wick, but that was the funnel for the oil. She poured a cup of oil in. It had to be done slowly. The oil didn't wick very well, a half inch at best, so the reservoir had to be shallow, but wide and long.

She adjusted the wicks, then replaced the glass.

The water in the kitchen would be hot enough for coffee soon, then she could get started on the buns that the lamps did perfectly too.

Lamps, small room heater, and a mini stove, they were subtle, but incredibly useful. She relied on them much more than she would ever have expected. She ran her fingers across the rounded edges of its face, by the glass. A little girl made it. She could feel the impressions of tiny fingers in the irregularities around the edges. A girl that would never go to school and would have to choose among men like her son. If she would get a choice at all.

She was sad for all that could have been.

She hadn't used her chance for an education, Sylia wouldn't even get that.

It all felt like such a waste, a burning pile of potential. Lost.

She pulled out the tray, rolled balls of dough, and started their window breakfast.

Over the next week, the metal sides of the refrigerator turned white like snow and flaked away like they had been turned to ash. Most of the pile reacted the same way, with the exception of the copper wires that simply tarnished, but remained.

It was like the laws of physics had changed, and everyone needed to learn them anew.

Hihel grabbed Ashina's arm, "Refill this," he said, putting his empty cup in her hand.

"I was helping mother with—"

He squeezed, "Go now." He pointed to the kitchen.

She looked at her feet as she walked to the kitchen.

"Like I was saying, Father, they have plans, massive plans. They intend to push their advantage well into our uncivilized neighbors. It's the new caliphate, and we're just in the beginnings of it. Birth pains. It's such a wonderful time to be alive."

Ashina placed the full cup on the table beside him, then ran to the bathroom where Myla was doing a wash in the tub.

"When's lunch, Woman?" The father asked.

Ashina stuck her head out from the bathroom, "Momma says another hour or more."

"Another game then, Son?"

"Sure."

Sylia stood and stared at their game.

She stepped closer after opening moves, and was almost at the board by the time it started to get intense.

Ashina ran from the bathroom to grab Sylia's arm before she got too close. "Momma wants you, Sis."

Sylia hesitated, but followed.

The girls stayed in their room the rest of the day. As much as possible.

Myla tightened her robe as she stood in the kitchen that morning. Sylia stood by her side, unnoticed as yet.

"What are you doing up this early, Child?"

Sylia just smiled.

Myla picked the girl up and set her on the chair. "What are we going to do with you, Child?"

Sylia shrugged.

"You can't keep silent forever." She promptly tickled the girl in hopes of getting even a laugh.

Sylia squirmed, smiled, and breathed heavily, but just like with her crying, no voice was attached.

Myla straightened the girl's hair, then gave her a kiss on the forehead. "How many secrets do you keep? How much more is there to you?"

Sylia just smiled and shrugged as she hopped down and went for the flour under the far counter.

Myla watched the little girl struggle with the bag while making her morning cup of coffee. It was time to make the buns.

Sylia kneaded the dough while Myla added a pinch more flour.

An idea struck her. "Sylia, what's going on with the sky?"

Sylia shrugged while kneading.

That would have been too simple. "You have an idea, don't you."

Sylia just kneaded, no shrug this time.

"Why did it get so bright those nights? Or those weeks of thunder in the morning and night. Why just morning and night, why not in the day?"

Sylia stopped kneading and looked up at her mom.

"You have an idea, don't you, Child?" Myla rested a hand on the child's shoulder.

Sylia looked down at the dough. She smoothed it flat with her hands. "Dust above the clouds, charged by solar particles, more charge at dusk and dawn, highest at right angles." But she didn't say it, she wrote it with her finger, before plucking out chunks and rolling them into balls.

Myla stared at the back of the girl's head. Her long, black hair curled near her shoulders. She had come a long way from that girl in a tattered shirt, cooking a cat. She had expected to hear the words, not read them. Words, perfectly spelled, neatly written, without ever being taught. They had no paper to practice on. There was a mind trapped in there. A child that could be reached. She pulled the little girl close, then started rolling balls too.

Communication was best, a two way street.

Theirs had been one way for far too long.

**B3.C10**

Myla enjoyed her mornings baking with Sylia, like a secret that only they shared. She asked better questions over the many weeks that had carried them to the last month of winter. Sylia would answer only one question a morning, and even then it was limited to just what would fit on dough. Myla tried to get more by flipping the dough, but Sylia answered that with two days of staying in her room and a week of writing nothing. One a day was enough.

Myla had asked who Sylia's parents were. She got 'Myla'. When pressed, she found that Sylia didn't remember any parents before her. She didn't remember a home before this. She didn't really remember Tour, but he just looked very familiar, like she should know him.

Then she wrote something odd, that 'thoughts' swam in her head that she wasn't sure were her own. They gave her nightmares some times, which was why she had trouble sleeping and was so often found up.

Solar powered dust. That was a vastly shortened answer. It had to be to fit on a lump of dough. Myla hadn't bothered to dig further into that line of questioning, even though she was more than a little curious.

Over the weeks of winter, it slowly started to make sense. 'Dust' was over simplified, but dust-like particles could easily have been scattered up there. She vaguely remembered some plan by western scientists to try to fix global warming with dust. Dawn and dusk made some sense too. She remembered a school project on static electricity with glass and wool. If the 'dust' held the place of glass and wool was the stream of charged particles from the sun, then it would make sense that the highest charge would be dusk and dawn. She just didn't think on a planet-sized scale.

It made sense with the appliance pile too. Phones used to ring when lightning would strike nearby. If the 'dust' facilitated this solar-powered lightning to strobe across the sky, then the effects on the ground would be much like what the world had witnessed, extending far beyond phones this time. She only wished she knew more about such things.

The town's only library had been burned to the ground a decade ago. It had been filled with 'banned' books. Surely, some of them would have helped.

But what no book could have explained was how such insights could have come from a seven-year-old girl.

The girls had spent most of winter cooped up in their room. It was small and confining, but it kept peace in the house with Hihel. He had a very strict interpretation of the rules of conduct. It was rational of them to hide, but a shame. She missed seeing them in the living room and at the dinner table with their father. She missed that. It was a loss. Oppression came in many shades and forms.

Sylia stood at the table beside the father as the men played chess late into the night.

The father poked the girl in the stomach, "Aren't you supposed to be in bed, Child?"

She smiled, then shrugged, nodding a no.

He pointed to the girl's room, "Go on."

She shrugged again, looked at the board, then her feet.

Frustrated with the game, "Do as you're told!" Hihel said, giving the girl a firm shove in the direction of the room.

She stumbled, then fell. Stood, dusted her pants, the returned to the side of the father.

Hihel stood, raising his hand to the girl.

"That's unnecessary, Son," the father said, "she's harmless enough."

"She's the most distracting little—"

"Have a seat, Son," he said, "she'll get bored soon enough." He pulled the girl beside him, and out of Hihel's reach.

"You shouldn't have to put up with such insolence, Father." Hihel stared at the girl.

When the father made a move, Sylia leaned forward too, but refrained from touching any pieces.

It was as difficult for her not to interfere as it was frustrating to Hihel to have her there.

Sylia stayed through all their games that night, but missed making buns with Myla that morning.

Ashina gathered the last dishes off the table, scraped them over the compost trash, then sunk them in the hot water side of the sink where Sylia was standing on a chair. Washers didn't dry or clear. Those were the rules, such as they were.

Ashina washed her hands, then got the towel.

It was a little frustrating when Sylia washed. She picked and scrubbed at the tiniest morsel that most would let slide. She took longer. Not that they had anything else to do. Chores would soon return with the garden again, but until then, this was it.

Sylia dunked the plate, pulled it up again, then frantically scrubbed. This was the fourth dunk of the same plate.

"Enough is enough, Sis," Ashina said, taking the plate, dunking it in the rinse side, then starting to dry.

Sylia stood, hands dripping over the hot water. When interrupted, she lost her place, and it took her a few seconds before she could pick up her place again.

Ashina had little patience for that either, dunking her sister's hands in the water.

That did it. Back on track again. She picked up another and started scrubbing.

"Reaha and Momma were gonna tell stories tonight. We got to hurry or we'll miss some."

Sylia scrubbed faster.

After Reaha finished reading aloud from the book, Myla started telling another story, one never written down. She told of a time when markets had food everywhere, when people could travel hundreds of miles a day, and when they could buy and sell things from around the world, like chocolate and oranges, that these children had never had, and an abundance they had never known. At least not firsthand.

The girls loved these the most. It was hopeful of what once was, and could be again. Should the dust ever settle down.

Men pounded on their front door, first thing in the morning. "You, in there, Wake up! Get up! Open this door! Hihel!"

Myla ran from the kitchen into the bedroom to wake her husband.

"I'm coming!" Hihel yelled from his room, "You just wait a second!"

The pounding only got louder.

"I said, in a second!"

The father stuck his head into Hihel's room, "Do you know them, Son?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He tightened his robe and braced for the cold as they both walked to the door. A few bats were scattered around the house in strategic locations, but they were unlikely to be needed. Burglars would not make such noise, they would silently break in.

They unbraced the door.

It opened. "Hihel, right? Of the Cief brigade?" The tallest of three said.

"Yeah, that's right—"

The three pushed their way into the room, the last one braced the door after tossing three sacks against the nearest wall.

"We're here 'til you pull out in a few weeks," the tallest said, then shook the father's hand. "This is Fahar, Sythe, and I'm Lar. We live a little further out than you. To make it in time, we had to chance the cold."

Hihel looked at the sacks, then took a step back. "I don't remember you guy's from my—"

"We ain't. Fahar and Sythe just signed up. As for me, we never met. But you knew Hebab from—"

"Yeah, how's he do—"

"He died about a week after he got back into town. Coughed up blood and everything. He told us everything, said to look you up. We, we didn't believe about the Twelfth when the messenger came that first time." Lar looked at his feet in shame, as did the other two. "We didn't go. Hebab, he was my younger brother."

Hihel shook his hand, then pulled him in close for a hug and a pat on the back. "You'll make him proud."

"Your village is the only place we can hole up, thought we'd stay and leave with all of you. We didn't know the way, barely knew how to get here. Never left my village my entire life."

Hihel patted him once more. "For God's army, everywhere is home. And every home has room for more."

The father motioned to the couch and chairs in the living room. "Come, sit. I'll tell my wife to add three more. It isn't much, just buns and—"

"It'll be plenty, Sir," Lar said, then all three said "Thank you," and found seats closest to the fire. "You still have oil here?" Lar watched as the father adjusted the flame.

"Yeah, if you can call it that. It's the thick, unrefined stuff—"

"Better than the nothing we got!" Fahar jumped up and walked to the kitchen. "Got lamps too. You're truly blessed with God's favor." He walked closer to get a better look. "You should see the sad stock we got. The little bits of oil that could be scrounged where we live gets burned on dinner plates with shoestrings and strips of cloth." He took a big sniff from it, "Don't even stink like ours." He returned to the living room, "Nice. Gonna be a shame to leave all this—"

Hihel put his arm around the younger boy, "No, it'll be your greatest honor. You'll see, just to walk the same path he walked. You'll see, brothers, you'll see. And all of this, everything, it'll all make such sense."

The father cracked open the bedroom door, "Myla, fix our honored guests some of your best," he pronounced loudly before stepping in, then closed the door behind him. "And make sure our girls are dressed appropriately, or stay out of sight," he said so only she could hear.

She dressed in her full, cumbersome attire before leaving his room.

"Buns will need another three hours to rise," she said, ducking quickly into the girls' room to get them in line. Hihel was one thing, these boys were another. "Sylia, Ashina, you two get dressed and help me in the kitchen." Myla stopped Sylia from reaching the door, "Get dressed first." She swung her back to face the bed, then sniffed the air.

Tour lifted the plate that blocked the light from the lamps.

"What's cooking on that one?" Myla asked.

"I don't know, I didn't put no—" Tour said.

"Just look," Myla said.

"Two 'tatoes, wedge of onion maybe. I didn't put—"

"Well, bring it here—"

Tour hollered when he touched the hot tray.

"Not with your bare—" Myla walked over, it was a small room and simply easier this way, "You know better."

He waved his hands by his sides and blew on his fingers.

A holey sock was sitting beside it just for that purpose. She pulled out the tray and tested their hardness with the knuckle of her finger. Soft enough. She checked the state of dress of her girls, then grabbed Sylia again. "Is this it?"

Sylia nodded yes.

That was about as she figured. "Reaha, I've got an old sheet you can wear for a few days, but I don't want to see you leave this room. Ashina, keep track of this one," Myla said before releasing Sylia and leaving, door closed behind her. "This ought to hold you boys 'til then."

"Yes Ma'am." They said.

"Careful, it's still hot."

"Yes Ma'am." Lar continued with Hihel, "We're sorry for coming so early, but we weren't sure when exactly you were leaving. Didn't want to miss you. My brother was the only one who returned home, so, we couldn't find our—"

"It's all right, Brother— Brothers, we'll leave a few days early."

"We didn't stop at all last night, we knew your village was here somewhere, and it was too cold to—"

"Completely understandable." Hihel stood, "There's two beds in my room waiting for you. When you've warmed yourselves enough by the fire, get yourself a proper rest. Breakfast won't be ready for a few hours."

Lar shook his head, "No, no, here by the fire will be just—"

"Please, you're guests." Hihel placed his hand on Lar's shoulder, "You'll find most homes open for the warriors of his army. My father's is no exception."

The father nodded in silent agreement. They had no such excess in food. Hihel and the other returning warriors had added nothing to the garden but had drained what little surpluses a village this small had. Three more mouths would be difficult to feed. It meant rationing of food again. Probably severe rationing. But soldiers, warriors of God's army, would not go unfed, no matter how long they stayed.

The father looked at the kitchen. His wife and Sylia where adding extra flour now, kneading it in to double the loaf.

The girls, with Reaha covering her boy's clothes in sheets, went to the well to fetch another cart of water before breakfast, so their guests could wash from their long journey. Made more difficult on empty stomachs.

While their guests slept, the girls washed the sacks of dirty clothes as well, making for two trips in the same day.

They were boys of Reaha's age, and it was difficult to keep her from trying to be more social. They were new and interesting and not at all hardened by battle like her brother. They glanced often whenever she would enter the room. Even covered, head to toe, Reaha had a shape that loose sheets couldn't hide forever.

They stayed six nights. The men ate loudly at the table while the girls waited patiently, out of sight, for whatever was left over from every meal. The stories were entertaining and new and made the waiting much easier to take. The stories were new, but very familiar.

Their village had lost water as well, but they had stuck strictly to the state's guidelines on farming. Thirty died each year between winter and spring. They burned stalks for heat, when they could get stalks and grass to grow. They burned furniture and tables and chairs and every stick of wood used in abandoned homes.

Most of their young men had stayed. By staying, they added to the mouths needing to be fed and inhibited the village's flexibility from state rules. They saw the messenger twice a year and were under greater pressure to plant the crops requested. They had large farms of mostly the cereals. It was what they knew best how to grow. It had never occurred to them to switch to another crop, like potatoes.

It had made everything far worse. They had limited water, and the crops they planted were the most thirsty of all. They didn't uproot deformed plants, they trusted the state and hoped for the best.

They were hurt badly by the drought, made worse by their prideful refusal to eat whatever could be caught on a farm.

But with so many dead and a good harvest last year, they were optimistic again.

They were as happy as Hihel to run off to war.

Myla wasjust as happy to see them go.
**B3.C11**

Sylia rolled the dough, then formed it into a bowl.

Myla watched, just the two of them in the kitchen that morning. No, it wasn't a bowl, it looked more like the old pool she had seen when they lived in the city. It sloped to a pocket with a deep end.

Sylia scooped the flour and dumped it onto the dough. Then she added the water.

Myla hadn't taught the girl to make buns this way, but she didn't interrupt. She just watched.

Sylia looked up at her, then back down at the flour. She ran her finger through the deep end. The flour on top looked dry, but the water had pooled beneath it. Sylia looked up at her mother again, added more flour, then kneaded it as usual.

This had been the time when Sylia would write something in the dough, but she didn't this morning.

Spring days hadn't gotten unbearably hot, so most could be found doing their common chores in the garden during the day. No altered sleep schedules yet. But that would come in the weeks ahead.

Myla walked home with her girls and Tour. They were done for the day, but she still had to start dinner soon.

As the village came into sight, Sylia grabbed her mother's hand and tugged.

Myla looked down. "Reaha, get started on dinner for me, ok?"

"Sure, Momma."

They fell behind as Sylia led her around the back of a string of homes.

It was just the two of them.

"What is it, Child?"

Sylia pointed to the streets, the abandoned buildings, and the slight slope of the land. She picked up a broken chunk of asphalt and handed it to Myla, then picked up another and rubbed it on the dirt pothole between so much that was otherwise perfectly paved. She took the mother's hand and led her back to a depression where the runoff would naturally flow. She rubbed the spot with the chunk of asphalt, then tossed handfuls of dirt at it.

"I'm... What are you getting at, Child?"

She rubbed, then tossed again.

"I... "

Sylia squatted, then held her hands like a cup.

Myla looked around. It made sense, a little.

Sylia moved to the nearest dry puddle and rubbed the inside with the asphalt, then the slope around it before filling it with dirt.

"No, Child, I get it. I just don't see what the chunk of asphalt has to do with—"

Sylia held the chunk, then slapped the back of her hand.

"Oh." She looked around again. It was as big an area as the garden was, but a lot closer. Filling it with dirt would be a nightmare, but they would only have to do it once. The lowest points would have to be dammed up. There was even the rubble of an asphalt road nearby. "There isn't that much good dirt to fill something this big."

Sylia dug out the dried puddle, put gravel in, then sand, then topped with a dusting of dirt.

They had plenty of sand. She looked around again. "We'll see," she said.

Sylia ran to one of the three dips that would work as future reservoirs. She sat down and made her arms like a hoop in front of her, stood, then made her hands like a cup that she slowly pulled up like it was a shallow well.

"No, honey, I get it. It's a good idea. It's just too big for Reaha and I. This isn't lamps or spoons, this would be a village-wide project." She took the girl's hand, "We've got dinner ahead of us."

It got discussed. Repeatedly. Myla knew who to convince and how to champion a cause, could be very diplomatic, and was well liked by most. It took a week, the garden's demands wouldn't have allowed it to come any sooner.

The project took a month. A very difficult month. Championed mainly by the older bunch that longed to contribute but couldn't handle the trek to the garden, a retired civil engineer enthusiastically took it over as a project of his own. He organized and re-engineered it, perhaps overly so, using every salvageable brick and block from the abandoned buildings to make reinforced reservoirs and covered drainage ditches. The melted recycled asphalt was the key to it all, and the only convenient way to waterproof so many acres.

They over planted the main garden in anticipation of the successful completion of the asphalt project. This was the last, painful step. Transplanting from a garden miles away. Moving seeds was easy. Moving the equivalent in seedlings was a nightmare.

The results, however, were very promising.

The children arrived at the top of the hill a few minutes before dusk. The sled of dry fertilizer was heavy, but split four ways it wasn't hard. They were divided up into groups to begin their weeding chores before they would be allowed home.

Ashina and Sylia were assigned the larger section again. This time they didn't bother with the single-bottle deception of past years. They worked well together, something practical leaders quickly recognized and continued to reward.

As usual, the walk to the garden had oldest to youngest sitting on the ground for a few minutes before work would begin in earnest.

"Sylia," Ashina said, "you think it's too early for scorpions?"

Sylia nodded. She lifted a finger, then wiggled her hand.

"A month?"

Sylia shrugged.

"I was hoping for some tonight. I'm tired of mom's dry buns for lunch every day." She stared up at the night sky. "I called it lunch again, didn't I?"

Sylia smiled.

"Middle of the night is lunch. Dinner is first thing in the morning. They're trying to drive me nuts."

She smiled again, then stood up.

"I'm not ready yet. Another minute or two." Ashina pouted.

Sylia looked down the rows. The plants only came up to their shins, nothing big enough to hide behind. The elder in charge was staring at them. Nothing said, no gestures or even a scolding finger, but the stare was unblinking.

Sylia held out her hand and helped her sister up. It was better to get started now than risk a stare turning into a scold.

Ashina took a last drink of water. "At least these weird hours make Ramadan a cinch."

Sylia smiled, then started weeding.

They didn't make it to lunch, even though lunch was the middle of the night. Clouds had come up and were blocking some of the diffused night light. They made it home before the rain hit.

It wasn't much rain, lasting an hour at most, but that morning there was a large crowd around the asphalt garden. It had held. The shallow wells located above the many pits gave them an accurate gauge of how much water it had harvested from the runoff.

It did far better than any expected.

By the middle of summer, the asphalt garden, made mostly of sand, was doing nearly as well as the fertile spot over a mile away. The shallow wells gave convenient access points to fill buckets and water dry sections. Over watering wasn't an issue since any excess flowed back to the well anyway. The soil was inferior and required daily watering, but it was holding its own.

They already had harvested enough to guarantee safe passage through winter. If the trend held, they would have enough stored by fall to cover for a year of complete crop failure. They were looking at a real surplus, even without the return of the river they went to war over.

Double the gardens meant double the weeding and double the picking as well.

That meant more from the children, even with the very old pitching in at the closer, asphalt garden.

"The messenger is here! The messenger is here!" they screamed from the streets at the hottest part of the day, when almost everyone was sound asleep. The pounding on doors was nearly deafening.

They poured out of the houses in robes and nightclothes like a bunch of lazy slobs.

The messenger dropped a stack of papers by his feet that came up to his knees, then stacked two more that he pulled from his cart. "People! Good citizens! I realize the water has yet to be restored, but other events are turning in our favor." He climbed onto the concrete pedestal to better survey the crowd. "It has been a hard decade for most. But we must all pull together. Who is your town leader?"

A man stepped forward from the crowd.

"Good, yes, I must talk with you before I leave today." The messenger fumbled with a list he pulled from his pocket. "The Twelfth has requested that anybody with a background in genetics come with me back to the city." He read a little further, "Now, when I say genetics, I don't mean just a medical background. I'm talking someone who was up to speed with all that germ warfare stuff."

He looked around the crowd.

"Look, state records said some of them moved to these parts. We don't care how old. You will be given housing in the city."

That got a larger response. Some looked on the verge of raising hands.

"Look, let me put it this way. The state has a list of names that they haven't tracked down yet. The Twelfth wants them for a special project. You'll live a pampered life as compensation; if you meet expectations, you'll be richly rewarded." Hands got higher, but none went up yet. "Show up and be unqualified, and you'll be punished almost as severely as someone who's qualified that we have to track down from that disorganized list."

The messenger waited, but no hand went up.

"Yes, the main list was destroyed with our war against the infidels to protect those names. But, it was by no means the only list."

Two stepped forward, then a third.

The messenger stepped down and had a talk with them with as much privacy as could be found in a village as gossipy as this. He then walked off with the religious head of the village. They walked down the street, pointed around, walked some more, then returned.

The messenger climbed the pedestal again. "The sacrifices of your sons will not be forgotten. Death to the infidels! Long live the Twelfth!"

The crowd chanted along, fists pumped into the air.

The papers were plentiful this visit. Previously, they were lucky to get one paper out of every month. This year, they got a paper for each week of the last year. It was a reading bonanza.

Reports of the Twelfth led every cover, above and below the fold. Most sounded impossibly mythical, just like the stories Hihel told, but every bit as cruel. It seemed to fly in the face of what a merciful God would send. But they were to be obeyed, no matter how flawed and merciless they were.

Slaves worked farms in the city. Religious leaders had passed rulings validating the use of slaves as just compensation for the deprivation of water. Most were put to work on the outlying farms to replace the slaughtered beasts of burden.

The war had gone badly when her eldest enlisted, but had turned. Recent campaigns, those Hihel had been on, were overwhelmingly positive and glowing with the flowery speech only the most agile politician could master. It sounded good enough to be propaganda.

It didn't matter much. It still had little effect on the gardens that meant life and death to the village.

No cures to the problems with chickens or seeds. The latest paper had three sections on how to identify and sift out what seeds were most likely to be fine and those most suited for soups. Depending on the plant, it could be as easy as which floated and which sunk.

Many breeding programs were tried with no clear victor. There was a space at the bottom of most articles that listed contact information for the submission of suggestions. It was a relic of the old ways of thinking.

Mail.

They hadn't had mail in decades. Her children had never seen mail. The messenger was as close as they came. They didn't get visitors from neighboring villages but once or twice a year, and they consisted of families trying desperately to keep in touch. A mailing address seemed meaningless with no mail. It was hundreds of miles away when even twenty would have put it out of reach. And she had suggestions, with no paper to write them on.

Political appointments filled one week's news. Names and qualifications with bios. They sounded like bright, competent leaders, but then, that was always the case in the state-run paper.

Plenty of entertainment, little of real value.

"Reaha, you and your sister keeping things straight in your brothers' room?" Myla asked after prayers.

"Yes, Momma."

"Look, your father said he talked it out with your brother, so you shouldn't have that problem again. But, the less you mess with—"

"Not a thing, Momma. We left it all where it was!"

"Seems wrong, don't it. He hit his sister, then offered up his bed to strangers."

Reaha quietly folded her rug.

"Your father said they may have olives this year. Won't that be nice? Olives."

Reaha put her rug on the shelf by the window. "Yeah, it's been a long time since we had olives."

"He thinks there will be enough for every family to get a full jar. I think you were nine the last time we had olives."

"What do olives taste like, Momma?" Ashina asked.

Myla smiled. "They are divinely oily and a firm kind of squishy, packed with flavor." She drew the shades on the windows as the children went back to bed, middle of the day. She would wake them again for their next prayer, and one more time before they had to leave for their dusk gardening chores.

Ashina snuck up behind a weeding Sylia. She counted eight scorpions pinned on her spear. "Eight! Already?"

Sylia looked round. The crop was tall enough to hide them while they squatted. She pointed to another stick back where they started just an hour ago.

Ashina squinted. At least another eight. She playfully shoved her sister, "No fair! I only got two."

Sylia shrugged.

"Can I have some?"

Sylia smiled.

She hugged her silent sis, took a sip from the bottle, then got back to work.

As they neared fall, the asphalt garden actually pulled ahead in production. They had carefully charted the water levels and estimated that it could actually be expanded next year. Not much, but a little, assuming that this year was a normal year for rain.

Water buckets were a chore, but they weren't carried far, and harvesting was a breeze. Add to that the convenience of eating meals at home instead of miles away in the middle of a field and it couldn't be beat.

Unfortunately, it was deemed too easy a chore for her kids. They were stuck at the far away garden, even the girl who came up with the idea.

Reaha put the last load on the sled, drank deeply from the bottle, then started to pull it back to the village. Tour grabbed one rope, put it across his shoulder, and leaned forward, as did the others.

It started to move. They grunted it up the slight hill, then tried to stay ahead of it as it slid down the other side. Ashina and Sylia returned to the garden to start loading the next sled while the other three tugged it home. Three was enough, after that first bit.

When the second was partially loaded, they started home as well, helped by one of the adults.

Ashina and Sylia dropped the ropes well short of where they were supposed to and ran to their mother. Myla stopped each as her father knelt beside a figure on the ground. Tour and Sirin were standing just behind him, staring down. A state official, flanked by two others, delivered two more whips counting out "seventy-nine, eighty!"

The father picked up the lump and carried it back to his house.

"Come with me, children," Myla said in full dress, "We have two sleds to deliver before we can go home."

Myla and her husband were in and out of the boys' room all day, where none of the children were allowed.

Neither Sirin nor Tour would say what happened, but every time the door opened or closed they got a glimpse of Reaha, face down on the bed. Shirtless, her back covered in red lines.

Reaha had been accused of being unchaste. A rumor suggested that because of her attire, she wasn't being virtuous enough. It was a rumor. But under the law, she was to receive eighty lashes for even unproven accusations.

The father had cried, but only after he had gotten her back inside. He hadn't stopped the beating, nor did he even protest the will of the state.

The state left with all of the surplus as well. The tax to the poor.
**B3.C12**

Reaha didn't moan at all as Myla sat on the bed. Eighty lashes. It was brutal. It was her daughter. A beautiful girl, less so now, who had done nothing wrong. "My child," Myla whispered. "Are you hungry at all?"

Reaha lay, silently.

Myla kissed her eldest girl on the cheek and held her hand. "They put rules on bedroom doors, and beat girls who outgrow their clothes. My child." She sniffled. "My adorable girl." She stared at the wall. "When I was young, we learned of the Greeks, at least I think it was the Greeks. They had a rite of passage for their warrior boys. They would tie them to posts and whip them until they screamed. The more tearless lashes they took, the greater the warrior and the braver the soul. They called it getting their wings." She hovered her hand above her daughter's disfigured back. "My angel's wings." She sniffled again.

Sirin sat on the other bed. It was time for sleep, if anyone could after such.

"Your sister is here for you. As am I, my child." She kissed her cheek again, then ran her fingers through Reaha's hair.

There were no boys Reaha's age left in the village, not that that made a difference to the state. It would have been interesting to know who had spread such a rumor, but, it would have changed nothing.

Officially, she wasn't beaten because of what she wore. Officially.

Myla woke that morning, still sitting in bed with her daughter. Sylia stood quietly between the bed and the window, the smell of fresh buns filled the room. Sylia stood and stared at her sister's bare back. The lines were just as well defined as they were the night before.

"Go on, now, Child," Myla said.

Sylia took the folded sock and pulled out the tray. The buns were ready.

"Thank you, Child, now go. She doesn't need you here, to see her like this."

Sylia started breaking the buns open instead, then spread a dab of butter on each half.

"Butter? Where in the world did you get butter?"

Sylia just shrugged, handed Myla Reaha's hairbrush, took the little bowl of butter, and left.

The far garden was fully harvested, the near one had another week or two before its last harvest. Reaha was missed, but it was well understood. She lay in bed for weeks. The worst of it was all the gossip. The lashes were for the unproven, as the law allowed. But to the average mind, punishment was proof of guilt. Reaha had no reason to leave the bed with the entire village believing the rumors they did.

The children played scarecrow outside when Myla stormed from the bedroom. "No, I won't let you!" she yelled back.

"Myla, Wife," he said, "You know I'm right."

She stomped her foot as she pounded the kitchen counter with her fist.

"Myla," her husband came to her. "The past is. Nothing is here for her. I have an old friend, two towns over. They have sons, about her age. Another year and we can't really arrange such a thing."

Myla pounded it again, shaking her head.

"His boy is a nice enough soul. I think they even played together once, before we moved here. Lost a hand in the war before the Twelfth." He put his hand on her shoulder. "They say he lost it running in fear. He wasn't cut out for war, and he understands the shortcomings of wrongful rumors and first impressions. It is for the best." He put his hand on her hip, "And, it is already done."

"She should have the choice, the right to choose." They had sold her first girl.

Ashina ran past the window; Sylia was right behind, waving a scarecrow stick full of webs and bugs in the air.

Myla stepped past him and headed straight for the boys' room, closing the door behind her.

Reaha was in an accepting mood and took it well. She still had a pretty face and looked fine from the front. Dressed, none would ever know. Another town was a better place, in her mind. She had until spring to finish healing and prepare herself. That was enough time to adjust, and for goodbyes.

She even liked the idea of one hand. It evened things out.

She was just like her mom, strong, accepting, and silent when words alone could change nothing.

Dried seeds were swept from the streets and divided into sacks for every home to store as fall reached its end. They topped off the oil and prepared to hunker down for winter while the father took eight of those days to finalize the deal.

Myla helped her daughter walk from the bedroom to the dining room table, pulled out a chair, then sat her down.

"It's nice to have you at the table, Reaha," the father said on his first day back.

Reaha nodded, but slouched forward to avoid contact with the back of the chair.

"Your mother made that fig pie thing you like so much," he said.

"Thank you, Daddy."

Myla and Sirin finished setting the table while the other children scooped portions onto their plates. It was an awkward meal, at first. Nobody wanted to stare at her, but looking away was just as bad.

But they quickly got used to seeing their oldest sister, again. They looked her in the eyes when they spoke.

For dessert, Myla served her the biggest slice, but Reaha was only able to nibble at it. Her appetite had yet to return.

Reaha was just now able to lie on her side. Just the right side. Walking around was still difficult. It was surprising how much the muscles in the back were involved in standing and getting around. It was painful to lift her arm, but just moving at her elbows and wrists allowed her to do most things.

Sirin or her mother usually helped Reaha dress and get around.

This was the first night she felt able to sit at the table. Just sitting was a chore, but Reaha wanted to appear normal. It was important to her.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Reaha asked. The shades were pulled, so it was difficult to see who it was.

The brush pressed lightly above her forehead, then slowly went down her long hair.

"Sylia?"

The brush returned to above her ear.

"It isn't morning yet, is it?"

She pressed her finger to Reaha's lips before adding another stroke.

"Sirin still asleep?"

Sylia nodded.

"You killing time before the buns are done?"

She put the brush near her ear again.

"Momma up?"

That was a yes.

"How long before they're done?"

She shrugged.

Reaha smiled. "You still don't answer those kinds of questions, do you?" She touched the girl's knee. "You don't have to brush my hair, it doesn't seem so important now."

Sylia smiled, but continued.

The weather was turning cold, but it wasn't winter yet. They had a small surplus of food, the state had taken mostly coffee and staples. Fortunately, potatoes had figured heavily in the asphalt garden and had gone unnoticed by the state accountant. Stored potatoes looked like a pile of dirt, and no accountant was ever going to dig to count.

Reaha wasn't yet able to handle tasks or chores, but she played cards well with the other girls. It had been awkward at first, until someone suggested that she sit backward in the chair with a pillow between her chest and its back. That made all the difference. She still couldn't move her arms that much, but cards were fine.

They played cards a lot.

Myla had asked them to. It helped keep their spirits up and made Reaha feel more like family. It was also a nice memory to carry into her new life next spring.

Fall proceeded uneventfully. This was the first year that they didn't run out of newspapers. Reading stories was good family time and a perfect distraction for the monotony of winter.

Myla stood to reach the warm bowl of water, then slowly rinsed the shampoo from Reaha's hair. "I'm going to start on your back, now, just let me know if I'm too rough."

Reaha braced herself. It usually hurt, but she rarely cried out.

The light from the lamp showed off the scars on her daughter's back. Most were healed and were like little raised wrinkles on otherwise perfect skin. A few had gotten infected, one was still pussy. Those concerned her the most. She didn't know what kind of marriage her daughter was headed for, but this needed to be healed first.

Clean, boiled water, was the best medicine they had to offer.

It brought back memories of when she bathed her children when they were under three. She hadn't seen Reaha without clothes for a decade. A lot had changed. She was a beautiful, young woman. Her back would never be the same. It was sad that she had to wash her grown daughter. It had horrified her that first time. Enraged her the second time. This time she had actually counted the marks. She counted sixty-three, but she knew that was wrong. The deepest cuts were from repeated blows landing on the same place.

Myla helped her daughter stand, then dabbed her back with the towel. Her back was raw so Myla held a sheet around her topless daughter as they walked back to the boys' room.

Reaha lay face down on the bed, letting the air dry her back the rest of the way, while her mother tucked her in, as best as she could. "I know you don't like this part, but I'll try to be easy on you, Child." Myla sat even with her waist, then slowly started to rub each scar.

Reaha tensed immediately, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Child. You don't want the skin sticking to the muscle underneath. I know it hurts, Child, I know." Myla wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then continued until she had made sure none had attached. "Done. Want me to stay with you, read you something, Child?"

"... No, I'm fine, Momma."

"I'll send your sister Sirin in, then."

"... No, let her play. She doesn't need to watch me sleep. It makes her uncomfortable anyway. Maybe when it's dry enough—"

"You don't make anyone uncomfortable, Child."

"... even, even Daddy?"

Myla sat on the bed, "Oh, Child, he's not trying to get rid of you, he just thinks this is best for you. A few years from now, it wouldn't be proper to arrange such a thing. We get you healed, and only your husband will need to know what happened here."

"I, I think I remember playing soccer with him when I was four. I just can't— in my mind he's still four."

Myla adjusted the sheets covering Reaha's arms. "I remember him that way too. He was terribly shy, I remember that." She dabbed one of the open sores.

"Momma... What, what is it like?"

She lay in bed to look her daughter in the eyes. She worked her hand under the sheet to hold hands. "I wish you... I—" She stared at the ceiling. "I wish you could date him. I think that's important. I think you should get to know someone for a few years before, before sex gets added to the equation. I don't know if you can, I don't know if he's still that shy little boy. I hope you get that opportunity. I'd like to think this horrible thing that has happened to you can give you that excuse. Can give you that time.

Your father said he didn't seem that enthusiastic, like he wasn't ready to get married. Perhaps that can work in your favor. He's injured, much like you. Perhaps you can find even more in common."

"No, I mean, it."

She smiled. "If it's nice, you'll learn how to make it nicer. If it isn't, you learn how to make it quick." She faced her worried girl. "Heard tell he had problems hurting the enemy, he hesitated much longer than he should. I doubt he'll be harsher to you. You're my beautiful girl. Once he feels the warmth of that smile, he'll want to make you smile more." Myla kissed her. "Just like the rest of us. He's not immune." She tucked her in again, then left the room.

The first snowstorm of the year came early, if people dared to predict such things. It remained bitter cold for nearly a month as the weather refused to yield patterns people could recognize. Hints of green were in the dusk and pre-dawn sky, but it seemed only Myla and Sylia noticed.

Winds swept and piled the snow against every door and wall. It made journeys for oil and water nearly impossible. The wind-chill drove the older girls to abandon the boys' chilly room.

Reaha got a bed to herself, for obvious reasons. She wore long-sleeved shirts turned with the buttons down the back, left as open as possible, and what few of Myla's zipper-removed dresses she could squeeze into.

The lamp was moved out of the boys' room to double up the window in the parents' room. The blown snow blew out the lamps a few times a week, not because of the speed of the wind, but the piled snow. The lamps kept the smell down by getting and venting the air and smoke outside. It had a weird way of doing it that wasn't obvious until the snow piled against it, closing it off.

It cleared with a week of calm and unseasonably warm weather that let the eldest girls move back to a less crowded room. Without Reaha's help, Myla went with the children to wrestle with water and oil, something she hadn't had to do for the last few years.

Potatoes were a given. Potatoes didn't last but so long outside and had to be eaten or lost. It reminded everyone of the years of just getting by, but now they had so much more to go with it. This fall, it no longer accounted for the bulk of every meal, but it retained a prominent role. Baked potatoes made great breakfast food and complimented most meals. Tonight's was diced and lightly fried with a few onions and went nicely with the dog meat a neighbor provided.

Fifteen wild dogs had been captured that spring, but because the gardens were producing so much food, most were not killed. Instead, one family had taken it upon themselves to start breeding them and keeping them as suggested in the paper. They were fed a diet of mostly scraps, dead mice, and bug-ruined vegetable.

They kept a 'kennel' at each garden for practical reasons. The incessant barking kept most threats to the garden down. Over the year, those fifteen, eleven of which were females, produced thirty pups. Of those, eighteen were boys and more or less unneeded. The females that had failed to have pups brought that number up high enough for every family to get one during winter.

The paper had included a table of probabilities that the one family wrote on their walls, along with all the helpful tips. It suggested the optimum numbers for breeding, the estimated yields, suggested times and methods of slaughter, and maximum pack sizes. Just like with chickens, it was centered on the single rooster for dozens of hens philosophy, with boys being expendable as soon as they reached weight. If the math held true, they would soon have packs enough for meat all year round.

None in Myla's family had any part of raising them. Cooking was their first interaction with the dogs all year. But the meat was good and tender and plentiful enough to savor, in small quantities, over a dozen meals. Thanks to nature's icebox called mid-fall and a gallon of water left to freeze overnight, primitive refrigeration meant leftovers, not trash.

The door pounded in the morning. "Father! Father, open up!"

Pound pound pound!

"Mom, Dad, open up! It's cold out here!"

Pound pound pound!

Myla was already up starting breakfast with Sylia when the pounding started. She tightened her robe and went to the door. "One second, Son!" She lifted the boards wedging it shut, then opened the door.

"Where's Dad?" Hihel said, throwing his bag against the wall before wedging the door closed.

"Asleep, I assume. Have a seat by the fire and I'll get you something warm to eat." She stopped on her way to the kitchen, "We're out of meat, we had the last of it in a soup the night before, but we still have some of the gravy to go with potatoes and buns, How's that sound?"

"Are 'they' in my room again?"

"Yes, Son, your father told you that before you—"

"I can't stand the thought of—"

"Son, that's between your father and—"

"But I had to listen to Lar and the others complain about the stench of them unclean two for a hundred miles. Walking around bringing dishonor and shame to this family. I don't know how Father puts up with it."

Myla handed him the plate with a mashed potato and a split bun, covered in the last of the gravy. "Your sisters are not unclean. They'll leave your room in a few hours when they wake up, no harm done."

"No harm!" he dropped the plate on the table, kicking the chair back as he stood up. "No harm! Do you know how humiliating it is? Do you?"

Myla wanted to smack him, or bend him over her knee. But it was years too late for any of that to do any good. "Eat your food, Son. It's getting cold."

"I ought to go in there right now and throw them—"

"Son, please, eat. By the time you finish, they'll probably be getting up. This isn't the time for—"

"It's my room!" He slid the plate to the center of the table and walked that way. "Mine, not theirs."

Myla stepped closer. "Please, Son, your sister isn't well—"

"Dirty little— Taking my room—"

Myla righted the seat and pulled the plate back to his place, "Sit, you can discuss this with your father when he gets up."

He made a fist, clenched by his side, but turned to the table instead.

Myla thought to ask more questions about the war to get him off the subject of his sisters, but silence served just as well. He was eating. That would do for now.

She finished her chores, then slipped into his room, where she sat with her back against the closed door.

She listened as he thumped around. She overheard the heated conversation with her husband. "Shame, dishonored, humiliation" seemed to be her son's only vocabulary. "Honor killing" came up more than once. The argument got louder and louder until everyone was up. Sirin gathered their items and helped her sister get out of bed while Myla pressed against the closed door.

When it looked like the girls were ready and the yelling had cooled down, Myla opened it.

Hihel smiled like he had opened a present or had just seen a long lost loved one emerge from the room. He had calmed for his father and seemed to continue their pleasant conversation on the couch. Until Myla had cleared the door. The smile fell to a blank stare as he vaulted over the back of the couch, "I'll kill the dirty whore," he said, running straight for Reaha.

Myla was shoved to the ground in a burst of rage as Reaha fell backward into the room. Had Myla blinked she would have missed it. She would have missed a little figure standing to the side of the door, a little foot that hit the inside of his ankle, and a tiny hand on his belt that guided his head straight into the door post. Knocked out cold.
**B3.C13**

She held the towel filled with crushed ice against his head. He had been out for over an hour. "Son, your sister is a settled topic. This is not your room, it is your father's house. She is his daughter. This is her last winter here, you won't ruin it."

She removed the ice and stared at his forehead. He had nailed it, but good. The swelling had gone down, but his eye on that side was still shut. He struggled to get up, but couldn't.

"Stay calm, Son. You hit it pretty hard."

"What the—"

"You tripped and hit it. You're lucky to not be dead." She wondered if that might have been the intent of the silent little figure that so often went unnoticed.

"I won ran found!" Hihel lurched forward like he tried to sit, then fell back to bed, eyes shut.

Myla placed the ice on his head again. She thought of honor killings. Who's honor was more important, son's or daughter's? She would have been just as devastated with the death of either.

She carried hope for the life of her eldest son. She added his name to all her daily prayers. But, in her heart, she knew he was dead, dumped somewhere. She had no doubts about Hihel's bravery in battle, but it hadn't brought his name closer to her heart, or honor in her eyes.

She cared for all her children. She wished none of them harm.

Her son was right, in the way that the rules on doors were right. Most fathers would have let Reaha die. Most would have shunned her. His rage over the room made sense in a way. To give the possessions of a boy to girls was wrong, in and of itself. But context was everything. Reaha had done nothing wrong. Nothing. And had suffered greatly for it.

Myla kissed her son on the cheek, then left the room.

They ate lunch and dinner while Hihel slept it off.

Hihel sat up in his cold room, pulled off his blanket, then limped his way to the living room, where the fire was. He hunkered down in front of the flames.

"Son," the father said, folding the paper and setting it aside, "Reaha is a good child. She is. They beat her for no—"

"She was proven—"

"No, Son, she wasn't. Your mother checked. There is no sin— she is an honorable girl. She is. She worked hard in the garden, without her labor it's hard to imagine us making it. All of which could not have happened if she was forced to hide in her room because she outgrew her clothes. Some rules are unreasonable, Son. Being practical has to come first.

They send you home for winter, you go back in spring. Both practical, cold weather would kill far more than the war. Feeding men would be difficult hundreds of miles away when their needs can be met by their villages safe at home.

It's very practical."

Hihel settled down.

"She's going to be eating at the table because I want to see her there. I want to know the daughter I've married away. I want to see her every day. I don't want her hiding from you, against the rules or not, I don't care.

I'm proud of your sister. I'm proud of my girls. They met the challenge, they won the war here at home. They've earned my respect. They are not just girls." He picked up the paper again.

Hihel simmered over seeing Reaha walking around, no bra and open-backed shirts. He fumed over it, but said and did nothing. The tension was there, but it never boiled over.

The children played in the living room this winter, instead of hiding in their room. It was a pleasant winter and a fine note to end Reaha's stay on.

Hihel left on the first warm day.

Two weeks later, Reaha and her father left on their long walk to another town.

Myla cried, but only when she was alone. She had hoped for a big wedding, to meet the boy and see them together. But, it wasn't practical. She had wanted to make a fancy wedding dress and help with the cake and the— but, distance and poverty stood in the way. They had no ability to make new clothes or a fancy wedding anything.

Spring and chores gave them plenty to do.

The kennels were expanded that spring. It had been warned that large pack sizes were impractical, that proved to be true. Dogs tended to fight when crowded, two had died. They also captured another dozen, as kennels tended to attract strays. It was a breeding program, not just an experiment, and as such it consumed three abandoned homes. Their walls were pulled down for the material to fence in ten additional kennels, mostly around the asphalt garden.

This expansion required the attention of two additional families, but promised, if the math was right, to yield meat on a regular basis.

Adding that to the two gardens taxed the remaining villagers. But their efforts were seeing some rewards. The asphalt garden was estimated to contain a year's worth of water already.

The state paid its first visit toward the end of spring. They inspected both gardens, counted heads of dogs, and took ages and names of every family before they left.

Nothing was said of Reaha's absence. The state didn't ask where she was, and the family didn't offer. Nothing was said of Sylia and Tour's parentage, either.

Myla shook the girls' feet, "Come on, get up," she said as they neared dusk.

"Oh, Momma, just a few more minutes. Please..." Ashina said, tucking her head under the pillow.

"I'm sorry, Child, but the crops are calling for their best weeders to save them from the inv—"

"Oh, Momma, we did that all last night, then helped out on the close— Can't we take a day off, just, just one day... "

"Just just you must. I'll be there too, as will your father." Myla sat on the bed. "It's important, Child. We are proud of you girls, and you too Tour, you've done a wonderful job. We know it is hard, but we need you there." She grabbed the girl by the foot and started to tickle.

Ashina screamed and flailed with laughter.

"Come on, now, Child. Get dressed."

"... Momma, when are we going to get new clothes?"

"I don't know, Child. We may never."

"My toothbrush looks like fur and Sirin's old shoes are too tight for my feet, and—"

"I know, Child. I know."

"I haven't had socks since forever and ever—"

Sirin interrupted, "What about me? Nothing of Reaha's old stuff fit—"

"Children." Myla had heard this gripe before. It was all very understandable. "I know. I live here too. Things are tough, you've had to do without. Those boys that stayed last year came from a village where people had starved to death. Not got hungry, but died from it. They had it much worse than us. Please, children, if we could, we would. Now that you've got all your complaining out, get up, get dressed, and come along."

"Ain't nowhere near done—"

"Yes, you are done." Myla left the room.

Gardening was taking longer this year. They hadn't gotten enough rain yet. That didn't affect the asphalt garden, but the older one was struggling. It wasn't retaining moisture at all, and the irrigation ditch was bleached dry. Weeding helped, but it only went so far.

The brutally hot days were not helping either. The outer edges of the far garden had died.

Sylia had suggested in dough that the corn and wheat should be only done at the asphalt one, since they placed the highest demands on water. Corn and wheat were the main crops failing. The little girl was right, but those in charge proved impossible to convince.

They had worked at a blistering pace to try to save what had been planted. They toted water from the well for over a month. It had depleted the village well to dangerous levels while exhausting the children. All without saving a single section.

Frustration was growing, the crops were not.

The state paid a second visit. They were angry and disappointed at the production failures and investigated the asphalt garden for nearly two days. The camel caravan left fresh papers, added more figures to their census, and went to another village. They promised to return that fall.
**B3.C14**

The last harvest was done. As warned, the corn sucked too much moisture from the furthest field, ruining almost half the crop. They did, however, produce more than enough with the asphalt garden to ensure safe passage through winter. The packs of dogs were plentiful, and the breeding program was, for the most part, successful.

Some dogs died in the frequent fights. Some had succumbed to a nasty virus. Some puppies were born with hideous deformities, but overall, as the papers had suggested, it was working as intended. It was to be a stop-gap until goats and chickens could be replenished.

This was the first year that meat was had at least once every other month.

Best of all, figs and olives were abundant, and the desserts that could be made with figs seemed limitless.

The father sat at the table as the girls brought plates out from the kitchen. This was the fall feast to celebrate the end of all the hard work. Gracing every plate were cuts of meat covered in diced onions fried in light olive oil, a scoop of perfectly browned and crisped potatoes garnished with corn, beans, carrots, and a mix of lesser vegetables smothered in gravy.

They sat for a few minutes and waited for the father to start the meal.

"The blessings of our faith have bestowed us with this modest abundance. Let us pray that others have shared our fortune, and our faith," he said.

They started to eat, after his first forkful.

Reaha's chair was missing from the table, the chairs for the two sons were merely empty, but it was Reaha that most of them missed and, in a way, the center of this table.

The father chewed the meat, then put down his fork. "Reaha is fine, by the way." He took a drink. "When I visited her last week, she seemed very happy. They have a very small house, with only one extra room. But it should heat easily. They had new clothes for her, and some new leather shoes. Even without his hand, her husband makes some of the finest furniture I've seen. He can't make as many as he used to, but the ones he does are impressive." He picked up the fork again, "He'll provide a nice living for her."

The girls wanted to pepper him with questions, but the table was not the right place for gossip.

"New clothes and shoes?" Sirin bravely asked.

"Yes, yes," the father said. "Well, some looked like they were used, but the shoes were new and they were neatly tailored. I had asked about it, too. Some came from the conquered, but what impressed me the most was they had gone back to fashioning needles from bones. I don't know why we never thought about that. Her shoes were made from leather. I never thought you could make leather from animals other than— They have thousands of people, thousands of minds thinking about problems like that. What do we have here, a few hundred perhaps? And we're so isolated here. They aren't the center, but they have lots of—" he thumped the table, "oh oh oh! You should see the window lamps they made. They sell them as fast as they can crank them out."

They returned to eating quietly.

"We'll have to try some of those projects next year. I'm not the carpenter he is, but I think I can come up with some—" he held Myla's hand, "Oh wife, I'm sorry I didn't think of bone needles sooner. It would have—"

Myla gave his hand a light squeeze, "The past isn't for reliving, we just move forward from here. Lesson learned."

They had Reaha's favorite dessert that night.

The state collected taxes again before fall got cold and winter set in. But the village had learned from the past as well. Surpluses were divided up in the field to be stored in everyone's homes, no central place for the state to raid. The state got some, but this time it was after everyone else had taken their fill, first.

Still, it was extra heartbreaking this year, with all the work they put in. And all the failures too.

The girls had invaded the boys' room during summer, but returned to their room by fall. Alone in a room that size would have been too cold anyway. Add to that that it took four in the girls' room to keep it at a pleasant temperature, and they had gotten used to Tour. They had pummeled him savagely with pillows only three times in the last year. After that, he calmed down and lost his 'boys come first' attitude. He was only eight at best. The real trouble would be when he hit his teens, still years away.

But that wouldn't be soon.

For now, four was the perfect game-playing number. Two at two different games, teaming up against each other, or a four-way free-for-all, four was the perfect number to not leave anyone out.

They waited and waited, but as fall turned to winter, then to spring again, none of their sons returned.

"Tell me again," Myla asked her husband that night, his first night back after visiting their daughter's home.

"She's fine, Wife. They hold hands a bit much, but not in public. I tell you, it's harder than I thought to see someone kiss your little girl."

"Well, they are ma—"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course. I'm sure it goes far beyond—"

"Husband!" Myla said, suddenly unable to think such thoughts herself. "I, I just wish I could have been there, too. I would have liked to talk to her. To hear her voice again. To see if her smile was real, or simply polite."

"Oh, it's real, I can te—"

"No, Husband, you never could tell. It's hard for me to tell, but I can, most of the time." She sat up in bed, her back against the headboard, pillow pulled to her lap. "I'm not supposed to have favorites, but she was my first girl." She looked down at the pillow. "I know, you wanted more sons, but to look at that face when—"

He sat up too, and held her hand. "I may have wanted sons, but I've never been prouder of her. She's got the most of you in her. That pleases me more than I thought it ever could."

She smiled, but didn't look up from the pillow.

"That one was real."

She laughed a little, "I'm too polite to tell you otherwise."

He squeezed her hand, then let go. "Tell you again, you say. They live in a little house, about two hours' walk outside of town. But they have a grand little garden, all to themselves. Oh, and they have chickens. Not many, but enough.

The house is so small that the living room doubles as their kitchen and his workshop. She has to sweep out the sawdust before every meal. Half of the table always has tools and parts being glued together.

Your daughter." He looked at the closed bedroom door, then put his arm around her. "She is his hands. Half of all his skilled labor, is your once so little girl. You may know fake smiles, but I know fake carpentry. He stands and does busy work whenever he knew I was watching. You know, measuring and marking and such. She helps far more than just holding the ends while he does the work.

And it's fine work too. They will be fine, my wife, he needs her, he likes her, and his father says she brought him out of the funk he was in when he came back from the war." He pulled her tight, "I even heard her giggle, that night I stayed there."

Myla tried to gauge the truthfulness of his grin. "Tell me again, Husband. Tell me of our daughter's happiness. Tell me again, that we did the right thing."

"We did a wonderful thing."

"I just wish I could have gone." But, she knew why. A woman could not move that freely, especially under the new rules. She would need to be accompanied in public. It became very problematic, even without considering the needs of children. She knew the rules. But she didn't have to like them.

"Maybe, someday, we'll both go."

"I look forward to that day."

Before planting had been the only time to make such a journey. Now, every hand was needed. The state made four trips before summer even started, with most of their focus on the asphalt garden.

They took notes, interviewed the men who had constructed it, measured it repeatedly with string, and even dug up three small sections and lowered their smallest man down two of the 'wells'.

It was as thoroughly investigated as it could ever be, without interviewing little girls.

They brought fresh newspapers with each trip, and it was a different group of men investigating every time as well.

**B3.C15**

The full heat of summer baked the ground around them. Even at night, the heat rising off the dirt was nearly unbearable. Almost everyone was on the night schedule, but it didn't help as much as in years past.

The father, being one of the few skilled carpenters left who could work without metal, was again in high demand. The few trees they had were needed for food and couldn't be cut down unless they died. With few other choices available, they had to scavenge abandoned homes. It was a risky task given to apprentices.

One of which died when the building collapsed on him, costing them more wood for the coffin.

While the rest of the family toiled in the garden, the father spent most nights with the oldest women of the village. He had never built old-fashion looms or spinning wheels before and needed to hear firsthand if what he was building would work. This caused some problems, chaperons were required to keep the women from getting in trouble or having rumors spread. All of which was a drain on the few available workers they had.

He was frustrated a lot. All of this indirectness had led to three major mistakes requiring the entire thing be disassembled and restarted from scratch. Most avoided him, whenever possible.

Some didn't have that choice.

"Myla," he said, just getting up that morning. The older women slept at night, and as such, he had to do most of his work in the heat of day.

Myla, on the other hand, had spent all night weeding, transplanting, and toting water, and was as worn out as everyone else. She pretended not to hear him.

"Wife!" he said.

She dropped what she was doing, came into the bedroom, and closed the door.

He started complaining about the other women as he held her down on the bed and climbed atop her. He continued complaining while he worked around just what clothing he had to, then shoved and held her to the bed again.

After, he fondled her some, got dressed, slapped her on the thigh, said "You ought to sleep well now," and left the room.

She stared at the ceiling. She felt like he had just had sex with another woman, but used her body to do it. She felt dirty, yet, she was too exhausted to clean herself up.

She just lay there, in her work clothes.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. Her arms had bruises from where he held her down. He probably didn't know. He never bothered to ask or look. This was the other side, the other man she married.

She closed her eyes, but couldn't sleep.

Sometimes, she would rather he cheat.

His first batch of spinning wheels was timed with the harvest from the first crop of corn. Over the two days he had spent with Reaha, he had learned that the leaves were where they had gotten the thread. He had neglected to probe it any further, it sounded simple enough.

It wasn't simple at all. It was painstaking work. The fibers were there, and in abundance, but it was as miserable to access as trying to pluck the wheat from the chaff, one at a time. He spent a fruitless week struggling to come up with another way, but failed.

It took six old women another week to pluck enough fibers to test the spinning wheels he had made. They all had to be adjusted.

It turned out that thread from corn leaves was much different than cotton. Not that they had cotton.

It compounded things and made him doubt his designs for looms.

With wood and supplies as scarce as they were, he couldn't afford many mistakes.

The test spins, after further tweaking, produced their first length of thread. Looms were another, more complex chore. He was struggling, made much more complicated without metal tools. Stone tools and abrasive sand worked well on large items like doors and buildings and such. But they lacked the fine tuning required on meticulous items like looms.

Six camels arrived mid summer. The state had arrived.

One official read off a list of names, Sirin and Myla were on it.

They formed up in a line, as instructed, with all the other women of childbearing age.

"Do not be afraid," the official said, "if you stand perfectly still, no harm will come to you." He motioned to a man at the second to last camel.

The man produced a dog, quickly harnessed it, then led it over to the line.

It barked viciously at the first girl. Drool splattered on her as it leaped hard against the leash. She started to cry as it scratched and pawed the ground by her feet. The girl burst into tears but didn't move while it snarled for several seconds more. She was given a bowl to wash seven times, the last with mud.

The dog moved down the line, barking and leaping at each.

Myla looked at her daughter. She was terrified, they all were, but Sirin stayed in line. They all did.

The dog viciously tried to attack the first eight. But the ninth, it started out as ornery as ever, but calmed. Not enough to pass for friendly. Not even enough to pass for non-threatening. But it was noticeable.

They scribbled the girl's name and continued down the line.

Even knowing what was going to happen, even witnessing that none of the girls were hurt, it was still every bit as terrifying when the dog viciously barked at her girl, and then again when it was Myla's turn.

"Ok, ladies, thank you," the official said, "You six, come with me." He singled out the six that had gotten the least barks. "The rest of you can go on about your business."

The officials talked to the six women, two of which were just girls, loaded the caravan with as much food as the camels could carry, then left.

"It's all right, Sirin," Myla comforted her crying child, "go on inside. You've got to get back up tonight and do some work."

When Sirin went inside, Myla went to talk to the one of the six she knew.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"I... They, they said we should... that we could have kids. The Twelfth believes some dogs can tell which women can get pregnant, and which can't. They, they... I'm married, Myla. They said that if I didn't have my husband's child in a year, they would divorce us and find someone who could. Myla, what... what am I supposed to do?"

Myla looked around. "I... Oh— But that's crazy talk. Now a barking dog can divorce you? How in the world—"

"What am I supposed to do? We've been trying. We've been trying all along. What— what am I going to do?"

Myla had no clue. This was the most absurd thing she had ever heard, but she knew the officials were deadly serious. They would never travel hundreds of miles on camels just to have a dog bark at women for no reason, that was even more absurd. She wondered why none of the men were lined up to be barked at. But that made far more sense. Roosters didn't change the number of chickens born, hens did.

Male dogs were food as soon as they reached weight. Boys, her sons, were fodder for war. They could lose an unlimited number of boys, and still wage war indefinitely. Thousand year wars. The farm animals of the state.

What line would the state not cross?

Myla just hugged her friend. "I wish I knew," she said, "I wish I knew." All the restrictive rules governing travel suddenly made sense.

Again, they had learned of the state's practices and had hidden away as much food as was practical without giving themselves away. They didn't necessarily object to doing their fair share, but they also knew the camels never came with anything heavier than papers.

The dog had barked viciously at Myla and her daughter. As the news of its significance spread, her husband started looking at her differently. It was subtle, but she felt, diminished in his eyes.

That night, Myla walked to the nearest kennel. They barked at first, but they stopped as soon as she got close. They seemed to fight to be the closest to her. It was sad to see them wagging and friendly and know what awaited them this fall. She would much rather serve the one who snarled at her for dinner, but that wouldn't be the case.

These were different somehow.

She didn't know enough about the distinctions in breeds. Perhaps that was the difference.

She reached her hand in to pet the closest one, but stopped short before returning to her gardening chores.

The children drew quiet as they came within sight of the house that morning. None wanted to be the first to wake up Daddy. They even got whispering down to an art.

Myla looked in the boys' room. The beds were turned on their sides and shoved against a far wall. One loom and a spinning wheel filled the center. The first one was done. As she walked over to it, she noticed how little thread there was in the whole village, just enough to weave a test length of a foot or so, about enough for a scarf.

She ran her fingers across it. It felt coarse and a little prickly, but it was cloth.

Better than nothing and far more than anything offered by the state, it might get softer after a few washes. She didn't know for sure. She made a note to praise him for it, first thing when he woke. It should help her situation considerably.

And, it was worth saying anyway.
**B3.C16**

Fall came with a larger caravan than the year before. Had it not been for all their hidden food, the state would have left them with far too little to make it until spring.

But unlike the year before, this year's labor didn't end with children playing games in their rooms. This year, everyone was needed to painstakingly pluck fibers from literal mounds of corn leaves.

Day after day, they sat in the living room and plucked, folded, and rubbed out the strands. Myla tried her best to make it interesting by reading from the paper.

Most articles started with "The Twelfth's army stood unopposed at... " or "The Twelfth's army vanquished the unbelievers of... " and each included a near mythical example of his bravery.

A catapult landed a flaming boulder directly atop him. The army halted their advance. Then, the flaming boulder started to rock from side to side. A dozen men surrounded it and got first-degree burns rolling it off. The Twelfth stood in the smoking hole, pumped his fist in the air, and said, "Spare no one!" as he led the charge.

They were slaughtering, conquering, enslaving, and plundering, but had yet to restore a single drop of the water that had started the war.

Myla had seen and heard enough politicians in her life to know the Twelfth was one of them, with agendas and motives all his own.

But she read them aloud anyway. It was something to fill the lulls in conversation.

There wasn't enough wood to supply every home with wheels and looms of their own. So, as people would pluck enough fibers to get something done, they would come over to use the wheel and loom of a neighbor.

Hospitality.

It was a common courtesy. It also was an opportunity for quality gossip.

Myla sat on the chair by the spinning wheel, helping the woman and her daughter set up the machine. "So, then what did he do?"

"He was very upset that the dog kept barking at us. He said he divorced me three times, right on the spot. But, he took it back the next day. Oh, I was a nervous wreck the whole time, Myla." The thread broke again.

"No, just— here, let me," Myla said, leaning in to fix the problem. "You have to go slow, real slow at first. Then you can go faster." She rolled it between her fingers until it was joined again. "It's weird stuff to work with." She patted the woman on the shoulder, "I never worked with cotton, so, I don't know if it's any better, but this happens a lot. It just takes getting used to." She sat back in her chair. "Go on."

"Well, Myla, I just— what would I do if he did divorce me? Where would I live? What would happen with my kids? Go to the next town? Who here would have someone," she looked down in shame, "who wasn't a woman anymore?"

"Don't talk like that, Serifine, you're a good mother, a fine—"

"But I'm not a woman anymore, if I—"

"No, that isn't true. Not because some dog barked, that doesn't make it so."

She looked up from the wheel. "I think he didn't because he didn't think he could do better, in a village where only six—"

"You're darn right he couldn't do any better than you. Not in any village."

Myla was finding this story was far more common than she liked.

While others used the spinning room, the family returned to plucking at threads. It was long and boring but something to do. It was also nice to see some new faces at the dinner table.

Especially when they brought their own, special dishes.

Serifine had kept a stack of old recipes filled with western dishes from when she attended school in England. Tonight's special was the most highly prized among all the western foods. Fruitcake, made with substitutions of course.

It was especially good warmed with coffee as an after dinner dessert, though the children were deemed too young to partake in the coffee part.

Myla stayed to help teach the workings of the loom. It took timing and coordination, and a bit of practice. It was also a good excuse to spend time with a friend. "How are the children?" Myla asked, tamping down the weave with her fingers, making sure it was tight enough to make another pass with the shuttle.

"Oh, I don't know what will become of the two girls, but my boys... " She shook her head. "The Twelfth wants an army, and they are aching to join. It's all they talk about." She looked sad. "Did you read about the ship yards?"

"No, I haven't seen that one yet." Myla fussed over the warp and woof threads again.

"Your husband might want to take them up on it, if he knows anything about boats. The Twelfth has taken all our neighbors by storm. The excessive brutality in his first few campaigns has led most to offer almost no opposition. The last few fell pelting our army with sweets and flowers instead of stones and arrows. He ordered the caliphate spread, not just by land, but by sea as well. By land, all you need is shoes; by sea, you need ships.

It never occurred to me that ships wouldn't have— You're my age, you remember cars and planes and—"

"Yes, of course, I remember them well."

"I didn't know the boats burned and sank and fell apart. They say some just, dissolved, like the water ate them. They need boats, and people who can build them without using metal."

"Oh, my husband isn't that kind of carpenter. I, I'm sure he could be of some help, but that— He just did walls and decks and such most of the time before the war. I think boats are a whole other thing."

Serifine passed the thread, tamped it as shown, then hit the pedal to rack the machine for the return pass. "I guess you're right. The paper said 'experienced'. I guess that means something different to every ear."

"Oh no, I didn't mean it like that," Myla said, "I'll surely tell him, I just don't think it's right for him, that's all. But thank you for thinking of us."

She looked at the loom, then the room. Her little girl was being helped by one of Myla's at the spinning wheel. "I, just think getting out of this village would be best, that's all." She pushed the thread along its return path. "Any chance you get."

Myla had thought along the same lines, but wasn't sure life outside was any better. And she certainly had never voiced it to anyone. She nibbled at the cake, then swigged the coffee. "You'll have to tell me the recipe before you go."

"Of course."

Over the winter, many guests popped in to use the boys' room, with the exception of either of her boys. The guests tended to use the room during the day, while the family used it at night. Leather was a chore added only to the families that raised, kept, bred, and slaughtered the dogs. It seemed only right. Every family got a shipment of leather to go along with their now monthly portion of meat. Leather meant shoes. For the first time, new shoes.

Dog leather was softer than the leather in fine gloves and was not ideal for the soles of shoes. But, they had loads of asphalt that, if melted and brushed on in layers, would give them the kind of walking durability they all needed.

But they saved the asphalt-soling step for spring. Melted asphalt was not the kind of smell none wanted inside a home that couldn't be aired out.

And clothes. New clothes. Socks had stitches running down the ankle, and shirts and such had a grayish white color, crude wooden buttons, and were as itchy as lice for the first few weeks, but they all had a few fresh changes of clothes, not that it stopped the children from complaining.

But just to their mom.

Myla tucked in her youngest two.

"Momma," Ashina asked, not ready to go to sleep, "When are we going to see Reaha again?"

"Oh, Child, I don't know. I'd like to see her every day, but she lives several days from here. It's unfortunate, but it is."

"Momma," Sirin said from the other bed, "What will happen to me when I turn sixteen? Will Daddy sell me to someone, too?"

"Your father didn't sell your sister. We married her to a good man who was a friend of our family. We—"

"But only Daddy knows if that's true," Sirin said, sitting up. "We never saw."

Myla moved to Sirin's bed, "Child, there were no boys her age in town—"

"There's no boys my age in town. I, I don't want to be married, Momma. I don't want to move away from home and live with some stranger that only Daddy knows."

"I knew the boy, too. Reaha had played with him when they were very young. He's not such a stranger. Reaha didn't ask your father not to arrange it. She had a say, too."

Sirin was unconvinced. She would be sixteen this year, could see what was headed her way, and didn't like it one bit.

Myla kissed the child on the forehead, "Now, put such thoughts out of your head and go to sleep."

The plate dimmed the light from the lamp, and the shades knocked back the light of the night as the mother left the room.

"You, think Daddy will sell you, too?" Ashina asked her older sister.

Sirin was silent, but her thoughts on the topic were well known.

Winter seemed to fly by with all the extra work they had to do. It seemed like, all of a sudden, it was spring. Time to do it all over again.

**B3.C17**

The state's spring visit consisted of just one auditor. He delivered a small shipment of papers, met with the six singled out by the dogs, planted something in a corner of the asphalt garden, then left strict instructions that nobody was to enter that section and that a guard was to be placed to ensure that what he planted was not molested by any garden critter. It was the briefest, and oddest visit yet.

That night in the garden, Myla met up with the one of the six that she knew. "What did the official say to you?"

"Oh, he— it was very bizarre. He had this seed that looked like a pumpkin seed. He split open the thin shell, and inside was another seed, but it had a sharp point like a thorn, or wasp stinger. He took my arm, rolled up my sleeve, and jabbed the point into me." She pointed to the bloody scab on her arm. "Then he said, 'thank you,' and asked where to find one of the other names on his list. He never said what it was about."

"That is so peculiar."

"All I know is it has something to do with a test. He said he'd be back in a month with the results, whatever that means."

Myla stopped by that guarded corner on her way home that morning. The six little mounds were marked with six little sticks painted with multicolored bands. It was baffling, in a way. Thorny pumpkinseeds planted in mounds, but only for the six. The state was looking for something. A good question was how. A better question was what.

After the evening prayer, Myla read them stories from the paper until the children fell back asleep. One of the articles was of particular interest. The geneticists that the Twelfth rounded up had been very busy indeed. The article said that under the Twelfth's guidance, the scientists were well on their way to developing a biologically based piece of testing equipment to find the cure to the infertility problem. Obviously, the paper was quite a bit behind the times on this one.

The hope was to put enormous energy behind altering a single plant, in the vine family, under the belief that plants already knew how to read DNA, they simply had to be modified or 'taught' how to translate it into something people could read. Vines were chosen because it most closely resembled real DNA and the 'markers' could be read by manipulating the color on the leaves.

It sounded fantastically insane to Myla. She read the article again, to herself this time, after leaving the room full of children that had been bored to sleep.

She had read it correctly. A country that couldn't bring back the water, couldn't start a car, pave a road, make a fleet of boats— The list of scientific achievements her country had failed at were, if stacked atop each other in the shape of steps, the only way they would ever be able to reach the moon. This same country was going to genetically engineer a plant to read human DNA? They had lost their collective minds.

But the official's visit and the scab on her friend's arm told a different tale.

She sat in the living room chair, staring at the page. How was that even possible, in such a short period of time? She was no scientist, but with a breeding program, even a very aggressive one, that should take decades, if not hundreds of years.

Weeks passed as they adjusted to the growing heat and the inevitable change from sleeping to working at night.

As they came home from the garden that morning, they stopped by the crowd gathered around one of the homes. "What happened here?" Myla asked the first face she recognized.

"Someone murdered Mr. Haddi. They butchered him. Beat him to a bloody pulp."

"Why, Why would someone do such a thing?"

"I, I don't know. He never crossed anyone that I know of."

A brutal murder. It was hard to understand. Myla looked at the house, surrounded by nearly half the village. Two were her children, sneaking their way closer to the window. Myla pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed each girl by the hand. Ashina and Sylia, as if there was any doubt. "Children shouldn't see such things."

"What things, Momma?" Ashina asked.

"Mr. Haddi died."

"Oh. That's sad."

Myla pulled the children along faster, "Yes, it's very sad."

After getting them inside, Myla made them a quick dinner as the sun slowly rose above the horizon. They ate, then she put them to bed.

Myla was just as tired, but she visited the garden instead. The six mounds had been planted only a few weeks ago, and already they had several feet of vines covering the dirt. The leaves were as thin as blades of grass, and came in four colors. She was stunned.

She was tempted to investigate them closer, but it was actually guarded, and this was as close as she dared.

Haddi was murdered. His wife's 'name' was written on one of those vines. They had four children.

Myla didn't recognize the guard. His name escaped her, perhaps that could be an advantage as curiosity got the best of her. She stepped closer to him. "What a strange looking plant." She tried to stir a conversation while he looked bored out of his mind.

"You can't get any closer, Ma'am."

"Oh, no, I've heard. But, what, what kind of plant is that?"

"I don't know, Ma'am, they just said it's extremely rare and very expensive. That's all I know for sure. And that it can't be touched. I have to chase bugs off it. The leaves can't— It's a pain, but the state seems to think it's hugely important."

She tried to look as interested as possible. "What kind of fruit could be so important?"

"Oh, I'm sure I don't know. I haven't seen any flowers or fruit or anything like that. They seem most interested in the leaves. I don't think it's for eating." He stepped closer to her, "You really have to go. I have to check it for bugs again. Every ten minutes, it has to be checked." He turned over the hourglass.

"Oh, I'd be happy to help you—"

"I have to, only me and another who looks after it at night. Just the two of us. They were very specific about that. You have to go, now."

"Oh, I understand," Myla nodded to him. "Please excuse my curiosity. It gets me in too much trouble, sometimes."

"No trouble, Ma'am, just go on."

She headed home.

Two weeks later, the state official returned to his plot in the garden. He plucked each vine, then spread them out on the street. He counted out branches, looked things up in a book, then carefully pruned specific sections out of each of the six vines.

The rest, the vast majority of the vines, were left to whither on the street like garbage. Those carefully clipped sections, however, he pressed between the pages of his census pad.

He approached the father of one of the two girls tested, handed him a piece of official looking paper, and left with the girl.

That night, Myla dragged the silent daughter past the withered vines then out into the sand. "What was that vine from?" she asked.

Sylia shrugged.

Myla put a stick in the child's hand that was long enough to touch the sand. "What did the vine say to you?"

Sylia dropped the stick and shrugged.

"Child, I saw the look in your eyes as you walked past them." She was playing a hunch.

Sylia shrugged, but didn't drop the stick again.

"What does it say about those women?"

She wrote "X+Y=Z"

"I don't get that. You have miles of sand, Child."

She wrote "X=Z-Y", then "She = Wanted - He" under it. She looked up at Myla, underlined the she, then erased it with her foot.

Myla stared at the wiped sand. "What is the Z that they are looking for?"

Sylia shrugged again.

"What will they do, when they find him?"

Sylia rubbed her foot across the sand again.

They went to the garden to join the rest and start on their chores.

Seedlings were quickly transplanted to the bare spot left from the vines. It was the most valuable real estate the village had, and would not go barren for long.

The asphalt garden allowed one other trick. It was very labor intensive, but highly productive, and easily allowed them to fool the state.

A small section was used as a continuous nursery. This was a tightly packed area. Once the plants grew big enough, usually in a few weeks, depending on the type, they were transplanted. In fact, half the garden got shuffled around, transplanted no less than six times before it was harvested. It would seem like an exorbitant amount of work, but it was not without reason.

The dirt of the asphalt garden was mostly poor sand. This made it more like a hydroponic garden, so they started treating it like one. Hydroponics is very expensive, so every inch gets used to its fullest. Plants get handled a lot, moved down the line to progressively bigger 'pots'.

It had two obvious benefits for all this extra work.

First, more food in less space. About three times as much food from the same space, providing there was enough extra water.

Second, unlike its non over-transplanted cousin, its harvests were smaller in size, but continuous. This let the village eat fresh daily. The father even made fancy transplanting shovels specially suited to this unique task.

Since the state taxed based on the size of the garden through projections and tables, this little cheat, in plain sight, was letting them build a rainy day fund. Actually, too much rain wasn't the problem that too little was. The village, as a whole, decided that each family should store away enough food to last two years. Once that goal was reached, they would put a halt to the labor-intensive transplanting practice and could stop supplementing with objectionable forms of meat. It was reasonable, especially considering they recently had a two-year stretch of hard times.

They were well into the heat of summer, and completely adjusted to the night shift. The state had just left and wouldn't be due back for another month.

They were working the far garden, when,

"AHHHHH!!!!" Ashina screamed.

Myla came running to find Ashina holding her hand, crying on the ground. "What happened, Child?"

Ashina kicked her feet, tantrum style, "It stung me! It stung me!" she kicked and flailed "It hurts! It hurts!"

Myla knelt beside her child, "Let me see."

Ashina didn't want to relinquish her hand, but did.

Already swelling, the spot was bright red with three little bull's-eyes. "That's not so bad, Child, I know it hurts."

Sylia made her way through the jungle of tall plants. She put some damp clay on the stings, then held her sister's hand above her sister's heart.

"That's probably not a bad idea," Myla said to Ashina, "Try to keep it high, if you can." She looked at Sylia, "What's in the clay?"

Sylia shrugged, hugged her sister, then went back to work.

Myla stayed with her daughter until the crying stopped. The work, eventually, continued.

Ashina's hand swelled past the wrist, her fingers couldn't move, but it went down in three days. No real harm done.

When the state returned for their late-summer taxes, the village had already stored away a full year's worth of emergency food.

Four days later, the second husband was murdered. Brutally. The body had been left in the streets, a few blocks from his house.

His wife, his widow, was another one of the tested six.

The girl the state took, never returned.

**B3.C18**

Winter with a loom was a much friendlier time than years before. They actually looked forward to finding out which of their neighbors would be the next to pay them a visit.

The looms themselves, as with the spinning wheels, belonged, in a way, to everyone. But the few they had, had to be kept by someone. They had the room and were conveniently located, and besides, it often came with pleasant benefits. People, women mostly, rarely showed up empty handed, and they all enjoyed the expanded diet of increasingly unique desserts.

Often, the women didn't come alone. That meant new kids to play with. Ok, not new kids, they knew them from the garden usually, but gardening wasn't very social. Having someone in the home was.

And Myla's children had games. Lots of games.

Ashina tapped Sylia on the shoulder after breakfast.

Sylia looked up from plucking corn-leaf fibers. She hadn't finished her assigned stack, yet, as usual, and was falling behind the other children. Sylia picked them meticulously, fixing those that other children let slide. If nobody stopped her, she would pick through lunch and dinner and sit and pick until she collapsed from exhaustion or thirst.

Ashina smiled and pulled her accomplice off the floor. The new kid was one of the girls they shucked corn with that fall. Shucking was one of the rare social parts of gardening.

A game of Chinese checkers was promised if they got caught up, and Ashina had worked hard to get them there.

They went to the bedroom and set up the game.

Years ago, Sylia was unbeatable, at anything other than backgammon. For a while, all the children wanted the challenge of playing her. But then something weird happened. After a year of crushing siblings, the strength of her game slipped to perfectly normal. It was like the end of an intellectual growth spurt.

Playing her was no longer as challenging, but it was still fun.

They played three games of Chinese checkers before lunch. Ashina won two, their guest won one. Sylia came in a breathtakingly close second, all three times.

Increasing the fun was a challenge too. So long as no one caught on.

Myla entered the bedroom where the girls were playing, looked over another close game, and kissed Sylia on the head. It took her a long time to realize what Sylia was doing, but she knew. "Children, food is on the table."

They quickly filed out while Myla took two plates into the boys' old room.

Myla handed her friend the plate at the loom. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. One of them murdered my husband." She looked at Myla. "They had told him we had to have a child or he would have to divorce me. Well, he wouldn't. And, someone took it on themselves to— I can't live here, anymore. Not knowing that his killer is here." She leaned in to Myla, lowering her voice, "I'm running this spring. I'm going where nobody knows the results of that test."

"What about your children?"

"I just—"

"Are you going to take them with you? Your youngest is Ashina's age."

"I think they're old enough to take such a journey."

Myla looked at her feet. The new shoes made that plan possible. Barely. "Do you need food— or anything?"

The secret harvest had taken food out of the equation too. "I was, I was thinking I could use some of your plastic bags to hold water—"

"Of course I'll get you some. We have plenty leftover. I even have them in different sizes. Fifteen gallons and up." She thought it further, water would be key in crossing a desert. "It'll be very heavy. We can make you some backpacks. Small ones for the kids. You can't use a cart, at least not at first, it'll leave easy to find tracks."

"Thanks."

"I'll be missing you terribly," Myla said. "My husband has some long scraps left behind the house. You could carry them for the first day, then tie them into something like a sled to help out with the weight. It'll leave some distinctive tracks, but it'll make it easier. You get somewhere big, one of the old cities, you can blend in. A war widow. It wouldn't be entirely a lie."

"That was about as I figured it."

Myla realized why her friend had chosen to do her work here, instead of at those closer looms. It wasn't just because they were friends. In any other house, backpacks and such may have been enough to get her turned in. She needed an accomplice more than a friend. Myla could easily be both.

Each day brought a new child, for 'sizing' the clothes. The packs had to fit comfortably and guessing at each child's size wouldn't do.

For Myla's kids, it meant new games with new friends.

The paper was full of articles about disease-spreading birds. All wild birds were to be destroyed on sight to keep from spreading the disease to the chickens so many depended on. The disease, the article said, was traced by the Twelfth back to hummingbirds. Any and all sightings of hummingbirds were to be reported immediately.

The article went on for four color pages about the most likely habitats to find hummingbirds, how and when to spot them, ways to poison them, and the proper disposal method. For all wild birds, proper disposal meant burning. But for hummingbirds, they were to be collected and sealed in air-tight pottery, then taken immediately to the nearest official. It sounded like an epidemic, but she saw no signs locally.

Other papers dated after that usually led with stories of sightings, and the rewards for bringing in dead hummingbirds for testing. It was front-page news.

The birds in this area seemed fine to Myla, and they hadn't had any chickens to protect, but an order was an order.

They would start mixing poisons and setting out traps that spring.

Even later papers alluded to some project with drought tolerant grass that the geneticists were working on. The Twelfth spent winter touring the cities and population centers, but was in constant contact with the geneticists, working on the problem. They believed the problem of the wild birds could be conquered with a special breed of grass. Myla had her doubts, but she had seen miraculous things when the Twelfth was involved.

She wasn't a true believer, neither was her husband, but when living in this land, it was always best to fit in. They were not true believers like her sons.

But she was starting to believe.

The shipyards were mentioned more frequently too. A fleet of ships, mostly dual use for fishing and cargo and personnel, were well under construction. The classes and numbers of ships were well publicized, which seemed odd. That kind of news should have been a guarded state secret. Yet it wasn't. A few were fast moving, shallow water ships for the conquest of the rest of Europe. These were ground support and logistic vessels meant to keep the Twelfth in touch with army commanders. Others were for troop transport and supply. The third class, which was taking the longest to complete, were the ocean crossers. These were to spread news of the one true God to all the people of the world.

The former soviet empire had collapsed in less than three months. Out of the hundreds of millions there, the Twelfth spared less than one percent. The carnage was brutal. The geneticists, equipped with a DNA sequencer in a seed, were free to make germs that targeted entire family trees. The virus caused pussy boils, purple skin, excessive bleeding, and a month of crippling pain before they succumbed to permanent brain damage. From there, they typically died of neglect or starvation like a mob of wandering, mumbling zombies. It was perhaps the cruelest death imaginable. Those that survived were generally immigrants and were left unscathed, trapped in something resembling a Hollywood "Living Dead" rip off, except these zombies died in a few weeks unless someone fed them.

The Russians had offered the strongest resistance, figuring they could get a politically favorable deal if their conquest proved too costly. They got oblivion instead. It was a self-described godless country. The Twelfth chose not to waste but so much time offering God's mercy to the godless. Besides, the example made of them crumbled Europe's vaunted moral resolve while adding to the mystical inevitability of the caliphate.

The water was never mentioned. One of the conquered lands was ordered to pay tribute in food. But the shipments were limited to cities located near waterways. None of which could easily be transported deep into the state, like where they were.

Myla saw her friend a few more times, helped make them a family-size tent and all the stuff they would need, then never saw them again. They didn't wait until spring.

"What happened to the window lamp?" the father said, looking into the boys' room.

Myla looked up from the floor, putting down the scraps in her hand. "It got, broken, about a week ago."

He stepped into the room. "It's cold in here." He exhaled slowly, "I can see my breath."

"I've got my robe on. It isn't so bad." She went back to sewing the many scraps into a quilt.

"Isn't it too dark in here?" he walked over to the window and looked out.

"It's fine, Husband, I've been sewing so long, I do it mostly be feel now, anyway."

"I don't see any broken pieces outside. Where are all the pieces?"

Myla twisted the bone needle between her fingers. "I, had one of the girls clean it up." She started stitching again.

"I wish Reaha had made more of them. I guess, if I left to visit her this spring, I might convince her to make us another one."

Myla smiled at the quilt, "I'm sure she would."

"I don't think her new ones were as good as these, though." He walked back from the window. Night had set in. The weird, shadowless glow filled the room with a dim light, plenty to make out shapes, but a little challenging to see something as fine as thread. "Come to bed, my wife."

She looked up. "I'll be there in a while, Husband."

He held out his hand.

She sighed to herself, set down her work, and joined him. Spring was just around the corner, but her thoughts were with her friend, cooking in a tent that very night, with one of their few lamps, on her way to a new life with a different home.
**B3.C19**

Spring started with a town meeting of sorts. Her missing friend's house was found ransacked with signs of a struggle, blood on the walls and floor. Even in the children's room, there was blood on the beds, pooled around the pillows. Lots of little things were missing.

Outside the bedroom windows were drag marks, leading away from the city.

For an entire day, everyone split up and searched around the village for the missing family, but nothing was found.

Myla played the part of the distraught friend perfectly. It was hard to not be convincing. Viewing the house gave her plenty of doubts that her friend ran away. The missing fancy silk dresses were well known and would have been stolen in just such a ransacking, but they were light and would be oh so useful for barter in the city as well. Only the eyes of someone who knew her would notice the missing favorite cups and the kitchen was a few utensils short.

They had a mock funeral before divvying up what was left of her friend's valuables.

Myla took home the porcelain candleholders. They had no candles, but it seemed right at the time. She kept them on the windowsill in the bedroom, next to the lamp.

The husband put his arm around her in bed that night as they stared at the flickers that leaked past the plate. They kept one wick burning at all times, just for the convenience of it.

"What has become of us, Husband?" Myla said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"When I look back— Where did that couple go, that spent their nights above that noisy shop? Husbands murdered get just the pretence of an investigation, but they travel hundreds of miles to give our innocent daughter eighty lashes. Now, a whole family disappears and we loot what was left. What has become of us? What has become of all of us?"

"We survive. If it weren't for the infidels—"

"They didn't kill her husband, then come back and wipe her family out. It's only us here, my husband. It is what's happening to all of us that I'm worried about. Where will we be in another few years?"

"They destroyed our way of life. They inflicted this on us!" he said.

"The Twelfth has butchered them by the hundreds of millions, and it hasn't brought us a single drop of water. All this happened while they fell like lambs under his hand. This is of our doing, Husband."

"You dare to—"

She turned to face him, "No, Husband, I believe in the holiness of his cause, it's the followers that did this that worry me." They had never been true believers, but even between themselves, they were a little afraid to discuss doubts openly. She wouldn't push this again. "I miss her, Husband, I miss her children who played in our house with our children only last winter. I can still see them on Reaha's old bed playing Chinese checkers. I can hear my friend working the loom in the other room, and I can taste the desserts she offered with her first step through our door. I can feel her kiss on my cheek before she left. I miss her, Husband, and I fear for those of us left in the wake of her passing. I fear none will be caught, and I know none will be punished. And those that murdered before will become emboldened when good people do nothing."

"Good people searched all day—"

"Of course, you are right, Husband." She turned to the window again. She was done arguing. She had expressed her fears. Should he choose to listen, she would know by his actions.

He put his arm around her again, as they looked at the window.

Myla was right. Some rumbled about nothing being done. But there were no police, no officials here. No investigation, and no real interest in one. The grumbling died in a few days, and everyone went on about their normal day. Planting had to be done.

The state officials returned on a two camel caravan. They assembled all the girls twelve and up and subjected them to the dog again. Apparently, the dog trick gave good hints but was inconclusive with prepubescent girls. Sylia wasn't twelve yet, but Ashina and Sirin clearly were. Neither were singled out by the dog.

The officials inspected the gardens, deposited new papers, then left.

Myla didn't want to think about her children having children. She wasn't sure which way to hope for either. A side of her wanted them to know motherhood, wanted them to have that option. But, as her friend found, it had a horrible downside too. She wondered about Reaha. Surely all of her girls weren't barren. She didn't know what way to hope there either.

Reaha was the most motherly, and seemed to have the greatest chance for happiness. If she would hope, it would be for her.

"You should take Sirin with you," Myla said in bed to her husband that night, "the next time you go to see Reaha. They have an extra room, right?"

"She's needed here, in the gardens—"

"We are a whole family short in this village. One teenaged girl isn't going to make that much of a difference. She should get a choice, Husband, the same choice I had when we met. The same choice we denied Reaha. They live on the edge of town, almost a city—"

"Reaha is very happy, Myla, trust me when I—"

"How much happier could she have been, if she met him a year earlier? Sirin doesn't have any hope here. She asked if you were going to sell her too."

"Sell her? What did we get in return, Wife, I ask you?"

She moved closer to him, a hand on his shoulder. "I did not say we sold her. But Sirin sees it through the eyes of a child, growing into a woman. She lived here nearly all her life. She knows nothing but this. Take her with you, ask them to let her stay. Let her have a choice. Let her see what else there is."

He looked into Myla's eyes and sighed. "I will, my wife. But whether she stays will be a choice they make."

She smiled, then kissed him on both cheeks. Reaha, of all her daughters, would understand her motives the best.

When the gardens were sprouting and before the weather had a chance to get too hot, Sirin and her father were gone.

Tour and Sylia were at best eleven or twelve, but Tour was the one who was beginning to be a handful. It was made worse when they moved him into the boys' room that spring. He had to share it with all the 'woman's tools', which offended him. Offended was the new word he had learned while praying with the other boys.

Three sisters had been more than enough to keep him in line. But over the winter he had gotten a growth spurt and was now as tall as Ashina and taller than Sylia. Taller, in his mind, meant in charge. He tried to order Sylia, but she ignored him. Ashina could be intimidated, and he was slowly learning that art.

He stewed in his room over perceived offenses until it boiled over into confrontations.

Myla could see what was going on, belatedly. The two remaining girls, very reasonably, refused to play with someone so pushy. Their exclusion of him was making him more pushy and harder to live with as he stewed silently, alone in his room.

"Come children," Myla said to the three, "we need to make some new window lamps before this fall."

It was a suitable project for an overcast day. They got started right after lunch.

Clay wasn't hard to find. Mixed with a little water and it was easily worked into the proper shapes. Myla watched as Sylia started them on the weird chimney. She mixed straw into the clay. The straw would burn during the firing to make hundreds of little holes. The holes were the key. They allowed the highest surface area while reducing the weight. The straw was also used, in a different pattern, to give the sides their insulating property and to let it pump heat during winter. The chimney was a maze, about three feet long in straw, that swirled and formed the cooking surface. The finished product looked like a simple plate.

If Myla hadn't seen it during construction, it would never have occurred to her. Reaha made them too. Either Reaha was a lot more observant about such things, or she had had a dough-like conversation with the silent girl.

Either way, they spent hours that first day just making the intricate patterns, four was the perfect number, but five was what they made in case one cracked. They had to dry over the next week before they could be fired; the safest place for that was the boys' room.

A kiln wasn't that hard to improvise with all the blocks and debris available to them. The glass was salvaged from windows at abandoned homes, and sand was used to score and trim them to the correct size.

It made for a nice project to get all the kids together. Ashina and Sylia, being the only girls left, tended to pair up and exclude Tour. It was natural, but it was causing problems. Myla fell back on the lamp project whenever it seemed appropriate to keep the peace. It worked far better than scolding or punishing them and it actually brought them together.

Two in the first batch broke and were unusable. Which worked fine for Myla, since making lamps wasn't the point. It also led to a second batch.

The sons of one of the dog-breeding families had gotten into trouble by mid summer. Most of the boys of the village had taken to disappearing for about an hour after evening prayers. Well, it got out of control one time and some of the boys were bitten.

Dogfights.

They had unlimited access to strays and aggressive dogs, and boys, with too much time on their hands, tended to get into trouble. They had also been largely in charge of the butchering.

The village that dispensed eighty lashes for unproven accusations had little more than harsh words and a month of extra chores for the two boys. The only punishment for those who simply watched was to tear down two abandoned buildings and expand the kennels. The evil was seen as coming from the dogs and infecting the innocent boys.

The state paid its last visit before fall. The caravan took a substantial load of food with it when they left, including a pack of dogs. A stack of papers remained behind to be read through winter.

The Twelfth reiterated the need for captured wild birds. Hummingbirds seem especially important. The pages kept repeating that each hummingbird brought their scientists closer to a cure.

What was missing to Myla was any mention of how devastating the virus was to domestic chicken supplies. It would seem that those losses would be in the same articles, or even in the same paper. But they were nowhere to be found.

A virus, spread to chickens by wild birds, seemed to have front-page status week after week while it claimed the lives of nearly zero chickens.

It reminded her of the hysteria over SARS and those other 'plagues' the western press was always hyping.

Their village had poisoned nearly two hundred birds that summer. None of which were hummingbirds. None seemed sick or contagious. None acted weird or strange. They all seemed perfectly normal, yet they were all killed, their meat wasted.

Myla struggled to make sense of these things while her husband took his last trip of the year to visit her daughters before the season got too cold.

**B3.C20**

"Momma!" Sirin screamed as she ran through the door.

Myla dropped the plate she was preparing and ran from the kitchen to greet her in a hug by the couch. "Child, it has been too long!"

The other children filtered out from their rooms as the loom guests paused over all the commotion.

Myla pulled the veil off her teenaged girl and kissed her, "Come, you must eat dinner with us, let me set you a plate."

They went to the kitchen together, "Momma," she whispered, "Reaha thinks she is pregnant. But, she said not to tell anyone, not even father. That people have been behaving weirdly around women who can still have children. She said that in town, husbands get killed over such things, and she doesn't want that to happen to them. She keeps a piece of cloth in her pocket that stinks of male dog pee so they always bark at her. Said we might want to do the same."

Sylia was the only one not tested. Myla kissed her daughter, "It's nice to see you." She scraped portions off the other plates to feed the returning two. She looked around. "When's she due?"

"Summer, I think. Why?"

"Well, it's best she isn't big as a house when your father next visits. That's all." She held her daughter in the relative privacy of the kitchen. "You decided about what you want?"

Sirin smiled, "They live two hours outside of the city suburbs. Just far enough to keep from being messed with, but not so far as to make trade too difficult. I like that. I want that. I'd like to try life in the city. They said they could help me." She looked her mom in the eyes, "They got me a job with a friend of theirs. It isn't much, but it isn't gardening, and it's around lots of nice people. I even got to spend a month in the rooms above the shop before Daddy came. We just assemble parts. But it's fun."

"I'm glad. You didn't have to come back, you know. You could have stayed."

"Oh, I know, Daddy said as much on the long walk over. But, I couldn't do that to you. I had to let you know," she smiled a very believable smile, "the difference you made in my life."

Myla handed her two plates, took two herself, then set the table.

Two lamps in each window were enough to heat even empty rooms. Winter would be the coziest yet. Tour, however, felt very put out. His room was the one with looms and wheels and people traipsing in and out all day. It wasn't the prize it was during summer.

Sirin spent the night in the girls' room.

"What's town like?" Ashina asked as they played Chinese checkers.

"It's big and crowded and people walking quickly everywhere. They have tables full of food and meats in front of shops for people to buy." She double jumped her marble.

"To buy with what?" Ashina waited for Sylia to move.

"Some stores barter. Some keep accounts. But most take money. Little slips of paper with business owners personal stamps and signatures." She produced a few from her pocket. "See, this is what I earned working last summer. This stamp," she pointed to a round one with embossed words around it and two triangles, "is from Reaha's husband. He owns his own small business making furniture. I helped them for a month, and he gave me these. The government was supposed to print large amounts of money, but with the war, they never got around to it. So the businesses did it on their own." She assembled a small stack. "That's enough to get an end table from him. But other stores take them as well. They have a list of stamps in their window for those they take directly."

"What if they don't take the paper that you've got?" Ashina made her move.

"The big stores almost always will, they can, for a small price, exchange them for something that the other store will take."

"You going back?" Ashina asked, Sylia looked too.

"Yeah, I am. It's hectic some times, but there are so many opportunities. Out here, there's just gardening, and sand." She leaned in close, over the board, "Momma said she was going to talk to father about letting you go next."

Ashina smiled, but then looked at Sylia. "What about her?"

"One at a time. She said it was the best she could do."

Ashina didn't like the idea of leaving her sister. But she wanted to go, too.

They played as Sirin filled them in on all the exotic foods she ate, and tried to describe cheese and milk, goats and lambs, and fish to her sisters.

Myla listened to the muffled sounds, as her girls talked all night. Her husband had fallen asleep, after, and was still atop her. She had tried to push him off her, but had little luck.

"Momma," Sirin said over breakfast, "they have the sweetest system. He'll go in town, select the woods he'll need for next month's orders, then schedule it to be delivered a few days after he figures on having the other order finished. The caravan arrives with the new wood and returns with the completed stuff. No wasted trips. Sometimes the people are so appreciative of their workmanship that they send sweets and cakes and such as thankyous on the next shipment. Usually once a month." She leaned back in the chair. "You should see their little garden. It's like the asphalt one, except smaller and with reasonably good soil. They have a small grove of trees, too. A few olives and figs. I never knew roosters could be so loud, Daddy, did you?"

"Yes, It wasn't the first time I had heard a rooster before." He pulled the top off his bun and rubbed it around his plate.

Sirin turned to her mother instead, "Well, I hadn't. I thought they just crowed first thing in the morning. But, oh no, this thing goes off a dozen times a day." She turned to her sisters, "Eggs. You have to try some eggs, if you ever get the chance." She sat back in her chair again, "There is, like, an infinite number of dishes that you can make with eggs. But eggs by themselves are so delicious." She hungrily finished her plate.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," Myla said.

"Oh, and Momma, chicken is incredibly good too. They breed worms and caterpillars and bugs in their compost pile and feed it to the chickens. We should get chickens, too."

Myla looked at her husband, "Maybe the state will bring us a few, after all that food they took."

"Don't count on it." He put the last of the bun in his mouth and quickly chewed, "We got any coffee ready, Wife?"

Myla left her plate and went to the kitchen. She returned with a hot cup that he took into the living room. She sat back down and finished her plate while Sirin went on about the magic meals that could be made with chickens.

"Sirin?" the loom-using neighbor said, "I hadn't seen you all summer." She fiddled with the string on the wheel. "Where you been keeping yourself?"

"Oh, I spent—" Sirin didn't know this woman well, "I've been busy, at home. I've got," she raised a finger and looked toward the girls' room, "I'm supposed to keep those two in line. Excuse me, please."

Sirin was good at looming, but she kept out of sight when guests were there. She wasn't hiding, but it was best not to explain too much. And the best way to avoid that was to stay out of sight.

As they pulled more thread from corn leaves, the girls shifted more to nights. This annoyed Tour to no end. Not only did he have to contend with strangers in his room, now he had to share it with his sisters at night too.

But he adjusted, and said nothing.

Looming and spinning thread was silent enough for Tour to sleep through, the girls talking was not.

"Oh," Sirin said, "I forgot to mention the restaurants."

"What's that?" Ashina said, pausing in spinning while Sylia combed more fibers.

"It's a place where they make food. Like dinners and lunches and breakfasts. That's all they do, all day long. Some have singing and dancing and—"

"Doesn't anyone know how to cook for themselves?"

"No, no no, they all know how, I guess," Sirin said, "but these restaurants take cooking to another level. The food there is so good, and they have some exotic dishes. Fish was the one I tried. And the way they arranged it on the plates. And you just pick out what you want, and they make it in the back, wait until you are done eating, then clean up after you. It cost more than doing it for yourself, but it is oh so—"

Tour threw a pillow at them, "What kind of merciful God would let women cackle all night long!" He stormed out of the room.

The three girls watched him leave, then continued.

Sirin looked at her two sisters. "Some boys treat girls, that can't— like they can get away with doing anything to them. So, you have to keep that in mind in towns. But, it's kinda even worse when they know a girl can. They fight like dogs over her. I think the best is for nobody to know. But that's harder to do than say."

"Dogs already barked at me," Ashina said.

Sylia looked at them.

"Reaha got the dog to bark at her by keeping a rag with male dog pee on it in her pocket. She said she figured it like this: if she could, she didn't want anyone fighting her husband over her; and if she couldn't, then she didn't want him thinking less of her. She said that those that can, they test them. And some get married off because of the kids the Twelfth thinks they would have. They're not married to a family friend like Daddy did to Reaha, but married like harems and such."

"What about women in public?"

"Yeah, it's a pain, wearing all that stuff. It's like ten pounds and hot in the summer. But you can come and go, more or less. It isn't that bad." Sirin worked fast with the loom. She was catching up to the thread her sisters were spinning. "With a lot of the men off fighting, they let women work more. Because they need us to work, they relax some of that stuff. We get to do work only men used to do."

They talked for three more hours. Then, when they knew Tour was asleep, they returned to their room and woke him with a pummeling of pillows. He stormed back to his room, slamming doors along the way.

Winter was full of stories about Reaha and her husband. She really liked him. He was a nice and kind man, and Reaha really lucked out. She could even sleep on her back now.

There was a weird looking chair in the living room where they did most of their work. The chair looked like a rocker, but it clearly could lean far back, nearly horizontal. The back was tall and thickly padded and narrow where it met the seat. It took her weeks before she saw how it was really used.

Reaha sat in it backward, and rocked it back. Her husband would stand, one hand, and work her scarred back. Several times a day, several minutes each time.

It wasn't the kind of thing an uncaring man would build, or put to so much use.

It told the story of their first year together, better than anything else could. It did it silently, tucked in a corner.

Reaha was happy, needed, and loved. Sirin returned there with her father weeks before spring. She wanted to start her new job, was Sirin's excuse. Reaha might have looked a few pounds heavy, but nothing loose clothes couldn't hide.
**B3.C21**

The father returned without Sirin.

It was sad, but, in a way, it was a happy time too.

The hydroponic approach to farming had ended last year. Each family had stocked up sufficient stores to last, if rationed, two years. That was more than enough for comfort, and none needed that much extra work.

The state official came early this year. They called the names, and the girls lined up. Ashina and Sylia each had dry, urinated cloth pinned in their clothes.

The dog barked violently at Ashina, far more viciously than it had last time. When it was Sylia's turn, it barked with equal viciousness, for the first twenty seconds. Then it stopped. It sniffed hard and long and seemed thoroughly confused before barking viciously again.

The officials seemed puzzled. They pulled the silent girl aside as the dog-handler continued to process the line of girls.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

Sylia looked at the sand at his feet.

He pushed her on the shoulder. "Your name. Your family name."

She stared silently at his feet. His shoes were thick leather, unusual for this climate and weather. He didn't seem like he belonged—

"Your name, girl. What is your name."

"Uh, sir—" Ashina tried to—

"Get back in line, girl, this has nothing to do with you." He shoved her back in place.

"She's my sister, sir," Ashina said from where she had fallen onthe ground. "She doesn't speak. Never has."

The official with the out-of-place boots grabbed Sylia by the shoulder and pushed her to the talkative sister. "Her name."

"Sylia."

"Your name."

She stood up. "Ashina."

The assistant looked up the names in the book.

"I see. Yes." When the dog suddenly went silent on another girl, the officials left Ashina and her sister to look up another name in their ledger.

Ashina turned toward their home, but Sylia led her toward the garden instead.

Their father was being questioned heavily about a missing girl. They seemed unconvinced that she had run away like his eldest daughter. It had been contradicted by other rumors about her returning during winter. While they had him off guard, they quickly moved on to a more important subject to them, the mother of the family that had disappeared. They grilled him on her whereabouts.

The spring papers talked about a new program the Twelfth had started. After unlocking the secrets of DNA, the Twelfth spent one month every year looking through the mountains of vine clippings. He was personally matching people who he believed would have the greatest chance of furthering the species. Psychics specifically, warriors naturally, and any other useful combination that would aid the growing caliphate.

Each paper featured new interviews with excited women exclaiming how honored they were to be chosen as part of his 'breeding' program. Myla was appalled, but kept it to herself. It reminded her of the proud mothers of suicide bombers she used to watch on TV. It was distasteful, but she read it aloud without comment.

The turning in of hummingbirds was 'leading' to a cure, but no cure yet. Again, oddly missing was any mention of actual losses to the disease.

They had been on nightshift for about a week, when Ashina and Sylia stopped weeding long enough to turn a small pile of dried vegetation into a fire to roast their catch of scorpions and grasshoppers.

Ashina rotated the skewer to better cook the other side.

Two boys showed up and sat themselves down beside the girls. "Mmmmm, scorpions," the taller boy said.

"Can we have some?" the shorter boy said, sitting closer to Sylia.

"Get your own," Ashina said.

"That's not very polite," the taller one said.

The shorter boy reached for Sylia's skewer, but she smacked the back of his hand.

Both boys turned to Sylia, "You're cute," the shorter boy said.

"She's feisty too," the taller boy said.

Ashina shoved the taller one, "Leave my sister alone." She was nearly as tall when she stood. "You two got in trouble with those dogs and you're not gonna get us into trouble too!"

Sylia grabbed both skewers to protect them from the boys.

The taller boy stood his ground, "You're not very nice. We were just trying to—"

"You can't have any." Ashina asserted herself again, giving him a small shove away from the fire, "You can just go catch your own."

The shorter one looked down the field, the commotion was drawing attention. "Let's go," he said, then bowed "ladies," and left.

Ashina sat down and took her skewer. She was fuming, the nerve of them. Then she remembered who caught most of those scorpions. "I'm sorry, Sylia," she said.

Sylia shrugged, then looked up with a smile.

Ashina broke off a tail and sampled the meat. "Mine's done!"

They started to eat.

A week later, the same two boys found them again. This time they brought skewers of their own, making it difficult for Ashina to complain.

The taller one had caught a small rabbit and offered to share in an effort to make amends.

Rabbit wasn't as tasty, but the quantity more than made up for it. Scorpions were an excellent snack, but rabbit was a meal.

"You like rabbit?" the shorter boy asked Sylia.

She smiled, nodded, then ate another piece.

"She don't talk much, does she?" he asked Ashina.

"Not to strangers, no."

"We're not strangers," the taller one said, acting offended.

"You're not exactly friends of the family either," Ashina said.

He turned to his shorter friend, "Well, we picked the wrong girls to share with."

The shorter one grabbed the piece out of Sylia's hand.

She shrugged, then picked up her scorpion skewer.

"That was mean," Ashina said, standing up.

"Well, you were rude," the boys said as they left with most of the rabbit. They had already eaten about half of the girl's scorpions.

When they returned home, Ashina told her mom about the incident. After which, Myla sat them both down and had her boys talk, complete with a description of the irrational adolescent boy mind.

The corn had gotten infected with worms. It was bad. It required the manual checking of each ear. They had to peel them back and check, if possible, without destroying the ear. Plucking out the infested part, if it was in the tip, could save the ear. It was labor intensive, and it kept the children busy all night and well into the morning.

"Hey, wait up!" the two boys said, running to catch up with the girls.

Tour looked at them as he walked with his sisters. "What do you guys want?" he said.

"We just wanted to talk with your sisters," the taller one said.

Tour looked at the girls, "Why?"

They caught up and started walking slowly, one beside each girl. "How many did you find tonight?" the shorter one asked Sylia.

"You're wasting your breath," Tour said, "she's not going to talk to you."

Sylia smiled, nodded politely, then looked ahead as she walked.

The shorter one looked at Tour, then said to Sylia, "You've got the cutest smile."

She smiled again, but didn't look his way.

The boys stopped and let the girls go on ahead.

A few days later, Ashina made her way through the field of tall corn. Between the rows of concealing stalks, she saw flickers of the shorter boy, hovering like he was kissing Sylia. Sylia, pushed him away and tried to stand again, as the taller boy tried to kiss her next. "Leave her be!" Ashina said, getting close enough to see it all.

The boys disappeared into the corn before she could be sure who they were. But she knew.

Sylia sat on the ground, her hands on her head, rocking back and forth.

Ashina put her hand on her sister's shoulder, "It's ok. I'm not going to let them—" She sat with her sister as the girl rocked uncontrollably. Ashina hugged her and tried to slow her rocking, "It's ok, Sis. It's ok."

Sylia wiped her face on her knees until her cheeks turned red and raw. Ashina had to hold her hands to keep them from getting worse.

The state officials returned after the first harvest of summer. They quickly sought out Sylia and the other girl, jabbed them both with the fancy seeds, planted them in the garden, and posted a guard, just as before.

Myla pulled a chair next to her little girl. "Let's see it."

Sylia grabbed her sleeve and held it tight against her stomach.

"I won't hurt you like they did, Child. I just want to see it, to make sure it hasn't gotten red and swollen."

Sylia nodded, but stared down at her feet.

Myla didn't have all day. The officials had left without a care regarding infection. She forced the issue and took the child's arm, rolling up her sleeve despite the squirming.

It was a little red, but no more than if she had gotten stung by a bee. The scab was small, about the size of a wart or a large freckle.

"That doesn't look so bad," she said, "I doubt it's infected, but I want to see it tomorrow, ok?"

Sylia shook a no and continued to squirm.

"Child," she kissed the girl on the cheek, "I love you as dearly as any. I didn't want this to happen to you, I had hoped the urine trick would work. It would have spared you this. But, it didn't." She kissed her cheek again. "My sweet, silent girl."

She rolled down Sylia's sleeve, then held the girl in a hug.

"Come on, we've got some night gardening to do."

Myla looked at her husband that morning as they prepared for bed. She walked over to the window and closed it, then pulled the thick curtains until there was just a trickle of light leaking into the room. The house had soaked in all of the night's cool air, the glass would help keep the warm outside. She took off her clothes and lay down. "We should—", she took his hand, "When do you plan on seeing our eldest again?"

"Those officials grilled me on that months ago."

"I'm not them, my husband." She moved his hand to rest on her thigh. "I ask for much different reasons."

"Hmmmm... Next spring, I suspect." He turned on his side to face her.

"Some boys are showing an interest in your little girl. I think they mean her no good."

"Ashina? You think we should get her to Reaha's like we did for Sirin?"

"Yes, I do. But it is your other daughter they are showing the most interest in."

He sat up, confused. "What other daughter?"

"Sylia—"

"She's not my daughter. We just took her in because you have the biggest heart I know. But that doesn't make her—"

"Ashina thinks of her as a sister, and I love her like a daughter," She pressed his hand to her belly. "Even if she didn't come from here."

He laughed a little.

"Ashina said those two boys that had gotten in trouble for fighting dogs—"

"Dog fighting used to be as popular as scorpion fights when I was a child, I still don't think those two should have gotten what they did for—"

"She said they were holding her down in the corn field and kissing on her."

"They were kissing on Ashina?"

"No, Husband, they were kissing on Sylia. They were holding her down and I'm afraid they'll be trying much more—"

He lay down again. "She's liable to have done one of those weird things she does, led them boys to think that was something she wanted to do with them."

Myla was failing to get through to him. "More likely they think that she can't tell on them, no matter what they do to her. If they haven't thought that yet, they will soon. Husband, she is our charge, just as if she was our flesh and blood. We should get them both to Reaha's this fall, if we can."

He stared at the ceiling, his hands covered his face. "Ahhhggg!"

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Please, my husband, keep my children safe from—"

"All right! All right already! But it'll have to be next spring. Reaha won't possibly have enough food to feed them all. She'll need to be asked first, we can't just push them onto her. Show up and say, 'here, they're yours'. I'm sure they want time to themselves too, you know."

She rubbed her chin on his chest. "Of course, dear Husband."

He put his arm around her, "I'll make a trip before fall, to warn her and see if it's ok. But I'm not going to make her say yes."

"Yes, my husband." She kissed him under the chin.

A state official came at the end of the month to clip and catalogue the two vines.

There was a commotion in the center of the village that morning when everyone returned home. Angry words were thrown around.

Homes had been broken into. Items were coming up missing. While most were working in the fields that night, they left their homes open to let the night air chill their rooms. This open window policy had worked for hundreds of years, while people were home at night. Now, the honor system was proving to be not enough.

Tempers were flaring. People were demanding justice and action. Antiques and heirlooms were coming up missing.

The girls were walking home that morning, just as the sun started to come up. Two boys ran from behind to join up. "Hey, Sylia. Where's that pretty smile?" the shorter boy asked.

Sylia looked down at her feet and mover closer to her sister.

"Why don't you leave her alone," Ashina said, "She didn't do anything to you."

"Oh, didn't she?" the taller one said, "That's not the way I remember it."

Tour had gone ahead of them, not liking the slow pace of girls. But he had stopped and was looking their way, waiting for them to catch up.

The shorter boy swooped in quick and gave her a peck on the cheek. Sylia freaked out, rubbing her hand against that cheek and pushing her face into her sister's shoulder.

Ashina swung their empty two-liter bottle at the boy, but missed, "Get out of here!"

They laughed as they walked a separate path, now that Tour was near.

Sylia continued to rub her cheek violently until Ashina washed it with what was left in the bottle.

As they neared the fall harvest, the father had a chance to leave and check on Reaha.

He had been gone only a few days when Sylia came wandering over the hill toward her sister. They had just switched back to days and everyone was a little disoriented.

But Sylia's walk was far worse than usual. Ashina ran to her.

Sylia's shirt was ripped down one sleeve, buttons were missing, and her dress was dirty and bloody around the knees. "What happened to you?" Ashina stopped her, but Sylia just looked at her feet. Ashina fixed her sister's shirt and adjusted her dress. "You were going for water, what happened to the water?"

Sylia handed her a broken necklace with four pearls caught in the tangle, then she flopped onto the ground.

"Sis?" Ashina looked at her raw cheeks. She knew who. She had a bad idea what. "Oh, Sis." Ashina had been watching over her the whole time. Every minute she could. But she couldn't watch them all. Not every minute. "Let's get you home," she whispered.

Knock Knock Knock! "Open up!" the man said outside their door.

Myla left her rocking child to answer.

The village cleric barged in and grabbed the pearls off the table, "Is this them?" he asked the other man in the door.

"Yes! What happened to the rest of— This was a full set of pearls, not just a string of four!" he answered.

"Now wait a minute," Myla said.

"This doesn't concern you, where's your husband?" the cleric said.

"He's on a trip to see relatives—"

"When will he be back?"

"A week or so—" Myla didn't like the looks of this. "Listen, those boys did this to—"

"They say they caught her climbing out of a window with that necklace and tried to get it back from her—"

"They what?" Myla was stunned.

The cleric grabbed Sylia out of the chair, "They're demanding justice." He took the child outside.

The village gathered as the cleric organized men for the trial. Ashina, Myla, and Tour testified on behalf of Sylia. But since none had actually seen what happened, and two of them were women, their testimony was ignored.

Sylia sat and rocked throughout the whole trial. She answered no questions, she never looked up from the ground. To everyone who didn't know her, these were the actions of the guilty.

Myla said nothing of her fears that the girl had been molested by the boys. It only could have made things worse in such a twisted world where unfounded accusations earned eighty lashes.

The trial lasted less than an hour.

It seemed so surreal.

She watched as they put a sack over Sylia, and the men of the homes she supposedly robbed threw stones. The quiet rocking behind the sack grew redder with each stone, until it slowly stopped rocking, then slumped as if giving one last shrug.

She hadn't cried when her son left for war.

She didn't cry when neither returned.

She sat on the ground, across from the red lump in a sack, tears running down her face. The crowd had gone back to their homes and left the family to 'clean up'.

Had she and her daughter been men, their word would have been enough.

Ashina had screamed, "Stop it!" at each stone, and was now hugging the lifeless sack.

Myla was too horrified for words. She was numb. She didn't want to live in a world where this was justice. She envied the girl in the sack. She would gladly have traded places. She wiped her face but the tears didn't stop.

"Momma, they killed her!" Ashina said, "They killed my little sister."

Myla sat and slowly rocked, it was the only thing that comforted her.

They buried her that day, never taking her out of the sack.
**B3.C22**

The father opened the front door. "Myla!" he ran to the bedroom and opened its door. "Myla! It's a girl!" He ran over to the bed where she was sitting. "We're grandparents! We're grandparents!"

Myla just shook her head.

"We are, we're grandparents! She swore me to secrecy, to make sure only family knew. She's the cutest little girl you've ever seen. They never registered her, no midwife or nothing. They delivered it all themselves."

She looked in his happy face, but couldn't smile. It was just too soon. "They stoned Sylia."

He stood. The smile faded, returned briefly, then faded again. "No." He looked at the window. "No, why would they? For what?"

"They, accused her of stealing, highway robbery... She just sat there and rocked like she does when she can't deal with what's happening around her. She couldn't answer any of their charges. She never said a word." She looked at the ground again, tears running down her cheeks. "I didn't stop them. I didn't stand in their way. Surely, there was something I could have done. Surely I could have blocked a few stones."

He closed the door, then sat on the bed beside her. He looked, hesitated, then put his arm around her. "I... I, don't know what to say."

"I think the boys that did the robberies, were the ones that— that... It almost doesn't matter. They were all too eager to cast the first stone, at a child so few got to know." She cried again.

In the hug, he rubbed her arm. "She said she would be happy to make room for as many of our children as we send her way. The room is small, but her heart is as big as yours." He kissed her on the salty cheek.

As fall turned to winter, nobody came to use their loom.

Ashina walked into the kitchen, middle of the night.

"What are you doing up, Child?" Myla asked.

Ashina rubbed her eyes. "I miss her, Mommy. She slept in my bed. She held my hand all night. I let her out of my sight for only a minute, Momma, she just went to get some water."

Myla hugged her, "It isn't your fault, Child, she wouldn't blame you. She loved her big sister." Myla cut her a piece of fig pie, then poured her a small cup of coffee.

Ashina hadn't had coffee, but this was a special occasion. They were reminiscing.

"Momma," Ashina said, "do you believe in reincarnation?"

They had been talking for hours that night and were well into their third slice. "I guess, but I don't know for sure." She made sure her voice was low. "Your brothers believed in the seventy virgins and such. That's a kind of life after death. I don't know for sure. I don't know that we ever get to really know such things. But I believe there is more to life. I believe there is something before we are born, and something more after we die. I guess I do, in a fashion."

"Can, can I show you something in my room?"

Myla looked puzzled. "Sure." She followed her daughter, closing the door behind them.

Ashina set up a Chinese checkers board with a third person, then set a cup of water to mark the empty place.

Myla was more puzzled, but sat and started to play, "I thought you wanted to show me something?"

"Shhh... You have to be quiet."

They played one game, silent as could be.

Myla won.

Ashina set up the game again. She made the first move this time.

Myla started to make her move, but Ashina gently stopped her, nodding no with her finger against her lips.

They sat, with just Ashina's move on the board for nearly a minute.

Something landed on the cup. It hopped to the board, landed on one of the third player's pieces, hopped to another open space, then disappeared in a blur.

Ashina moved the marble, then motioned to her mother who was madly looking around the room. "Momma," she said, "don't look, just play."

Myla played, then Ashina, then the blur, no bigger than a finger, landed a few times on the board, and blurred away.

The more Myla ignored the blur, the longer it stayed on the board. By the middle of the game, it stayed perched on the cup, only leaving to suggest moves.

The bird was tiny, dark, and nondescript. But it was definitely a hummingbird. The first she had ever seen in her life. It, by the end of the game, was clearly not landing randomly. It was playing.

Not only that, but it was good.

It was strictly forbidden, but they kept its existence a secret. Hummingbirds were to be killed or captured on sight, then taken immediately to the nearest state official. Neither wished to harm the creature, nor have any contact with officials ever again.

This one was being fed and kept hidden from the boys in the house.

When she knew to look for it, Myla started seeing it everywhere. It sat above the counters and watched them eat dinner. It landed on empty plates and picked, for just a second, from the scraps before they could be washed. She started to keep a full glass of water in every room for it, much like Ashina had been keeping in her room.

It could be out of the room in the blink of an eye, or hold perfectly still for hours. It was tiny and rooms were full of little nooks for it to hide.

It was fun sharing a secret with her daughter. When Myla read the stories about captured hummingbirds in the paper, she shared a smile that the boys didn't understand. But most of the stories centered around the nearly completed fleet of ships.

Winter eventually ended, and the spring of another year began.

When the door opened, the hummingbird, like it had been listening to every story she had read, left and was never seen again.

**West...**

Forty soldiers arrived in the largest caravan the village had ever seen. They were dressed in black with bright red scarves covering their heads. Thick leather boots made a distinctive sound as they marched down the road. They came from the opposite side the state officials usually arrived.

Soldiers flanked out to every door and pounded until everyone assembled into the streets.

A man emerged from the swarm of soldiers. A foot taller than any other, he was the most massive and imposing man any had ever seen.

Myla recognized him from the descriptions, for like their most beloved prophet, his likeness was forbidden to be captured and was never sketched in the paper.

He was the Twelfth, and he was here, in their village, about to speak.

"Sylia," he read the name from the page.

The crowd was silent.

"Sylia," he said again.

The crowd looked uncomfortable, then started to stare at a single man.

The village cleric stepped forward, cleared his throat, then said something softly to the Twelfth.

The Twelfth dropped the papers and grabbed the cleric by the neck, lifting him off the ground to the gasps of the crowd. "You did what?"

It seemed like the Twelfth had yelled, but it was the utter silence of the crowd that made his voice boom so loud.

The cleric repeated in a near whisper.

"I forgive you," the Twelfth said, then slammed the man into the ground.

The muffled crack of bone echoed off the buildings as something rolled through the crowd. Everyone took a giant step back.

"When was this?" he asked the crowd.

Nobody said a word.

"When!"

The crowd flinched. "Last fall," Myla said, though it may have been a sin for a woman to speak.

The Twelfth cut through the crowd to stand just inches from her, he looked down at the top of her head.

"We buried her—"

"Show me."

Myla was more than a little frightened. She could now see the headless figure through the parted sea of people. His strength was clearly no myth.

"We help—" some of the crowd muttered.

"Silence!" the Twelfth said, and his men quickly enforced. He looked down on Myla's head. "Where."

Her hand shaking, she pointed toward the back of their house.

He moved quickly and with absolute purpose to inspect the very dirt of the grave. He sniffed the ground, then stood and walked to their house. The door hesitated when he tried to open it, then crumbled into splinters when he added a push.

He stepped inside and sniffed the air again. He moved directly to the girls' room where he pulled a tiny feather from near a cup. "Where is the bird?" he said.

Myla hesitated.

He punched a hole through the block wall like it was paper. "Where!" he stepped within inches again.

"It, it flew away, first thing this spring. Maybe a month, a month before you arrived."

The Twelfth pushed past her into the living room, his fist clenched by his side. He looked over the papers on the table.

"Come," he said, motioning to her. "Come here." He pointed to the pages that talked of captured birds. "You read these?"

"Aloud, to the children," she answered.

He went to the door. "Which way?" he said.

"... it was a blur."

He walked to the cleric, exactly where the body had been left. "Burn it to the ground. All of it." The crowd gasped as he gestured to his aide, "I want my fleet prepped and manned by the time I get there. It's gone west, probably off the continent." He looked back at Myla standing outside her house, Ashina pulled tight to her side. "The paper was read aloud."

"What did we do?" the crowd protested and pleaded to the soldiers.

"Nothing," the Twelfth said.

One of the soldiers approached as the buildings started to catch fire.

"What about those that cooperated?"

The Twelfth looked irritated, but put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Their fate, I leave in your hands."

Hihel pointed to a single house, "Spare that one."

[The End of book three]

The Heredity of Hummingbirds

_The Heredity of Hummingbirds_

By TR Nowry

"I was lost in some, ruins...." the boy said, struggling to catch his breath. "Far away from the village, bodies and blood everywhere. I— it, it was so terrifying, so horrible. I had witnessed it all, or at least I thought I had." He fell onto the foot of the elder's bed.

"It's ok, Derik, it's ok. Calm down, you're safe now," the old man said. His waking wife lit the candle, then handed him the notebook and inked quill before returning to sleep.

"No no, you— You don't understand. I wanted— I had to run. I knew the way to the village, the general direction at least. But, there was this, this woman." He was winded again.

"Catch your breath, son, I can't help if you don't calm down." The elder rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You ran the whole way again, didn't you? Remember the first time the other children let you play ball with them? You ran half the field and blacked out." His hand lightly rubbed the panting boy's back. "The Mother told you to never run again, didn't she? You look five steps from passing out now." The thumb of the rub brushed Derik's neck.

"No, don't touch me!" He squirmed to the floor.

"Sorry, I forgot, son." The elder offered the sheets off the bed to comfort young shoulders instead, and invited Derik to sit again.

"I— she was dying, beaten nearly to death. She may have even been dead. She— she couldn't breathe. If— if I left her... It just seemed like there was nothing I could do for her. Any help I could possibly bring would be too late. She would live or die, with or without me. I felt so, useless."

"If there was nothing you could do, then you did the right thing running home."

"No. It— it was more important than that. It— it seemed like it was the single most important decision I would ever make. It was just so... I don't know. I just wish I could have seen her face. I wish I knew who she was, why she was so, important." The folded sheets rested between child's trembling back and the elder's comforting arm.

"Then, this dream wasn't about me." The elder put the notebook back.

"No, I don't think so, but this was the most horrible yet. It— a child was stuck on a tree, an enormous animal was ripped apart, and a man was reduced to a lump on the dirt. And this woman... this hurt, dying woman. I just keep feeling— can't get past that of everything I'd just seen, something bigger than... I, I just don't know."

"That's easy enough, she must have been one of ten."

"I guess, but it seemed— just seemed more important than that."

"Son, even with your little talent, you're not more valuable than that. Little is left to this world more valuable than that."

"I, I know but, I just think— it's, it's more than that. What happens next is still foggy but it, it always ends with tiny birds. Two of them, just hovering."

"It's just a dream, Derik, a warning like all the rest that have yet to come true. Besides, birds are a sign of good luck, I've told you that," the elder said.

"It wasn't so lucky for them, or the birds, hunted for a hundred years, nearly extinct now."

"Yes yes, that's why it's lucky. Tell me, Derik, when have you seen a bird flying in the sky or chirping from a tree?"

"Never."

"I'm sixty years old, and I've never seen one. The only birds I've ever seen were those spared his wrath, breeding chickens."

"I just don't understand. This is the sixth night in a row I've had this dream. It has to mean something."

"Yes, maybe it does. But you'll have to remember more of it, if you want me to help you. A where or a when, or even a who."

"Yes sir."

"Now then, you need your sleep. Go on now, and walk this time, it's a long way. Rest that little talent of yours, we'll have need of it in the morning."

"Yes sir." He paused by the edge of the elder's bed. "Do I have to? What I mean to say, sir, I think it may be... I think— I just can't sleep."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"I just— when I close my eyes, I can still see all those visions. I, I just can't seem to relax enough in a room full of other children to get it out of my mind."

"I'll see what I can do. If it were anyone else, I would never consider it, but you have been proving quite valuable of late. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed."

"If it weren't for my talent, they would never have let me in this building, let alone your room."

"Go on now. I'll discuss this with the others in the morning, at a more proper hour."

"Yes sir, sorry sir." Derik closed the door on his way back to his bed, in a far more crowded room.

Breathing, snoring, rustling restlessness filled this room packed with children. It was one of the largest rooms of the village and was filled with bunk beds, leaving barely enough room to walk between bed and neighboring bed. All the sickly children like him were in this room, with never less than a handful of them always coughing. The trick... the trick to sleeping in a room such as this had always been hard work just before bed. The more chores he did, the faster and sounder sleep would be. It had worked for years, until...

Lying down on his bed, he stared at the bunk above. Life had been so simple. Work the fields, check the animal traps, school for a few hours, all this, broken up by meals and games outside with his friends. Games, childhood always starts and ends with games.

He had never been well enough to play, or big enough for that matter. A strong push or a shove to the ground, and that would be where he would lie for the hour. All those of his age just outgrew him, but they were still his friends. He watched, kept score, and, when able, would give them advice. Hunches at first, like 'I think it'll be best if you faked left but went right,' but soon they were full visions, and he always managed to be near where the ball was found. It wasn't long before guesses couldn't be just lucky, and adults had a way of knowing everything children tried to hide from view.

They had been waiting for someone like him to be born. Most that shared his cough-filled room were not normal; either like the girls, so messed up inside that only one out of ten could ever have children; or like some of those that never reached his age, deformed arms or missing limbs, defective hearts and such. Animals were equally affected but could be killed and eaten, children that couldn't work consumed lots of care and food. Distortions compounded over the generations, man just had fewer of them, so far.

He held the pillow tight to both ears, but was still unable to sleep with the noise filtering through. Mere hours left until they would come for him again, as they did every morning. He could only see the better part of eight hours through the eyes of someone he touched, but that was enough to give them an edge. With it, he could foresee all the land one man could scout in a day, one day in any — in every — direction. Through visions, a scout and he could cover the same ground just as thoroughly as twenty could, and Derik never had to leave the village to do it. In fact, sadly, he was never allowed to leave the safety of the village walls, too valuable to be allowed outside, yet, often too sick to sleep in one of the other rooms with those more normal children he wished to be.

Yawning was another trick he had learned. He forced another one. If he forced enough of them, first shallow, then deep, as deep as he could, he would be able to fool his body into believing. Soon enough, he was asleep again.

The little girl put her fur-lined slippers on before crossing the floor. "What's wrong with Mom?" she said, careful not to wake the woman asleep between father and quizzical child.

With her outstretched hands, he helped the little one to sit on the pillow by this sleeping woman's head. "Your mother, well, that's a much larger story than it seems." Her sleeping face was obscured from his view. "You have known her only as your mother, I have known her as much more. She saved my life when I was only a few years older than you. It cost her, easily cut her life in half. To look at her, you would not think her capable, but she survived a beating that would kill the strongest man. Now, she sleeps late, sometimes all day. You notice, when the morning is cold, I get the side by the window; when it's warm, she gets the breeze. I wouldn't have it any other way, even if I could. She has the strongest magic I've ever known, and I can prove it." He held the woman's hand, "See that smile?" The little girl had one too. "She managed to share that with you."

"Tell me more, Daddy." She had an adorable smile.

"Derik. Wake up," the birds hummed outside the window? "Derik, wake up." His dream broke away to another room, another day.

"... Yeah." He woke to the elder instead.

"It's time, let's go."

He was led from the room.

One at a time, he touched their hands, reading scouts, hunters, trackers, and such for hours at a time. It was a dizzying blur of visions similar to dreams in a way, but compressed, hours into seconds and always all the possibilities laid atop one another in a jumbled mess, almost painful to sort out. This was his job now. In the short time he was in this role, he had saved three lives and countless hours of everyone's time.

"She uh, this isn't about you," Derik said, "but Elaine. Tell her before you leave today to be careful of sharp edges, something on the loom, I think. It's not clear, but it'll cut her hand real bad. Just, just warn her please. That may be enough."

The next in line took his hand and waited while Derik tried to unjumble the vision.

"The path out back, down by the creek—" Some visions like this one made it hard to keep his balance. The man caught Derik's fall with a massive hand on his shoulder. "Sorry. It's a big game trail by a large, rotted tree stump, the one swarming with bees. I, for some reason I can't— it's blurry when and where, but you'll get it by the end of the day, unlike those fresher tracks along the closer paths. Sorry I can't be more helpful."

His favorite elder walked over, then waved the rest of the line out of the room. "Thanks everyone, we'll do this again tomorrow. Remember to find me after dinner and tell me of the results of today's little test."

He sat with Derik on the bench, offering a hug for the boy holding a pounding head.

"You did good today, much better details just over the last few months. And Alice was very grateful for yesterday, as I'm sure these people will be. You should be proud." He patted the boy on the back. "The headache should pass in an hour or so, like always. Don't worry, I'll stay until it does. We'll just sit and talk." The pat turned back to a casual hug.

Derik was just thankful when it was finally over, either by exhaustion or just the end of the needed touch that let them cloud his mind.

"We talked it over and put it to a vote." The elder led Derik down the hall and past the rooms reserved for adults. "Here you go," he said, opening the door before they stepped inside.

A large desk was against one wall, a bunk bed against the other. "For me?"

"Yes yes, I convinced them it would be easier this way. We can reach you at any time, and only a short walk from our rooms. And look over here." The elder gestured to the chair and desk. "These dreams you've been having again, the ones you believe are so important," there were sheets of paper, chicken feathers, and bottled ink on the desk, "I want you to write them down, draw them if you can. They may be related to your gift in a way that hasn't revealed itself yet. If you need more, come see me, but not so late at night, ok?"

"Thank you."

"I'll send someone for those boxes along the wall and on the top bunk, as soon as we find a place to put 'em. Oh, by the way, I told The Mother of your restless sleep, and she said this might help." The elder pulled a stuffed toy dog from a drawer before leaving.

Good, this was good. He explored his new room. It was small but quiet, oh so beautifully quiet; his sanctuary from the coughs, the sneezes, the snores breathed by others. He held the stuffed dog. He was a bit too old for such things, the joke it must have been, comforting all the same. Easy dreams, easy dreams now.

A garden in the clearing, stalks of corn, heads of lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, and such; all fully grown, all rotted to the ground. The trees, bushes, hip high grass, even a patch of tulips overgrown with dandelions lay dead, all within sight of a modest log house. Two women and a man stood outside the cabin hidden in the woods. The two girls looked so sad when they stepped inside to find an old, lightly gray-haired man in the arms of a younger woman. The couple had been dead for some time on a handmade bed, her face hidden, whispering something in his ear. He was far more decomposed than she, except where they embraced, where he remained perfectly preserved. They covered the bodies with a time-faded quilt found at the foot of the bed. Lifted by the sheets beneath them, the bodies were carried outside and down a path through the trees to a pile of seasoned wood by the edge of a pond. The fire burned until dawn, embers and ash. The girls' embrace was all that lingered while the dream drifted away.

This time he did his best to sketch and write it all down. The elder would want to see this one; it may have been of him and his younger wife. It was much easier to fall asleep, alone in his silent room. Perhaps the elder was right, writing it down was just as comforting and a lot less exhausting than waking the only decent elder late at night.
**B4.C2**

The dreams kept coming until the papers in his desk resembled an illustrated book. His power had grown clearer with each passing month, while the headaches grew worse every year. The elder had been helping him use and refine the talent to make more sense of the jumble and focus on the visions of value.

Strangers, newcomers for trade and barter, this was where he really shined. He would read the scout or the first person to meet them, to get a feel for the strangers. Then, and only then, he would touch their future at the gate. If they stayed no longer than the range of his vision, he could all but guarantee what they would and wouldn't do. And, as an added bonus, he could tell beforehand the best deal these traders would accept. A job, a decision elders used to have, was now on this boy, with elders reserving a veto vote. He was not ready for such a heavy responsibility, and just wanted back the days when he was just another boy.

In the few years of life with his new room, he had saved them from a band of thieves in guise of traders, found numerous lockets and other dropped or lost items in the woods, saved them from bouts with spoiled or sick game, and even singled out three breeding pigs to be separated from the rest of the healthy stock, days before an outbreak would have endangered the herd.

It was his greatest feat to date. Neither he nor the best handlers could tell before they became sick, and none could tell the difference among dozens of pigs. That was when the solution came to him, paint numbers on them. Twenty, forty-six, and twelve, he still remembered the numbers after all this time. They even argued for hours, doubted him for days. That ended after those three were separated, got sick, then died.

"Derik," one of his friends sat across from him at the lunch table, "I'm glad I got a chance to catch up with you. It's so hard, now that the elders have you reading everyone."

"It's good to see you, too. I wish I could just go back to the way it was when—"

"And give up a room of your own? Few adults get a room of their own unless they're—"

"Yeah, it's the only good side to all this."

"Hey, what you doing after lunch?"

"I uh, they got me doing some more readings," Derik said.

"Oh, so it's not all used up yet? I remember when you could do only three or four a day."

"Yeah, it's a lot stronger. It doesn't go away with the first few touches now, and I can't even describe the headaches it leaves me with."

"Sorry to hear that." He played with the food on the plate. "I uh— was hoping, I uh..."

Derik held out his hand.

"Thanks. I don't know how to talk her into— what to say to her to get her to... You know." He reached across the table and took Derik's offer.

"Start with a compliment on her shirt, she made it a few days ago, she'll tell you about it when you ask. Just listen mostly, and remember, it'll come in handy later, a well-timed question that shows you were listening. Then, later tonight, bring her a fresh cucumber from when you worked the field. Already be eating it when you meet, excuse your rudeness, and ask if she'd like to share it with you."

"A cucumber?"

"Yeah, I know, it sounds odd doesn't it?" Derik said. "But it's one of her favorites. Don't ask me why."

"But what do I say then?"

"It doesn't matter that much, just ask her about her day, a part of it you don't know about. Just ask something that shows you're listening, just keep her talking. What, doesn't matter; from there you're guaranteed to get at least a kiss."

"But I wanted to get—"

"I know. I could tell you the shortcut you want, but she's— I think you'll find she's more than just a cute girl. I think you'll find her look on life more interesting than you think."

"But you told Brian exactly what to say to—"

Derik released the touch. "Brian is 6'3" and 200 pounds, and could break me like a twig. And he's seventeen. We're not even in our teens, kissing should be enough for you."

They were wanderers, refugees on the run, lost for years. A tattered group of twenty now, with little left to trade, their story was of a raided village, most of their warriors dead. Any women of value had been accepted at the first decent place they happened upon. All that had made it here were the old, the injured, and the children. His elders wanted to turn them away, long before they got to the gate.

"What will it hurt? I need more experience at this, especially with strangers I've never read before. Besides, they might have something of value a scout wouldn't know to ask about," Derik said.

"Yes, well, very well. But as a practice exercise only, then we send them on their way," the elder said.

One by one, he touched their hands and watched their jumbled futures he cared nothing about. He wanted— he needed this. It was the only way to get rid of the headaches that left soon after his power dried up. Old men, old women, a few children about his age, each added visions with the touch of a hand... to the last two of this long line. An elder from this other tribe, his visions faded, only one more to go. The last one was a girl about his age.

She resembled the slippered child in his dream. He looked at her for a few minutes longer, trying to make sure before asking, "Have I, do I know you?" He was actually excited.

She said nothing, but she smiled the same smile from his dream. He touched her hand. Clear. Hers was not the jumbled mess he was accustomed to, and was not just to the end of the day, but a full week to come. Clearest of all, in all the visions he sorted before, none of them would be allowed to stay, but in hers— they all would. He failed to overcome the urge to touch her face, one hand on each cheek, his thumbs touching where the corners of her smile briefly were. He wanted — needed — could not help but touch those cheeks for as long as she would allow. Tickle, tingle, fascinated by the flood of feelings he had expected, could almost feel, but were not real. All that was real was the changing expression on her face. She was getting mad, fast. He had to— He wanted... he let go.

"I, I'm sorry. I, I didn't mean any harm." He excused himself to talk to his elders. He had to get them in. He had to, for her.

"... and you can't tell us why, yet you demand we accept them all. That's twenty mouths to feed, and for what? Old men and women, kids and cripples? We can't just take in every group you have a good feeling about. This is why we make the decisions, not you," one of his least favorite elders said.

"Please," Derik said, "at least let them stay for one day, till I can find out why. It'll give you a chance to talk to their elder," the last man Derik had touched, "At least listen to him, he might be better able to tell what I can't."

"Leave, we will consider this."

"I think— I think it is what they know, not what they have."

"Wait in your room." The door closed behind him, but the arguments traveled down the hall.

It went on for almost an hour, only hearing every third or fourth word. They sent for the elder he mentioned and listened to his words, then argued for another hour.

"Derik, they want to talk to you again." The elder held his hand while they walked back to the conference room.

"If you believed in my hunch, could you talk 'em into it?"

He had the future winning words now. When the door closed, he said them.

In class, there were only desks and chairs enough for those of his tribe. The children of the other were left to stand or sit on the floor. Math, reading, writing, and handcrafting skills, the new kids seemed far ahead of his friends in all of these. His mind was not on the lessons of the day, but a singular focus on that familiar girl. To look at her, she was no more attractive than any other, even a little plain. Her voice, when called, hardly drifted off the floor, but she was right in every answer she gave. What was it about her?

Her elder was most protective of her, an obligation to her mother, he had said. She seemed very sad as Derik studied her from across the room. She had lost her parents, he overheard that much from the meeting, but what of it? He had met his parents only a handful of times, like everyone here. He knew who they were, but as soon as he was weaned, this woman that taught the class and the elders raised him. If his parents died tomorrow, what would it matter? He hardly knew them. It would hurt no worse than the loss of any other member of his tribe, maybe less. Why was it so different for her? Most, if not all, the children of her tribe could say the same and were not so sad.

He would know soon enough.

This was the last meal of the day. He had saved a space for her, but she passed him by to sit in the far back of the room, near the rest of her people. He was left to eat with his friends. With each fork of food, his mind lingered on her. Why was she so interesting to him? By the eventual end of the plate, his lingering thoughts had to know.

He sat beside her, "What does the elder owe your mother?"

"Don't talk about my mother." She slid away.

"I was just wondering why you're so special to him."

"I'm so special I get to eat what only the pigs out back have yet to pass up."

"No, I was there. He owes your mother something."

"Please don't talk about her."

"Look, it's been bugging me since this morning. Please, just a hint."

She got up.

"Wait. I, I'm sorry." He grabbed her arm. "I, we got off to a bad start. I'm sorry. I didn't, I don't want to upset you." Clear visions rushed in.

"Let go of me."

He did. "I, I'm sorry."

"Can I just finish this in peace, please?"

"Of course."

She sat down.

He watched her eat, one fork at a time, until she was done. "I just, did you ever live in a log cabin?"

"Just a room."

"Uh, you been traveling long?"

"A few years."

"A few years. That's pretty far, even walking. You ever seen an ocean?"

"Just a drawing of one."

"That's all I've ever seen, but I think I'd like to see one some day. I'd like to hear how it sounds, just once, but I never will. They don't let me out much anymore. They seem to think I'm special, too."

"Do they teach you two classes a day, or just the one?"

"Just the one."

"That's surprising," she said, "this is the second time I've had to tell you I'm not special, and you don't look any closer to getting it."

"Ok ok! How about a bird? Ever seen one, other than chickens that is?"

"What is it with you? Have I somehow given you the impression that I wanted to talk to you?"

"No—"

"Then what? What is it!"

"Look it, I—" How best to explain? "You ever get that odd feeling—"

"Yeah, I'm getting one right now. It's telling me to get up and start walking away."

"Please, just let me finish."

"Quickly."

"Back at the gate, when I first met you, it didn't feel like the first time for me. They, I can see the future. I'm not good at it, don't really understand it, or even why most of the time. I, it's why they don't let me outside anymore."

"That's sad and all, but I don't see what that, or you, has to do with me."

"I saw something in your future. I, I don't know how to tell you. You see, in a few days, you're going to have this dream about your mother, and—"

"Stay out of my head." She ran from the room.

Catching her in the hall, "Wait. Please, let me finish." He grabbed her hand. "Your mother—"

"No, you don't talk about her!" She closed her eyes and tried to force him from her head.

"You, misunderstand. A dream... about... your mother—" Swept into the vision, he let go of her hands for her cheeks again. Feelings so strong he couldn't help but— What was he— He was kissing her!

The rest was a blur.

His lips were stinging as he coughed dirt and sand from the floor. Unsure how he had ended face down, he tried to wipe his bloodied lip, but ground the dirt in deeper instead. A man struggled at each of her arms, just to hold her still, while a third helped him stand. "No. She didn't— It was my fault," he said. "Let her go." Then more to her, "I'm sorry," but she was already gone. He could have chased her but rethought it, going to his favorite elder instead.

Night came before he finally got back to his room, the light from the hall's oil-lamp hinting at the shapes inside. He closed the door behind him, took one step in, then waited for his eyes to adjust.

Another's worn shoes were placed tight and neat by the foot of the bed. Hand-washed socks dried on the footboard of the top bunk near clothes folded in a pile by bare feet. He stepped closer.

A weathered leather bag leaned against the wall by the desk. A short rope sewn to the bottom of the feed-sack-sized bag made a shoulder strap when its end tied the top closed. His eyes were better able to see now, shades of black and white. The top bunk had never been used before, he was used to making as much or as little noise as he wanted. He wanted— He tried to be quiet.

Another step. He could see even better now, but didn't need to. He knew who it was, a part of the deal his elders made with that other tribe. Her tribe. He just wanted to look at her now, for a few moments more. The room was just as quiet as it had ever been, unsure if she even breathed. "I know you," he said, sure she wouldn't wake. She was facing him, sleeping on her side, back against the wall. She was about his height and about his size; he was a little small for his age. He stood and watched, trying to remember every detail of this day.

How odd it must have seemed, vengeful even. Her elder was outraged by his last-minute demand. It was the girl, the special girl. He could have any other, the elder said, but that was not the deal they made. She was the one who flattened him hours before, now she was a gift, like decoration or any other possession for his room. He knew this was right, the only choice he had left to make, but this sleeping girl would not understand. He stepped closer. He could touch her now, should he want.

Her head rested on hands, folded like a prayer for sleep. No pillow, a long-sleeve shirt instead of a sheet, no covers of any kind, knees bent, she looked so small lying on the bed, at best she used only a third of its length. His hand was so close he could feel the warmth of her cheek, slight smile on her face. But he didn't touch, knew better than to touch her. He just continued to look, for now.

He sat on the bunk beneath her, took off his shoes, then started to undress. He placed his shoes next to hers, instead of his usual kicking them a smell-safe distance into the room. He held one of hers in his hand. The sole was worn thin and broken under the arch where a strip of leather was sewn. Soft and equally worn, she could feel every stone or twig she walked on. Leather added enough length in the center to extend a child's shoe to fit this growing girl. The laces were made from the knotted-together remains of shorter ones. He put it back.

"Derik, it's time." The elder said, then to the top bunk, "And you have chores, go see The Mother." The elder left.

"I'm sorry," he said before she had a chance to find out.

"You!" she said from the floor by her shoes. She stepped backward toward the desk. "I don't want anything to do with you, don't you get that?" In the light, he could see the purple on the knuckles of her hand.

"How'd you get the black-eye?"

"It was a thank-you from one of your friends for beating the crap out of you, something I'm tempted to do again."

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kiss—"

"No one's going to come save you this time. I'm not taking that kind of crap off you, whoever you think you are."

"I'm sorry." When he finished getting dressed, he slid the worn shoes to her.

"I like to put the socks on first, what have they been teaching you around here, that you can just kiss anyone you want and you can put socks on after shoes?"

"Sorry." He reached for her dry socks, worn worse than her shoes. "Take some of mine, the second drawer over there."

"I don't want anything of yours, just toss me my stuff so I can leave."

"Look, I can get you a pillow, some sheets, some new clothes and shoes. We're going to be—"

"There is no we. I don't want anything from you, just leave me alone." She yanked her socks from his hand.

"Ok ok, look, just calm down for a minute— I said I was sorry. I don't normally go around kissing people, and I didn't mean to kiss you, you mean little girl."

"Mean I can show you, keep asking."

"Look, just listen for a minute. I've never kissed anyone in my—"

"I can tell."

"Are you going to let me finish?" he said. "Ok. What I'm trying to say is that for some reason I just couldn't help myself— But that's, that's not the point. I— You and I are going to be sharing this room for a long time, make the best of this, Dana. I can help you, I already have, just... not yet."

"I don't want your help, I never asked for your help, and I'm not staying here with you." She slammed the door on her way out.

In the field that her tribe worked picking the crop and pulling weeds, she sought and found the only elder of her tribe.

"... Look, Dana, Derik is— he seems like a decent enough young man. You know, they were going to throw you and the rest of us out because of that little incident—" her elder said.

"He started it, he k—"

"And it doesn't matter to anyone. You know what it's like outside these walls, there were more than fifty of us when we left. You know how many we lost getting—"

"But he—"

"Shut up." He stood. "Do not argue with me, this is not up to you. You will stay in his room and you will not hit him again, I don't care what he says or does to you, understand? This is beyond who started what and who's right or wrong."

She stared at the pile of weeds on the ground.

"He means a lot to these people, you will treat him decently and with respect. You are representing us. He talked them into taking us in twice now, that's more lives than your pride is worth. He is why we have a roof over our heads, he's why we're not still wandering aimlessly in the woods. I can't help you here, Dana. I've done all I can for you. I have no say left with them.

Look at it this way; you get your own room that you don't have to share with thirty other children. You don't have to wait for hand-me-downs that everyone else has passed up. Make the best of this, Dana, you don't have a say." He took a calm, deep breath. "You are a smart, attractive young lady, just like your mother was. She was right in her choice, the choices she made. We were wrong. We were the ones who wronged her. But, it doesn't matter. It didn't change anything. Doing what's right doesn't mean you get to survive. She wanted you to survive. She handed you to me and went back inside so you would survive. You are just as smart and just as stubborn. She was right, we were wrong. She and her husband are the ones who died while we lived.

You are at the beginning of your life, the start of our stay. Long, hard, easy, or short, you are smart enough to know how to choose. This will be what you make of it. You. Not him. Not me. It's time you acted your age and grew up."

"Yes sir."

She returned to working the field.

She looked at the desk, her leather bag beside it. Everything she had in life fit in that tattered bag. Everything else in the room was his; the desk, the chair, the beds, the dirty clothes tossed in a pile by the door. He even had two pairs of shoes, she had just what was on her feet. He had a drawer full of socks, pants, shirts and such, stain free and no hints of holes. Make the best of it, she had been told. She sat on his bed, his stuffed dog pulled to her lap.

Make the best of it. Big, floppy ears were sewn to its misshapen head, its feet and tail were too large for a body that small. It was deformed and mismatched, made from parts of older, discarded toys, all that had survived of countless childhood bad dreams. Its patches stitched into one oddly comforting, pathetically cute, stuffed dog.

She climbed to the bunk above where she found a pillow, a folded sheet, and a new pair of shoes stuffed with pairs of socks. A small note rested on top of the pile, her name written above the fold.

—The Note—

Sorry. I had no right to kiss you. Let me make it up to you. I won't pretend there is any reason or excuse I could use to justify what I can't undo. It is important to me what you think. I don't like you thinking I'm a bad person. I'm not. I want to make it up to you. Let me. Please.

She looked over the pile again, read the letter again, and wondered what did he want, what did he expect from her in return? She knew what he wanted. She was not that young. Grow up. She did not wish to grow up this way. Of all the doors that she passed and the other rooms down this hall, they were the youngest. Rooms of couples, some married, some otherwise, but this was the grownup part of the building. The only comfort she found in all of this were the bunk beds, two beds instead of one.

The elders had him until late that night. Again, silent as possible, he entered the room. He stood and stared in the black and white he could see her by, asleep on the bed. Damp socks on the footboard, bare feet, bent knees, hands for a pillow under her head, and a shirt for a sheet like the night before. The pile and note were at the foot of his bed, but he just looked at her more. Studied her. He had missed something... a darker shade of gray on her upper arm, not hidden by nightshirt. He moved the pile to the desk, then undressed for bed.

His hand touched the underside of her bunk where he remembered her head to be. "You could forgive me, you just don't want to."

"The price is too high."

"Forgiveness is free."

"Then it's worthless."

"What can I do, to make this right? There has to be something."

Nothing.

"You can't forgive a mistake?" he said.

"I won't— I don't want your things."

"A pillow, some cloth? I'm not foolish enough to believe that— If I hadn't, I— I would have gotten that for you even if I had never kissed you."

"I might have accepted it if you hadn't."

"I'm not perfect, Dana. I'm just like everyone else; I make mistakes. I think, in my life thus far, this wasn't even a very big one."

"I'm glad ruining my life isn't a very big deal for you."

He pulled back his hand. "How'd you get the bruise on your arm?"

"In light of little mistakes, I think you'd call it, compassion."

"I know someone hit you but, I guess, I should have asked why."

"Jealous of my shoes, most likely."

"Because you hit me."

"I never thought of that. That's very perceptive, for you."

"Dana, I'm— I, I'm too tired for this. I don't want to fight with you, it's clear enough I'd lose. I just wanted to talk to you, is that such a terrible thing? Can I talk to you in the morning, after I've had at least a little sleep?"

She didn't say no.

"Thank you," he said to her silence.

She woke before morning to the scratching sounds of him sketching another of the papers he kept in the drawer.

"Is this your way of waking me up?" she said, perched on the top bunk.

"I uh, no. Uh, you can go back to sleep if you want." He labored on the page. "I, I've had these dreams, ever since the first time I used my talent. I've been keeping a, a journal, if you will. I mostly just keep the repeating ones, some of the ones with birds. I— the elder thinks they might mean something, later on."

"I'm up now."

He finished the page, then put it on the top of the stack in the drawer. "I know what my mistake was now, I should have talked to you in the morning, you're a little less violent in the morning."

"That's because nobody's irritated me in the last six hours or so, but you're getting an early start."

"Look, I don't need two pillows, more socks won't fit in my drawer, and my feet are way too big for those shoes. I know you hate me and everything, but could you please find someplace to keep 'em."

"What about the sheets?"

"Oh, I can always use new sheets."

"I thought it was a package deal, are you sure you can just break 'em up like that?"

"Oh, absolutely. That was last night's deal, this is a completely different one."

"Funny, it sounds the same."

"No, if it was the same, there would have been sheets with it." He looked at her from the chair, "I deserved it when you hit me. You still mad about it?"

"Not as much."

"You're still not going to take 'em, are you?"

Her silence was a clear no.

"You're a little closer to a yes this time, aren't you?"

"Maybe." She restrained a smile.

"You smile in your sleep, did you know?"

"You know what that means?" unrestrained this time, "I wasn't dreaming of you."

"That was a good one."

"I don't hate you. Not yet, anyway."

"Then there's hope after all."

"Was that all you wanted to say to me?"

"No." But he just looked at her more. "Look. I guess— I've been alone in this room for a few years now. The quiet was great for sleep, and my headaches are much less, but— all I ever get to talk to is adults, the elders and such. I miss someone my age. I still have friends that I get to talk to at lunch and five minutes here or there, but I never get to play anymore. I don't even get to argue anymore."

"I can argue." Her smile was cuter than the child of his dream.

"I've noticed." He walked to the head of the bed, "Can I touch you?"

Her closest hand formed a fist.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just, I just want to see when they'll be coming for me. How much time I have left with you, that's all."

"You want a replay of— Maybe I didn't hit you hard enough. I don't have to stop just because you're on the ground, I can stomp on you some if you think it'll help you remember."

"I'll control myself, I promise."

"No."

"Ok ok, I guess I should have expected that." He lay down. "You don't like me now, but you will. I can wait."

"It'll take mountains more than time."

Again, she passed him by for a seat at the back of the lunchroom. Again, he left his seat to sit in back with her, carrying a tray of the choicest foods in his hand. He sat on the seat to her side, or rather, what it really was, an exhausted picnic table dragged indoors to accommodate the new numbers. He waited for her fingers to leave the tray before he exchanged it with his. "Here, you're so special, you get what I've passed over today." He started to eat from her plate of mostly gristle and scraps as fast as he could.

"I don't want any of this, especially from you."

"This isn't the best deal I've made today either, but you don't see me complaining."

"Give me my plate back."

He forked faster.

"You just don't give up, that's a bad combination with not having a clue."

Faster still.

"Fine then." She pushed the tray to arm's length, then stared at it while she sipped her drink.

"Dana, I was thinking that if everyone sees I'm not mad at you, then it's harder for them to hold a grudge against you. I don't like wondering where the next bruise will be, worrying about what's going to happen to you for something that was my fault. You don't have to like me, eating that doesn't mean you do. You can always hate me in the room."

Nothing.

"If it helps, you can think of it as a plate of scraps passed over by a swine, it's about how I feel right now."

She started to eat.

"They want to trade us these vegetables and seeds for some of our breeding pigs," the elder said.

"It's a good deal for them, the food's tainted. Not exactly poisoned, but everyone who eats it will be sick by morning," Derik said off to the side, yet another deal his talent helped them with.

She punted his shoes across the room, thudding the wall under his bed. By the look in her eyes, she may well have been aiming the inches higher at his sleeping head. "Can't you keep your crap from the middle of the floor?" she asked.

"Sorry, I'm not used to living with—"

"This wasn't my idea, Derik."

"They're just shoes, Dana. It's not the end of the world." He fished for them between the bed and wall, "You're definitely a morning person."

"When you lived with a roomful of other kids, you didn't just toss your shoes into the middle of the room, did you? You think I'm your maid, your personal errand girl? You think less of me than a roomful of people you couldn't stand— That you begged and pleaded to get away from."

"No, of course I don't—"

"Then why do you treat me so! You act like you're desperate to be friends, you make this big show of it at lunch in front of everybody, only to find the real you, here, where I'm the only one who'll see."

"They're just shoes, Dana. I won't— I'll try not to do it again." He pressed the damp washcloth over his eyes when he lay down, "I have a lot of respect for you, I'm just very tired. Can I just get some sleep? I promise I'll do something worse tomorrow, so you can yell at me again."

He could feel her, still angry, on the bunk above. She was more upset by the events at lunch than by his shoes, just the shoes were clearly wrong. The sounds of her changing clothes put other thoughts in his head. She would be madder than she was about the kiss by morning. An extra swig of water would ensure he woke first.

The socks she had washed must have fallen off the bed last night. She searched the floor by her shoes— those weren't her shoes. They were gone too! She made a purple-knuckled fist and looked around for someone to hit. "You little..." but all she could find was that pathetic, stuffed dog, and it did anything but make her mad. A pair of socks were rolled up and stuffed in one shoe. She should have expected this, but didn't. She should have hated him for yesterday, but couldn't. He was trying so hard. She had chores.

He wasn't there for lunch, or school. She didn't see him for the rest of the day, but she knew where he would be that night.

"You threw them out, didn't you?" she said.

"Yes."

"They weren't yours."

"You can hurt me if you want, hit me if you want, I kinda expect you will." He closed his eyes and braced himself.

"I'm not going to hit you, now. This morning, maybe. Probably. But not now."

He stepped within her reach.

"I'm not your toy, Derik."

"I know that."

"I like that you try, but I just want to be left alone."

"To be that sad little girl I met at the gate? You were so lonely, so sad. Heartbreaking, just to look at you then. It reminded me of how lonely I had become. I like you, Dana." He stared for a moment, oh but if she were a toy. "You're going to have that dream about your mother tonight that I—"

"Stay out of my head." She moved to the edge of the bed, closest hand a fist.

"Ok ok— I'm not in your head. I'm sorry, I know your moth— she's a topic that's off limits."

"You have your room, your desk, your drawers full of clothes. I had my one pair of shoes, my one pair of socks, and the clothes on my back. They weren't much, I know that. But they were mine. This whole village is your village; everything I have left is in your room. Your room. You think it was trash, you treat me the same. You're more than doubly wrong."

"I don't, you're not— I don't think—"

"I don't care what you think, I find it hard to believe you ever do. Just promise you'll never throw out anything of mine again."

He handed her the pillow and sheet from the desk, "I think we can make a deal on that. This was my room, it's our room now."

"Just because you say it is? It'll never be my room, or our room, Derik. This," the pile he had handed her, "will always be yours, not mine. Because of you, I can't walk outside that door without being reminded— How much worse will it be if I... I can't."

"And what will you do when the rest of your clothes wear out? I wouldn't object if you were walking around naked, or barefoot for that matter, but you don't have to, you shouldn't have to. Nobody should."

She just sat, looking at him from the bunk above.

"I would much rather see you in just a nightshirt. If you were half as mean as it first seemed, you would have taken the sheets from day one." That managed to win a faint smile from her. "Pleasant dreams."

He went to bed, under hers.

If he concentrated, focused that talent of his, he believed he could see through the wood and mattress above. The pile remained unused by her head, her folded hands in place of a pillow again. He could feel her looking at them, his desk, and the rest of the room. She had made her decision for this night; she would not touch them. But she would not toss them from the bed either. She didn't want to feel indebted to him, in any way. She didn't like being on this hall, or in his room. She wanted to be normal, and in that, they shared a common dream. It would happen tonight, or wouldn't tonight, mere hours away.

"Mom, what's wrong?" the little girl said while crossing the small room toward this beautiful, sad woman, sitting on the bottom bunk.

The woman pulled the girl onto her lap and rubbed her back with one hand. "Your father's dead." The child's crying eyes were hidden within her mother's embrace.

"... No." Neither could stop the tears.

She cradled the girl for minutes, "Your father... your father loved you. He told you every day." She kissed this sad little girl on the forehead. "We will miss him, but we won't stop loving him, he won't love us less just because he's dead. Love lasts longer than life." The woman eventually lay down with the child, still in her embrace, mother's endless rub on the smallest of backs. "We will always love you," she continued repeating to the sleeping child.

Fog. Thick, leafy brush she pushed through. Faster, looking, searching for— It opened to a clearing, an overgrown field of forgotten steel things. Red stains discolored the once white stone these relics rusted on. She walked slower, her arm outstretched to touch the hole torn through a long dead tank.

Its slumped tube pointed from a time-forgotten turret, frozen to the same aim for hundreds of years. All these rusted dead of the field stopped in unison at the same moment in time the blue night sky was born. She stepped toward a familiar voice. "You are all that is left of the love your father and I shared." She turned to face the woman of the earlier embrace.

"Mom. I had just found— I was searching for you. I lo—"

"I know, dear." A kiss, an embrace, and more words this girl wouldn't hear. She had all she needed, all she wanted, her mother, even if it was just a dream.

"Get off me." She shoved him to the wall.

"Look—" his hands on her foot, "where—" her foot against his neck, "you—" his head pressed to the wall, "are."

She looked, then let go.

He gasped as his breath slowly returned. "You'll have to," he wiped choked tears from his eyes, "show me, that one again. That's the second time, I knew— could see what was coming, and was unable to stop it."

"What am I... sorry." She sat at the foot of the bottom bed.

"Wait." His hand stopped her retreat. "I, I saw her too. She, she was very beautiful, with fine, shoulder length, reddish-brown hair. She looks like you, except yours is almost black. She was your mother wasn't—"

"How did I get here?"

"You, just climbed down. I, this was the vision I saw when I touched you at the gate. I tried to warn you, but, kissed you instead." He let go of her hand. "I know— I can see why you miss her now."

She just sat, knees tucked under her chin, looking away from him.

"You used to have a, the bottom bunk. I can see why they said— why they would say you, deserved, what they... It would have made you even sadder, locked you away in that lonely— It doesn't matter. That's not you anymore. Sometimes it works." He slid closer to her. "Talk to me."

She stared at the desk.

"Please don't hold it inside. That's not who you are, that's not who you want to be."

"What did you see?"

"At the gate, or in the dream?"

"Gate."

"You don't want... I, uh, you climbed into his bed. He, uh, was much bigger than I, am. He held your wrists in one hand, covered your mouth with the other. He took better advantage of your dream. The others, they... they cheered him on. One even, joined... You were just, one of those girls of that other tribe. I'm not big enough to stop them, but I could change the path you were— It doesn't... It's not real, now, just something I remember."

She still wouldn't look at Derik, who couldn't stop looking at her, shades of black and white. "The dream."

"Oh, I almost forgot." He lit the candle and hurried paper from the drawer.

"No." She yanked the feather from him. "It's not yours."

"But it was the most vivid I've ever had. I never dreamed in color before."

"I don't care. It's mine."

"Ok. No, you're right."

"Thank you."

"You thanked me," his hand over his chest, "I'm touched."

She punched him in the arm, a hit that could have been much harder, before she returned to the top bunk. He watched her from his chair at the desk with just a candle to give hints of color to what the darkness had shrouded in shades of gray. He had touched her, had seen the end of all his future words, the best and worst these unspoken things could lead him.

He would not commit these to paper, but to his memories they would stay. She had dreamed of her mother's hand, but it had been his that rubbed her back while her head rested on his boyish chest. Had he not dreamed the same dream, oh, how easy it would have been to misunderstand. She was quite beautiful in the dim light, in her nightshirt with ankles bare, even in shades of gray after he blew the candle out. Covered with a sheet, her head on a pillow, only made him imagine her more. She had two bruises that he knew of, both because of him. Faded, but he remembered where.

Still, she remained quite the sad girl. He had succeeded in preventing her rape but hadn't— He had missed something again. His power gave him an edge, but it didn't give him all the answers. She was still very much a mystery to him. This victory was far from what he wanted.

"I'm not done yet," he said by the head of the bed. "I think there's more to this I'm supposed to help you with. She told you your father died. How did he die, in the raid?"

"He was murdered."

"Why, how?"

"Because, of me."

"That can't be true."

"It is. I killed them."

"How?"

"I was an only child."

"How can that—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Derik, especially not with you. Just stop, ok."

"I know you don't want to, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't tell somebody. She, they wouldn't want—"

"You don't know them any more than you know me."

"I know she loved you. I barely know who my mother, my real mother is."

"Just wake me if it happens again."

"I don't know you, yet. But I'm learning more every day. I know you don't open up to just anyone, that you blame yourself for what happened to your parents. I know you were close to your mother, that there's a warm side behind what you let everyone see. I know you haven't learned how to put on socks after you put on your shoes, and I know I want to know more."

He lay on his bunk, still a few hours before morning chores. She had not been discarded to the floor when done, nothing dripped down her leg while she fixed her shirt and then climbed back to bed, but the rest he had failed to prevent. Silence. Sadness. Dana was the quietest he had ever heard. When he closed his eyes, he could feel another of her memories being made into a dream. He wouldn't tell her of this one.

A woman, her mother, sat on the top bunk in a small room, half the size of his. Her hand was held out to touch the one who had spent most of his life beside her, the one who wasn't there. Days had passed since this woman with puffy red cheeks left her room, their room. The little girl, Dana, set down the plate of food and made her way to the top bunk. The mother welcomed her daughter to the space, the place her husband would never return. This woman who hadn't eaten in days smiled a believable smile to cheer her worried child. She just held and rocked this younger Dana until she fell asleep; the plate would go untouched for another day.

He woke to stare at Dana's wrist, her hand dangled past the edge of the mattress above. Days. It had taken days, but she wore new shoes and slept under a sheet, her head rested on a pillow. She may never believe this to be their room, but he would do everything he could to make it feel like it was. He planned to find the time to come back after she left for chores, a headache usually worked. He would clean out half of his drawers, stuff the dirty clothes into a laundry bag, and make room for her at the desk. He would not win her over all at once, but that didn't mean he couldn't with smaller steps.

He sat up, his fingers less than an inch from hers. He could hear the hints of feelings, lingering in her dreams. Her parents spent a lot of time with her, not a second of it less than a sign of their affection. He stood to look at her sleeping face, so much more relaxed than the nights before. Her legs were stretched out; she no longer slept in the scared, safe little ball he had seen yesterday. She wasn't dreaming of him, a faint smile as she slept. Small steps.

"How can you be sure what would have happened to me?" she said.

"Well, I guess I'm not. It uh, it really depends on a lot of things, I guess. A lot of it I don't understand." He put the feather down. "I— if I find a missing object, it's always in the same place. Like, if someone eats some bad food, it always makes them sick. With things like that, it's almost infallible; with people dying, it's not always the same. All I can do is warn them, usually. But, with you, I was able to do more. So I did."

"What's to say I wouldn't have been able to get away from him?"

"Nothing, I suppose. He has thirty or so pounds on you, and in the vision you only woke up when he had your shirt around your— It doesn't matter. It didn't happen. Just another bad dream of mine now, not yours."

"... I can take care of myself."

"I know."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"What if I wanted to help you?"

"... You could have made the whole thing up."

"You can test it if you want," he said.

"... How?"

"Touch my hand; it's the strongest in the morning."

She did.

"Today, your friend Shela is going to ask to eat with you. She's going to spill her glass in the excitement of a story about a boy she met. How's that?"

"And what if I don't let her sit down? What if I get up and walk away, or slap the plate from her hands— or skip lunch altogether?"

"That would change things." He closed his eyes, "She would be mad at you, wouldn't talk to you for about a week... A week. I've never seen more than a week."

"So."

"It can't be a coincidence. It has to be something about you. Maybe your mind is in a frequency I get, or maybe it's got something to do with your dreams I keep see—"

She pulled back her hand. "They're my dreams, my memories, not yours."

"I would never use them against you. They're very beautiful, somewhat poetic—"

"They're mine, leave them alone."

"I don't try to— I, they just— I can just see them sometimes. I don't try to see the future, it just happens whenever I touch someone. It's not something I can control."

"It better be."

"They're just on the other side of the door," he said, seconds before it opened.

"Derik, they want to see you now." This time it was a messenger, the elders no longer made the effort of the short morning walk.

"I'll be right there." He tied his shoes.
**B4.C3**

Meetings, advice, futures; it was all a jumble. His life began to resemble the visions, a disorganized cloud of hundreds of vague events, crammed into a few seconds that spanned the day. The only consistent sanity he had was this girl he came home to every night. Home. He had never thought of his room as home before. He had lived with her for months now. He even got a perverse pleasure when he argued with her, mostly over meaningless things.

Her dreams had faded from his mind. No longer could he close his eyes and see the memories turned into dreams in her head. But he had seen enough of them, had learned a lot about her through them. He had promised never to use them against her, but that was exactly what he thought of doing now. He couldn't forget them, couldn't ignore them. He had only hoped that in some much larger, hidden way, he was supposed to know them. Like the futures of others, they were something he could use to help.

Her mother had taught her tribe. She taught the scouts how to track, how to hide, what signs to read, and she taught the warriors how to fight. She showed them how to make tools and new uses for the tools they had. Their knowledge doubled because of her mother, this much he learned from others. The skills they shared that proved them worthy of the resources their numbers consumed were the very skills her mother had taught. These tricks increased the efficiency of the scouts they already had, covering more ground than ever before. But these things he didn't need her dreams for, he learned of them the same way as everyone in his tribe. The only difference was that he knew whose mother it was.

Dreams, such personal things, he had a drawer full of them. How easily they could be used against him. Hers were so emotional, so vivid. She loved her mother and her father. It wasn't just words, or actions, or little moments of time memories wrote to the pages of the mind, it was much more. He had nothing to compare.

The Mother had raised him, just like she had everyone else. The minute he was weaned was the last he saw of his birth mother, she was left to focus on having another child. The first math any were taught was the numbers behind how many children were expected of any woman able. It was a necessity to keep the population level. It was encouraged that those who could, should have as many children from as many partners as possible to vary the gene pool. The longest marriage allowed was five years, unless she wasn't one of ten, then they didn't care. Obviously Dana's mother was one of ten, and Dana was proof it wasn't just a fluke birth.

He had distracted himself again while he lay, unable to sleep, on the bed just beneath her. They had grown closer. On those days when he was able, he ate with her. They would sit and talk about chatty, lunchtime things. She still wouldn't sit with him at the better tables with the most comfortable chairs, but she didn't get up and walk away either. It was amazing what he now deemed a success.

He learned what not to say to her. A conversation about her parents was the quickest way to have no conversation at all. But on any of many other topics like school lessons, friends, chores, hobbies, or almost anything else, she proved to be an exceptional conversationalist. And arguments, he found he enjoyed them so much he often picked the other side just to see, to witness firsthand, the depth of conviction she had for her words. But that she had such passion for him.

He had noticed other girls of the tribe. A few months ago, he would have considered them more beautiful, fuller figured, and far more eager to please. Now he would rather argue with her than kiss any of them. Oh, but if he could kiss her again. He lay, looking up from the bunk just beneath her, unable to sleep.

He could hear it again.

He closed his eyes and focused, like picking out the sound of a single drop from a downpour. It took practice, but he had done nothing but practice for the month since her last dream disappeared from his eyes.

Smoke, wood, and burning flesh thickened the air above their heads in the halls. Moans and screams wept from the dying and the dead had made the air thicker still.

Scared— Panicked—

A nightmare to the little girl lost there.

Safe— had to find a place...

Had to find...

Just wanted to be safe... Scared, she ran to her room.

Jumped, stumbled, walked, and crawled,

over friends and pieces of,

spilled across the soaked and slippery floor.

She stepped over heaps and corpses in the corner and sprinted up a flight of steps, the smoke even worse on the floor above. Within sight, it would be within sight now. Safe now, she would be safe now, frightened little girl.

She fell when she saw her mother, sword to sword with a death-faced man.

Faces and skulls were sewn to adorn the armored leather shirt he wore. He made another swing against her mom.

Thwack... Thwack...

Wooden arrow shafts pierced her mother's back.

The skull clad man swatted sword then shield from her mother's failing grip.

She fell to her knees before this much bigger man, in sight of a terrified little girl.

A hollowed skull helmet obscured his face as he put a booted foot to her mother's chest then stomped to the ground. Wooden shafts snapped when they could push their point no further.

"Mom!" Little Dana ran faster, closer.

"Pity." He watched the pink-foam bubble with her mother's last few breaths, "You would have had great, potential." His sword impaled her to the ground.

He struggled to pull it out, but it seemed stuck to the reddening stone beneath her.

He picked up her mother's instead and headed for the child.

The child.

Where to go— Where to go?

Her father, dead.

Her mother, killed before her.

Where could she go, another was already behind her.

Why would she leave? It all seemed so hopeless now.

There was no way out, even should she find a path. Over now, just a few steps away. She curled into a ball and fell to the smallest of spots on the floor. Hands covered eyes too young to see, too late to forget what they already saw. A wordless plea for it to be over soon.

She was scooped up and held tight, moving, carried down the hall.

Thwack! Thwack! Stumble and fall.

Moving again, carried again, until the sound again and another fall.

Stumble again, over again, heartbeat loudest of all.

Sudden stop, handed to another outside.

"I promise," her elder said, young Dana now in his arms. They both watched this woman turn, a wooden shaft for each of the sounds she had heard, protruding from her back. Tiny eyes peered over his shoulder, watching her mother getting smaller. Her only child traded for a sword, a word, and what awaited her return inside.

Out of breath, his heart was pounding faster than after any childhood race. He sat, damp hair adhering to his forehead. What had she lived through? The bodies, the violence, he had only imagined. A dream... a memory... How open could he be, had he lived what was not just a dream for her? Crying, he heard crying from the bunk above.

"Dana. You, all right?" Stupid words, said by him.

She muffled any sounds with a pillow over her face.

"It's ok to be sad." He peeked beneath her pillow. "Just not all the time."

"I have the right, don't you think?"

"Didn't they— oh, I'm sorry, they really should have— I guess I'll have to tell you then. None of your tribe has any rights, not even to be sad."

It was a bit too wordy, but worth her faint smile.

"I have no idea what to say to you right now." His hand rested on her shoulder, "I guess a kiss is out of the question," he received another faint reward, "A hug's out then too, huh?"

"You've been mind reading again."

"It's futures, not mind reading, you mean little girl."

"You haven't seen mean."

He sat on the chair. "I— almost was going to."

"Write any of it down, and you will."

"No, not that. It was just like when I tried to warn you, but kissed you instead. It's been months, and I don't know why that keeps happening." He wiped his forehead with his hand. "You knew them, most of them, the ones you had to— to climb over, had to walk on. You wanted, were ready to die. You had accepted it."

"For every first page, there is a last."

"But you regret that you didn't die that day."

"With every day I wake in your room."

"Am I so bad, Dana?"

She sat before saying, "no."

"This is dangerous ground but, she clearly would have regretted it, had your last page been written that day. I know I would have."

"Very dangerous, if you continue to compare yourself to her."

"She didn't save you so you could be so sad."

"I distracted her."

"You distract me all the time, with no regrets."

A pillow puffed into his head.

"Ok then. But I have no regrets about your constant distractions. And no regrets at all that you have not a thing left to throw." He walked the few steps to return her pillow. "See, you can smile every now and then, when you forget to be sad."

She didn't hit him as hard this time.

They had hours yet until either needed to be awake. He lay down, just as she was, unable to force another dream to play. A blank page was all he saw behind closed eyes. But rest, rest was easy to achieve, simply remember not to move. Just relax. Just, relax. But restless thoughts cluttered his head.

He left her alone, as she wanted to be. But she didn't want to be alone. She had parents that loved her. She just couldn't be with them, so she chose to surround herself with their memories instead, with no room for anyone else. But she had smiled. He had gotten much better at getting her to forget to be sad, for increasing moments of time.

Past the dream, past the nightmare, was a glimpse of her future at the edge of a week... something.

"Can I touch you?" Derik said. "There was something I could just barely see from last night."

"I think not. I don't like you poking around in my head."

"But, I think something bad is going to— I just can't see it clearly enough. You have to let me."

"No, actually, I don't."

"Well look, at least—"

"I don't want you playing with my future any more than I trust you with my dreams."

"Don't go off the path, don't go with—"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Just don't go into the woods, whatever you—"

"Stop it Derik."

"Don't leave the path."

Her hand sealed any words from leaving his mouth, "My future. My mistakes. My life, not yours. I don't want to hear any more about it." She released him, finished getting dressed, then left the room.

Shaken. She had touched him. Her hand covered his mouth with more than enough of a touch, yet he saw nothing. Focused, practiced, he was both. This should have been his strongest vision of the day... nothing. Could it be? His visions only ended— were blank when he tried to read past the end of someone's life.

That week she avoided him, had few words for him, and had stopped him at every chance he had to warn her. Odder still was the conflict within. He had to warn her. And, with the same breath, he respected her right to live her own life, to make her own mistakes. Those that came to him wanted their futures read. She never asked, never wanted, and was adamant about him not reading her future, or her dreams for that matter. She was, just like in school, right. But was it right for him to do nothing?

Thin red lines, instead of snow, topped the miniature mountains drawn, not by pen, but by branches, twigs, and leaves on her arms and the saddest face when Dana and the others ran for their lives through the woods. She had been for hours like he found her now, seated on the bottom bunk with the stuffed dog on her lap. One arm was wrapped in white cloth from elbow to fingertips, soaked red in splotches near the center. He took another unnoticed step, but her gaze never left the dog. Last step, now on his knees, his best attempt to sit within her focus on the floor. He picked stray twigs and torn leaves from her tangled hair while he hoped for something to say.

"... They're not so nice in life, you know," she said, hard to hear.

He freed the last twig from her hair.

"It all seemed so, innocent, at first. It just bit the bag and carried it to the far end of the field. It dragged it along the path for a while, dropping the bag whenever it seemed to get too far ahead."

He untied her soiled shoes.

"I— we didn't see anything wrong. It seemed— it was almost fun, like a game. Shela... she was laughing when the puppy dropped it the last time and ran into the woods. Laughter and weeping sound the same sometimes, did you know?"

He placed her shoes at the foot of the bed.

"They came from everywhere, all around us. At first, we tried to help one another, but that's what they wanted. They don't kill, you see; they just bite, tear, and chew, pulling chunks away until life just, disappears. All I did, was run." She looked him in the eyes. "Just grabbed the arm of someone I didn't know, and ran back here. Shela's, she's— she's—"

"I know." He wiped the wet from her cheek, now seeing the visions matching her words.

"The only reason I'm not— I wasn't... because of that stupid 'don't leave the path' of yours."

His fingers ran through her hair, the same way her mother would have done. "I'm glad you survived."

She slapped his hand off her, "What's wrong with you? They're dead. Shela's dead. They died because of me, instead of me. What's wrong with you that you could want someone to die in my place?"

"I didn't want anyone to— I warned—" He stopped. "I failed you. I'm sorry. I, I should have been... I'm, it's all my fault. It's my fault." She didn't shy away from his hug this time. He just kept repeating those last three words a little softer, until no words could be heard at all.

He offered to trade bunks because of her arm. He had to at least offer, but helped her climb instead. He didn't start to blame himself, not at first. But, like any lie said often enough, eventually they both would believe. The damp, stuffed dog was in his hand when he looked at the bunk above. She hurt so much, and for no reason at all. She took too much blame. But was it hers? If he dared claim lives saved by his visions, he had to take the responsibility of those he couldn't save too.

She was quiet, more than when he first met her. Her one friend, Shela... Dana was so alone now. Just like she asked. She made no effort to make new friends. She didn't say a single word more than needed to pass unnoticed to each day, week, and the month that came. She had added to her list of things she didn't want to have, anything she didn't want to lose.

* * *

Futures, his life of the last few years was bound and consumed by the preoccupation, the interpretations of futures. His gift took longer to tire as they consumed more and more of his time. He was so exhausted now, always late when he entered the room. Before Shela died, she had started to sleep stretched out, relaxed, and smiled more. Now she was back to the way she was before, a small little ball tucked in a corner, barely bigger than the pillow she hid behind. She was breaking his heart.

Her future was so clear the few times he was able to touch her. He pondered the many possible reasons while he stared at her more. One step closer, he could touch her now, but he touched the sheet instead. He pulled it back enough to view her arm, bandaged the month before. The scar... if he strained in the light of black and gray, he could see the outline of bites stretched to tears. Hand on the sheet only inches from her bare arm, he coaxed her to stretch it out with a touch on her wrist. His fingers brushed across the scar on her forearm. He was on his third pass and he still could not feel the wound his eyes told him was there.

She faintly smiled while he had rubbed her arm, kissed each finger, then tucked her hand back under the sheet. He wanted to climb up there and just hold her all night, well worth the beating he would get come morning. But he didn't. One step back, her smile disappeared, and her knees shrunk back to a tight little ball.

He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep. Even the yawning trick failed to work. He just lay back and stared at that small spot of sadness on the bunk above. If he closed his eyes, he could feel it dripping down the wall that the beds were pressed against. Sadness saturated the mattress above. Futures. A gift for the right word, said at the right time. He had talked them into admitting her tribe with his elder's own words, how could he not find them for her, this girl in his room?

His mind wandered back to the clarity of his visions with this extremely sad girl. The one of the dogs had come at the end of a long day when his talent should have been exhausted, but wasn't. His purpose in life was proving to be these visions, helping his tribe. Just like those few lucky women able to conceive, he had a responsibility to use what he had for the good of the tribe. The clarity had to be related. The only thing his sleepless mind could come up with over the many months was that she was to be a part of his destiny. His clarity came because she was to be a part of his life. Like the many paths one could take to find a lost necklace were blurry, but where it was found was always clear. Her future, his future, their futures were entwined at some distant point he couldn't yet see.

These were concepts he understood, barely.
**B4.C4**

A month passed since Shela had died, and he still watched her mope out of bed.

"Dana, I— we have to talk."

She sat on his chair, then put on and tied her shoes.

"I've seen your dreams. Sometimes— I can still see glimpses of what happened to your mom, and Shela. I've told no one, I haven't written any of them down. If you can't talk to me about it... I worry about you."

"I can take care of myself," she mumbled to the floor.

"Moping around all the time, hardly arguing anymore... I left my shoes in the middle of the room for the last week with not so much as a word from you. Yell at me, hate me, hit me, something — anything — I can't take it anymore."

"... you're a slob."

"You could at least put some effort into it. You might as well have been talking to the chair with as much feeling as you put into that. I'm actually, yes, I think I took that as a compliment."

"You're a slob."

"Much better, was that so hard?"

She was slouching.

"You had such passion. It was mostly anger directed at me, but passion nonetheless. I miss that. I miss you. Can you let Dana out to argue soon?" He approached the chair. "I never learned how to be— how to act around someone I care about. I've had a lot of friends, but never one, really close one."

"... I'm not someone you can be close to."

"Dana, I think I'm in—"

"No, you're not."

"I know you better than anyone here. I care more about you than anyone else, and I can't seem to say or do the right thing to get you back."

"... You'll never have me, Derik."

"Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say. You being miserable is making me miserable. I can't take this." He sat on the floor by the chair. "They think— they come to me every day for the answers, how to make their futures better, and I can't change the one that matters the most." He touched her hand.

"How can I believe your words for what they sound to be? Talk some other girl into this, there are plenty here that would want to share this room with you. That would share anything with you. There are words you could say, things you could do," she looked at his hand on hers, "but I could never trust them as truly yours." She stood, then walked away. She had chores to do.

Class. Weeks had passed since he had class with everyone, the elders kept him busy with other things. They placed no importance on his learning what was required of the rest of the children; basic carpentry, what plants to eat and what plants to weed, how to hunt and make traps, how to fertilize the fields, when to plant, and when to harvest. These things seemed to no longer apply to him. His talent was what they wanted him— taught him to master. He was for better things.

"Very good, son," his favorite elder said. "You have grown so much since when you had nothing but raw talent and the bad dreams you'd try to hide from by running to my room. Very good indeed."

"Thank you sir."

"I think, and I am not alone in this, that one day you will make a good elder. Your hunch about that other tribe has proven flawless. Perhaps an aspect of your talent no one anticipated. Tell me of any more of these hunches you have from now on."

"Yes sir."

"And how have the dreams been coming, any sense of them yet? You still writing them down?"

"Yes sir, but I haven't made sense of them yet."

"That's ok, it takes time. Everything takes time. And what of you and the young girl you asked for, has she been behaving herself?"

"Yes."

"Good. I was a bit worried when she bloodied your lip that first day. I thought it might have been a mistake, but you know your power better than I. She still so high spirited?"

"... No."

"Good then, she has accepted her place. As long as you're happy with her, that's all that matters."

"Very happy, thank you."

"Good then. We are done today, for now. I see you've missed class again, but go see The Mother anyway, maybe she can fill you in on the most important things you've missed over the week."

"Yes sir." It meant another long walk.

He detoured for the kitchen to grab a quick something. It would be closed now for sure, lunch ended hours ago, but he only wanted a snack. Perhaps an apple, or maybe some grapes, they should be in season by now. The room was empty, except for those in the back preparing the dinner meals. He had his pick of any table and any chair, but found he had sat in the back on one of the pinchy, splintery, bench-style seats. He missed his rare meals with her. Chewing another grape, he pondered on how he had spent all his life within these same walls and halls, and it was this last year and these last few months that had changed everything. What a difference it would have made, without even the first word, just to have her sitting here.

She had fallen further from him since Shela had been lost to the wild dogs. He hadn't been allowed the time, even if he had the answer for her. He needed time. Everything took time. He would have to find a way to spend— No, to make more time with her. Every grape he finished brought him one bite closer to the idea he was on the verge— Got it!

"... Yes ma'am. I should know this stuff, and I feel dumb for asking," he looked over all the X's on his test paper, "but I clearly need extra help, and I know your time is in very high demand. Perhaps we can work out something with the elders so you can get me caught up. A few months of one-on-one should be all it would take."

"I don't have that kind of free time, Derik."

And now to put the worm on the hook, "Perhaps a tutor, some outstanding student in the same class as me." His hand paused in his fake of thoughtful moments, pinching back the smirk he needed to conceal from her. "But they would have to be available whenever the elders were done with me. My time is mostly used by them, which is why I find myself so far behind now."

"I suppose that would work, but no one comes to mind."

"What about Dana, isn't she doing good in all your classes?"

She almost winced. "Yes, but it would be most inappropriate for one of them to give instruction to you. I'm sure we can find someone better."

He gave the line a verbal tug. "If she knows the material, I'm sure I could overlook it. Besides, I'm used to ordering her around."

She looked through the grade book. "Well, we don't have much in the way of a history on her, but she is among the top of the class on her grades so far. She's a quiet one, I'm not sure how much attention she pays in class."

"Well, if you don't mind ma'am, if you could talk to her next time you see her? You know, test her, see if she measures up. They wouldn't miss her working out in the fields, I doubt that could be said of any of the other top names in your book. Aren't most of them helping to build that new thing off the end of the kitchens?"

"That's a good point. I'll speak with her and let you know, either way I'm going to have a talk with the elders too. You never were one of my top students, but your recent grades are inexcusable. Something will have to be done."

"Yes ma'am, thank you ma'am. If you're done with me, I think the elders wanted me back."

"Go ahead then."

He left to walk the halls. His talent for finding the right words worked beautifully, with most people. He had touched The Mother long enough to hear the test she would give Dana, and the promise of trading fieldwork for tutoring. Only at the end of the deal would the student be revealed.

He returned to his normal chores. He had seen Dana's reaction through The Mother's eyes and could only hope she would calm down by tonight. He had every intention of giving her plenty of time. With luck, she would be too depressed to keep a good mad going that long.

"You need another chair," Dana said. "For now you can stand or sit on the floor."

"Yes ma'am." He stood at attention by the desk.

"You bombed the test with this in mind, didn't you?"

"Of course not. I need help. You've lived with— You know I'm not that smart. I'm just as surprised as you with who she picked as a tutor."

"Yeah, well, a drop of one letter grade would have been more believable."

"I wanted a tutor while it was still possible to catch up, another few months and that would have been a realistic grade. By then, I might have gotten too stupid for even you to help. They would never have listened to me any other way."

"I think there's another reason, but in this case, I'd rather hear your lies."

"Funny, I'd rather have told you the truth."

"Let's just do this." She organized the papers on the desk, opened the book to the appropriate page, then went to bed. "Now that it's been established you really don't need the help, just read that chapter, do the problems, and wake me only if you have a real question."

"Ok but, that's not exactly what I had in mind when—"

"Blow the candle out when you're done, I'll grade it in the morning." She pulled the sheet over her head.

Small steps.

He had the rest of his life. Small steps. A book rested on his lap, a feather in his hand.

He studied until he was sure she was asleep.

It was a guilty pleasure. He was tired, so very tired, and still he stood by her bed after the candle went out. If ever noticed, he had several rehearsed lines like letting his eyes adjust, or trying to remember something. He had more, but thus far, he hadn't needed to use even these first two. He stood and stared, watching some more. His feet ached from all of today's walking while his legs tingled from sitting so long on the chair.

She didn't need the sheet that covered her eyes from the candlelight now. He moved it just enough to see her face again. She still used only an ankle's worth more than a third of the bed. Small little ball that was her. He knew her standing, walking, sitting on a chair; he pictured them all in his mind. It was difficult to believe this small form tucked under the corner of a sheet was big enough to be her.

He had many things to learn from her, he just had to make the time.

"I finally found something sloppier than you," she said, seated at the desk. "Your penmanship."

"You could read it."

A ball of paper barely missed his face. "Do it again."

"Oh, come on! That was perfectly readable."

"Two lines of each letter, in cursive, first line capital, the other in lowercase. And by tonight, legible this time."

"Look, I already know how to—"

"This was your little plan, not mine. If I have to do this, I'm not going to waste my time trying to decipher your squiggly lines." She held the wrinkled page an inch from his nose. "Look at that. Is that an I or an L, is that an O or an A or an S, is that a D or B and over here—"

"Ok ok, I get it! You're right."

"The sooner you get that, the better off we'll be."

"Then there is a we."

The wad of paper hit his nose this time.

It was a glimpse of the real Dana on a journey of many small, slow steps until she returned. Paper in the face was a definite step, much less painful than he had guessed her first step would be. She was right about his penmanship. The Mother hadn't complained, so he had thought nothing of it, but it had gotten rather, well, there was just no other word but sloppy. No reason for Dana to put up with that.

She had a gift for explaining things, and for knowledge in general. Few girls were stronger in math or science, few boys for that matter. Math was important, but it hardly seemed to relate to his life until she tied it neatly into geometry and the physics behind mechanical things. He learned how to properly size lengths of rope, the number of blocks and pulleys required to move different loads, and how gears worked. For her, it was less a memorization of facts, formulas, and phrases than an understanding that came from using such things.

The lessons for the day were already on the desk, and she was asleep on her bed. By the next month, tutoring was a brief description of the lesson plan and a highlight of what was covered in class that day.

It had taken months, but he was grateful for each night that she used more of her bed. He had asked for a tutor, but had gotten more. Her explanations, the way she wove study into real life examples... She would make a fine teacher one day. He had made a study of her on these late nights packed with schoolwork, often taking breaks from reading to study his favorite subject again.

He had lived most of his life in a room filled with these same bunk beds. Most children tossed and turned, not more than five minutes would pass without someone noisily squirming in the room. Not her. She favored her right side and always slept with her back against the wall, facing the room. The way she lay down would be within inches from the way she would wake.

She slept with one outstretched arm emerging from underneath the pillow. Her palm lay exposed with her fingers in a slight curl, perhaps to hold a spilling cup or, dare he, a hand in her dream. Her head rested on one end of the pillow, a bent knee on the other. The hand of her scarred arm was curled, palm down, inches below her chin.

He loved moments like these when he had a reason to wake her, but more than that, a reason to touch her.

"Dana, I have a question."

"... What?"

"How's your arm, the bite I mean?"

She pulled the sheet over her head.

"It looks much better." He held her forearm in his hand, "You can hardly tell. I can't even feel it."

"I'm glad you approve. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"You have calluses on your hands."

"It's called work. This is called sleep." She pulled it back.

"What about the deal?"

"Just words."

"Do you want me to—"

"Please, don't help me anymore. I just want to sleep, is that ok with you?"

"I can talk to them tomor—"

"I don't want you talking to me now, what makes you think— just don't, ok."

"You don't really mean that, do you?"

"Right now I do."

"Look, you've never given me a chance. I made a mistake, ok, I did the worst thing that could possibly happen in your life. I kissed you. Can't we get past that?"

"You manipulate people, you have all your life. Elders keeping you past classes you didn't want to go to, a tutor, this room, me. Everything you want. You. Maybe you've been doing it so long you don't notice, I don't care. I didn't want this. I didn't choose this. I wasn't even asked."

He stepped back.

"I was happy being unnoticed. I don't want to be the center of attention. That's not who I am, Derik, that's who you are. I would be just fine if no one ever learned my name."

"You can't hide from life just because everyone you get close to dies. That doesn't mean it's your fault, and it certainly doesn't mean you should never get close to someone again."

"I'm not for you, Derik. You're not being realistic. What do you think, that somehow, someday, we'll be equals? My parents were orphans like me, taken in by another tribe. My mother was the best teacher they ever had, she was wise enough to teach the elders, and it didn't matter. You bargained for me. Fine, I'm here. But your deal was with everyone else, you had no deal with me."

"I don't see you that way, you're not just—"

"Don't you? You've made deals with everyone over me, but never once with me. You were the first one, the first to treat me like property from the day we met. They just followed your lead. How can you change that? How can you fix that? I'm not your equal. Your words, your actions, you still don't believe. Please, if you really care, let me be."

"You're not my property—"

"Of everyone here, even in this room, I'm the only one who believes that. Can I go to sleep now, or do you need more answers? I have chores in the morning."

Could she have been right? He was not certain, not certain she was wrong. She was seldom wrong. Never wrong. What had he done? What had he been doing? He liked her, obvious even to her, trying to sleep on the bunk above.

This was still the best place for her. He had to be doing the right thing, just not the right way.

She looked over the pages on the desk. "Much better."

"Thank you."

"I shouldn't have said what I did. I doubt you've intentionally used anyone."

"Dana." He sat at the desk on the chair by hers. "I have a room. It used to be for storage, but it's mine now. They gave it to me so I could be fetched quicker and so I could sleep. It's quiet, and a bit lonely sometimes. You don't really know me, but, I promise to be on my best behavior, should you decide to stay. I should warn you, I'm not perfect, and, some have said, a bit of a slob."

"A little late, and still no choice, but it's nice to finally be asked."

"You were right, I thought— well, I had the best intentions. I am glad of one thing, I'm glad it wasn't the kiss that offended you so much."

"It offended me, but we were even when I hit you. I can't hit you hard enough to be even for being used as barter, no matter what your intentions were."

"There's that we again, I told you there'd be a we." He was close enough to be hit this time. It could have hurt much worse.

Harvests... Time to bring in the last of this season's crops before the first hard frost, another edge his gift gave them. Weather was one thing he knew with absolute precision. A casual touch to Dana every few days gave him a glimpse that reached through the week.

The crops had the highest yield in a decade, this year. Seeds and grains stored well for winter, but meats, fruits and such were nearly impossible to keep. They had some livestock, but very few. And livestock had to eat too, mostly the same foods people did. By spring, there would be just a breeding few left. It was a tricky balance to maintain.

Chickens were closely guarded, with eggs being a prime food source in winter. Even those that could never lay eggs that would hatch could still lay a good breakfast a day. Droppings, used for fertilizer in the fields, were also a key component in black powder used for clearing more fields, among other things. Even the feathers were used in pillows and such, a most useful animal indeed.

His abilities played well here in the hunting of wild game. He spent hours reading the futures of hunters, telling them when and where to find the choicest kill. Before him, hunting trips lasted weeks, only to return with less game than he found just a few hours' walk away. But for him, for him it added to his pain. To find a deer or something of equal size, he had to sift one man's full day, sometimes several men; then he had to lock down the time and place, describing each turn, tree, and path in unmistakable detail. Woods, bushes, branches, puddles, stones, they all looked the same to him; yet, for his talent to work, these ubiquitous things had to be described in such detail, in woods he'd never been, that someone could follow his clues like a map.

His clarity with details was starting to come into focus. When he first used his gift to gain friends by cheating at games, it was blurry, much like his sight after Dana had flattened him to the floor. Now it was like a light fog, the closer in time, the greater the detail. The elder's instructions to the hunters to stare at points of interest for at least a minute was really paying off, but it was still a full day jammed into seconds worth of vision, passing so fast he had to witness it twenty, thirty times to pick the gem from the jumble. His headaches had gotten worse.

His old solutions no longer worked, his talent didn't tire easily anymore. As if to make that worse, the more talent he had left, the more they wanted him to use.

"Uh, Derik. I, I need your help," his friend said.

Derik touched his hand. "She already knows you cheated on her. That— that was so stupid of you." He shook his head.

"I know, you don't have to tell me that. I just want to fix this."

"You don't even like talking to the girl you cheated with, you can't even stand being around her, can you?"

"Look, I just want what I had back."

"It's too late, I think. There's nothing I can do for you. No magic words to fix this, you hurt her. I can't see months or years, just one day, and there's nothing you can do today to fix this. It's not a one-day fix. She, she's going to cry every time she sees you. She's going to walk away every time. She's not going to want to listen to you. I'm sorry."

"But what if I got her a—"

"Nothing. I'm sorry, but, you did this to yourself. I told you when you first asked that she wouldn't catch you that day, but I also told you she wasn't a dumb girl, and that she may eventually."

"I know, I know."

Seasoned firewood, cleared from the fields the year before, had been stacked off the ground to keep the bugs and rot down. After the fields were harvested bare, moving firewood was added to her chores. It had to be sized for stoves and carried closer to the village to be restacked. It was boring, but necessary, and Dana was just as tired as he was at the end of every day. Scratch that, she was exhausted.

He could see his breath in the cold room by what little light slid under the door. He couldn't make her out, but she was there. Her presence filled the room. He took a few cautious steps before waiting for his eyes to adjust. Faint outlines at first, she was huddled beneath the sheet folded in half and a layer of her few clothes. He had just the thing to warm her in this unheated room.

He unrolled a new blanket atop her. Easy. It even made him smile a little before unfolding his from its place by his footboard.

"I don't want your pity, Derik." A wadded blanket hit his face.

"It's not pity, you mean little girl, it's a blanket." He tossed it back.

"Did I ask you for one?"

"No, but—" It hit him in the head.

"Then I don't need one."

"You are the most stubborn girl I have ever known." He tossed it back again.

Her feet slapped the floor when she stood, blanket in one hand, fistful of his hair in the other. She smothered the blanket into his face, "I'm going to make you eat this."

In seconds, the next few minutes previewed through her grip of his head. There was only one, regrettable course left. He tackled her to the hard floor. His shoulder landed on her waist, knocking the breath from her.

He had only seconds to decide what path the next minute would take. If he ran, there was a chance that she would calm down by the time he came back.

Breath... She took her first fractional breath, another and it would be too late. He could stay and have a diet of cloth, or... He tickled her.

She pulled in a full breath.

Every laugh that came from her was echoed from him in kind, perhaps even louder. Or maybe that was her? It was hard to tell, impossible to tell, couldn't stop now. He tickled on.

Lightheaded already, he would pass out from laughter in seconds. That wouldn't be such a bad way to go, unconscious for the beating of his life. Not a bad way to go. Reluctant, he let go.

He rolled to his bed, to get on, or hide beneath? He jumped to sit near its middle.

She sat on the cold floor, wadded blanket in her hand. "If I wanted one, is there any doubt in that mind-reading head of yours that I wouldn't have just beaten the crap out of you and taken yours?" She started to stand.

"You are so stubborn. I told you I see futures, not read minds."

She stepped closer.

His retreat was halted by the wall.

"Oh yeah, what am I going to do now, future-boy?" she said.

He curled into a ball, using his pillow as a shield.

Seconds passed. It should have happened by now! Afraid to look, he remained coward behind the pillow. He couldn't jump her again, even if he wanted to... she would be ready for it now, easily stopped this time. Surprised by what he had gotten away with already, he peered from behind the pillow.

"Thank you," she said from the bunk above.

"A kiss on the cheek would have been a better way to show it, mean little girl."

"You're pushing it."

"You forgive me."

Nothing.

"You do, don't you? You would say otherwise, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not taking any more crap off you tonight."

"She forgives me!"

"Good night, Derik."

Yes, it was.

They had more mouths to feed this winter, but it was working out. Her tribe's hunters were moderately more skilled than his, but when he added his talent to that, it amazed even him. He had thought his talent was all-powerful, but it wasn't; it was more an amplifier of the skills belonging to those he touched.

His power was no longer exhausted after a few hours of use; at this pace, his headaches would become crippling soon. It was reminiscent of the childhood warnings not to look directly at the noon sun, and the blinding headache he got after he looked. He started to get the feeling he wasn't supposed to have the talent his village now relied so heavily on.

When the elders were done with him, he left in an attempt to find some peace in his room. Quiet and calm was difficult to find anyplace else. He hadn't had more than a few words with her since the blanket incident, but through no fault of theirs. The elders had call on his time: first, second, and last. All that was left was a few hours asleep in the same room. He missed the nights when she was asleep before he came in, stretched out under the blanket she had almost made him eat. Would have made him eat, had the night not been nudged another way.

But his headaches were violent enough to drive out any peaceful thought, even here. He hoped this was just a phase of his growth; he hoped it would pass as it had before, when he first met this girl.

She woke him, "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to argue with you."

"That's ok, I still have your searing hatred to keep me warm."

"You trying to pick a fight right now, future-boy? You think, because I've been stacking wood all day, that I'm too tired, that I can't still take you?"

"You always could take me, you mean little girl."

"... I didn't wake you to fight. Your headaches are getting worse, aren't they? You told the elders yet? Anyone yet?"

"No, it wouldn't... I still have responsibilities, duties. It wouldn't change anything."

She sat on the foot of his bed. "They would know."

He sat and stared at her, grateful just to have her sitting this close. Nothing more came to mind, just— He didn't want to see her make that climb to the bunk above. He didn't know when he would see her next.

She got up.

"Don't. Please, not yet." He stopped her hand. "The headaches are bad, but they're not the worst of it."

She sat, closer this time.

"I haven't had a good dream, not since the last one of yours. You wouldn't happen to have one you could spare, for someone who hasn't had one in a while, would you?"

"I don't have any to spare," she said, "just one I may be able to share." She started a story of long awaited words, the feather she used to draw the dream, dipped in the ink of her fond memories.

The elder entered the room. "Derik, we have need of you."

No— it, the words had yet to be said. He, the dream— his visions had entered his dreams. But, this— that never happened before, not like this. A few minutes yet.

He opened his eyes.

He could hear the dream she still enjoyed. He did not misunderstand the first time she laid by his side, but he did not know what to make of this, the second time. Her secondhand clothes had hidden the girl she no longer was. Beautiful in the dim light across the width of a bed, what a difference a few inches made. She was just as quiet pressed next to him as she was in the bunk above. He enjoyed every second, too much in at least one way. But it had to end, and soon.

"Come on, Dana." He coaxed her to the bunk above before tucking her in. He could not resist the single kiss to her cheek. "Thank you." He returned to his bed.

"Kiss me again and I'll rip off your lips and feed 'em to ya."

The elder entered the room. "Derik, we have need of you."

"Yes, I know," he said. "Yes, I know." So began another day.

She said nothing of the night but instead found a way to continue sharing her dreams. His legs ached from all the walking that day, but still he stood a little longer, long after his eyes had adjusted. Floppy sewn ear of a stuffed head rested where her scar had been, the body of the toy was tucked where he wanted to be, held in her arms. How easy it would be to believe it was spite, an abduction of his beloved toy if you wish, but he knew better. He knew her better. When his legs could stand the pain no more, he slid the dog from her arms. The key to the dream she shared.

He lay down, warm little dog under the blanket with him. He closed his eyes, letting the dream take form. Most were wandering memories, pieced together around a single thread. Her mother was a big part of her life, an even bigger part of who she was. Her father was killed when she was very young, but even so, he lived in many of them. Happy, peaceful, and everything he could want in a dream.

A blanket was spread at the base of the tree her father leaned back against; her mother mirrored the same on his lap. His fingers kept the hair from her mother's eyes, the other hand held hers, rested on her lap. His thumb rubbed her fingers while the little girl played.

They would eat lunch outside on warm summer days like this. Dana had been too young to appreciate what her parents had. For hours after the meal, her mother would tell one tale after another, young Dana hugged to her lap. She could hear, in one ear, the words forming stories as they were cast into the air; in the other, pressed tight to her mother's side, she could hear the breath of words yet to come. Quieter still, in the pauses between the two, were the rhythms of a life Dana's thoughts found such comfort pressed to, in the many moments like these.

The closest his memories had to hugs and embraces were the occasional pats on the back and the hands he read futures through. He had been raised to be part of a larger group, for the good of the group. Survival was the one and only goal. The most efficient means to achieve it was by the way of the group, far easier to build one kitchen with a series of stoves big enough to feed the many than to build countless separate, smaller ones. It was easier to build rooms instead of houses, and compel everyone to work the same fields and other chores. Efficient and practical, but something was lost between weaned and cast to the cares of others. They had taught him that it took a village to raise a child. She had only one woman.

She had so much more.

Most of her dreams were memories, but some, the ones he enjoyed, were simple clouds of colors that swirled and mixed, relaxing his mind. Colors. He had never seen colors in his dreams, at least not in any that he remembered, except in hers. It was the easiest way to tell the two apart.

His headaches passed as the phase it must have been. The winter, now hard atop them, brought a new trick her tribe had used for many seasons. It was the new building off the kitchens, framed of wood and two-foot-thick, straw-filled walls with a roof insulated much the same. Every night, buckets filled from the well were set out to freeze. Before the morning sun touched the sky, the blocks of ice were hauled into the building of straw. With luck, by summer, enough ice could be made and stored within to keep meat and perishables edible for months to come. It was a simple, elegant idea, overlooked for entirely too long.

It was also a lot of work.

In time, winter faded to spring, months added to years, and old, baggy clothes could no longer hide the woman she had become; she had entered the coveted, childbearing years. Duty. It was a duty, like his, a service to survival. A service to the tribe. He had been raised to believe this was normal, just the way things had to be. But for her, for Dana...

The first words he learned were duty to the tribe and how important it was. And it was essential, not only for their survival, but that of the human race. Those blessed with the gift, any gift, had a responsibility to use it as often as they could for the good of the many. Those able to have children were treated best of all; they had their own rooms, never needed to work, and were often waited on in their latest months. Their every whim was gladly pampered in return for the numbers they added to the tribe.

His time with Dana had brought him to different thoughts, those of the breeding animals they kept. The best breeders of the most stable lineages were rarely slaughtered in winter. Instead, they were kept inside, separated, warm, and well fed. He could hear the question she would ask, would it be better to watch your children being eaten year after year, or be the child with the life ended short, without the mother's pain?

Her memories were clear enough; her mother did not give her up. She would be the same.

"I— I know we're not lovers, but aren't we at least friends?" he said, a rare moment when they both were awake in the room.

"Did you expect me to be? Was that the deal you wanted to make? Was that the price for the room?"

"No, the deal for the room," he could see her now, "well, what do you think would be fair?"

"What do you want."

"Well, I want a lot of things, unrealistic things. The price for the room, the truth? I suppose it was more what I didn't want. I didn't want the Dana I saw without it, trapped in that self-made shell, one more thing you blamed yourself for. I guess I have what I wanted. I guess I just want more."

"Noble deeds seldom get rewarded, it's part of being noble."

"You could have said something when I still had time to pick someone else."

"If you want someone else, I'm not the one you should tell."

"I don't."

"Do you think my heart is a fair trade for a small piece of your room?"

He scratched his knee, "If it was that easy."

"Should it be easy? Would it be worth it if it was?"

"You're not going to give, not even a little. You won't even say we're friends."

"Are we?"

"I thought... I would like to think we are."

"Would it make you happy to know, I expected you to be worse?"

"Pleasantly surprised?"

Yes.

"Closer than when we met?" he said.

"Closer."

"But not friends."

"Not enemies." She moved to sit beside him. "If a lover was what you thought you bartered for, you won't find that in me. They can make me share your room and help you with your studies, but they can't tell me who to love, or how many children to have, or with who."

"You've ruled me out then."

She touched his hand for a moment, a memory she managed to share. "You're not the only one interested in me." She let go.

"You in love with someone else?"

"Do I have to be, to not be in love with you?"

"No."

"... No."

"I uh, when I met you," he said, "you were nowhere near this attractive. I guess, I just thought, most of that came with knowing you. I pass mirrors every day, I know you can do better than me."

"Or worse."

He just sat, uncomfortable, he should have known better.

"I'm years different from the girl you met at the gate. I have wants too, you know. This will always be your room, but it's my life. I don't have many choices here, nowhere near as many as you, but that doesn't mean I don't get any."

"I'm not the same either."

"I know. That's the best part of people. No matter how bad they start out, they can still change. Redemption. It's within everyone's reach."

Small steps. Her words were less than he had hoped for, but not unexpected. She could have been much harsher in her choice of them, but she had left him with hope. She was not heartless. With winter giving way to spring, they would have more times like these, but he would use them for less tense conversations. She was a good person to talk to, but he needed to pick better topics, less important ones. It would soon be the best part of the year, past the time when they needed him the most, but before planting would begin, just before spring.

It was the part of the year when he had the most time for her and conversations, even the occasional argument over silly, meaningless things. A heated one could be started anytime he moved her bag, left the top off the inkbottle, used the last of the paper, the lamp oil, or let the candle burn to the table, especially when his laziness left her to do all the fetching or cleanup. Or even as simple as the chair he never seemed to push under the desk. However it started, it always ended with the angry reminder that she was not his maid.

He cherished the one meal they were able to eat together each day. He had perfectly nudged and juggled the schedules of others to ensure these meals.

The splinters of the rough bench pinched, but it didn't matter. Sometimes they didn't talk at all and it was still the brightest part of his day. He found he was scarfing down his food just so he could watch her eat, undistracted. If he got to the kitchen early enough, he would even trade plates with her, after the prerequisite argument of course. He found that on days they didn't meet, he was left to eat a plate filled with foods he had picked, but weren't his preference.
**B4.C5**

The first crop of the season needed tending. She was on the familiar ground of where her stay began, planting, weeding, and even picking the same fields. This time, it was her elder that approached.

"You haven't had many words for me since last we spoke of you and young Derik. You've been behaving yourself, I take it," he said.

"What do you care?"

He smacked her.

"You didn't have a say then, I don't have anything to say now." She started to walk away.

He stopped her, "You don't talk to me like that, I did all—"

"You gave me away like a prize pig, or a blanket, or a length of cloth. All you did was bicker over the price. You sold me. You no longer have any rights over me."

"Now you listen, your moth—"

"My mother died for you people, the same animals that murdered my father because he couldn't stop loving her. She trusted you, and what did it get her? Why should I listen to your words when I can't believe a single one of them?"

"Damn you Dana, just shut up a minute. Your mother gave you to me, not to promise you a life of roses, but just to have a life. If we had continued wandering from village to village, I doubt any of us would still be alive, including you. I did the best I could. I had a long talk with Derik, I argued against it, but he persuaded me otherwise— I don't have to justify myself to you."

"But I bet it would help you sleep at night, if you thought I would thank you for it."

"You are every bit as sharp tongued as your mother."

"You messed her life up too, making decisions you had no right to make. You didn't have to come home every day and watch her cry herself to sleep. She wouldn't even eat for that first week. The time for your words was over, long before you killed her that day they put my father in the ground and the sad, lonely years it took for her body to finally die."

"I owed your moth—"

"Well, you found the perfect way to repay her."

"Damn it Dana, I did the best I could. I can't undo any of it."

"Then what do we have to talk about?"

"I just wanted to know how you were doing. You're mad at me, I get that, but that doesn't mean I don't care what happens to you. You think I screwed you over, but I didn't have a lot to work with. I did the best I could for you, without screwing over the rest of us. You don't think I helped you, fine. That doesn't mean I can't help you now."

"Ok, fine. Derik and I are fine, just roses. Now can you sleep at night? Now can you leave me alone?"

"Your mother spent a long time being sad, when she didn't have to be. She had friends willing to help her, that she kept pushing away. I think you tend to the same. You can be happy here, if you let yourself. I would like to know how he's been treating you. I would like to think I was right about him, that he's been good to you, perhaps even good for you."

"He wants the same thing they wanted from my mother. The same thing everyone but my father wanted for her. And what if I did come to love him, what then? It would just be ruined, if not by you, then by a you with another name."

"Dana! Come back here."

She kept walking.

It was time for lunch and no Derik, odd. He wasn't in the room this morning either. Had he slept in the room that night, he would have at least pestered a bye if nothing else. She looked around again, fewer people than usual today. She wasn't early, nor late for that matter. Just fewer— There were no adults at all, just those her age and younger. This had a very bad, familiar feel to it.

"Let me have your attention! Last night we discovered that what may be a part of The Emperor's old army is going to attack us today. The elders have decided we cannot run, so we will stand and fight instead. We have been preparing a defense with the help of the seer."

"Seer? You mean Derik?" the loudest voice in the crowd said. "The boy? You're trusting our lives to him? That's fine for tips on finding game and trinkets, the weather and such but—"

"His information has been verified by firsthand accounts! Quiet down and listen! He's been going one by one with our warriors since last night, warning them of the mistakes they'll make."

"Oh, perfect! Talk about making mistakes, you're letting a boy make your defense plans too!" boomed over the rumbles.

"Listen! The elders believe this is best."

"We can still run, it's not too late!" was received with a swell of support.

"Yes, it is. They will release trained pack animals to hunt down runners and stragglers. That too has already been verified, it blocks our only retreat. Their first wave will arrive on horseback in less than three hours. Their archers are hoping to pick us off by the hundreds in the surrounding fields. Our only chance—" he shouted to be heard, "Our only chance is to defeat enough of them here, now, while we have the advantage. From what we know, they are a long way from reinforcements."

They continued to argue but she had heard enough.

Safe, she had to find a place to be safe. She had to find— she couldn't let this happen again, not again! She had so little left to lose. It would happen, it would be upon her all too soon.

Happening again.

Not again!

She ran to their room.

He remembered the smoke and smell of burning flesh from a frightened girl's dream, now it filled the very halls he ran down to his room.

He was haunted by the last of his exhausted visions, one he was desperate to prevent with a hazy view of his room covered in crumpled, strewn papers, thrown drawers, and tossed clothes. Worst of all was an armor-clad man with three arrows piercing his back, laying face down before the desk. Stopped too late. A feathered shaft protruded from Dana's chest as his hand held one puncturing his own, both dead on the same floor. He couldn't let— He had to fix this! And time was not on his side.

He knew where it would happen; he just had to get there first. It was a race he intended— was seconds from winning. He turned the corner of the last hall to their room.

Glancing in, he was already too late. Papers strewn, he tripped over the empty drawer and nearly impaled himself on the upside-down chair. He hadn't time to search, "Dana."

The thud of growing clatter down the hall was his only response.

"Dana, I know you're here." He crunched another step. "We have to leave now, it's not safe here."

Eyes, an ankle, and a trembling hand were all he could see behind her old leather bag beneath the desk. It hid her well, but his vision showed it would fail.

"Please, Dana." One step closer, he held out his hand. "We have to go."

She didn't move a blink beyond the tremble of her hand near her unprotected ankle beyond the bag. What was she waiting for? They didn't have time for indecision.

"It'll be ok, Dana. Just, just come with me."

She flicked her wrist.

His knee collapsed under him as he slammed to the floor. Painful tears obscured the room.

Thwack... Thwack...

The two shafts imbedded in the bag had flown past his head.

She flicked her wrist, touched her ankle, then flicked again.

Warm, red spurts colored the room.

Dizzy now. So, dizzy.

A massive weight pinned him to papers that bled an ever-wider red.

"You're ok." She rolled the weight off him, broke a wooden shaft from the bag, then held it to his chest.

Eyes, heavy...

Dizzy...

Dark.

"Derik," she said. "Derik," what an awful smell, "Derik."

"Utthuh—" He coughed in the blurry room. "What, what happened?"

"You ought to know, hero." A kiss pressed his lips. "You saved the village."

"... I did?"

"Your visions saved us all, and again in your room. That was quick thinking on your part, playing dead. It was so convincing, when we finally retook the halls, we thought you both were gone."

"Both?" he asked, still dizzy, "Where is she! What happened to Dana?"

"Who, the girl in your room? Nothing. She's around here, somewhere," she said, "you're the one we're worried about."

He jumped to his feet. "Where is she!"

"Around, I suppose."

He darted into the crowd, disregarding his wobbly knee.

Around... No, not him... Not her... Not over there... No.

Not there... No, not them.

No... No no no no!

It had to— his vision was from the man who first found them amidst the blood and bodies. Just because he lived didn't mean— No, not her... They shouldn't be alive. He had to see her for himself!

Not there... Where?

Where was— Yes. Maybe. Perhaps.

No.

He searched for minutes, viewed every broken, bloodied body. Most were familiar, people he had known all his life. They were suffering in agony and it didn't mean a thing. They had all blurred into the same familiar, faceless form. He had just one, single face he was searching—

Found her!

Sitting on the floor, she was leaned against the wall, no cot, no bench, not even a chair. She had only stone and dirt to find comfort on. She meant nothing to them. Her leg was bandaged in rags, good enough for her on a day like today. He found more comfort on the dirt by her side than the cot he had left.

"You uh," all he could think to ask was, "it hurt much?"

She just sat, her back against the wall.

"How did it, did—" he stopped. "It was because of me. I led him to you. I thought— I saw you dead, and thought I—"

"It's ok."

"Can you, how bad is it?"

"... Bad."

"He was right behind me, wasn't he?"

They sat while the moans of those wounded and slowly dying filled the silence between their few words. Spurted blood-drops stuck her shirt to her skin, a dried smear adhered hair to the side of her face. His clothes had been changed, the bloody parts anyway. They had just ripped away her pant-leg, using what wasn't filthy to wrap the wound.

"I could have gotten you killed," he said.

"Didn't mean to."

"I've never seen that leather band before."

"Your tutor doesn't do show and tell," she said. "Hero."

"Hero."

"You were a novelty, before today."

"I can still see— Some, died no matter what I said. Some are dead that I thought would live. Most would die twenty or thirty times before I could find the words that would let them live. It— all that pain and suffering, such brutal... The worst was the man who entered your room, and saw us dead."

"That came true."

"It, it changed— I don't think I'll ever be— I can still see it. The way it should, the way it would have been. It lives in my head like a nightmare that won't go away."

She pulled his arm around her, then rested the back of her head against him while they listened to the moans and murmurs, unnoticed on the floor. "I killed a man today," she said, her words ventured no further than him.

He held her hand while his thumb brushed her fingers and she slipped to sleep, borrowed from her father in a remembered dream. His gift was beyond exhausted. It could be days before it would return.

She slid down over the hour that passed, her head now rested on his lap. His fingers brushed her hair. She breathed so slow and shallow. There was something so peaceful about watching her sleep. Restful. It could not be more so had he been asleep as well.

The band about her ankle was made from the same weathered leather as her bag. Pockets, rows of pockets. Most were empty, but a few, if he looked close enough, held clear glass blades with smooth, rounded handles exposed. Clear blades. Her hand had only looked empty, trembling by her ankle. His knee was sore but had little more than a cut. She must have hit him with the handle, the blade taking just a glancing blow, or perhaps it— It didn't matter. This noise-cramped room seemed to disappear, like a distant dream hidden behind those closed eyes, resting on his lap.

She didn't need him, just somebody. He was just grateful for what he got. He needed her. He had needed her then, as he needed her now. He was grateful he could return the favor, even in this small way. He had saved his village, but hero fell short of their room.

"I want to go," she said.

"Where?"

"I want to sleep on my own bed."

"Your bed, you don't have a—"

"You haven't survived today, yet." Her head was still on his lap.

He helped her stand, then slowly limp to their room. Her first few steps were proof enough that she couldn't stand on her own, walking was out. He wished his knee didn't hurt, he would have loved to have been strong enough to carry her, but he had enough trouble just taking the weight of her lean.

The ablest were busy dragging bodies outside, along with the bigger, blood-ruined things. The fastest, best way to dispose of the defeated army was to toss them on a massive burning pile. They stopped between buildings, to rest for a second was his excuse, but the fire reminded him of a dream. Burned, instead of buried. Today they buried some too.

The body in the room had been one of the first removed. What was left was the mess. He plotted a course around the obstacles to the one righted chair to sit her down. It would be easier to fix the beds that way.

"Right here's fine," she said instead, in the midst of the biggest mess, middle of the floor.

He set her down, carefully.

"You can start over there," she gestured at the desk. "Are the sheets on the bed ruined?"

"Yeah, but the mattress seems fine."

"Toss me one, I can use it as a bag for this other stuff."

She spread it beside her, then started filling it with soiled papers, while he flipped the mattresses and made the beds before returning his attention to the mess.

He found the worst soaked clothes and a bowl of water, then started to scrub the desk and walls, occasionally glancing at Dana's progress as she sorted the ruined from what could be saved. He scrubbed some more... Until he came to the bag, wooden stubs still exposed. He looked inside.

There was a shield and a few random items, mostly his thickest books.

"It's never big enough to stop them all," she said, "even when it was my mother's."

He put it back, then continued to clean. Dana went quiet. She was looking at the papers in her hand.

"How long, have you seen this?" She looked at the page.

He scrubbed the clean.

"She looks like, my mother. Happy, but distant in every one."

He stopped pretending to scrub.

"It's me." She looked at another. "You never see me close. You still try so hard."

"I've been wrong before," he said without a look.

"Some of these are quite... Do you want to keep them?"

"Yes. But you can throw the paper away." He started to scrub again.

She looked them over, one by one. He had put a lot of time into learning to capture her look, older in most of them. Her shape was suggested between lines of ink and smudged shades of charcoal, a faint smile on her face, and worn, tattered clothes. These were not the lines of adolescent lust, but the lines borrowed from another story told. She had known he felt this way, but added each to the sheet to be burned. "I'll let you keep them."

They continued to clean.

She sorted her way across the floor until she sat on the foot of his bed with what un-ruined clothes she had left. "Leave the room, please," she said.

"Why?"

"I'd like to change."

He grabbed the chair and sat outside. Beside the seat was the sheet filled with paper dreams and other spoiled things tied like a bag, just another to be burned that night. He sat and waited with his back against the closed door. So much had been lost to this day, lives, gates, walls. Most, by luck, were replaceable things. But within this room the chair pressed against, he had thought he had lost it all. Just paper things. When he was sure she was done, he lugged the bag to where it belonged.

"You look better," he said, sitting beside her on the bottom bunk. "No pants left? You can have one of mine, it should fit."

"It just hurts too much to mess with. Besides, I'd just have to cut off one pant-leg anyway."

"Why didn't they give you— Look, I think we can find something better than a dirty pant-leg to bandage it with." He started to unwrap it.

"You don't actually think I'm going to let you use this as a pretext to feel me up, do you?" But she didn't move while he revealed the nasty cut.

"I can't believe they would just— I'm sorry." They hadn't even made any effort to clean it. He did the best he could with the first clean cotton shirt he grabbed. It would at least be much softer than a dirty pant-leg. "I'm so sorry."

"You know," she said when he finished, "one of my first memories was of something like this. A handful of thieves had come in the guise of traders, and had been caught. It quickly turned violent." He sat beside her. "My mother had killed two of them before they even realized the mistake they had made. It was like she was slicing a piece of fruit. Somehow, she could love my father and me with the same heart she killed so easily with. I thought I could hate a man enough to feel good about what I've done. But I can't."

"You did what... uh, what had— I'm sorry."

"I saw the look in his eyes, when he fell to his knees, just feet away from you. I saw that moment when he realized how mortal he was, what a fragile creature we really are. It takes so little to end a life. I thought, after Shela died... But animals are one thing."

"The same."

"An animal is just that, a man can be more."

"You can't beat yourself up over this." He held her hand again, "You did the uh, the only... He didn't have to come in here, he could have just left. Just walked on, like all those that looked in before. He didn't leave you with another choice."

"He won. There's good and evil in everyone, he was able to bring out the evil in me." Her lower eyelids were not enough to hold it back.

"He doesn't deserve your tears, or turmoil." He kissed her fingers. "Besides, that means I've won all our arguments, you mean little girl, and that can't possibly be right." He managed to win that faint smile he sought. "I think you'll just have to admit that for once, you might be wrong."

"I'm never wrong," she said.

"I'm not wrong about you, either. This doesn't make you a bad person. Certainly no worse than your mother; although, it would explain why I can't get that heart of yours to thaw."

"You'd have to trade more than this crappy room if you wanted that." She lay down closest to the wall.

"Like what?" Both stared at the empty bunk above.

He was so tired, even if she had answered, he wouldn't have remembered. He had a hard day's work cleaning the room and no headaches or distracting power left. Never had he been more ready for sleep. Vivid, color dreams again.

Water floated leaves downstream, twisting, temporary tangles on branches, rocks, and eroded roots of creek-tethered neighboring trees. Beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

Panic. Scared. It was happening again.

She pulled out the drawers, tossing contents and all into the air. The papers floated into puddles, flooding the floor. Scattered empty boxes and turned over chairs cluttered everywhere between her and the door.

Her heart pounded faster.

The battle, the smoke, and even those few who looked in seemed to pass by the ransacked room until a familiar one ran in and called her by name.

He was awake now, but she was still within the dream, stepping quickly to nightmare. Her head pressed to one shoulder while her hand gripped his other ever harder, until his fingers started to tingle.

"It's ok, Dana, it's just a dream."

A nightmare she lived again. Her quickened breaths started to resemble his after a short run. A fold of his shirt was caught in the corner of her mouth as she breathed even harder, squeezed harder.

He lost all feeling in his arm. "You're safe now. It's over."

With every breath, she pressed him harder to the mattress, while her increasing squeeze distorted his repeated words.

"You're safe now. It's over, it's all over."

She pushed herself to arms' length above him. Her grip on his shoulder was still firm, but no longer painful. Her breathing started to slow as the cool air rushing between them let him know just how damp his clothes had become.

"It's all over now," he said a few more times.

Like string the second the kite breaks free, she fell back to where she began when the nightmare let her go.

"Clouds of red, orange, a swirl of light, night sky blue, strings of yellow, slowly floating through," he whispered, her ear pressed to him. "Green leaves, yellow, and brown, riding the tranquil water downstream... " His words painted her next, much safer dream.

Morning would come soon. Had his power returned, he would have some warning before they came for him. But it hadn't, and he didn't. Last night they scouted the old-fashioned way, without him. He adjusted the blanket, making sure it covered her head, but not her face. It wasn't cold, but she was. Whether it was the nightmare she lived through so long ago, or the one just now, the loss of blood or an infection of her wound; he didn't know, and it made no difference, the remedy remained the same.

He had switched arms often during the night, but had yet to stop the small circles he rubbed on her back. He hadn't fallen asleep, but it didn't seem to matter, his studies of her had paid off. He knew when and how to guide her away from a replay of what hurt his shoulder, the grip that troubled his arm even now.

He had twice seen the nightmare try to return and had learned much more about what had happened in the room. If her grip on his shoulder had not been proof enough, this left no doubt. She was not a toy, nor barter, not even a mean little girl. She was possibly the bravest person, only he would know.

She would wake in near moments. He had tried, but could tell his words alone would not bring her another dream. He just waited. It was all he could do with her body lying on him. He had become that stuffed, tattered dog of boyhood fantasies. Now, again, he wanted more.

Her thigh rested across what he hoped to hide, now just wishing her injured leg would move and leave it unnoticed. Or maybe it would go away, but that was unlikely with her this close.

She pushed herself to arms' length again, head down, her face hidden by hair. Her hand covered his mouth, not that he had anything to say. While it held any future words within, she did what he would never have dreamed. She did just what he had asked. She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you." She sat on the foot of the bed, blanket adjusted about her shoulders. She sat and stared at what was left of the room.

He sat at the head of the bed, shivering slightly without her, a pillow covering his lap. He stared at the ever distant her.

"You ok, Dana?" he said.

"... Your room's a mess."

"Our room. And most of that's yours."

She held back an inappropriate laugh.

"I think I'll have— we'll have all day to clean it. My talent hasn't returned, and I'm basically worthless without it," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"That's ok, it's not your fault. Besides, it'll give me a chance to spend a little more time with you."

"No, I shouldn't— It, was unfair of me. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Look, Dana, I didn't— I don't think I've misunderstood you yet. I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy it more than I should but, look," he adjusted the pillow again, "it doesn't do everything I want, and I certainly don't do everything it wants." He got his look, at last.

"I wouldn't want someone to play with my emotions, I shouldn't play with yours."

"And your punishment should be sleeping with me again."

He got the smile, and the foot, her good one. It moved so slowly, so gracefully from beneath the blanket. It just pressed, warm and soft, to the center of his chest, where it lingered for a little while. It didn't hurt until she pointed her toes and he found himself on the floor, and even then, it was his butt that hurt. "Go to bed." She pointed to the bunk above.

"Oh, I get it, you make a huge mess in our room and expect me to clean it up. Then, just because you get a little scratch on your leg, you all of a sudden get the bottom and I have to do all the climbing. You wanna talk about unfair, that's unfair." He stood in front of her, dusting himself off, when he noticed the red stain on his pants where her bandage had pressed. "Let me see it," he said.

"It's fine."

"Look, I'm not joking. You were shivering last night. If it's still bleeding—"

"It's not."

"Then let me see."

The wrapped shirt was damp and red, a very bad sign. Removed, he was surprised to find the wound wasn't bleeding, nor as swollen as he had feared it would be. He found a clean shirt to replace it.

"Can you go to bed now?" she said.

"Look— I, I was worried, ok."

"The bite was worse. I won't be able to walk for a while, but that should come back too."

"I'm sorry, they should have done better by you. They should have found something clean at least, there's no excuse for that."

"They just moved me."

"Surely someone looked at— was going to..."

Her look away told him.

"That can't be right. It just can't be."

"I don't even have the right to be sad, remember? I'm not right for you. Not right for here. We are not right for each other, and I'm not the right girl for your room. Right has had no part of us."

He stood, speechless. He thought of the first few into the room that day, shaking him, checking for a pulse or breath. If she kicked and moved enough, they might not toss her onto the burning pile. She was at least human. But the worst part was he understood. One out of ten also meant nine times out of ten she wouldn't be worth anything at all.

He made the climb to her old bunk, but couldn't sleep, he knew she was awake below. It felt, comforting, to sit at the foot of the bed, knowing she was sitting right below him. His eyes wandered the same dim room, but saw different things. He saw things that needed to be cleaned, others that needed to be replaced; she saw everything that wasn't hers. The walls were slow but moving in, a trap, a cell she had been sentenced to. A life she didn't choose. How could he apologize enough?

They would be here soon, if they would come for him at all. He had something to say first. He knelt on the ground before her.

"Dana, I know I'm not a terribly smart person, I know that. There were things that you picked up on that I just didn't get until now. Probably a lot I still don't get. I can live with that. But right here, right now, in this our room; I know one thing with absolute clarity. I am in—"

Her hand covered his mouth. "Don't. I'm not for you, Derik. I didn't want to hurt you. I should never have let last night happen, and for that, I am sorry. Let that be enough." She let go.

"Derik," his least favorite elder said. "Good, you're up. We have need of you."

They left to talk in the hall. "I'm sorry sir, but it hasn't returned. And, I, have another problem. Dana can't walk."

"After your help yesterday, it shouldn't be difficult to replace her with an—"

"No sir, I don't mean that. I'm very fond of her. She will— it'll just take time. She can't stand right now, she's hot to the touch. I would— I'm only asking for some consideration, some time to help her through this. Perhaps, just a few days."

"Of course. You deserve a rest if anyone does, but come see me the moment your talent returns."

"Yes sir, thank you sir. And, if I may, of those I've read in the past, the scouts of her old tribe may be better suited in a time like now. I often had my best results with them, but it's only an observation."

"I'll take that into, consideration. And, so I don't forget, they've planned a rather healthy dinner for tonight. You would do well to attend. You may find you can do better than just 'fond of.' You've caught more than a few eyes with your visions of late. The word from those you saved are fanning the flames. You may wish to make a more, worthy pick, before the fires cool." He started down the hall, "Either way, see me when it returns."

"Yes sir."

He needed to get her something to walk with, a cane would do. And he knew just the place. On the way back, he could grab something to eat, and something for she who couldn't walk.

"It was good advice," Dana said.

"Yeah, but what happens to you then? I don't know if you've been keeping score but, I owe you my life right about now."

"And a whittled branch and some scraps make us even? You really don't think much of your life, do you?"

"No, the cane is for—"

"You don't owe me a cane."

"But I do owe you."

"Then go tonight, and pick someone else. I won't be that person for you."

"What happens to that girl they left to bleed along a wall? I can't. Even if I didn't care anything about you, and especially because I do." He put his hand on her forehead, "You've got a fever."

"I'll be ok."

"You're burning up."

"Enough Derik. Please, enough."

He sat, back where he was a little while ago, the head of what had been his bed. He just watched her stare into his room.

In a few days, his power would return and he would have the words to turn this around, but would he have the will? He wanted her, had bargained for her, had used others to put her in his room; but with every passing day, it was still his heart that had been given away.
**B4.C6**

"Derik, we are, concerned," his least favorite elder said.

"Yes sir."

"A few weeks ago, you went to the dinner alone, and you left alone. And nothing since has changed."

"Yes sir."

"I fear your hunch about that girl just hasn't proven itself the same as your hunch about her tribe. She's clearly been of age for some time now and shows no signs of being worth any more of yours. She's had years, and nothing."

"No— You don't understand." Damn that elder's constant use of gloves that forbid his cheating touch. "I, she, we haven't— Her leg's been—"

"She has not learned her place among us yet? She hasn't learned her place in your room? You need not worry, Derik, I will straighten this out right now."

"No sir, you don't—" but it was too late.

What had his foolishness done?

So much had gone so wrong in so few seconds. Why couldn't he have pled dysfunction on his part, bashfulness, impotence, or even claimed they hadn't dropped, anything but the thought he left unchallenged. She had been right. She had always been right. The best thing for her would have been to pick another. If he cared, really cared, that's what he should have done. The others would have assumed she was not one of ten and, for the most part, left her alone. But now... What had he done?

Her elder couldn't look at her, not at first. He had been standing outside this room for hours as others entered and left at will, allowed only glimpses between the swings of the door. Now, he stood for an awkward minute before this girl, building the nerve to sit beside her on the bench. They just sat, silent for a while, in this otherwise empty room.

Her hands stretched the front of her shirt to cover her lap. Her pants were the discarded wad by the door with her cane and other articles that had gotten in their way. Had she known what was to happen, she would have chosen a more violent path, but they took her cane just inside the door and she lost her struggle to stand. And so she sat, long after they were done and gone.

Her elder had been called, but only allowed to speak after the act. Now that he was in the room, he hadn't the faintest idea what to say.

"I remember when your name first came up at an elders' meeting," he said. "Your mother had been ordered to give you up to the care of the tribe, so she could focus on another child. It was our way, as it is here. She stood in front of us, just a little older than you are now, and promised she would kill the first person to lay hands on you, and as many as she could after that. Few would have had the guts, the sheer nerve to say those words at an elders' meeting, and only one that I know, who would keep such words once spoken.

But we knew better. We knew what was best. We dissolved their marriage, figuring it was your father's influence. No woman would say such things. She came before us again. She said what we called her husband made no difference to her; she would take no other in her heart, or her life.

She taught the warriors, the scouts, and even us much of the forgotten sciences. In many ways, we looked on her the same way they look on Derik. When we found she could have children, we coveted the idea of a generation of her genes mixed in the tribe. She is where you get your intellect, your coordination, your skills and your looks. We had hoped you would have her uncanny knowledge of the ancient ways, but you didn't, or haven't yet. But our wants were unimportant to her.

She would not give your father up, and he certainly wouldn't give up her. Many thought of him as unreasonably selfish. If he wished to hold on to her, fine, she should still have as many children as possible, but to have one and stop... They took it out on him to the ends you remember well. We waited a year for her to mourn, then her name came up again. We married her to one of her friends."

"She broke his leg and an arm when he told her," she said.

"Yes, and he was a friend. We were wrong about your parents. I was wrong about them. They came to us as children, and we took them in on a chance. As much as she gave, we felt we were owed more. It was a tragedy. Had she been average or less than she was, no one would have cared. Had you been deformed, they might have bought it as a fluke, but she had a beautiful, bright little girl. And here I am again. But this time, I have no say. It was only by courtesy that I am allowed to listen and answer if asked upon, and that was only on the convincing words of Derik.

He is as much a match as you will find here. He already has great pull with them at his young age. I'm sure you've heard, he's being groomed to be an elder; all he lacks is years. Sometimes, talking to him, or you, it's easy to forget how young you both are.

I know he's a little thin, a little frail, he wouldn't last long outside these walls, but he makes up for it in other ways. He saved what was left of our tribe, this village, and your very life. They will want his children and his magic genes to stay in this village, to thrive here. I had hoped his affection would be good for you, that he would be good for you. He, more than any other, can give you the best possible life here. I had hoped this day would not come, that I would not stumble on these words again.

You are his, you know that for sure now. That he hadn't yet is proof to me that I was right about him. He either respects you, or fears you. There is some comfort in that. Is he at least a friend? Do you care for him, even a little? It helps if you do."

She sat.

"He has been a reasonable young man, I could have another talk with him, if you wish."

She didn't move.

"I had hoped to spare you this, my promise when she walked back inside. It seems, I have broken the last thread of faith she had in me. But I would like you to learn from this, from all these words so easily spoken, but only stood behind when convenience favors the moment. That there was at least one I know who kept her word, and one who kept his promise to her; it just wasn't meant to be me. I've lost a lot of sleep over you."

She refused to show any expression. "If it's not too much trouble, could you kick me my clothes on your way out, so I don't have to crawl on the floor."

He busied himself with cleaning. She had kidded him about the mess that morning, and he couldn't think of anything else while he waited for her to return. Everything outside this room had curved far out of control. It helped on some level to clean, to restore order, some normalcy to the room. It was the one place he had, control. He had. His thoughts betrayed him again.

How was he going to confront her? What could he possibly say to her, confronted by so many today. He had lost her for sure this time. All because he couldn't think of a lie fast enough. Because he was so used to the power of a touch, that the one time he didn't have it— He was such a fool. He clearly did not deserve her, had caused her far more harm than good. What do you say, what do you do after such? And only a few weeks after he had been declared hero by the entire tribe; their greatest warrior who never held a sword. 'They will sing your name for generations to come,' they toasted him. He dined on their grandest meal, while his greatest reward was tucked under a blanket, shivering on his bed.

She limped in with the cane, then sat on the foot of the bed in total silence, until he couldn't bear it anymore.

"Dana," he said.

She sat as earlier instructed.

"Dana. They," he knelt by her feet, "they think they are honoring me by making you hate me, by driving you away. They think you are unworthy of me, by proving I'm unworthy of you. I, I am so sorry."

She stared past him.

"I can only imagine... I should have lied. I should have told them it was a problem of mine, or it hadn't been your time or— but I can't even say the lies to you."

"I would rather have been raped," she said.

"I have made such a mess of your life because I can't let go, and I can't let go." He touched her damp hands and the flood of visions past poured in. "If you didn't hate me before, I've made sure you do now."

"I don't hate you," she said. "But I'm not in love with you either. You're a decent enough person, Derik, or at least, you try hard to be."

"I didn't think— I couldn't imagine they would do that, to anyone. I never would have guessed how they would treat, the hero of my room."

"There never will be a we like this."

Unlike all the others that day, his hands on her knees held them together, instead of pulling them apart. "Every day I think I've reached the end of what I can feel for you; every day since I met you, I've been wrong. Every single day. That my affection is the source of your pain may damn me for all time." He pressed his forehead to her knees.

"Just, let go."

"I can't, I never could. And now that, that they have done this to you in my name... They know that I have failed to touch you. And I have, more miserably than any look could tell. I've ruined your life. It took hours because, because they were looking for flaws. They know more than my failure now. That knowledge won't fade away, you can't be the quiet, faceless, nameless one in the crowd anymore."

"Please."

"Marry me, in words only if you want. No one would touch you, they wouldn't do this to you again, and as for me... Know this, if you've learned anything in the past few weeks," he looked around the room, "he didn't last ten seconds against you, and he had armor." He looked around again. "I wouldn't last half that long."

"I cannot dishonor what my parents took to heart, if it's not within mine. I can't marry you."

"It would save you this for years. If not me, then it will be somebody."

"There is no safe place in a lie."

"It's all I can think of—"

"It's all you ever wanted to begin with."

"Let me help you, let me find a way."

"Your help has gotten me held down on a table while they took turns putting their hands, putting things inside... for hours." She caught her breath. "Please, don't you see? What more has to happen before you can let go? If I gave you what you wanted, if I loved you, what then? I spend most of my life pregnant, seeing my children only in passing or no children at all, watching you with other women. I can't live like that. I can't love like that."

Time for dinner, but neither had much of an appetite today.

Hours passed in silence.

He moved from the floor by her feet to their chair at the desk where he feathered doodles to a page.

His glances to her distant gaze, aided in the sketches, remade, the many paper dreams he needed to replace. His fingertips where stained black over the smudge-clouded pages he wanted to nudge her to, nudge her to better. But this was a daydream he had, based not in unfettered power loosed on slumber, but wishes and desires instead. Wishes did not make such things real, and smudged page may be as close as it would ever come.

Unintended consequences, life was full of them. His elder had suggested the sketches for future use, the pieces of a bigger puzzle, but he found it the best of tricks to use. Better than hard work or a yawn, the page was a perfect place to trap troubles on. Blank, open spaces, begging, needing to take charge and care of thoughts, tired of being dwelt. Just like the page beckons the ink, silence craves the unwritten word. Dana broke the long silence first.

"Before my father died, their friends used to come by at least once a week," she said, "to talk and play chess or other games with my parents in our small room. After he... She didn't play games with them anymore, but one continued to come. He had been a good friend to both of them, now he wanted to be more to her.

She refused him.

It must have been a year or so, I remember the day he came in with the news, the elders had wed them. She was now his wife without ever asking her. I heard them arguing in the hall, then two muffled popping sounds of breaking bones and something heavy slam the floor. He was her friend. They all stopped bothering her after that." She waited for him to sit beside her on the bed. "They thought with a friend it would be easier on her, it was harder instead. Had it been someone she cared nothing for... Once, years ago, I could have done that to you.

It would be too hard now."

"It's not like I don't deserve it."

"It's too late. I have to live with the events I've let befall, unchanged, unchallenged. Besides, I think they would give me worse than a shiner for being less than what their hero wants. I have no proven value."

"Proven to me."

"And so I am trapped, a lesson not learned, gets taught again."

"Futures can be changed, even one mangled as badly as I have yours. I've never meant to— any of this. Not like this. I wish they never knew my name. Never knew of the visions. But that's all my fault too."

"I had a chance early on."

"No, you didn't. If I hadn't forgiven you so quickly, they would have— it doesn't matter. Just another memory of mine, that never was. You know, every day is like thirty for me, each a separate, dizzy life. I have seen things, things people do, that I was never supposed to see. Personal, private things." He touched her hand. "Except with you. I've never seen you change, or bathe, or anything like that. And yours is the clearest of all. I still don't understand why that is."

"You've tried to?" she said.

"No, but I never tried with others. It's just there."

"You can't touch someone without seeing?"

"I've just learned better how to ignore it. Come to think of it, sometimes with you I've seen nothing."

"And now?"

"... Nothing. And it bothers me because the only times I've seen nothing is past the end of someone's life, or when it's all used up. Whenever I've touched you lately it was at the end of the day when I couldn't read anything, because I know you don't like me in your head."

"And if you try?"

"... Week, maybe two, and an overwhelming feeling there's a we. That it's important, that you are a part of my future. You're an amazing person, a rare talent, a power of your own. Special."

She broke the touch.

"You're not even human, are you?" He gave her a quick sniff, "To go two weeks without once entering a bathroom, and still smell as good as you do! Now that's a powerfully special talent if you ask me. Not to mention the not exploding part!" He got the smile he sought. "It's important not to be too serious too long with you, or you tend to forget you can make one of those. I haven't given you a lot to smile about, one more thing that's my fault, but I promise to do better."

She sat for a moment, just staring at her lap. "I'm too tired to struggle against this, or you, anymore," she said with the same look she had with her mother dead, curled to the floor; the same an animal has when it's left in a trap over night, resigned to its fate.

One of her shoes flopped off. Its strings had been cut after the lace pulled tight to an inconvenient knot, their eyelets stretched to slots. The other he untied with ease. "Good, there was something I've been waiting to do for some time now." He pulled her socks off, unstrapped then placed the leather band within reach beside her. He handed her the nightshirt from under her pillow before he unbuttoned then removed her pants, added to the pile to be washed the next day. His hand between her legs, the last of so many that day, but his untied the bandage ignored by those before. "It still looks bad."

"It still hurts."

With his back to her, he laced her shoe at the desk while she changed. He returned the pair then sat with her on the bed. "Dana." He kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you. I may be the worst part of your life, but you are the brightest part of mine."

They sat for a while, just sat, backs against the same wall. Relaxed in the same room. He was always relaxed around her, safe around her. It was something more than just comfort, symbolic.

He had thought after Shela died was the saddest he would see her. He was wrong, often finding her on the foot of the bed, pushed back into the corner. Her one leg stretched out, foot poked from beneath the sheet that hid her. She still walked with a limp and a cane. She had asked to be set free, but the best he could do was leave her alone. A week since they mistreated her.

He sat at the desk, feather in hand, while she would sit and stare. The book was open to a page he pretended to read between scribbles, lost in thought, like her.

A prisoner, and he had become her keeper, like the squiggly lines he confined to the page. He was obsessed with her, not fair to her. Best intentions, worst of reactions, if only the answers were in a book. Add the numbers on the page, divided, multiplied, simple answer, sum on the bottom. It was not that easy to find the answers to her problems.

Neither was letting go.

"I only wanted to help," he said.

"That makes it worse."

He added more lines to the page until he was done, ready for bed. He blew the lamp out.

"What's wrong?" He woke to her sitting by his feet. "A bad dream, a nightmare? You ok?"

"No, I'm not," she said.

"What is it?"

"I've been thinking, about everything."

He bumped into her while trying to sit closer to her voice in the gray of dark.

"Why me, Derik?"

"I don't understand."

"Why me? Why can't you leave me alone? Why me in the first place?"

"I guess your elder said it best, you're special. You fascinate and befuddle me. Every time I—"

"I'm not special."

"You don't want to be, but you are."

"No, I'm not."

"See, a lot of it is that incredibly agreeable personality of yours. Not to mention you're a smartly beautiful girl," even in the dark. "All of these, or some of these, you are special, if only to me. The bravest girl I know."

"Brave, I wish I was. I knew what was expected of me all along. I accused you of being unrealistic, it seems I was more so. I thought I could have a life on my terms, that I had paid a high enough price, but that's not how it works."

"I didn't want— I never intended for it to be like this. I've glimpsed what happens, what men and women are like. What happens at night, in rooms down this hall. It never seemed to fit for you, but sex is an important part of life, Dana."

"I'll give you your choice then." She pinched his nose and covered his mouth.

"Ok ok." He pulled free. "Then I choose both. But I see your point."

They sat in silence while he caught his breath.

They had traded beds, but the top bunk still felt like hers. He felt like he should leave, but he wasn't willing to crawl past her to climb down.

"Am I a person?" she eventually asked. "A real person, to pick and choose my life, or is it all feathered words on a page, stacked in a drawer somewhere, and all that's left for me is what I imagine between the lines? Are my choices merely what I make of the events that befall me? Had I to choose today, I would choose you because I feel, misguided and confused as you are, I believe you care. I would choose anyone else because it would be easier to hate them, easier to be dispassionate, less personal. In that way, it would hurt far less. Had I to choose, I would not choose, but the choice had always been you. To give up or to struggle, I can only go against so long." She resigned a kiss to him. "There is no fight left in me, I just want it over."

The passion she used to argue was just the first line of the sonnet she played now, first lips that kissed him back, years from where they had begun. How much better would it be, had it been heart instead of body won? "I, I can't."

"It was over for me, long before we met." She kissed him again.

"Tell me you love me."

She kissed him instead.

What did it matter? It was just three words. Trembling, he— He was scared. What if he— his affections had caused her so much pain thus far, how much more could these ends bring? He wanted this, hurt for this. Tremble, she hid hers much better. "You're scared."

"You were pressing on my wound."

"I, I've seen you face real evil in this room, and you're more afraid of me right now. This can't be right." But he couldn't stop.

"They beat me, you win. Don't you get that? Wasn't that what you wanted, foresaw? I don't have a choice on who, now you don't want me to choose when." She pushed him down. "They beat me down while you're only trying to help, you stay clean that way, that's easy enough to understand. Do I have to rape you? Would that be irony enough for you?"

"I can't."

"I could make you."

His squirms in the dark banged her bandage, folding her in pain.

"Damn it, what do you want from me?" she said, curled to her knee.

"I want," he put his hand on her back, "I want you to get the good night's sleep you need to clear your head." Her breaths slowed. "I want— I'm supposed to help you. I just have no idea how."

She elbowed his hand off her back. "You'll get me killed first." She had given up.

Fourth night, and he understood this less than the first three. She was trapped, like the animal they— he compared her to. She just wanted to be free, acting on any thought that crossed her mind. She had run out of ideas.

She was not alone.

He had bumped her leg by mistake, symbolic of his life with her, unintended, intense pain. He found the edge of her shirt, his hand resting on skin. He closed his eyes and tried, it was what got them in trouble thus far, but it was what he knew best. He tried his best this time.

He had never seen this woman smile so, when she first held this child and the months of joy with just mother and littlest girl. Months of bliss he alone was unable to give.

Happiness ended the day they took her child away. She never smiled again. He pressed a few years more. She met him again, in passing this time, while he was with another woman. A few years more, she saw her child and had the briefest of smile when she hugged this little girl.

"Don't touch me!" her daughter said, running to the real Mother of the children.

He woke in agony. His knee felt like a slab of steak tossed onto open flame— it wasn't his knee. She was folded over, hugging the source of throbbing pain. It hurt. He could tell it hurt, could feel it, yet she didn't cry out.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm tired of hearing you say that." She slapped his hand off her shoulder. "It just means you've hurt me again, and that goes without saying." She elbowed him to the ribs, hard. "I'm sorry. See, it doesn't make it feel better. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It still doesn't feel any better, does it?"

He held his sides in a foolish attempt to keep the pain in.

"I'm never doing this again." She made a fist of his shirt and sat him up. "Don't toy with me, I can't take this anymore."

"I'm not—"

"You want me, you don't, you're sorry but you don't stop. You're playing with me, your own personal toy. I'm sick of it. Do it or don't, you've broken me, you win."

"Dana," his hands were unable to loosen the grip of her one, "I'm not, playing, with you."

"You're either exactly who I want you to be, or vengeful evil, and there's no way to tell between. I should either embrace you, or kill you. Or just leave, but you won't let me go. You've left me with only one option untried."

"No wait!"

"You fell and broke your neck, just cracked open that hard head. I warned you not to sleep up there, but you were always trying to be nice. You just wanted to make it easier on me because of my leg. They might not even blame me, if I do it just right." She pushed his shoulders over the edge.

"Don't!"

"I'll wonder whether you were the one I should have embraced. I'll regret it. But this torment of cruel kindness will be over. I may not be free from this place, but I can be free from you."

"I'm not, playing with—" he nudged the words, "I forgive you," he let go of her hand, "I made you do this. I left you no choice."

She pulled him back, and let go of his shirt.

"Sorry is not much of a word, but neither is special, when it comes to you. They would take a child from you, and that would hurt worse than anything my foolishness has done. If I was the perfect person for you, none of this would have happened, but I'm not just saying what I think you want to hear either."

She turned her back on him and lay down. His pillow pulled over her head, covering her ear.

"There is a way, I'm just too stupid to find it." He put his hand on her shoulder.

She pulled away.

"I can't leave you, I'm supposed to help you. I'm just a miserable failure when it comes to you. Save a village, lose the girl. I can't give you shoes, a blanket, even a simple compliment right, why should the rest of this be any different?"

He put his arm around her.

She elbowed him away.

He did again and again, until again, she just gave up.

**B4.C7**

"... I helped you when they came to kill us all," Derik answered, "I've warned you of bad food, bad deals, thieves, accidents, and days before the first hard freeze. You trusted my visions then, trust me now. She is unlike any other. Please, I beg you, I urge you to leave her alone. You are driving her crazy. You are pushing her too hard in an uncertain direction."

"I warn you, Derik, if she is one of the ten, as we believe she is, her value to us and this tribe may far surpass your own."

"Her value far surpasses any in this room, if she can survive the shortsightedness of those seated here."

"Watch your tongue, boy. We have allowed you this time before us because of your efforts in the past, but you are quickly using up our graces. You do not make decisions around here, we do. I think with all the recent events you have forgotten that you are not an elder yet, and may never be."

"The past is exactly what I don't want to relive. One of you here—"

"Sit down."

"knows she is not—"

"Sit down!"

"You are destroying her and you don't care. She's no good to anyone for anything if you keep—"

"Remove him."

"Wait," one of them said, "I want to hear what—"

"We have voted on this, it's done. It's over. Now remove him."

It should have worked. When he touched her last, this was on his mind, the weekly meeting. He had used all his pull just to have these few misused words. He had thought— maybe the arguments leaking around the closed door were what changed her life for the better, and undid all his harm. But he had a bad feeling that this too was wrong.

He had scouts, warriors, hunters and such left to read. He continued to make his rounds. They trusted him for this, but not with Dana. She had been given to him, but they both still belonged to the tribe. Duties. Those that inspected her, violated her, were just doing their duty. It was what held such fragile pockets of life together. Those in charge had the responsibility, and the blame, for decisions like these. With the power to save lives also comes the power to ruin them. Surely there was enough blame to go around.

It had been years since he ventured past these walls, and still, through those he touched, he knew the woods in intimate detail. Life continued, vicariously through others.

With Dana's leg mangled for the last month, she had been taken out of the fields and moved inside to the loom room; weaving cloth for shirts, pants, and a backlog of sheets and linens needing to be replaced. Being on this side of the village walls, he was able to look in on her in passing. He made time once every few hours.

To no surprise, she was skilled at this as well.

Like all other attempts to make life easier, this one just made life easier for him. She didn't have to walk as far, or work as hard, but she had to stand all day and work foot pedals whenever she sat. Unlike in the fields, none of her tribe worked in this room. No one here would look after her, or hide her in a corner somewhere until she healed. Still, she did the best she could and offered her usual no complaints.

To make up for her lack of mobility, she put in more hours, often there late into the night. It wasn't uncommon to find her sitting on her bed, sewing on a pile of cloth lumped by her bag beside the desk. No complaints at all.

She had fashioned a brace to replace the cane he had gotten her. Wraps below and above her knee held the two pieces of wood pressed tight to the sides of her leg. In this way, her knee couldn't move, but she could stand and use both hands, a must for working with the loom.

He could tell it was uncomfortable to wear because it was the first thing she removed when done navigating the room. She rubbed the area sandwiched by wood for the first few minutes after sitting on the bed.

"Can you stand without it?" he said.

"For a little while, why?" She never blinked from needle and thread in her lap. "Standing all day not enough of a punishment for you?"

"I'm not punishing—"

"I know, you're sorry, you were just trying to help."

"Are you— would you be happier someplace else, doing something else?"

"No, it's fine. It's different."

"I spoke to the elders today, and, most likely made things worse."

"I have the greatest confidence in the severity of your good intentions."

"Much worse." He sat beside her. "Can I help you, with this I mean? Nothing about sewing I could mess up."

"No thanks."

"I uh, I did manage to make a fool out of myself, before everyone."

"That's nice."

"You seem a little happier today. Nothing I've done I hope."

Half her face was hidden by hair and shadow, but the side that showed gave him the smile he was asking for, "nothing."

"Good. I would like to think I've mastered the art of making things worse."

"The best." Needle and thread.

"You gonna be up much longer?"

"Another few hours."

He moved the lamp from the desk to the chair, sliding both within easy reach of her bed. "Good night." He was lulled to sleep by the soft, rhythmic sounds of cloth, folded and sewn. Repeating patterns of sound even wove themselves into the fabric of his dreams.

Every step hurt worse than the one before, but still they hobbled on. Each step today was one further away, one closer to, and one less they had to do. He unrolled a blanket over a pile of dry leaves under a tree before he sat her down. Another over a low branch and they had something resembling a tent.

She leaned back against the trunk, her braced leg stretched out. They had been walking for hours in the woods, leaning on him the whole time. It was a wonderful feeling to be needed. Helpful.

Dark. So dark now, it was the makings of a storm. Her face was familiar, but unrecognized. She held out a bandaged arm for him to unwrap, then the other before he sat between the tree and her. From behind her, he cradled her arms in his.

"Marry me," he said.

"Never enough, to share my life."

The voice was Dana's for sure, even in this detail devoid, black and white dream. One of his, who else's would it have been.

"Derik. You're late, get up," the messenger said. "Come on, they're waiting for you."

"Ok. Just let me put something on." He hurried out the door.

He was doing the same old stuff, what the rush was about made no sense— unless it was retribution for his words the night before. He had better prepare to be at their whim for a while, until they were sure he understood who was in control.

Scouts, hunters, warriors, the same he read every day before. Find the game, find the odd lost or misplaced object. Find out what those strangers want and what they will do. When will it rain, how hard, and when will it stop? Lunch.

She wasn't there. He had stopped by the loom room on his way and had missed her there too. No matter, she didn't always eat with him anyway. It wasn't so unusual. She had taken to talking to one of the women from the looms of late, anyway. It was good for her, to make new friends. It had been a while since she had made the effort, any effort.

Perhaps things were calming down.

"You'll find it stuck behind the bottom drawer, I guess it got caught on the drawer above and slid down the back." Derik answered before the question was asked.

"Thank you."

"They'll be following upstream, um, there are two trees that have fallen, one into the water, the other landed on top. Follow the stream for, maybe, a hundred yards past that, then look for the scratchings on the ground." Confident he had given just enough details, "Who was next?"

"Look, uh, Derik, I uh—"

"I know. Look, she will if you ask her to, but the problem is she'll regret it. If that's all you wanted, then go ahead, but I think if you wait, if you don't ask her right now, you'll be better off in the long run."

"Thanks man, I really appreciate that."

"Sure, it's ok." He was going to ask her anyway, sometimes they only hear what they want.

"Elder. I, I would like to apologize for yesterday."

"I'm not mad at you, son, but I am the only one who isn't. If you remember, I wanted to hear what you had to say. I still do, if you think it's important."

"Thank you sir."

"... Well, go ahead."

"Oh, sorry. It was just, she's had such a bad past that I'm afraid all this may do some real damage to her. I never told— She, uh, she saved me in the room. I owe her, but it's not even that. To all of you, she's just a girl from that other tribe; you were only interested in her because she is probably one of ten. And she may be, but with her I can see weeks, sometimes even a month, with greater detail than with anyone else. She is extremely valuable to all of you in that way, but you have to understand what a delicate balance this is. Drive her insane, push her away, make her hate me and all that could change."

"She's not unstable, is she? I thought she was assigned to tutor you? She can't be that mentally impaired if The Mother would do that."

"No, I didn't mean it that way. She was raised by her mother, her birth mother. She watched her get killed in the raid. There's a lot more to her story, her life than just that, but that alone has messed her up. She needs time, a lot of time. This raid we're rebuilding from has brought back a lot of painful memories for her."

"But she's fine now."

"No, she's not fine. She told me she'd rather have been raped than what they did, does that sound like someone who's fine?"

"I didn't know. You never told me. I'll see what I can do, Derik. She's not suicidal, is she?"

"Not that I know of, but she is a lot more withdrawn. She always kept to herself, but now... I don't know. I don't know how much more of this she can take."

"In the future, son, you can tell me these things. They may have been treating you like an elder, but I am one. When bad dreams kept you up, you came to me, and my door was always open. If I had made your speech, it could have gone much better."

"Yes sir."

"I had thought you wanted her in other ways, we all had."

"Oh, I do. But there's more to this, to her... I can't escape the feeling, she's, very important to me."

"Very well, son, I understand better now."

"Thank you sir."

Perhaps that was it, the real speech that fixed her future. He felt better now, on to the next batch of futures, anxious to be read.

A neighboring village had sent some scouts again, an occasional occurrence to test or observe strengths and weaknesses. Not necessarily a prelude to attack, it could give signs of willingness to trade, desperation and the like. They might have heard rumors of the attack and sent them to see if anything of value was left. Nonetheless, his village always seemed ten times stronger than it was, thanks to him. He was able to send all but a handful of warriors to be, observed, marching a normal patrol. It made for an impressive sight to be reported for sure.

This trick they used in reverse for the army that attacked a month ago. That army was going to attack anyway; with spies finding little or no resistance to report, they were surprised and overwhelmed when they breached the walls. The greatest numbers were defeated in the first few minutes, the bulk of his village's losses occurred in the hours after that.

His third stop by the loom room failed to catch even a glimpse of her. Now it was dinnertime and still she was absent from the room. The meal tonight was exquisite; with meat being less a rationed thing, they were serving it on a regular basis instead of the occasional surprise. The ice room was paying off in the most delicious ways.

They stored more meat prepared, precut, and packed under ice. A good hunt often meant only killing enough for a few days, instead of all you could, relying on his talent to find those spared the day before. Putting the excess under ice allowed their breeding stocks to flourish without picking some to slaughter between lean hunts.

It was a great idea. With luck, the size of the buildings, the thickness of the walls, and the volume of ice would last well into next year. And there was nothing better than cold milk. That alone was worth any price.

"Derik, the elders asked me to speak with you." She led him down the hall to a room much bigger than his own. She sat on the bed, he on the chair.

"About what?"

"You and Dana. Her name's Dana, right?"

"Yes."

"You like her, I can tell by the look on your face when I said her name."

"I'm that transparent?"

"I've met her too, at the looms. They thought it best that I talk with her, but that's a hard thing to do, to get to know her, I mean."

"Yes ma'am."

Her hand on his knee, "Geana."

"... Geana."

"She's pretty, in a plain sort of way. She keeps to herself. I've had only a few weeks, but she seems painfully shy. She will talk if spoken to, but that's a hard way to get to know someone."

"Yes, it is."

"She's a smart girl and a very quick study. She knows what she's expected to do. The first time is always the hardest."

"No, the problem is me. I, I've ruined every part of her life I've touched, I'm afraid to mess up the rest of it."

"People make mistakes, Derik, even you. I think she can forgive inexperience. Besides, this new light you've found yourself under has turned more heads than you think. Sometimes, two people can get along and aren't right for each other. Sometimes, friends don't make good lovers. It happens. There are no rules for this sort of thing."

"I know, but I can't. Somehow, it's supposed to work out. I feel— I really don't think I should be telling you this."

"We all have problems we can't handle ourselves, sometimes it helps to talk to someone. I know it's not the manly thing to—"

"No, it's not that. It's just, she's such a private person. This feels like just another betrayal of her trust."

"Nothing that happens here has to leave this room."

"... Nothing that happens in our room was to leave it either."

"Fair enough. But you can tell me about you. You're the only one I can help here anyway."

He didn't want to tell her, but she was right. He did need help, wisdom, and a woman's perspective. If the problem was his, she may be able to help. The elders would not have sent her otherwise. Still, he was reluctant.

"This is your first time, isn't it?" Her hand on his knee, "It's ok to be intimidated. It's natural. People have been doing it for thousands of years. There's nothing new, mysterious, or secret about it. You've heard all this before."

"It is something private."

"Yes, it is. Or it can be. It can be intensely personal, or casual, or completely impersonal and dispassionate."

"She said it would have been easier that way."

"Which way?"

"Impersonal."

"You have less involved, less invested, less to lose. It's better in a way, but sad in a way too. You've been living with her since they first came to us. You're already invested in her, safe in what you have."

"Yes."

"What you have to understand is that it can mean quite a bit, or nothing at all. It's whatever you bring to it, what you make of it. You could have built this to an expectation that can't be achieved, that happens too."

"Maybe."

"They want your child, they want her to have children, these are both known things. No one cares if she has your child. There is no reason to be afraid." She kissed him. "You've been doing that much at least."

The rest, he should have foreseen.

He had more chores to do, another reading of the assembled night guards. Routine. They would walk the shift regardless of what he saw. But what he pointed out, they would pay added attention to. Oh, how they played such games sometimes, these unsupervised few.

One made sure he would be read after the others had gone to their places along the walls and the paths just into the woods. He wanted what he always did, a favor of sorts. He played cards for money and wanted hints on the right hands. They had tried this many times before, often with misfortunate results.

Over the years, they learned how to best the game. The key was to do nothing he would not ordinarily do. Knowing the hand will win or lose, he just bet more or less as would be appropriate. Derik simply told him what hands to bet heavy on.

The first hand usually went without a wrinkle, but all those after were nowhere near accurate. They had tried it tens of times, each with the same results until he figured out what they had done wrong. By changing what cards he would keep, it had a ripple effect that changed the hands of the others throughout the game. For it to work, the only thing he could do was change the bet, and even that would sometimes change the rest of the game.

Had Derik ever been allowed to play, a simple touch each hand and he would win big or lose little. Powerful enough to win games but not hearts. No, not all hearts, just the one he sought.

He was never happier to be home. It had been the longest of days, so too it must have been for her, hidden beneath a sheet, asleep on the bottom bunk. He slowly closed the door to avoid even its sound before going straight to bed, avoiding her out of guilt about the events of this day. It was for the best, this was the first night she hadn't stayed up sewing. She deserved her sleep, if any did. More than he did today, anyway. Extra water again this night, he wanted at least a few words with her before he was fetched at a punishing hour of the morning. Sleep came fast tonight.

He found her propped by a tree, her leg bandaged and splinted, same as her arms. He used a crude wooden spoon to ladle soup into her mouth. Lip, cheek, one eye was swollen shut; he wiped the corner of lips that wouldn't seal. She was hurt, bad. Slipping behind this fog of a dream, his kidneys hurt from the pressure. He had to wake. But he had to remember this place of no details in case it was more than a dream with two tiny, hovering birds.

"Dana. I— It's early but, we have to talk." He sat on the corner of her bed while he tied his shoes. "Dana." He pulled at the sheet to uncover her pillow and a pile of scrap cloth.

He banged his knee on the chair in his rush to add light to his search.

Stop. Stop panicking! Calm down.

He sat on her bed, his bed, the lower bed.

Inventory, that was the best way to start.

Her shoes were gone.

No sign of the splint. What else?

Wait. She could have just gone to the bathroom; she would need both for that. He never foresaw that kind of private event. It would be ok. No, it still felt wrong.

He pulled her pillow to his lap. It must have looked silly, but he sniffed it just to be sure.

It was hers. What else?

Her leather bag was by the desk.

Empty, just sticks and straw to fill its form.

Clothes, she would need clothes. He dumped her drawers onto the bed.

Gone, except the worn-out few.

Socks looked several pairs short, but he wasn't sure.

Blankets, his, the better of the two, was gone.

He sat on the bed, staring into his room.

He was done trying to pretend. She ran away. She was gone. What other option had he left her with? He had to decide what to do. He had an hour before they would come for him, and two obvious choices. Tell, or keep it a secret.

If he told, they would search for her. Perhaps even find her, but what then? Punished, watched for a long time, sent to someone to help her, just like... just like what happened to him, the day before.

She might be here, just with someone else. Impersonal. How to find out without asking? No, he had that one covered. Think...

Why put a pile of scraps and a pillow under her sheet if not to buy unnoticed time? Whatever her reason it had to be a good one, so, putting it back was his best move.

Perhaps a note, he checked the desk.

Nothing. No wait, he checked the drawers.

His stack of unburned dreams, the one on top was drawn by his hand, but was not one of his. It was her and her mother in front of some ruins, but he had no idea where that was. Well beyond two days journey in any direction, he knew that much.

Any direction...

He hadn't a clue. Time. Precious time kept slipping by. Two days was his limit. She may well have been gone a day and a half by now, the last time he had seen her was the night she stayed up sewing!

Ok, put it together. She was limping, unless she was faking, but then why take the splint? She couldn't move very fast, a run was out, but how long could she walk nonstop? He had no idea. He didn't even have a direction! What good was guessing distances without a direction? He needed help, but who, and how?

Start with what he knew. A man would come to wake him in a few minutes and take him to some of the finest hunters and trackers he had ever known. It should be no harder than finding game. Ok, no problem. Calm... calm down, get dressed and wait.

**B4.C8**

Why didn't it work? None of them ran across her, not even a clue. Already exhausted, this was taking far too much time and effort with no results. Some things didn't work with respect to her, he reminded himself; maybe this was one of them. Something he couldn't see? He was running out of time. Nearly two days had passed already. Two days! She would be at the bitter range of the scouts' abilities, assuming they could travel at twice her speed. If she had been faking it, or exaggerating her limp— she was already too far by now.

Why wasn't it working, what was he doing wrong? Was she simply hiding somewhere in or near the village? Hiding.

Hiding...

If anyone else ran away, they'd leave tracks. But she wouldn't, that's mistake number one. Animals were not smart enough to cover their trails, she was. He was going about this wrong, but what was the right way?

He would have to tell someone.

But who?

It had to be someone with the skills to find hidden tracks, with superior skills, or at least equal to hers. A fast mover, great endurance, they would have to travel nonstop for two or three days. But he was at the edge of his power now, probably too late now. He sat and stared at his hands.

If he could avoid the touch for the rest of the day, if he could relax, concentrate, and save it all for one, sure, all-powerful touch, he might have a chance. But that left the question, who?

He would try to hide for the rest of today. Easy enough, he knew a few places.

Think... Who?

The best were those of her tribe, older and slower but often more skilled than those of his. That should work twofold, they were also more likely to understand and help cover for her. But he had to be sure. He would have only one chance at this.

Whoever it would be he would have to tell them to enhance the odds of finding her. Not just a runaway, but Dana specifically. It was much easier to find someone you were looking for than just random game.

Her elder. Her elder would know who.

But could he be trusted? The more people told, the greater the chance— maybe he was going about this all wrong. What was he going to do if he found her? Talk her into coming back? Take her by force? Did he think he was going to find her by himself, one-on-one? Did he think they would just let him walk out the gate? He hadn't been outside in years.

No, her elder couldn't be told. He would be only good for a name, perhaps some advice. Tell him a lie. Something convincing. Something he was certain would get his cooperation. Think. Dana was special to her elder. Perhaps he should reconsider. He would know those of his tribe best.

Hiding wasn't going to find her. He had to start taking chances. Maybe there was a way he could ask without asking or using any of the precious power he had left. He started on a short walk to help him think.

"Sir, may I have a moment of your time, please?"

"Come in, Derik. To what do I owe this late night call? Surely, a future as tired and worn as mine needs no reading, and if it did, it would be of no use to any I could think of. It's about our Dana, is it not?"

"Sir, I was wondering if there was someone, a member of your old tribe I could talk to, the most skilled in finding and tracking a hidden sniper."

"Of course. I would be happy to, but first let me ask of you and our Dana. You do remember our deal."

"Yes sir. And I haven't broken it, for all the good it did her. Please sir, I just need a name."

"She has grown to be the woman her mother was, even looks painfully more like her every day. Her mother taught her since she was an infant. She knows more about tracking, about finding this sniper of yours than anyone else."

"Her, leg won't give her the mobility needed to find a moving target."

"I see. If this sniper is as well trained as she, then it may not be possible to find, him. There is one, the second best student her mother had, her husband until she died. Come, I will take you there."

"That's ok sir, just tell me, I don't wish to take up any more of your time."

He told him.

Another long walk at night, the light blue sky lit his way between the buildings. He needed the full length to build the nerve to say what had to be said.

"What is it, another attack?" The man fumbled, tucking in his clothes. "Where are the elders, everyone else?"

"Sh— Please, I don't want to wake everyone, we're not under attack."

He closed the door behind him, both standing in the dim hall.

"I need your help. You were married to Dana's mother, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. What did she tell you? Look, that was a long time ago, I didn't think she heard any—"

"No, it's not— please, I just wanted to know how close you were to her."

"When her husband died, we all figured I was next in line. As a friend, I knew her better than any, but no one figured she would mourn so long. Look, I don't know what Dana told you, but I never put a hand on her mother. Our argument got loud, sure, but whatever sounds— she told me to leave or, and my big mistake was not leaving the second she said or. As it was, it took three people to drag what was left of me down the hall."

"It's not that. I, I guess, I just wanted to know how well you knew Dana." Derik looked over this enormous man again. It was hard to imagine someone getting the best of him.

"Her daughter? As well as anyone, I guess. Oh, I see. You made the same mistake as— well, it doesn't look like she was that mad at you. I couldn't walk for months after her moth—"

"I made a different mistake."

"What I do know is when she was a little girl, she beat me in chess; until that day, only her mother had done that. I don't think anything was held back from Dana's training. She's not like any of the girls you'll meet here, and I wouldn't make the mistake of treating her like she was," the man said. "You didn't wake me in the middle of the night just to chat about this."

"Would you take it back, marrying her mother?"

"Yes, and no. It was the greatest honor of my life that day, but I lost her over words, a title I traded for a friend. I let what I wanted ruin what I had. It's an old tale I'm afraid, but it's a memorable one because everyone can relate to it. You're still alive, so it must not have been that bad. So, what did you do?"

He had to be certain. "She ran away." He used the touch he had saved all day, his one chance. Nothing. He had wasted it! "I need your help to find her."

"Now?"

"Right now, before something bad happens to her." Nothing.

"She can take care of herself, Derik."

"I can't let her face it alone." Nothing, "I owe her." Not yet, "We're still friends, I can't let her go it alone. I have to— I'm supposed to help her."

"If she wanted you to go with her, she would have taken you. If she's running away from here, that's one thing, but if she's running away from you— If you find her, you may not live long enough to regret it. I may not be fast enough to protect you from her; I wasn't a match for her mother. What would I say to your tribe then, I snuck their prize, youngest elder out into the woods and got him killed? I don't think you've thought this out."

He had to convince him! "You don't have to go, just like any other time I've done this, you just have to want to." At last, he was getting glimpses, "Do you know how she covered her tracks so well?"

"Her mother must have showed her, she taught all of us how— You plan to go, just you? I can't let you do that."

It was too late. He had seen the lessons, the tricks in hiding the trail, and even the way to sneak out the gate without being seen.

"This is foolish, you're in no shape to leave. In a few hours, they'll discover you're missing, and everyone will be searching for you. What then? You can't elude them all; you haven't her skills. She has a head start on—"

"Do whatever you have to, but don't participate in the search." He looked three doors down the hall, "They'll discover I talked to you. Tell 'em I tricked you, that you had no idea what I was planning." This man's future was blame free again.

"Do you even know what to take? I'm sure she's prepared for almost anything; this wasn't a last minute thing for her. You have no idea what you're getting into. We walked for years getting here. The dangers are everywhere."

"Thank you, but I'll be ok. Go to your elder about an hour after sun up and tell him his first instinct is wrong, but the plan you help him with will work." That was even better for both men.

A blanket, extra pair of shoes, socks, clothes, a whole list of things he had to assemble and quick, then leave. It was a maddening hour he was grateful for. Even though he had made his mind, this was the right and only thing to do, he was still less than committed to it. He needed that hour to get his nerve, to calm his wobbling knees. He had never done anything like this before. Too many years had passed since he walked outside these walls. Ill prepared was an understatement. It was going to be tough, nonstop the entire way, and he had never walked from one side of the village to the other without stopping. He would see what kind of man he was, very soon.

The first few hours in the light blue night sky were no worse than expected. It was the hours after when the hot sun had soaked his shirt that he realized how heavy this stuff was, and started to wonder how much of it did he really need, not even half of his first day.

They were missing him by now. The search would have begun. It was a race, and his breathing was awful loud already. He had to stop, for a minute at least. He set the bag down.

Drink something. Much better. Now, eat something.

Much better, less lightheaded.

The bag was even heavier filled with exhaustion, his legs complained at each step he took away from the comfort of sitting. Sitting was too much pleasure to enjoy again, at least no time soon. He staggered down the trail another man could somehow see, doing his best to conceal what tracks he left behind.

He was amazed he had made it this far as he neared the end of his first full day. Everything had gone without a hitch, no attacking dogs, no wrong turns, just as foreseen. He might just make it after all.

Tired, but less than he would have thought, more excited instead. He was doing this! It wasn't someone else via a vision, it was his feet on the ground. It was his well-conceived plan, and it was working.

Odd, she had walked around this field of grass. He could shave a few hours off his time cutting through it. He looked around just to ensure there wasn't something obvious he was overlooking. She must have been afraid of the trail her footsteps would leave, but his touch knew they wouldn't find this spot for days, if they found it at all. He walked in.

Nothing to it. He took a few more steps. It was damp, the dew wasn't off the waist-high blades. It was difficult to see his feet, but even walking slow he would save hours.

He couldn't move. Hundreds of blades clung to his pants and shoes. Crap. It wasn't dew, it was some type of glue! The droplets, when broken and exposed to air, turned sticky.

He was stuck! He immediately thought of spider webs. Traps like these would serve only one purpose. Food.

He swung at it with the hatchet from his bag. It was stuck too. Damn! What was he going to do? Sticky... Think... What else did his bag have? Clothes, some tools, but no solvents for glue! Damn. He could see the edge behind him, just shy of twenty feet. It might as well have been a mile.

He pulled the blanket out. It was rolled up, that was in his favor. This could work. With one whip he unrolled it across the top of the grass between him and the edge, unbuttoned his pants, pointed his toes, then fell back and squirmed for all he was worth. It worked, he was nearly naked from the waist down, but he was free, lying in the middle of the blanket. He tossed the bag clear of the grass, then, with a short blanket runway, he did his best to follow. Good thing he had packed more than one pair of shoes. So much for shortcuts, he would stick to the visions with diligence this time.

Night came with a pale blue light. It was darker in the forest, but he could still make out objects within ten feet or so. Keep going. Tired. So tired. Legs pleaded that he stop, just for a minute. But he couldn't; to catch her, he had to keep going. Just another day or so.

His skin was crawling, tearing, like the hairs of his arm were being plucked six at a time. Opened eyes found the bugs that crunched beneath his walking feet had crawled and covered him while he slept, eating their weight in flesh! Those he swatted off were quickly crushed with wasted vengeance on the ground. He rubbed his back against the nearest tree to remove those clinging there and to scratch the thousand itches they left behind. Damn, his arm started to swell.

Walk. Faster, he had to make up the time.

Faster!

His headache was intense. He might have bashed his head on a branch and knocked himself out, he couldn't remember sitting down. Like so many things in his life, it didn't matter. He touched his hand to his face, forehead and hair, no blood. It would be ok. He wasn't hurt enough to stop. Get up! Run faster! Late tonight or early next morning, he would catch her.

Faster, go faster! Night travel was not working out like he planned, things looked different at night. Thankfully, it was getting brighter every minute. Something to eat might help. He kept the food in the outer pockets of his pack, the same he had used to smash bugs. Now the waxed paper was infused instead of wrapping. Still edible, just double the effort involved.

Getting closer, but he was also stumbling more often. His pounding head gave everything a loud hum, so loud that he couldn't hear the bugs, the leaves, or even the fallen twigs at his feet.

Strained memories, the path he was following blurred in his mind. Focus. He hadn't the skill to see the path, remember. He followed a fading memory, one that was always blurriest near its end.

He was not cut out for this. His feet squished from socks sweated through, his shirt and underpants clung uncomfortably to bites he was desperate to ignore. But he trodded on. Miserable. Why should any of this be different than the screaming pain of his head, or the endless itching of back, arms, ankles, and legs?

Dizzy... hurt... itchy... sweaty...

What if he was a minute late? He was already far behind schedule. He couldn't possibly move fast enough to catch up now, and for what? What was all this effort for? A girl who had made it clear she wanted no part of a life with him, a girl who could easily have been running away from him, who could have killed him over a blanket. A girl, who was not just a girl.

She was worth any effort involved, and he felt it, deep. It was the only thing in his life he knew for certain.

A minute. If he was even a minute late, he couldn't track her. He couldn't see the trail he followed now, couldn't find his way back if he wanted to. He had no one to read and no way to read his own future. His power, as useful as it was to the village, was useless to him now. Touch the hand of someone, anyone, and he would foresee days of wandering in any direction, yet he couldn't see past the trees without it.

What would he do when he found her? Try to talk her into going back? Talk some sense into her? Talk her out of cutting his throat and leaving him in the woods for the insects to devour? His visions were of a friend finding her, her stepfather in fact, not him. He had no idea what she would do to him.

She might see him coming and just avoid him altogether, letting the forest kill him.

Why worry about any of this, he hadn't found her yet. Whatever his words, they would be wrong, or at least inadequate. He knew that much, at least.

The pain in his head extended to the backs of his eyes. He must have bashed it on a branch, just, just don't black out...

Not again, not when he was this close! Dark again, forest again. He could see less than a step past his outstretched arms, he couldn't afford another bruise to his brain.

This was the spot! This was the place. He remembered it well!

He had arrived. He was here!

He put down his bag in triumph to mark the very place, the very spot he didn't find her. She wasn't here.

He wandered the spot, aimless, skilless, useless. He wandered in the blind hope that he would bump into her out of the sheer bad luck he had always inflicted on her.

It didn't work. She wasn't there.

With his headache about to explode, he welcomed a death of brains weeping out above his ears. A fatally cracked skull, be it by branch or the unbearable building pressure within, he welcomed the relief either promised to bring.

Dizzy... Itchy... exhausted, dark.
**B4.C9**

"Why are you carrying all these broken things?" the tree said.

He blinked a couple times.

"No blanket, no extra shoes, some crumbled, dried food that looks like its been stomped on with both feet. You're not cut out for this hero stuff, are you?"

"That hero thing was more your department, but I'll be happy to take the credit if you want."

"They wouldn't send you after me, but they'll send everyone after you. You should have stayed. It's where you belong."

He sat up. "Don't I get a say in that?"

"You came all this way just to argue? How sweet."

"I want my blanket back!"

She smiled instead.

He brushed this morning's bugs from their meal of his arms. "Were you running away from me?"

"I didn't run away with you. I'll be back in a minute." She limped out of sight beyond the bushes.

She didn't kill him, that was a good sign, but where had she been? He looked around, twice. Nothing. Not a sign of her. With nothing but to wait for her to come back, he scratched the itches to pass the time.

She offered some needle-like leaves in her right hand, purple between her knuckles. "Break 'em in half and squeeze the juice out, a couple drops on each bite, it'll help with the itch." She was puffy under one eye, the eye hardest to see when she sewed. "This time of year, you shouldn't sleep on the ground, they'll eat you alive if given enough time."

"Thank you." He did. "Where were you?"

"You coming?"

"Where?"

"I know why I ran away, do you?"

"You don't know this about me but, I'm madly in love with you."

"Madness is not a defense forgiven on this side of the walls."

"I'm so tired. Sorry, I don't argue well without sleep."

"Do you want to go back to a nice, soft bed, hot meals, a warm room? To sit and sleep, wait for them to find you to take you back home, where you're a short walk from a long, hot, soaking bath?"

"Please, God yes!"

"That's the wisest thing you've ever said in the morning. Make a fire using lots of green leaves and young branches. The smoke will bring 'em right to you. Good luck." She tightened her brace, then started to walk away.

"Wait!"

"Why? I'm not giving you back your blanket. I thought I was clear about that."

"I have to go with you. I, I just haven't slept in days."

"You were asleep this morning."

"I passed out, that's a little different. I'm exhausted, eaten by bugs, swollen, itchy, smelly, not to mention a splitting headache. Does it look like— am I dripping brains out of any holes or cracks in my head?"

"I can't wait around, you know that. Are you coming or not?"

"I want to. I, I'm just so tired."

She set the bag down, then loosened her brace. "Do you? Are you sure you want this for a life? If you're tired now, maybe you should think about that. Let it weigh on you for a while, this is as good as this will get. The winters are much colder than your room has ever been. No walks down the hall for a simple bath. No new clothes for the asking." She put her hand on his swollen arm. "No army to protect you, not to mention the bugs."

"I, I have to. I'm, just too tired."

She sat in front of him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Sit like I am, knees to my knees." Her hands cradled his chin, "Close your eyes. It's a trick my mother showed me, a relaxation technique. Just close your eyes."

He did.

"Take a deep breath... more... more... more... now hold it... hold it. Now, just as slow, release it... slower... hold it. Now, again, just focus on breathing... just breathing. Draw each breath with the same care and attention to detail you ink an ever distant, pretty face."

They practiced for only a few minutes, but she was right; it was more relaxing, more restful than hours of sleep. His bites no longer itched, shoulders, feet, even his legs ached less.

"You ready now?" she said. "Then help me up."

Every few hours, they stopped for a sip of water and a bite to eat. She would loosen her brace and untie her shoes.

"Why do you always do that?" he said.

"Do what?"

"This is the third time today I've seen you change your socks."

"Feet are the most important part of walking, but feet were never designed for shoes, it was the other way around. They can't breathe hidden by leather, so changing socks every few hours is the next best thing. A single blister can turn a walk into a painful chore, and in a hot, airless shoe inches from the dirty ground is not the best place for an open wound. In some respects, clean, dry socks are more important than shoes. Die because you can't keep up, or an infection from something you stepped in, dead either way."

"That's why you got so upset when I tossed 'em out."

"They weren't yours."

"... Aren't you tired yet?"

She started walking.

She didn't walk fast, understandable with the brace, but she was consistent, steady. She didn't shift the bag from shoulder to shoulder the way he did. Nor did she want to stop every ten minutes.

"Did you want to lean on me?" he said.

"No thanks." But she offered to hold hands instead.

Her technique had been at sun up this morning, and it wasn't until noon when he realized his headache was gone. The visions. He should have been flooded with them when she touched him, then and now. Nothing, either time. His power was related to his mind; the more he concentrated, the more command he had over the speed and clarity of them. Perhaps this was a new level of control she had taught him? It was a most useful technique indeed.

They walked all day with no signs of stopping for night.

"How long you plan on walking?" He had to know.

"The whole way."

"You know what I mean, until we can stop and get some sleep."

"Another day maybe. You messed it up by following me, now I have to keep moving. I'm not as fast, as you might have noticed. So, I have to walk longer, it's the only way to make up the difference. Add to that, they would have given up on me already, but they won't give up on you so easily." She paused long enough to smile. "In short, we walk until you drop, then another mile or two."

"Sorry I asked."

"At last, a sorry I can believe." She treated him to another.

He focused on his talent. It had been quiet since he found her and he was afraid to wake it, but this soon after leaving the village, he needed to know. It didn't wake. Blank.

"Why'd you stop?" she said.

"I, I was trying to see if they would find us."

"And."

"Well, since that thing this morning, I haven't had a vision all day, and still nothing."

She wiped her hand on her pants. "Here, try again."

"That was it. You're right. We have to keep going. I shouldn't have doubted you. But, there is a better path, a quicker one a couple hours ahead. I'll show you when we get there."

"You wouldn't be trying to steer me back to your village, would you?"

"... No."

"Uh huh."

"Right here. You'll want to go that way instead."

"Why?" she said.

"Well, your way is longer, and slower terrain. You know, big, low branches, lots of shrubs and stuff. The other way, you end up at the same spot, just hours quicker and a much easier walk."

"It's about time—"

"You tested my little talent, I know. You're going to go that way, regardless. There has to be an easier way. Here, pick up a handful of dirt, and I'll tell you how many twigs are in it."

She did.

"Six."

Again.

"Twelve, and two acorns shells."

She reached into her bag.

"It's a trick, your hand's empty. Convinced yet? The path doesn't change, that kind of stuff doesn't change. It's something I can guarantee. Please, I just want to save us some time. Look, when we get there, it'll be a big fallen oak charred down the split in the center, but it's still alive enough to grow leaves."

She started to ask—

"Hit by lightning."

"Ok, we'll go your way."

"I told you there would be a we," he said. "Ouch!" before the hit.

It saved them hours, but there was no way to convince her without walking both paths, and that was something neither had time for. Later, months from now, they might walk both if she still had doubts, but today they went his way.

By the time it had gotten dark again in the forest, he could see shadowy shapes only closer than twenty feet, but a touch of her hand changed that. No bumps, no stumbles, no turning around because the path was grown over, his proven talent continued to save minutes here and there as they walked at full speed, even at night.

Walking nonstop until morning, save the time set aside to change socks and nibble food, he stumbled around in a daze, well beyond exhausted.

"You moved the blades to your arm," he said.

"One ankle I fall down, the other hurts to lift close enough to reach. I learned that earlier this week. I don't have to hide them, so it's the next logical place."

"I never got a chance to get a good look at 'em."

"Now's not the time for lessons, or show and tell."

"Ok. I just kinda felt like talking about something. I thought it might help pass the time."

"My company too boring for you?"

"No. I, I just can't walk anymore. I'm, just too tired."

"Ok. One more time." She sat and showed him the technique again, minutes that relaxed hours worth. Her hand on his chin prevented him from looking away, "I want to know the truth. I won't be mad with anything you say, unless it's a lie. You wanted to talk me into going back, didn't you?"

It felt impossible to lie. "I wanted to... but, I want— I can't let you go it alone."

"You wanted to come, or you had to?"

"I, had to."

"... Help me up, we've got more walking to do."

And she did mean more walking, from first light until near dark. Her trick was getting less effective each time, and it was clear another session wouldn't work. When she said she was going to walk him until he dropped, she meant it, and then some. When they finally stopped, he may well have been already asleep.

Clouds of green, yellow, and brown drifting across a sky, a mix of gray and blue. Bumping, merging, swirled, distinct but separate. Colors. He was dreaming in color again. No hurry to wake while he watched them slowly roll into a single, pencil-shaped form. No guard or elder to disrupt his slumber, he had all the time in the world. Beautiful, relaxing, comforting in a satisfying way; odd that wrong-colored clouds should have such a soothing effect.

He woke to the rays of light that wove past the leaves in the trees and the thin fabric arched over them. Lumps of clothes were in the pockets along the base of the wall, the clothes she wore the day before were folded beside her shoes. The rolled blanket was the pillow they had been resting on.

His right arm was under her head; his other mirrored hers, their hands, held inches under her chin. He pulled away from behind her with every effort not to wake her. He had to make a trip outside, and soon. But how? Where was the opening?

There.

She pulled him back from the door flap. "The first step is a little more than you think."

He looked outside where a net extended about a foot past the edge of the tent, from there it was a good ten feet to the ground. "I really have to go. Uh, how do I get down?"

"Same way you came up. The coiled rope just outside, to the right."

"I made it up this last night?"

"Mostly."

He climbed down.

"You know, this is hard to find, even when you know to look up. It's leafy looking on the outside." He rubbed his arms, "I'm not making that climb any more times than I have to."

She put her brace on.

"Are you mad at me for coming with you? You've hardly said anything to me the last few days. You didn't want me here, did you?"

"No." She laced in silence. "I heard you screaming my name, I watched you bumping into trees under me. After a while, you stopped, and I had a chance to think. The best thing I could do for you, was be gone before you woke. Someone as noisy as you shouldn't be hard for them to find, unless something found you first. Then I looked in your bag and knew you'd get yourself killed out here. I doubt you'd last the few days it would take to be found."

"That sounds like me."

She fixed the blanket.

"Real survival gear, I should have brought stuff like this. This— this is the same fabric you were sewing in bed for the last few weeks, its just been dyed different colors. You made this. You were planning this all along."

She continued to pack.

"You are mad at me, you didn't want me here."

No.

"I just can't seem to get anything right."

Nothing.

"I just wanted—" he was screwing this up, "Do you really want to go it alone? You were running away from me too."

"I'm not the person you think I am. Had we started differently, we would be at a much different place. You tried very hard to make me forget, I was just another piece of furniture for your room. I'll never be that person you ran away to be with."

"... Never?" he asked.

"You're welcome to come along, to share my smaller room if you want. But know that though you're sleeping closer to me, you were closer that one broken night some time ago. Think about the safety of what you're leaving, the benefits you get for benefiting them. For me, leaving was the only choice I had left. For you, this makes no sense. It's not a life to be chosen, it's a life that is left when everything else is taken away."

"We get along don't we? I know sometimes I get confused when you're mad at me and when you're playing. I hope you were playing."

"Sometimes."

"I pick the other side just to hear you argue. Just because we argue doesn't mean we don't get along."

"They can still find you if you want to be found, the hero boy who chased after that crazy girl. I can show you enough to keep you safe. We're very different people, you have never spent this kind of time with anyone."

"I thought about— not exactly this but, I have thought about these things before I left. I left."

"Get your stuff, we're moving on."

It was fascinating to watch. She untied three knots then lowered tent and all to the ground. A tug from the ground and the ropes fell free from the trees, the net wadded to a handful tucked in a pocket. The tent folded faster than he could offer to help. Two shoulder straps, four quick ties sealed it all, nice and neat. The tent was its own bag, the very bag she had been carrying all along.

"You designed that?" he said.

She held out her hand to be helped up, then tightened her brace.

"Why the net, why swinging between trees?"

"If I was an army, animals wouldn't bother with a tent on the ground. Alone, as I planned to be, to get any kind of real rest it's worth the five extra minutes to know not many threatening things can get to you up there. The net comes in handy for fishing, among other things. It's just shaped that way to better serve multiple purposes. Higher is more bug free too."

"Smart."

"You expected something else?"

"Well, I had a vision of more like a blanket on the ground and another laid over some branches pushed into the dirt."

"Cozy," she said.

"Well, it was what I expected. Stupid sounding now but I was sure. It seemed like one of the vision-like dreams I have often enough, it even had two of those small, long-beaked birds that just kinda hover in the air."

"Hummingbirds."

"Yeah, I guess."

She, they kept walking.

"I asked you once, some time ago, you've had dreams about birds too?"

"... No."

"You've seen them then?"

"... Yes."

He stopped her. "You've seen hummingbirds, real ones?"

She stepped away, but was tethered by the length of his arm.

"Where? When?"

"... Nobody believed me."

"I will, I do."

"Let's keep going."

He let go of her hand. He didn't want to push it here, not now. Later maybe, but for now they had more walking to do.

A handful of hours had passed since this morning when they stopped for the customary snack, sip, and socks. This time he accompanied her in all three. The toes of his socks dangled from his pack, just like hers, drying in their walking breeze.

"Do they really hum when they fly?" he said.

"Later."

"Perched on a windowsill, weren't they?"

"Drop it."

"... Ok."

They walked for two full days, same as before. This time her relaxation technique was much more effective. Perhaps because he was more practiced with it, or maybe it was the full night's sleep in the tent and its three-legged hammock. Perhaps it was the lowered tension between them.

With only an hour or so left of daylight, it was time to find three good trees. There was a science to it, not just any three would work. No, that wasn't exactly true, but the right three worked better.

Bark was an important factor. At first thought, he would have preferred the coarse kind, but she favored the smooth. He thought smooth would slip easier, but not with her knots. She was more concerned with the life of the rope, and for that the smoother the better. It tended to sway less in the wind, often being a harder, stiffer wood.

She made it look easy. She showed him the knots but it would be a while before he could tie them, or trust them when he did. The tent went up in a few minutes, corners secured to the net for the ride up.

"God I miss hot meals," he said, sitting in the tent.

"Get used to it. It's too easy to spot the smoke. I'm sure they haven't given up on finding you, and punishing that little whore who kidnapped you."

"Where, and how much? I wish I was that lucky."

"That's the way they'll see it by now."

"Hummingbirds?"

"Give it up," she said.

"This is later."

"Later may be never if you keep pestering me."

"Ok. But that doesn't mean I can't talk about them." He unwrapped one of his flattened meals. "I've seen them in dreams, some of them older than when I met you. They wouldn't stop coming until I started writing them down, I still don't know why that works. The older ones were hazy, but they got clearer the better I got with reading futures so I thought— we thought, it was more a vision and less a dream. They were hunted to near extinction you know."

"I know."

"They seemed like normal dream stuff, they just ended with birds. They said that made them important, a sign of good luck and all that."

She finished securing the loose items into the pockets along the edge, then positioned the rolled blanket behind him.

"Well anyway, like I was saying—"

She lay down on her side, back to him, took one of his arms, and pulled him down behind her, much like the blanket he could have been. "You can keep talking if you want, I'm going to sleep."

"It wasn't that boring, was it?"

She was asleep within the minute. He could have continued to talk, but to what point, he was just trying to spur conversation. When she had been asleep for a while, he repeated the word hummingbird, but it didn't coax her dream. The more he said the word, the more tired he was of saying it.

He was sure not to bump her knee sleeping this way, not even by accident. Still, he missed the nights when he could look her in the sleeping face. But this— this was so comforting, so familiar, an overwhelming feeling of safety, contentment.

He tried his best to see her face when he realized he didn't need to. He could see the change of the shape of her cheek, the little lines that formed by the corner of her eye. He pressed a little tighter to her back, one hand on each of hers. Her cheek swelled more.

He didn't sleep. He closed his eyes and tried, but couldn't. The best he could do was relax and listen to her. His arm across her waist moved with each breath she took. Each breath. He counted them, focused on them. At his slowest, he still took two for every one of hers. He pressed his ear to her back.

Lub lub... lub lub...

Morning started with the tranquil sounds of drops hitting the fabric above, drizzle or dew dripping off the leaves. It would end in a few hours, about the same time she would wake. He pressed his ear to her back and tried to sleep again; it worked wonders the night before.

"Hummmmm..."

"No."

"You're going to tell me, I know these things," he said.

Blood returned to his arm she had spent the entire night on, the one still asleep with needles of pain, but she had problems of her own. She was moving her leg by hand.

"It's worse, isn't it? You want to take a day off? Want me to see if taking the day off will—"

"It's just stiff in the morning. It's my problem, short of a downpour, we're walking today." She didn't stop rubbing her leg.

His hand on her cheek, "We can wait a day and they won't—"

"I'm walking today, you're free to do what you want."

"But you don't have to—"

"I have to. It hurts today. It hurt yesterday and the day before that, and the week before that. Matter of fact, it hasn't stopped since I removed that sharp, pointy object and it's not likely to stop any time soon."

"You can lean on me if you want. Let me help, at least let me carry the tent this time."

"Ok." Packed up, they were ready to go.

He had hoped for leaning, but he carried the tent and his bags for the next week instead, well, most of the time. He thought his bag was heavy, he hadn't a clue. Hers was of equal size but nearly twice the weight. He was finding he was not so smart about many things.

She went the week without a humming word.
**B4.C10**

"Well, this is the last piece of food, stomped flatter than the rest," he said in the tent. "And not much water left."

"I suppose you'll be wanting some of mine."

"Yes, my silent hummingbird."

"That's going to make me mad soon."

"I'm not afraid of you, I can outrun you any time."

With a fistful of his shirt, she flung him down.

"Would you have pushed me off the bed? Would you have broken my neck?"

She didn't loosen this time.

"You wouldn't have, would you?"

"I would worry more about now."

"Ok ok, hum's the word."

She poked him above his knee, hard. He cried out in agony while she whispered in his ear, "You trying to change my mind about that?"

He rolled to the edge of the tent furthest from her, holding his throbbing knee.

"It'll pass in a few minutes," she said. "Just because I didn't, or won't, doesn't mean you can pester me. I'll tell you when I want to, and I really don't like you pushing it."

"I didn't realize it was—"

"Well you should have, future-boy."

"Hey, wait a minute. I asked you every time before I read your future, I know you don't like me in your head, as you put it, and I've been much better about that. I wasn't always able to turn it off, until you."

"That hasn't stopped you from whispering hummingbird in my ear every ni—"

"One night, One. No, ok, two nights, and that was wrong."

"And that tells me you haven't stopped invading my dreams."

"I can't stop that for some reason. Maybe it's because I'm asleep too, or maybe it's that I just don't want to bad enough. Look, I didn't used to be able to control any of it."

"You have your privacy, Derik, I want mine. In some ways, that was what running away was all about, and you won't let me. I can't even have a thought without it being seen by you."

"Wait. Look, Dana, that's not how it works. I— what I see is, well, it is through the eyes of who I touch, that's true, but I don't hear thoughts, or feelings or any of that. I only get to see and hear, that's all. I, I thought you understood that."

"That's just what you want me to believe."

"No, it's not. If it was more, I would tell you. And I'm not really in your head, if I was, I would understand you a lot better than I do. Look, I pester you sometimes because I actually think, in some ways, you like it. It gives you a chance to let loose some of that pent-up frustration you walk around with, in sharp, but harmless words."

"You see, that's exactly what I—"

"It was a guess, I didn't know for sure. It's just— once you get started, it's kinda hard to stop. Just like you're frustrated now. Doesn't it feel better to let a little bit of it out?" Damn she was mad. He had to be careful. "Look, you've been walking around on that hurt leg for weeks— no, for almost two months now. All that pain has got to go somewhere, I can see it on your face. I can't make it hurt less, but I can give you another place to put it. You don't even yell out. I know it hurts; your whole life hurts. Sometimes, it helps to let it out, once in a while."

"I'm not for you, Derik, it'll end badly. It's been good to have someone to walk with, now, go home."

"I want to help."

"Then go home. You can't help me; I'm damned. I don't get good luck, just bad. I have all my life. Whenever it looks like I might have a chance for happiness, it all goes away. People around me die. Go home, you're safe there."

"... I can't."

Her hand on the side of his neck, "Go home, Derik."

He could see the way home every time she repeated those words. Every time she said home, he thought of their silence-filled room and the path that would lead only one of them back. The urge to get up was almost more than he could bear. "I... I can't. Not without you."

She gave up. At least his knee stopped hurting.

He touched her hand and the forest opened to him, the quick, safe meals hiding in the open, ready for the picking. A bounty of edible food and an abundance of water around every corner, no wonder he could see much further with this girl. She had more skill than any other he had touched, raw talent. To look at her, he would never have known. Her elder was right, her stepfather was right, she was more than capable to take care of herself. But he still had something to offer. He could save her time, hours this morning alone.

He was getting more refined with his visions, too. He only saw what he was looking for, in this case food and the shortest path, hidden dangers and such.

Focusing on breathing, it went far beyond that. Each day he practiced her technique he was able to exert more control, slowing down the visions. Tutor. She taught him more in weeks than the elders taught in his life thus far.

Least he could do was carry her bags.

She washed her socks and feet every time they stopped for the night. Something she had done when he first knew her. This was so much her world now, not his. He felt so ill prepared.

"Here," he said, "let me see it. It's all swollen and red." He looked at her leg.

"It'll be ok."

"Look, let me help." He touched just to be sure he could. "I can make it feel better, at least take your mind off it, if you let me in your head."

She didn't resist when he started with her foot. Instinct would have led him to think toes, but it wasn't; it was the small circles on the inside of her heel and the arch of her foot that lessened the pain. The benefit of not needing to experiment to find what works, he could focus on making what works, work better. Visions gave him the answer to dozens of questions he didn't have to ask.

Ankles, though beautiful and thin to look at, somewhat delicate to the touch, did more for him than her, so he moved on to her calf. Questions... Higher, lower, harder, softer, he didn't have to ask any of these to hear her answers.

He shouldn't have been surprised. Before the loom, she worked the fields, stacked firewood, and even lugged blocks of ice. She had the legs for it. He had thought to ask why she didn't wait for her leg to heal before running away. But the bruises on her hand and the cheek she couldn't hide with hair anymore, the long one across her back, the one on her inner thigh, the back of her good leg, and inside her forearm told of her pressing need to leave. Now he had a name without being told.

Odd in a way, the more he did for her, the better he felt. But wasn't that how love was supposed to be?

It took an hour or more before she fell asleep, it was hard to tell time after dark, but there was no need for him to stop. He just had to be careful, she was lying face down. While comfortable, it would only take a single bump to her leg to undo all his efforts this night.

That was more like it, he could see her face while his hand rubbed her back, mindful of the stick-shaped bruise. Her smile most rewarding of all. He was thankful that his efforts seemed to be enough; her future held only little moments like this for the month he could see.

Funny, when this idea entered his mind, he had hopes of her ripping off her clothes after the first few minutes. He had wished for passion instead of slumber, now he looked on the face of blissful sleep as his highest honor yet.

"It's drizzling now, but it'll turn to rain soon," he said when her eyes opened enough. "I love you, you know."

She just looked at him while his fingers continued their slow pass through her hair.

"You looked familiar even before I first touched you at the gate. You reminded me of this blurry little girl from one of my silly bird dreams." His fingers paused near the edge of her faint smile. "Who knew how much more there was to such a sad little girl, confused little boy I was, such left to life."

Her eyes closed as the rain tapped the fabric louder outside.

"I used to believe in chance once, but it has to be more than chance." He paused to touch a kiss words fell short of. "I want to make love to you."

She went from a near sleep to a twisting grip of his wrist, needles of pain thumping up his arm.

"No no no no! I didn't mean it like that." His wrist stopped hurting. "I swear, your moods change faster than you can move. I didn't mean it like that. Well I did, I mean I do, but not this second. I just couldn't help but say it, don't know why. I should know better by now, you'd think."

She let go of his wrist. "We've been over this."

"I'm not afraid of you hitting me anymore. I'm in no hurry, not that it would matter if I was. If I didn't then—" he stopped, "You just don't trust me, you still don't."

"You get to leaf through my life like the pages of a book at your fingertips. If I did that to you, would you trust me so easily?"

"Maybe not. Look, wouldn't I be much better at this if it was that easy? I had the words that would talk you back, but I lacked the will to use them. Doesn't that mean something?"

"If it wasn't just more words."

"Dana— I, I don't know what my future is, it's a talent that's useless without someone else. You know, my parents, such as they are, I was their third attempt. The first cried for two years before she died. The second didn't live that long. But they thought the two family lines were worth a third chance. That was me. I cried for the first year, was sick till I was five, but I lived. I was smaller than kids two years younger than me. It may be best not to know what my fate is, your bad luck made worse by me. But I think, if you let me, I think I can make you happy."

She lay back down.

"You know, we've been out here for a while. I've known you for most of my life, and you so seldom open up. The only times have been when surrounded by a world falling apart. I would like to know you without everyone around us dying."

She closed her eyes.

"I don't really care about hummingbirds. I just want— had hoped to make the most of this time and actually get to know you. I can't help but think that— I want to be able to help you. The— my fondest, happiest times were when I thought I was helping you. I wasn't ever very good at it. I just can't imagine how much better it'll feel when I get it right."

"You're not going to stop, are you?"

"I had always planned on wearing you down. It worked once." He lay beside her, hand between her shirt and back.

She sighed after several minutes of silence. "My mother used to kiss me all the time, my father did too. After he was... After, she would sit on my bed and kiss me until I woke. I never went a day without knowing, without feeling I was loved. That's a lot to lose, to just go without. Then, one day, some thin little boy singles me out, starts talking about all I've lost, then he tries to kiss me like she did." She looked him in the eyes. "I liked feeling loved again, but I knew this stranger couldn't feel but one thing for me. I also had to make a point."

"You don't have to return it, to let me love you." He continued rubbing small circles on her back.

"When my father died, she changed. She kept me by her side at all times. She had left me to the normal ways at first, to play and do chores like the others, until they picked me up and took me to a big room cramped with bunk beds. She came in a little later and picked me back up. Her hands showed the bruises later that day. Do you know how books are made?"

"By printing press."

"When you need hundreds, when you have the time and riches, and access to one. I learned to read and write copying them by hand. I sat beside her in every class she taught, from first thing in the morning until late at night. Sparring lessons and all," she said.

"They said your mother had a gift like mine in a way, but hers was of the past."

"She did, and she didn't. After my father was... after, she understood what it all meant, why answers just came, easy as asked. She could remember past lives, hers. She said she never remembered being old. She came from parents that hated, that she was born of spite, anger, vengeance. She understood how natural it was for her to be brutal at times, that it was what she was born to be, but though I share her blood, she hoped being born of love would spare me."

He kissed her.

"Good luck, bad luck, and birds. I've seen birds. I saw two a few months after my mother died. I'd say it was bad luck, young future-boy."

"Or the good luck that got you here."

"How could that be anything but bad?"

The rain started tapping without pause.

"That enough about me for now?" she said.

"What!"

"You heard me."

"The rain's too loud!"

"Want me to show you a trick that makes it sound softer, passed down for generations?" She pressed against him.

"Ok."

She cupped his hands and pressed them over his ears. She had a beautiful smile as the rain fell louder still. With little left to do but wait for the storm to pass, she pressed one ear to him. Natural, a reflex even, he covered her other as shown.

Clouds, though dry, still forbid the light from the night sky, besides, it was too late to pack. No point in waking her again. He removed his palm from her ear to scratch her shoulder blade. A few moments later, her hands slid off his ears in kind.

Odd, he could adjust her with near a nudge, roll her to her side or back if he liked. All this his future-touch could tell, even that she would not wake should he wish a peek at what pressed to his pleasure now. He could tell all this with the touch he enjoyed, but the peek itself was denied without the deed. He could... wouldn't. A nudge too far.

He looked around, little more than suggested shapes inches anyway.

She kept the shield near the door. He had held it before, much lighter than what its size suggested. Not wooden like most, this felt like glass, but he knew it to be much stronger. Its oval shape made it look smaller than normal. Shiny on the side curved in, it darkened to a dull brown facing out with a lip around its edge.

It would make a safer topic for conversation later.

The scar on her arm was gone now. He had tried in the years since to see it in every casual look. Had he never seen it bandaged, he wouldn't have believed she had ever been bitten. With luck, this second scar would heal the same. A deep puncture wound. He didn't know what he was looking at that first night, but he had glimpsed a bluish white and knew it to be bone. It made a knot high on her leg, swollen he had first assumed, but with reflection, he should have had someone look at it. He should have forced— nudged the issue, but didn't. She had told him it would be all right, and he believed.

After two months, skin had covered it over, now just thin lines. What lay beneath was what remained injured. The source of the swelling was why she struggled to stand, even now. It had cut muscle, the same she needed to stand and walk. This endless walking fought the healing, and she was in constant pain with every step. No wonder she slept so sound at night; were it not for breathing, she wouldn't have moved at all.

She would be mad at him for not waking her the moment the rain stopped, he had promised after all. He could head her off, calm her before the verbal sprawl, but what would be the fun in that? Even now he was working on his lines; too dark, you're insane, they're weeks away, who cares what you think, they can't walk in the dark, I'm too tired... but it always ended with you mean little girl and a kiss.

She had such fun with these verbal things, he only wished he was better at fending her off. He had hours to prepare and a talent for the words she would use, and even so, he would still lose.

He was wrong after all; besides, that wasn't the point.

The net, the tent, the shield, none had a single use. The sides of the tent had filled the water bags with rain. In the days that followed, they got far enough away that she showed him the other use for this disk that twice saved her life.

She had him dig a pit to a depth the length of his arm. When the sun was high enough, she held the shield in one arm, a dry branch in the other. In a few minutes the wood was smoking, seconds later and a few quick puffs and it was flame to start the fire. He kindled it with dry leaves and twigs then added bigger and bigger pieces of wood, easily built into a cooking flame.

She was lethal with those blades, but she rationed her use of them, it was a limited quantity. She had only a dozen left, and they were not indestructible. They could be brittle and broke often. Of those thrown in the room, she could only reuse one. Adding to their lethality, the handles broke and the blades fragmented, making it difficult to remove. But she was just as good with the spear that doubled for a walking stick.

He tended the fire while she left, with his hint, and would return soon with something to cook. Needless to say, it would be at her slow pace. He offered to reverse their rolls, giving her the easier task of tending the fire, but in every future of his hunting alone, he came back without. His talent needed her skills.

The fire was a flaming pit with a spit to cross the hole and rotate an animal on. They cooked and ate, all in due time. Later, with the mass left uneaten and the pit little more than coals, she showed him something new. Following the vision he gathered her requested wood, the same she would have retrieved in a longer time, while she tended the hole.

Green wood on the coals smoked clouds into the night sky, filtered through a blanket of leaves. Racks of thinly cut, cooked meat were left surrounded by smoke overnight. By morning, the strips were dried to a third the size and edible for weeks. The raw nuts and seeds roasted in the same pit would now keep just as long, just not quite as tasty to eat. This was so much her world.

"I'm glad to see you walking without the brace," he said at their mid-day break. "But you still use it in the morning."

"It hurts worse then, another few weeks and I shouldn't need it at all."

"Great, I'm already having trouble keeping up with you."

"We should be able to slow back to just daylight walks."

"You um... I would be so lost out here without you, you know."

"I blame the schools, it certainly wasn't the tutor."

"I would be just as lost back there without you."

She twisted the blunt end of the spear on the dirt between her feet.

"I love you."

"... Let's go." She started to walk.

It was a week's worth of meat, roasted nuts, and other edible things. Even so, they supplemented with fresh vegetation whenever possible. The rule of survival was to eat what's easily found on the path first, what will keep today will be ok tomorrow. Same with water, refill at any convenient opportunity. Still, it was good to know he saved her time.

He slept with her every night; she still wore the same nightshirt childhood fantasies were made of. They had kissed, among other things, but nothing to make the pulse race. It was much the opposite, he found. His heart raced more on these walks just a few steps behind her than when she lay beside or partially atop. She was a calming force in his life. She had warned him before it was too late, that she was not what he expected love to be.

Hot, sweaty, out of control. Tossing, throwing fits of passion on the edge of violence that he knew she was capable of— but that impression simply wasn't her. He should have known. He had the clues. The few nights she spent on the same bed, in the same room. He shouldn't have expected this to be different.

He expected to be frustrated by his, frustration, walking behind her, being around her every minute of weeks without end. Thoughts of running up behind her, tossing her down then ripping off her clothes wandered in and out of his mind more often than he wished. In all this time, he still did not know what was hidden by that nightshirt, all he knew was form.

Of all these thoughts, had they been more than just, they would have lingered past the first touch of her hand, touch of her skin. But they faded way too fast, replaced by the nights of small circles down her back, arch of her feet, back of her legs. He was left to wonder if he knew what the meaning of those three little words was.

In the end, it all came back to the circle it had begun. The hero of his village, toasted and destined to be one of those who ruled, happier here, his numb arm in place of her pillow.

She was having one again. It didn't happen often, but it was to be expected. It started with the tensing of her hand, from open to form an instant fist. The muscles of her back tensed in kind, a mirror of the fight echoing in her mind.

"It's ok, it's just a dream," he repeated, it worked most of the time.

Her fist fell open to warm his shoulder. She moved so little over the course of the night, a habit from sleeping in the woods, like now, on makeshift beds.

"I love you," he said, his new words he used until he got his faint reward.

Her hair tickled his neck. They hadn't the water to wash often, so they did the best with what they had. Even so, her hair remained soft, fine, and compared to his, oil free. She walked the same paths, carried the same load, and was seldom out of breath. He had seen her sweat more from a nightmare than the paths that drenched him.

With luck, the pain he felt in his joints would lessen over time, and it would become easier to keep up. Hard labor, like the hero thing, had been more her department to date.

**B4.C11**

The leaves on the trees had come to full bloom, and the vegetation was more than abundant. Two months had passed since they ran away. No, she still couldn't run yet, but she could walk him into the ground anytime. His pace had improved, now that he was used to the weight of the bag and the length of the walks. He had become less an obvious burden to her as they both improved at a similar pace. It was nice when that sort of thing worked out.

She made the last few kills, but now, with her increased mobility, she took him along. He had to learn sometime, besides, now she was in the mood.

She had made it look easy, but it wasn't. Even with his talent, he missed the first three times, and tracking was difficult when she forbade him the touch. She was teaching, tutoring now. If he wanted to tag along, he would have to do more than just save time.

She was right in her argument, what would he do if she got injured worse than a limp? He needed skills of his own; he had no village backing him now. Saving minutes, finding game and such was enough then, but now his share was greater than the pack he toted on his back. Again, from her, he learned more.

The fire was just embers in a pit. The tent, made and raised, left little but polite words to this day.

"She started it before they beat my father that first time. It was going to be a surprise, proof that she had greater value if left alone, but she gave it up to care for him. She finished it after he died as a reminder of the price of some words and a knowledge they could have had. They said it was one of a kind." She held the shield closer, "My elder thought he would keep it, that they could figure out how she had made it, or valuable in a trade. But in the years on the trail, he decided that it should be mine."

"Do you know how it was made?"

"Well, it was fired in a kiln like pottery, but it's not the same kind of stuff. It's a lot stronger." She rubbed the side that got hit. "See, it barely chipped. It's got a fabric like mesh in it, she said even if it did break, the pieces would still hold together. It's stopped everything so far, but it gets used for starting fires the most. Fairly domestic like that. It's all I have left of her."

"You can make more of those clear knives, right?"

"Not here, not any time soon."

"No, I just meant, you know, eventually."

"They're basically just glass. Just sand and a mold and a lot of heat, but they're not for hunting, just killing. Pieces of glass aren't good to swallow."

"No, I know, you told me that before."

"You're that tired, are you? I can tell. You tend to jump, topicless. Why don't you just go to sleep, I'm going to stay up a bit longer."

He put his hand on her chin, followed with a kiss. "I know she was the first to love you, but that doesn't mean she's the only one who can. I didn't mean to bring that stuff up, it makes you sad sometimes, like now."

She held the shield on her lap, its bent reflection was so easy to imagine as the woman still on her mind.

He had made a study of her from the moment they met, sparked by fascination, the sadness, her similarity to a dream. He had studied her more than any book, her sleep, her habits, her quiet shy ways, the look in her eyes when he made her mad, and that just before play. In these months after the raid, they kissed more than any before. Yet, when he remembered each one, only a handful were her, kissing him. It remained much as it had started, him pursuing her, pushing himself on her. He had to remember to refrain.

Her recent training of him could easily have been to relieve any guilt, should she decide to be free of him.

Still, he had some speck of hope to hold on to. She had kissed him before, but he struggled to remember when.

He woke after about an hour, more than enough time for one poorly written, black and white dream. She was sitting, same as before he had closed his eyes, shield on her lap. Such a quiet, personal girl she was. He leaned closer to her tears' silent fall from her chin.

She didn't want his words, his room, new clothes, shoes, or even his affection; she wanted her mother to be alive. What could he offer?

He hugged her from behind.

"I saw them close the box and lower my father into the ground," she said while he held. "I saw my mother impaled to the floor, and still have life enough to carry me outside."

"She's dead." He held her tighter.

"What if she's not? What if she lingered? What if—"

"She's gone, Dana."

"You don't know. I don't kn—"

"She's gone."

"You've seen the bite you can't see now. I should never have walked again, the tendon was cut along with the nerves, that's not supposed to heal. I get that from her, from them."

"She's gone."

"Not without a box in the ground. What if she's—"

"If she was alive, she would have found you by now. It's been years. Too many years." He nudged the words. "She wouldn't want you hurting like this. It's hard, it's been eating at you all this time. You need to let go."

"I'm forgetting her, Derik. I've forgotten what my father looks like, even the sound of his voice. I don't want to lose her again."

"Nobody expects you to remember when you were a child."

"It's all I have left. She could be a prisoner—"

"Of some adolescent, love-crazed boy. Who's run away with her, even as we speak, in search of her long lost daughter." He kissed her on the cheek.

He was still holding her when she lay on her side, minutes later. Only after she fell asleep could he take the shield from her hands. Quite the little girl.

He whispered words to guide her dreams to happier things, much easier to do than hummingbirds proved.

"They won't think less of you because you can't remember a detail or two. You've grown to be more than they could've asked for." He kissed her the rest of the way awake. "You are a beautiful, talented, fiercely independent woman, with some questionable taste in men." He kissed her again.

"Obviously." She denied him another.

"Fancy yourself a princess do ya? Well ribbit to you."

"I've tried kissing you, it didn't work the first time, I see no point in it now."

"Maybe not for you, Princess."

"Less talk, more walk." She hit him with his bag.

Crossing streams was one thing, but the one confronting them now was deeper, wider, and faster than their liking. Time for him to shine. With a simple touch and a few days walk upstream, they would find a better place to cross. When it worked, it was good.

Since they wouldn't leave its edges soon, they took full advantage. Clothes needed a thorough washing, and this was a better place than most. Even the socks that got a daily rinsing got a once over.

It felt good to get clean, to be fresh again. The water was colder than the warm baths of home, but for now, the bed was more than warm enough to make up the difference.

And now, he had a where.

She wanted to see her mother, to know for sure. Her heart said she lived, her head said she died. Besides, they needed a direction, and this was as good as any. She intended to go straight, relying on instinct alone. Without retracing her steps, she could easily save a year off the trip, with him along, maybe more.

And so they camped near the stream that night, clothes hung across the lines of the net to dry, fire and something warm to eat.

Soup.

Silly, now that he thought about it. She had no pots, no pans, how could she even cook? He was quick to learn. Boiling water for soup had always involved a pot on the stove. With her, it was a paper-like plate with the corners folded to the shape of a square bowl, a rock heated in the fire dropped in to boil the water. A bowl that would burn if held over flames could be used to cook, in her hands. Smart, easy, and kindling if it got too dirty. He had expected something else.

He dipped a spoon. Wild onions made a big difference, but the roasted mushroom tops brought it home. Skills, he learned something new every day he stayed with her. The 'paper' was easily made from a thin layer, a few rings under the bark. She already had hers, his lesson of the day began in obtaining his.

Favorite tutor.

One of the rules was you rest when you cannot walk, walk until it was about to hurt, and eat when the eating was good. Berry patches seldom got passed without being picked. They rested now, in what was left of the day, waiting for their clothes to dry.

Adolescent imagination could find other, more creative fillers of time; thoughts that disappeared moments after the first touch. He had been warned after all, the lessons he was slowest to learn.

"I uh," he stalled, adjusting his position in the nearly empty tent, clothing outside, "I'm worried."

"About?"

"When I looked for the crossing point, I, something happened. I could see the end of the month."

"So."

"Well, it could be nothing. Or, it could be you get killed. It usually isn't just clear then abruptly stops. It usually just, fades into fog. Maybe we should look for a different path."

"We have a month, right? It'll get clearer the closer we get, right?"

"Yeah but—"

She rolled to face him in the tent, "If you weren't here, that's what I would do."

"Yeah but—"

She sat up. "You still playing around in my head?"

"... No."

She settled again, but it plagued him. Perhaps by morning, when his power would be at its fullest, he would try again. Sneak another peek. She was right, they hadn't even crossed the water yet. There was no point in worrying over something that might or might not be a month away.

But worry was something he did best. He took his visions very seriously.

He rolled into her favored sleeping position. They had only her drying nightshirt and his shorts between the two, much less than usual. Her healed leg bent across his lap, her cheek on his shoulder, her hand... touch. His had always been touch, and now so much of her was pressed against him. It felt... it felt... it felt wrong and right at the same time. Ravenous contentment. It didn't make sense, but it was a high all its own, floating further than the net above the ground.

"I knew you had something special, a talent like mine," he said in the morning, still embracing her.

She closed her eyes again.

"You're awake, I know you are."

"You're dreaming."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Didn't you think I'd understand?"

"Understand what, that you've lost it?"

"That healing thing of yours. First the bite, now this, why didn't you tell me? I would have worried a lot less about you."

"Go back to sleep."

"How much could you heal, how far does it go?"

"I know, I'll just cut off one of my fingers, or a hand, and we'll find out. Would that make you worry less?"

"No, I just—"

"It's not terribly useful, it's not instantaneous. Everyone in my family had it, and it worked out great for them. So useful my father got beaten to death, twice in a lifetime. Not something that should be told to everyone in passing, oh, by the way, you can beat the crap out of me and it'll be ok. I can take it, I'm a human punching bag. I feel pain, just like everyone."

"Ok. No, you're right, I should never have blabbed when it came to mine." He rested his hand on her back. "I thought your father was just—"

"They beat him with bats and garden tools until he spilled into pieces, a lot longer than it ever should have taken. Do you want me to be more vivid? Do you get the picture now? It took dozens of bags to fill that box, lowered into the ground."

He could glimpse inside, just before they closed the lid. "I didn't mean—"

"Happy birthday to Derik, he bartered for a toy with a warranty."

"I'm sorry. I, I'm sorry." He repeated circles on her back.

"A life that can take twice the pain, what a wonderful gift that made."

She settled, but didn't relax, regardless of what he tried.

They made it over the water with ease and were a week closer, but his visions still ended the same. Clear, then nothing. Odd. Disquieting. Yet, she was unconcerned. To her it was like the water, something that needed to be crossed, but not worth a second thought until her feet were wet.

Peaceful, the path was calm and clear except for the occasional pack of dogs his talent nudged them around. Dogs, wild dogs, were one of the creatures least affected, but it made more sense the way Dana had explained it. It wasn't a plague or a curse, simply a side effect of the night sky. Dogs had litters, pigs had litters, chickens had hundreds of eggs, same with frogs. If one of ten applied to them, it would be harder to notice; but with cows, horses, and humans the norm was one child a year. They were all affected the same; it just showed differently.

The plague had been going on so long that the dogs that traveled in packs could be captured and used for a crude test to find the one. Wild dogs seldom killed those that could reproduce. It was a poor-man's test, but it worked often enough. For Dana, they had chosen another method, a thorough, invasive one.

The dogs of his vision were reluctant to attack her, often choosing to circle instead. When she was attacked as a child, it might well have been harder to tell, or the pack hungry and desperate, only bitten instead of killed. To him, this was another clue to this girl he was desperate to know.

After a few failed attempts, he managed to assemble the hammock-tent by himself. It was a little unlevel, something she informed him to take pride in. By its very nature it was level, she had thought crooked was impossible to do.

He leaned to one side with pride.

Her limp was only noticeable in the morning. An amazing talent but it would be easy to use it against her; the potential for torture alone was horrifying. His mind did not think that way with her, but it should. She had teased, but it would have been interesting to find out if she could regrow a finger. A test, had she disclosed to other than he, that may well have come to be. Especially in light of the inspection that befell her in that horrible little room.

Only a week remained before her future went blank, still with no explanation. Perfect, vivid details, then none, just that sudden. In his experience, only death had the same effect. Puzzling.

The air took on a different smell over the next few days. His visions, now limited to under a week, were blurry near the end. Something was amiss, and they were plodding straight for it. It was an eerie feel, but more detail than that, he lacked.

The forest seemed twenty degrees hotter during the day, then neared a chill come night and was growing increasingly so with each step. Two days of blurry vision remained.

"This is it, Dana." He sat up soon after she. "It's the morning, I should be the clearest and it's so blurry I can barely make out trees. This is wrong."

"You can stay here if you want, I'm leaving."

"Don't make light of this."

"I'm not, but I'm not going to base my life around your visions either. If they agree with me then ok, but if not, they're not all important. I was perfectly able to make decisions without them."

"But they've always been so accurate when—"

She glared at him. "You've had a month to get over it! I realize you and everyone you've ever met have lived their lives based on your 'visions', but not me, and not now. Stay or follow, that's up to you." She finished packing her bag. "Whatever you decide, this tent and the blanket are coming with me."

He hurried out.

Minutes later it was packed and the walking resumed. Blurry, his visions were just the hazy hunches of when he first discovered them years ago. Goosebumps on his arms.

By mid-day they reached a spot where the forest ended and baked clay began. Dirt, fallen trees, nothing but wavy lines of heat blurred his sight of lifeless land as far as he could see. He looked to each side and saw a line drawn down the forest where life dared not to cross. This was definitely not good.

After a few steps, they had left the shade of trees and were treated to the baking waves of heat rising from the ground. A minute's worth of walking and his feet could feel the heat, like coals of a fire burning his shoes. When he looked, he half expected smoke.

"Wait." He stopped her.

"What?"

"I, this is wrong, way wrong, Dana." He tugged her toward the trees, "I can't see anything. I mean nothing."

"I told you that doesn't matter to me."

"Look around. Everything's dead. Are we ready to cross this? How far is it to the other side? What's straight and what's not? Do you even know what to expect out here?"

"We crossed something like this before. We lost a few, but we could only travel as fast as our slowest walker. In this case, that's you."

"I'm serious."

"It's just a desert, a month or so to cross it."

"I don't have that much food left, and what about water? We can't carry two months of water." He pondered a few seconds, "That's like, 50 pounds for each week."

She paused. She was thinking about it at least.

"Look, let's go back where it's cooler and talk about this," where he might nudge her a different way. "Back there, my talent might work again, I might be able to find a path around this, now that I know what it is."

His stalling was clearly upsetting her, but without his talent he couldn't tell how close to the line he was.

"Please, just one more day."

She looked mad enough to hit him, but she turned back.

Blurry, but it returned when they crossed the line back into the trees. "I know I'll need more water at least. If it's more than a month, maybe we should round up some extra food, say, as much as we can comfortably carry." He nudged, "Some more jerky at least. We can at least wait until it's night, it'll be cooler that way."

She was angry, but listening.

"One day. We prepare, get topped off in everything, rest up, get adjusted to being awake at night, then go." He held her hand tighter, "Can you help me with that relaxation thing again, it might help clear the visions." They were her words, but he sounded smarter using them first. They sat, knees to knees, breath for breath. She walked him through it again. At his calmest, most focused, he tried once more. A blur.

"You can," she said between deep breaths. "Try harder."

He could feel the second she changed her mind and decided to help. She was stubborn, but her mind could change. The fog cleared into sharp focus, a month in each direction. Equally clear there was no way to walk around. Each time his vision crossed into the desert, it ended, same as before. But his touch wasn't wasted; it revealed all the hidden bounty of nuts and seeds, the least perishable food of all, and the location and time of the last kill for a while. Time to dig a pit and light a fire. Plenty left to do.

**B4.C12**

"Get up, future-boy. It's getting dark, time to go." She packed her bag.

"Wait, it's still not too late. We could walk for a while, one direction or another, and try it again. It has to end somewhere." But he lacked the words to nudge her.

Packed, they crossed the line.

They walked in the light blue of the night sky. The air around his ears was cold, but his feet were warm on the ground. Heat trickled up in pockets. Hot, dry pockets. The longer they walked the lower the cold reached. Adding another shirt and a hat at the last stop helped. He had to remind himself to take it easy with what food and water he had. This was only his first day.

He couldn't see more than ten steps ahead, beyond general shapes. But what he could see was nothing alive. No bugs, no animals, no sounds of scurrying in the distance. He missed all these comforting sounds. It was also a sign that life wasn't meant for here.

Although it was equally clear that life had once thrived here. Some trees still stood. Well, four or five feet remained standing out of the ground every so often. The rest had fallen over and rotted, added back to the dirt in lumpy mounds and outlines.

There would be no net under the tent now.

The sun was coming up, the orange and red started their dance for ever higher layers of the sky. They assembled the tent on the ground near one of the rare petrified trunks. It was just tall enough to cast some shade on the tent, with the help of the net, the blanket, some ingenuity, and the spear.

Even so, it was impossible to sleep in the heat. The tent had flaps that opened on both ends with a fine screen that rolled down from pockets and hung outside to let the hot, dry breeze meander through. Smart, very smart. But it was still far too hot to sleep.

He spent most of his time staring at her, wondering what secret she knew that let her take the heat. What would she do if he— it used to take just a touch to know, now he had to think such through. He was more dependent on his talent than he ever knew.

The ground was hard, lumpy and irregular. He tossed often, finding it impossible to get comfortable. He missed the swaying and the gentle ride up and down, but mostly he missed the way the net cradled their every move. The ground remained cool, or at least not as brutally hot as the breeze. The only way it could be worse would be no wind at all, which happened often in the afternoon. He looked over to her again.

Just a touch, like the one right now, and he could find the words to walk her back to where he was not so blind, where he could be in control again.

"That's nice, Derik, but it's too hot." She rolled away.

"We have plenty of water to make it back with."

"My life, Derik, mine. My choices. I value your opinions, your company, sometimes more, but my decision is made."

"Yeah but, months of this, this is insane."

She sat off the cool ground, "You don't have to — I never forced — They gave me to you. That ended, that's over. I won't make you stay with me. I would like you to, but you're free to choose your own path. This is mine."

"It's just been a day and it's unbearable. How much worse will it be a week from now when the water we have runs out? Nothing's alive here, can't you see that?"

"Enough Derik, I don't want to hear it. I've crossed this once, I can do it again."

"There has to be an edge, an end to it somewh—"

"It doesn't end if it's a circle."

"It can't be, at the forest it ran straight—"

"Enough! You're wasting your breath on me. If you have something else to say, save it until tonight." She turned her back to him.

There was nothing like tension to add heat to a small, sweltering tent. He wasn't used to this thinking thing.

After only a few days, he had consumed more than half of his water supply and they had yet to find any pockets of water. No ponds, no streams, no morning dew dripping off the leaves from the trees above. Worried was not a big enough word. He was scared. The way he figured it, they might have just enough if they turned back now.

They continued walking forward, toward ever more heat in the days, and chills in night.

"Here, stop here, Derik," she put her bag down, her breath fogging the cold air. "Look up and tell me what you see."

"The night sky, same as always, a blue fuzzy haze."

"No, look over there." She pointed, "Do you see where it gets lighter, where it gets fainter?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"In two or three weeks we'll be under that. See how from here it looks like a faint line that could curve to an enormous circle, but we're just so close to it that all we see resembles a straight line."

"So?"

"That's the edge of the sky. You'll see better when we're closer."

"The sky doesn't have edges."

"It's not in any book, Derik, it's just what I call it."

"The heat's gotten to ya."

As they walked further into the night, the air around them slowly got warmer. The ground beneath them had changed from cracked clay into a hard and smooth surface that remained hot, even this late at night.

He couldn't see as well at night as a week ago, the light had dimmed and was getting dimmer the closer they came to this, imaginary line of hers. But this hard surface seemed to wave its heat for miles in both directions, not something he wanted to be near when the sun came up in a few hours. But the longer they walked, the more these wafts of heat follow them.

When the sky filled with morning layers of color, he was better able to see again.

She looked around then pointed out a place, a dip far off to the side of the heated path. This time they had nothing to stretch the net out over. They just had to do the best with what they had.

She did her best to conjure shade with the spear.

"I swear it's even hotter."

"Shut up, Derik."

"We need water, bad."

She handed him her bag.

"We still need to find some soon or we'll turn into dust like all this clay."

"Tomorrow."

Her clothes were not as filthy as his. She annoyingly didn't seem to sweat as much. The dirt she kicked up could be shaken out, while his seemed destined to leave a permanent stain, tattooed right down to the bone. Still, in the heat, her skin gave her that glow his thoughts and dreams always surrounded her in. Beautiful, if it wasn't sweat.

As angry and as scared as he was about their eminent demise, he still looked at her and wondered. How could he ever walk a separate path?

The day was finally starting to cool. Time to go, soon, if the heat hadn't sapped all his strength.

From the top of the hill, he could see the hard path was an old, paved road. Black. No wonder it was so hot. It stretched in the same direction they were traveling, whatever direction that was.

"How do you know what way to go?" he said, his turn to carry the tent.

"I just do. I'm good with directions, I always have been. You doubt me, don't you?"

"Look, I'm not saying it's impossible, or foolish, just—" he stopped in his tracks. "Look, you're trying to find a village that's a two-year walk away, and you're not even using a path, or a map, or any kind of trail I've ever heard of. It'll be the biggest stroke of luck I've ever seen if you can find it."

"You didn't follow because you wanted to see my old home, foolish boy. You came because of me. That doesn't change whether I find it or not. It shouldn't matter to you."

She was right. It didn't matter at all, he was arguing over nothing again.

"Did you save any for me?" she said.

He handed her water back.

"Keep an eye out for plants, live stuff, not these dead trees. They'll be little, like a patch of grass. Usually it's in a dip or a small valley, like where we camped. Bugs are another clue." She drove the point of the spear as far down as she could twist it, wiggled it back and forth to enlarge the hole, then pulled it out. "Not here. No vegetation. Grass-like vegetation, that's the usual clue. Anyway, keep an eye out."

"Ok."

They started the walk.

She poked dozens of holes over the course of the night until she found a spot that left moist clumps on the tip of the stick. They could easily have traveled several more hours, but this spot was too valuable to leave.

They took turns digging. She used the spear to break the hardened layer of clay into chunks while he tossed them out of the hole by hand. When the hole was three times wider than the normal fire pit, she pulled out the sheet she had waterproofed for traveling in the rain. It wasn't big enough to cover them both, and since he hadn't brought one of his own, she seldom used it. She cut it into three translucent squares, then made three hat-sized pieces from the leftover scrap.

They dug a quart-sized pocket in the center of the flat-bottomed pit, then lined it with a hat-sized square to make a little bowl. She pulled out much of the nearby vegetation by the roots, adding them to the pit but avoiding the center. They covered the hole with one of the big squares, using clay chunks to hold down the edges and an acorn-size rock in its center to give it a dip directly over the cup.

They dug two more, making a triangle around the sparse vegetation. Each required constant checking every few hours. The sun baked the moisture out of the roots, leaves, and ground so it could condensate on the sheet, then drip into the bowl directly under the dip stone. As elegant an idea as it was, a lot could go wrong if left untended. The drippings could miss the bowl, the weight of the stone could cause it to fall in, or worst of all, the bowl could overflow in an extraordinary act of good luck. Emptying the bowls required skill, not to mention getting every drop to pour into the water bags without spilling either.

It was an all-day, every-few-hours chore, not that sleep was even possible in this heat. Now it was hard to even relax.

"Why didn't we keep an eye out all along?" he asked while packing the tent.

"For one, I didn't think you'd be guzzling so much water. And we can walk twice as far without the constant distraction."

An answer he would rather have had without asking.

"Take last night, we could have kept going for another three or four hours if we hadn't wasted half the night finding water. Once you find it, it takes all day to get it out of the ground. It's not something you want to do every day. It's too time consuming. Now, it starts getting slow." She rolled up the sheets. "And slow is where people die."

She was right; the days were taking longer. Over the next two weeks, they stopped to dig for water four times. That was hours cut out of each day, digging, when it could have been spent walking. Close to a week, lost, and all the digging was exhausting. Even worse was the horrible flavor of the water, it had absorbed the bitter taste of the waterproofing. Drinking vinegar mixed with pinesap would taste better, but he was getting used to it, one small sip at a time.

Without his talent, he had to trust in her abilities, her skills, and good will. He was slow to realize that the trust he had in her, had been of his visions instead. Yet, of the two, she was the only one who had earned it.

The nights were so cold he was thankful for the blackened road, their only relief at night. It made little sense, how the night could be so cold and the day so hot, until she pointed out what he had missed over the last few weeks. No clouds. Not a single one, the entire time. Like the blanket that gave them shade in the day and keep them warm at night. He just needed to trust in her skills, like he once had with the touch of a hand.

He was starting to see the edge of her sky now. Every night he had spent outside reading the futures of guards, the sky had always been the same. A light, fuzzy blue, the only things that changed were the clouds and the moon. But here, it was becoming something, different. It started to reach... an end. Night travel was getting darker. The fuzz had pockets of black.

"Is that what you were talking about?" he said.

"Not yet, it gets better. Another week and you'll see something few have."

"What?"

"In a week. Less, if you can walk faster."

He sat up in the sweltering heat and grabbed the water bag. Water was harder to find, and when they did, it took longer to get it out of the ground. Food had also run short. When he checked the jerky, it was down to just a few days worth, same with the less tasty roasted nuts and seeds.

The only thing in abundance was his worries.

He couldn't sleep, made more annoying because she could. Besides, it was his turn to mind the holes. He stumbled outside the sweltering tent and into the burning heat. It sounded foolish when she first told him, but he nonetheless put on his woven grass hat and long sleeve shirt before heading for the holes.

"Dana! Oh God," he screamed.

"Where's its head?"

"Oh God it hurts. It won't let go!"

"Where's its head."

"Oh God."

"Left hand or right?"

"Oh God, it's not letting go!"

"Left or right."

"Left left left!"

"Don't let go of it."

She started to unwind it from his ankle.

It wrapped around her arm, coiling, constricting for its threatened life. She unwrapped until she freed one of his hands. "Keep pressure here." She pressed his thumb high on the inside of his leg, "Whatever you do, don't let go. This is going to hurt."

"Oh God!"

She pulled it tight against his hand and made the first slice. It thrashed louder on the second and bit its deepest on the third, but it was at last cut free. Nearly its full length remained coiled around her arm, still squeezing, her fingers turned a pinkish red. She struggled to unwind it, then discarded it to twist spasms on the ground.

"It's not letting go."

"Calm down. Take slow, easy breaths." It writhed behind her while she removed his hand from its head. "No, keep pressure there." She cut the sides of its jaws.

"Oh, thank God," he was free at last.

"Keep pressure." She pushed his thumb harder, "You might not want to watch." She did her best to get the poison out.

Dizzy... Cold... He was—

One... two... three... four... five...

Something was — insects — they were crawling, biting at his leg. The tree had spoken to him. It had a pretty face, he could tell by her voice.

One... two... three... four... five...

His leg hurt like steak on an open flame. Birds... two birds had called him by name. Good luck... Bad luck... two names for two birds pecking at his leg. How lucky he must be. Remember to write it down.

One... two... three... four... five...

Hi little girl, have you seen the tree who was just talking to me? There's something wrong with my foot. I can't put my socks on over my shoes.

One... two... three... four... five...

One... four...

Two...

"Your sky is pretty when you smile."

"Shh."

"She's my friend, and she hates me."

"She doesn't hate."

"My pants are too tight."

"Shh. It's ok."

The night is cold in my room, it used to be just for storage. I have a blanket for you. Socks would be warmer. Please don't hurt my toy dog, he's the only one I can dream of, I can't sleep without her.

You've got a fever. You were shivering last night, even after I put a blanket on you. Why did they put me on the floor, to bleed, leaned against the wall? Won't anyone love me?

They want to thank you for almost getting her killed. We made this special feast for you. Eat, drink, if she dies, we'll get you another. She doesn't do what you tell her anyway.

"Shh. It's ok. It's ok," she said.

"Something's crawling around in my pants."

"You're not wearing any."

"Your voice has a pretty smile."

"Relax, don't try to talk."

"I don't love you."

"... You, don't have to."

"I just wanted to help her, I didn't mean to hurt her."

"It's ok now. Just keep breathing."

"This was wrong. It'll hurt her if she knew."

"Shh. Don't talk."

"Dana's the one I love, not you. I should never have betrayed her."

"Just breathe, don't talk."

When he woke, the blanket was wrapped around him. He could see the bright light shining lines through the seams of his shade. Outside he could see the heat ripple the air. What was that smell?

Dana came back inside.

"More gibberish?" She put her hand on his forehead.

"I'm starved." He tried, "I can't move."

She helped him sit, holding him from behind.

"I feel, so tired."

"You think you could eat something?"

"Yeah."

She fed him finger-size pieces of what cooked outside.

"I can't, eat more." His eyes closed.

What little he ate came back up, she held his head over the shield until he had no more. A sip of water, it was getting dark. So cold.

He woke while she was unwrapping his leg. It was big and puffy and covered with purple spots, pink swells bordered red lines stretching from each side of his knee to near his toes. Twice, three times the size it should be.

"You shaved my leg," he said.

"I had to. You may not want to look at this, Derik."

"Why did you have to?"

"No, don't try to move it."

"What did—"

"You had a bad reaction, so I had to cut your skin to relieve the pressure. It looks bad now, but I think you'll be able to keep it."

"Oh God."

"Just lie down. It'll either work, or it won't, let me worry about it. Either way, it's too late now."

"You're not a doctor!"

"No, I'm not." She started to wrap it.

"Oh God. This isn't a dream, that thing's really my leg."

"Just lie down."

"I think I'm—"

She got the shield.

"Derik. Derik, wake up."

"... I don't feel so good."

"Derik, we have to walk now. I'm going to move you out of the tent."

"Can't we go tomorrow?"

"It's been three days. We have no water, little food, we go now or we die. There is no tomorrow here."

He was outside, back on the ground, wrapped in the blanket. He tried to sit, to see what was going on but— the sky... the sun was going down. Orange and red little layered clouds spanned the last quarter inch of the fallen horizon. Pretty.

"Stay with me, Derik. Stop trying to use your foot. That's better, just lean on me. I'm that leg now."

He had to keep going, if he lay down, the bugs would eat him, just like the night before. Tired, so tired. He had to get to the spot, the spot at the edge of his vision where he would find her again. He had to find her. She shouldn't be alone. So lonely without her.

Thirsty. This night's air was so dry, so hot, and he was so cold.

If he could just lie down, just for a minute, long enough for the headache to pass. That was much better. The sky was so pretty, as two big clouds of hazy blue with a thin line of black curved between them, spotted with little bright white dots. So black, so dark. A pure dark he had never seen before.

"Come on Derik, just a little longer. Stay with me now."

"... With you." He had to find her. She shouldn't have run away. It was all his fault. He made her do this. He had to help her, simply had to. She didn't want his help. She may be running away from you; if she is, I may not be able to protect you if we find her.

"Drink, Derik. Just a little, I didn't get much." She sat him up from behind.

It hurt to swallow. He was feeling worse.

"I'm sorry, Derik, I did my best." She helped him lie down, "I shouldn't have moved you, it was too soon. I didn't have a choice."

"Your face is all red, peely."

"Don't talk."

"... I love you."

His head rested on her lap. He felt her pulse beating near his ear, her fingers brushing through his hair to a sympathetic pace while she stared outside. Why was she crying?

He struggled to sit. Dizzy, he crashed back down. He settled for turning his head.

It was painfully bright outside. "Dana."

No sound.

He failed to sit again, too tired to cry out.

He watched the heat waft off the ground outside, waiting for her return.

"Good, you're up. You think you could eat something?" she said.

"Yeah."

"How about some soup, you think you could keep that down?"

"I think so."

She propped him from behind, paper bowl and wooden spoon in her hand. She fed him, one scoop at a time. Vegetables? Corn, peas, limas, and an array of other flavorful seeds.

"Where'd you find all this? Are we near the edge of the desert?"

"Closer to the middle."

"Then where, how the veggies?"

"Eat."

She made him drink from the broth as well, only eating every second or third spoonful herself until it was empty. Setting it down, she just held him, sitting for a while. Blanket wrapped tight, even in this heat.

"We have a problem, Derik." Her chin was by his ear, "That was the last of the food. If I lay you down, it's more likely to be lost on you, but sitting like this, your heart pumps harder, an equally bad thing. So, what I thought we would do is just close your eyes and try to sleep. Lean back on me, I'll hold you up, like I am now. Don't breathe until I breathe, just try to do as I do."

He closed his eyes and tried.

He called her name but no one came, dark outside. He didn't try to sit this time. The fate of this future-boy was in her hands, as it had been since that day in his room.

"Only a few cups at best," she said holding the water bag.

He licked his parched lips. "Go on without me."

"Now's no time to argue."

"This is why I couldn't see into the void. It's because we both died here. There's no reason for you to die too."

"You're not dying, you're getting better. The swelling's almost gone, the bandage is holding, the cuts are covering over. You feel so weak and tired because your kidneys haven't recovered yet. Poison does that." She put her hand on his forehead, "Your fever's down too."

She unwrapped his foot.

"Can you feel this?" she poked his foot.

"Yes."

"And this?"

"Yes."

"Gently, try to move your ankle... good. Now the toes... good. I think you'll be fine, the color's already coming back."

He sighed, struggling for the words that once came so easily. "I can't think."

"You need rest and food. We don't have any food to interfere with your rest, so, no excuses. Don't make me hurt you."

She had worked the fields since she was a little girl. The corn, the seeds, the soup had to come from there. A garden's worth. Now they were gone. The tent, the blanket, the splint, she had prepared for everything except the price of his company, the cost of his help.

"If you help me stand, I think I can walk," he said.

"Later, the moon is coming up."

"What does that have to do—"

"It raises the water table. It's not a lot, but every little bit helps. We'll go tomorrow night."

He wasn't ready anyway. His efforts to sit were so exhausting, he hoped she would leave before he passed out.

They were consuming water and food and not moving. By her words, they were near the middle. If right, that meant three weeks travel, nonstop. Three weeks was an eternity like this. He had killed them both.

"I love you," he said, the second he woke.

"Yes, you told me."

"If, if you loved me, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

She looked down at her shoes and fiddled with the laces. "If I told you the sky had an edge, would you believe me if you never saw it? Would you not doubt them as just words? You know what the word means to you, do you know what it is for me? Could my words alone tell you? If I spoke them, would the feelings behind them become just words?"

She helped him take another sip.

"Would hearing those words change you, change us? Are words alone that strong?" She pressed her chapped lips to the drip clinging to his.

He held back a cough. "Oh yeah, you want me bad."

"If I was to hit you real hard right now, what words would that say?" She kissed him instead.

Words... he nudged them all the time. In doing so, he may have devalued them. Still, he wanted to hear those words. Worthless, if need be.

He asked her to help drag him outside. It was a pretty night under the edge of her sky, warmer outside lying flat on his back, with the heat radiating off the ground. He basked in the warmth as he waited for her to finish her chores. Finish her chores... he had managed to double them yet again.

When done for the hour, she sat by him, to offer a sip of her labor and some more, small-meaning words.

"Tell me more of this edge," he said after the sip. "Why are you the only one I've ever heard about this from?"

"My mother remembered more, after, my father, died. Back to when the night sky was black like this line and full of stars. Astronomy. It was one of the sciences lost. No importance anymore, now just another word."

He sipped from the bag.

"Do you know why it's blue?" She continued, "Imagine it sits between the clouds and the moon. A giant, spinning, electrical storm, raging for hundreds of years. Clouds of them, bumping into each other at first, until they settled into the shapes we now see. The edges of these giant, remaining few."

She tied a glass blade to each end of a short length of string, then let them dangle, balanced, lightly swinging from a stick. She rubbed a third blade against her knit hat, then touched it to the clanking, tied two.

"See how the static charge makes them gap apart, that's the gap we see here. Those blue clouds live just atop the atmosphere, a constant, relentless storm. The charge is so strong that clouds can't pass, even miles underneath, from one region to another. No clouds, no rain. It's also why all these metal hulks litter this road and why they've made no others since. It's why metal is dangerous to wield as a shield or a sword. It builds a charge as it cuts the field. It fights any movement. In some shapes, it can become extremely hot, and it's always building a charge, searching for a path to ground, like small lightning bolts."

"Stones and bones."

"And glass, and wood, and whatever that shield is. It's kinda a double-edged sword, created by the science it forbids. Its only end to be found in how it began. From our distant perspective, a circle."

"Your mother taught you that?"

"I have a brain too, you know. I've also read a lot of books that have no meaning now. At my old home, we had a room full of water-damaged books on very different subjects. Most were useless, filled with gaps, lost chapters and damaged pages. But I read what they had left to offer while my mother taught classes I'd learned the year before. Sometimes, by the end of the book, you could figure out the missing pieces."

"So that's what you think it is, this edge of the sky?"

"It's a good story at least, lots of pretty words just like you like them. It took your mind off food for a while, didn't it?"

"Thanks. Now I'm starved."

She offered him another sip before she returned to her chores.

It gave him a little to ponder in the ever longer waits while she was gone.

When he woke, it was bright outside and he was in the tent. It still felt like bugs snacking on the flesh inside his leg, but this time he remembered, heeded her words, and refrained from scratching. The last time he scratched, the bleeding didn't stop for minutes.

He sniffed the air. That smell, he remembered that smell. This time he watched as she sat at the flap of the door, the pointed end of the spear extending outside. He turned his head for a better angle.

Her shirt was worn thin, damp, and lit from the intense, cloudless outside. She had lost weight. Her legs were not as thick, nor her arms, and what had once been the figure of a woman, was now more the little girl. She had never been fat, but she was losing muscle now. Slower... he didn't understand what she had meant at first. This was not like the forest. It followed a completely different set of rules.

Deserts were a race against time. It wasn't a matter of whether it was going to hurt; it was a test of tolerance for pain. She was a willful, stubborn girl, and it was her will alone that kept them moving every odd night. The price was now visible, and double for her.

Still, she found the strength to smile, the sun-burnt skin peeling on her cheek. "Now this is how you're supposed to catch dinner." She brought in the tube of meat wrapped around the spear's end.

The blade trembled in her hand before she cut the segments free to cool on the wood plate.

"Will you be ready to eat in ten minutes or so?"

"... Sure."

"Good." She guided his gaze, "Look at me. We are going to make it, I have no doubts. You've never known me to be wrong."

She cut the pieces into smaller chunks, easier to eat and faster to cool.

"Trust me," she said.

"If I heard you say those words."

"We get to the other side first."

She tested a chunk before placing the plate on his lap, then felt his forehead.

"Told you you're getting better. Feel up to a walk tonight?"

"Sure."

He was full after a third, pushing away the plate.

"How are you keeping the blanket up for shade without the stick?"

She moved his hand to his waist and the blanket wrapped around him.

"Oh. Aren't you hot?"

She continued to eat. "Sure you don't want any more, it won't keep?"

He lay down and conserved what little strength remained.

They walked under the edge of her sky, while he struggled just to keep his eyes open. His arm around her shoulder could feel the bones under her shirt. They were a little past midway, judging by the sky, but from here, it would take twice as long. She labored during the day for water, labored now to keep him up. She was stubborn and strong but what his arm leaned on would not take much more before it would break.

She didn't complain. Not a single word.

She told him every day that she guessed they were less than a week from the edge. She lied. They both knew it, but he was thankful for the hope there was in a lie. Water was ever harder to find. They hadn't eaten for the last five days.

Had he died that night, she would have made it by now. Had he died in the room, she could have disappeared in the crowd. She was too weak now. Her hand shook more. The cheeks of her smile could not hide the bones beneath. When she didn't think he could see, there was no hope left in the depth of those thoughtful brown eyes. End of visions. Turning to dust was a fitting end for him.

But she should not end this way.

With his fever gone, the blanket aided in their shade again. His shoe still didn't fit, so they wrapped his foot with his shirt, soled with the wooden plate they had no food for. Every touch of the ground was like a stomp on broken glass. It throbbed when he sat, twice that just to stand, but if she wouldn't complain, neither would he. They walked each night until he wished to pass out.

"Dana," he said, trying not to pass out while she assembled the tent. "If we hadn't met, do you think your life would have been better or worse?"

"Short."

"Your arm's shaking."

"I know."

"We're not going to make it?"

"Next time you doubt me, I hit you," she said.

"People die out here all the time, it's not personal."

"When we get to the other side, we will be truly free. Free from the desert, from pursuit, duty, obligations. Going back will no longer be possible. You can do what you want then, but for now, you're going with me to the other side. And you're not talking to me like that again."

She had stopped looking him in the eyes when she said such words. She may be lying about making it, but the punch could still be counted on.

The air was getting cooler during the day. The lack of a fever, the blanket for shade, it could be any number of explanations, but for her, she chose to believe, almost free. Yet, even from the highest hill, they couldn't see the first living tree.

Another week passed and only one day was with food. They were walking all night now, but were covering even less ground. She couldn't go off and test for water like she could before; she had to search in the mornings while he lay in the shade, hoping they had camped close to one.

But blind luck had never been kind; to her, it was cruel.

She had laid down beside him only a few minutes ago. The heat still radiated off her clothes with the smell of baked sweat and cloth. He remembered being hungry once, how it hurt for the first few days. The last time she had caught some sort of rodent, the morsel of food hurt to swallow and burned in his stomach. He felt its painful progress every inch of the way. The bitter taste of ground up bugs never left his mouth.

He glanced at her chest every time she took a breath. Her pulse visibly thumped at her thinning neck. In an hour or so, she would struggle to sit then wait for her hand to stop shaking before checking the holes, however far away they were. He would watch and wait for that one time she wouldn't return.

Sometimes he imagined she had decided to leave him, that she realized she could make it on her own. It was better to imagine such things than let his thoughts have control, to think of her passed out in the heat, in search of twice the water she needed.

She always came back; it just took longer each time. With relieved disappointment, he sipped from her chore. Surprised she had lasted this long, he had given up weeks ago.

"Dana." He tapped her on the arm, her skin kept the shape of his tap. "Dana. Wake up."

Oh God, this was bad.

"Dana. Come on girl, come on." He was afraid she might break if he tapped harder.

"... What?"

"Your nose is bleeding. Your face, it's covered in blood."

They walked for only an hour that night before she had to sit down, her nose bleeding again. He started thinking, re-occurring thoughts. What would he do if she died? He didn't need her to walk anymore. His leg had healed, somewhat, enough that he could hobble around with the spear.

No, stop it! Stop thinking those thoughts.

She was a shell of what she once was, sitting, holding her nose. She didn't love him; she had said a sliver shy than she never would. He was left to cling to those thin, unspoken words. She had saved him, and his foot for sure, but he had done his share for her. He saved her from a rape, from an uncertain death. Did he still owe her? Did he still care?

Stop it!

He helped her to her feet.

An hour later, she fell down.

He could smell it, a moistness to the morning air. He busied himself with wiping the inside and outside of the tent, a chore she had done most mornings, the collection of dew. It never amounted to much, but it was better than nothing. And this morning, like the days before, without it they had none.

Ounces at best.

He stared at her clumpy hair and tried to imagine the thoughts in her head. Her ability to heal had left her with the impression she was indestructible. She was not, but she held the pace of someone who was. It was an easy assumption to make. He thought his talent was all-powerful at first, but it was nothing without someone to read. Much less, if that someone wasn't her.

Reality hurt. He survived his dose of it, she would too, but it cost them another day of precious time.

"Even a heroine can't save the world by herself." He kissed her awake.

"... The world is more than just you and me."

"Not my world." He couldn't have nudged it better. She must really be hurting to have let that one sneak by. He kissed her silent pause. "I think you're right, just one week away. I had a good dream this morning, complete with two birds." He kissed her again.

The week that followed proved him right, except the wishful dream. The breeze carried the smell of rain and a distant, dark-blue cloud caught under the edge of her sky. It had been blown for so long it lost the shape of round for that of a spinning pencil in a perfect line above the edge of trees.

Living, growing, leafy, dripping wet trees, if only they had the strength left to run.

Her smile made her lip bleed.

**B4.C13**

She tossed her bag to the first patch of moss, opened her mouth, and looked up from the forest floor. He mirrored the same beside her, staring up at the twisting, pencil-shaped cloud. Water, falling free from the sky. No digging, no holes, no feet worth of clay. They watched another dark cloud drift its mass into the tumbling shape. Not bad for a guess from a bunch of damaged books.

She was soaked to show the bones, but it didn't matter. Thin and frail, or strong and brave, she was the same mean little girl. He touched her hand and the bounty that his gift opened wide, a feast for his picking by the time she assembled the tent. Neither had the strength to climb a rope, but visions showed it would be ok low to the ground for one day.

He returned with all the ripe food he could carry.

The net was strung knee-high off the soaked ground. The remainder of the rope was tied as high as she could reach, linking the same three trees, knotted together a foot above the tent. The blanket stretched atop the tent, and clothes covered every inch of leftover lines. Dirt dripped muddy lines from empty pant-legs and armless sleeves.

"You washing the blanket?" he said inside.

"No, the—" sneeze, "heat has made the tent fabric lose its—" sneeze, "waterproofing—" sneeze.

He dumped the rain-washed food on the muddy floor before he reached outside. "I've got something that might cheer you up."

Flowers. She sneezed until he tossed them outside. Her nose started to bleed.

"Damn, I didn't mean for— I didn't know you were allergic to—"

"I'm—" sneezing, "not." She pinched her nose.

"I should have foreseen it, I don't know— you weren't sneezing in the vision, but then, I didn't think of the flowers till— Oh, Dana, I'm sorry."

"It's ok, just... just... just—" sneezing, "give me a minute. One thing at a time."

He put his arm around her, afraid to hug her any tighter. She was so thin.

He had picked what would have been two days worth of food, but even as starved as they were, they could only eat a tiny fraction of what he had brought. It just hurt too much. A feast of nibbles, that lasted all night long.

By morning, he found a new kind of pain food could bring. This too would pass.

She had taken the time to find a private spot in the rain to get, for the first time in months, clean. Even with ample soap and endless water, she was worried that after this long, it wouldn't wash off.

After a day's worth of walking, they finally emerged from the rain. No point in trying to wait it out with more clouds being blown that way.

"Well, I'm waiting," he said in the tent suspended between trees.

"For what?"

"You said that when we made it to the other side you would tell me you loved me. Well, tada!" His arms flung wide, "We're here."

"I also said you could go your own way from here." But she did give him a kiss.

"You're looking a lot better, I was getting worried about you back there. I see you're limping a little again."

"... I guess I twisted it the last time I fell down."

"Let me see. Maybe I can do something with the old magic touch?"

"No thank you, it'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"... Yeah."

"Look, I know you lost a lot of weight and are a little bony right n—"

"Thanks Toothpick."

"I didn't mean it like that. I was always a scrawny kid, and I'm right back there now. I was just trying to say there's nothing to be ashamed—"

"Thank you, but no. I just want to be alone right now."

"Oh. Look, Dana, I gave up back there too, long before you did. There's no shame in that."

"No."

She lay down while the blanket and the rest of their clothes dried outside, hands for pillow this time. He lay down behind her, one arm around her, same as before.

"Not tonight." She shoved him away.

He pondered what he had done wrong while she stared outside.

He unwrapped his leg. With the sun lingering on the horizon, he had plenty of light. It was time he faced his fears and took one, good look.

Shaved, it was an instant wrong next to his still hairy leg; beyond that were the black and blue fist-sized spots. Two thin lines on each side of his knee ran past his ankle and stopped just before his toes. Just lines. It had healed to a raised bump with the occasional scab. A fair price to pay to keep the leg.

He stared at her; she was still awake. "How did you know to cut it?" he said.

"It seemed like the right thing to do."

"Why? I mean, it's not something I would have thought of."

"It swelled past what your skin could stretch and was cutting off the circulation to your foot. I took a chance, it wasn't my foot."

"You mad at me?"

"I'm tired, I'm sick, I've been sneezing for most of the day, and I don't feel well."

"... Thank you, Dana."

She denied him any more than the briefest touch for the next week, just enough for the gathering of supplies, namely the berries she needed to waterproof the tent, the few kills, and the express way to find the right smoking woods. He still couldn't tell one tree from another, and pine made for the bitterest taste he had ever put in his mouth. A mistake easily made without her.

She was distant that entire week, and he was stumped over what he had done wrong. But it must have been one of those things that time had a way of getting undone.

"Your limp's gone, and so's that twitch in your hand," he said.

She kept walking.

"I've done something wrong, haven't I? Look, just tell me what it— what I've done that's upset you."

Nothing.

"Look, I've obviously done something, and if you don't tell me what it is, I'll probably do it again."

"I just want to be alone, that's not too much to ask, is it? I'm not mad at you, I'm moody, remember."

"I was kidding when I said that."

"The big rush is over," she paused for him to catch up. "We don't have to push so hard now. You haven't left me alone for more than five minutes in the last, what, six months or more, and years before that. I like you, I do, but you push too hard sometimes. I don't want what you want right now. I like being with you, I like talking to you, but not every minute of every day. I'm tired, it's more than just two words."

"I'm sorry. I, can accept that. I can be— I won't, if you don't want me to. I can't read you like— but, I should know you that well by now. When someone holds your head while you're losing the last meal, and never says a word... I just wanted... I understand. I do."

She kept walking.

Silence was a hard thing for him to deal with, a lot harder than he thought. He craved the sound of her voice, the warmth of her body, her dreams he so enjoyed. Even the smiles were rare now.

The walks were so short she no longer stopped to change her socks. Even his casual looks at her sleeping form she managed to keep to herself under full-length clothes. She was thin and ashamed was what he kept coming back to.

Her weight didn't matter to him, but he had no intentions of making a big deal of it as she slept in ever tighter, small little balls.

"Dana. I, I have a problem. Actually, it's a friend of mine, and I just don't know what to do."

She slowed her morning packing.

"You see, my friend, he, he's in love with this girl that he's known most of his life. He never really had to court her, he just asked for her one day."

She stopped packing.

"He didn't know how wrong it was, it was just the way things had always been done. He regretted it later, but it was too late by then. A side of him knew that, wrong as it was, it would be the only way for him, his only chance with her."

She hadn't moved.

"You see, he wasn't her type, not really. When he got to know her better, he, well, he always pictured her with the kind of bigger-than-life man, the kind who could walk through the desert without sweating a drop, someone who could keep pace with her, someone closer to her smarts. He fell short on all these things."

"Why should I help your friend, help you?"

"You're the only one I know who's smart enough to help. You see, it's taken him a long time to realize that, even though she's everything he wants, he might not be anything to her. He'd been chasing her so long, he had forgotten about her, to notice her. To notice she's the saddest she's ever been. He wants her, he still does. Nothing I've ever said, not even common sense, can seem to change that. But he can't take her being sad anymore, selfish as that sounds."

"I can't help you, Derik."

"It's ok, he doesn't want to be helped anymore. He wants someone to help her."

She glanced at him.

"It's taken years, but he finally realized, he's a lost cause. Every time he tried to help her, it always made things worse. I was just hoping there was maybe something safe that he could do for her. For once, I thought it best he ask first."

She paused, hands still on straps to the tent. "Sad is not always cause and effect. And happiness can't be given, only shared." She finished packing and silently walked away.

He liked to think his words had taken their effect, but was thankful for whatever it was that let her consume more of the tent floor.

Within days his shoe fit again, no more wooden plate tied to his foot, no more walking stick. His own foot, useful again! The purple spots were gone and stubble had returned. The little lines were hard to see, even in full daylight. It even felt like she might thaw to him again, now that he had quietly given her space.

"Tell me," she said, night blue silhouette.

"Tell you what?"

Her hand on his chin, "Tell me the words you keep for me."

"I love you."

"Tell me," her fingers on his lips.

"I love you."

"Tell me." Her palm forbid his words. "Tell me." She pressed her head to his shoulder when she laid them down in the tent.

He held her without another word.

He couldn't sleep this night, and for once, he was glad for it. He wanted to remember every detail. She had done nothing more than lie with him, the same she had done countless times before. Countless, memory-faded times.

She was so thin. He could feel the bones of her spine, her shoulder blades, and even count ribs should he wish. But he knew he was the same. It had only been a few weeks, not enough time to gain it all back. But this, this was a good start.

After another week, some of her figure returned, and she didn't ask to hear the words he offered every morning. She still hid behind fuller clothes, the nights of just a shirt were gone for now, but that mattered much less than he ever thought it would. Cloth, not space, was between him and her. That made all the difference in the world.

"I hope you're not mad at me, but I think I know a little detour that'll be well worth the time. It might even get a little smile from you," he said.

"Ok." She did.

He led her to a swollen stream that emptied into a pocket with a perfect swirl at just over waist deep. The last chance she may have before the water turned too cold. Ample shrubs and a sandbar shore, it was indeed a perfect place for—

"A bath." She dropped her bags and retrieved the last chunk of her soap.

She waded in then slipped beneath the surface without a ripple, her wet clothes tossed to the sand by the bag. She lathered her hands then her hair before slipping beneath again. The foam swirled two more times, then drifted away before she re-emerged.

"You can find your own," she answered his look.

He waited until she lathered her face before he took her clothes.

Water filled his lungs! His eyes could see nothing but blurry flesh when a foot touched to his chest and urged out precious bubbles of air.

Free from her foot, he floated up to gasp and wipe his eyes.

"You want a piece of me?" she said.

He wiped his eyes again. Her shirt floated in bubbled puffs where it didn't cling to her wet skin. She flung a blob of dripping wet only inches past his head.

"Not so much fun now, huh future-boy?" She smiled when he saw, the blob was his pants.

"You've been asking for this, you mean little girl." He splashed her way but dove for his clothes.

A hand on his ankle and he was drug under, his shirt added to the pile.

With nothing left to lose, he dove straight for her.

He surfaced with the bar of soap in his mouth.

"Come on now, you wanted this," she said behind him. "Don't be shy now."

She squatted, dripping on his clothes.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, come on then," she said, "Water a bit cold? Future-boy having feelings of, inadequacy?"

She tossed back his shorts.

She may have been enjoying this too much.

He hurried the shorts on, tossing the floating soap to safety on the bar of sand.

"Come on," she said. "Let's see what you got."

She waded back in where it was a little less than knee deep.

His shorts clung too tight, but he joined her. His clothes lay just feet behind her, all he had to do was squirm past. That should prove easy enough.

He tried a straight tackle, it worked once in the room. He was slammed, back first, the water softening his fall.

Touch...

Her ankle pulled true to vision, but she didn't fall, at least not to his plan.

Her knee landed on his neck just hard enough to push him under again.

He had his second touch. Tried again, success again, but it didn't follow according to plan. This should have worked. He could foresee her next move, but she could counter and change so quickly. Thankfully, she was not slamming him this hard on dry land.

"Come on." She pulled him from the water. "You're not quitting on me this easy, are you? Show me some of that persistence you used to chase mean little girls."

He could see the moves but lacked the skill, or the creativity to block them. Or even avoid the leg she swept under him, dunked again.

"Where the head goes, the body follows." She knelt beside him. "It's like poring a flask of water, with your head as the spout."

She helped him up, but he didn't stand long. Coughing water was starting to hurt, more embarrassing than his water-clung pants.

"Come on, you wanted a peek. The question is, how badly? You don't have to beat me, just get to your clothes."

He squirmed, crawled, jumped and lunged.

Dunked, each time.

His touch told of the one thing she was not expecting, but he couldn't take a swing at her, not her face. But then again, where the head goes, the body follows. No. She hadn't hit him, just tosses and holds. She was practicing a great deal of restraint.

An arm hold she was about to apply, like words, he used it first.

She splashed down then rolled free, standing, holding her arm.

He tackled her full speed this time. Her waist, body, and the water broke his fall.

"Let go," she said.

Had he actually won?

"You're hurting me, let go."

He released that time.

She sat in the water, holding her arm.

"It's not broken is it? I didn't twist it that hard." He sat beside her.

"It doesn't take a lot of pressure." She held his hand and pushed his wrist with her thumb. "See, very painful, almost no pressure. It's technique not strength. I can't teach you strength."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"I must not have shown you that hold well enough— You were reading me, I didn't show you that one at all!"

"It was the only chance I had. I just, I could only keep a couple seconds ahead. I didn't know I had hurt you, till, I already had."

"I'll keep that in mind next time," she said. "Derik likes to cheat."

"I may have cheated but I won, so, off with it."

She poked two fingers to his chest just below the collarbone. He splashed under water; when he resurfaced, she tossed his stripped shorts back. "Wash behind your ears this time, and bring me back my soap."

She grabbed her bag then walked off, cradling her arm.

By the time he finished, the tent was up and she was dressed for bed. They were done walking for that day. No hurry. Despite his regretful mistake, her mood had changed, she was happier now.

"You got off on it, didn't you? Pain and all," he said.

She turned away.

"Why can't you stop smiling then?"

She couldn't.

"I took so long because I had to find 'em the old fashion way, and I'm not particularly good at that." He reached outside, "You're not allergic?"

Flowers again, well, not exactly, but they were colorful, fragrant, and somewhat flower like.

"No sneezes this time."

"I'm not allergic to anything, far as I know." Handing him a select few back, "But I don't like the smell from these."

He tossed those out the door.

"... Cheater." She lay down, holding her arm.

"Lying, mean little girl." He kissed her, mindful of the arm.

"What did you mean by nothing you hadn't seen before?" he said in the dark, late that night.

Nothing.

"What did you mean?"

Silence.

"Don't make me pester you."

"You're a pair short now."

"... What are you saying?"

"You were passed out for most of three days, you went without leaving the tent."

"Oh, God."

"Why are you complaining? I had to clean the mess."

"Look, it's not always like that, you know."

"You gonna blame now on the cold water, or puberty?"

"Can I get a third choice?"

She pressed to him. "You're not likely to get to use it for that other purpose any time soon, I wouldn't worry about measuring up just yet."

"You're killing me, you do understand that."

She tormented him with a kiss.

By morning, her arm was fine. Plenty rested and well fed, they lay still as the sun slowly came up, not that he minded.

"You ready?" she said.

"For what?"

"We're going to try that little talent of yours. It's about time you earned your keep, other than as snake bait." She smiled before, "I'm going to let you play in my head."

They sat knee to knee, focused on each breath. The world opened wide when they touched. He focused beyond that day, reaching toward the end of a month, then stretched to the fuzzy edge of two. He could see it. The end wasn't clear, but he could see the path, or more importantly, the shortcuts that saved a week off the trip. He lingered in this marvel of touch, committing landmarks to memory that were weeks away.

It was going to start getting cold with more rainy days and overcast nights. Easy game and food, he saw it all. It made an enormous difference when she wanted to help, and on this, he had her complete cooperation. His range had expanded to the edge of two months with more detail than two days with anyone else.

Luck. It wasn't luck. She would have found it anyway. It was so clear because her future did not include failure. A sense of direction or not, path or not, she had undeniable skill.

Had they just left her alone, then all this— all this talent and range could have benefited his village. He could have had everything he wanted, her and the roof, the status, and more. But they wouldn't leave her alone. No. It wasn't the village, the elders, or anyone else. It was his fault. He had the talent, but hadn't the mastery of it. That didn't come until her.

Sad, misfortunate, too late now.

"I can see it," he said. "A month, two at the most."

She kissed him.

"It's..."

"What?"

"... Nothing."

She was actually happy, enthusiastic even. He had never seen her like this before. When she left, she only thought she could find it. Now it was a touch over a month away. He hated knowing what she would find, but why ruin it for her? She should have her happy month, her month of hope.

"My father used to bring my mother flowers whenever she looked depressed," she said while they walked. "Being orphans, they didn't know birthdays, so their wedding night was the only date they celebrated. I guess he felt one day a year wasn't enough, and if you had to pick one, it might as well be the one that would do the most good. Sometimes, she would have three or four birthdays a year. I was three before I caught on."

"You know your birthday, don't you?"

"December 6th, not that it matters now."

"Of course it matters, why wouldn't it?"

"What's today's date?"

"... Oh."

"I don't know either. I've lost count of what day of the week it is. Like I said, it doesn't matter. I'm as old as I am, I was born, and, at some point," she caught his eye, "past two months from now, I'm going to die."

"Way past two months, I am good for something, you know."

"I always thought it was nice that their wedding was the only date they knew. Well, that and the day of my birth."

They kept walking.

"I think that might be why I like you. In a way, you remind me of him," she said while they walked. "When it was just the two of us, he told me it was hard being with my mother, because he never felt like he belonged in her world. That it was just his great fortune to happen on her when they were children, lost after a raid, wandering through the woods. For months, they depended on each other out of necessity, until they happened on the village that took them in."

"Sounds a little familiar."

"He wanted to earn her trust and was never given the chance. She just gave it to him, and he never betrayed it."

"Ok, you lost me there."

They walked in silence. She paced ahead of him as he struggled to keep up.

"Ok, I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to interrupt, please continue."

She slowed. "Trust is always blindly given. It can be based on experience, but that's trusting someone will always behave the same." She smiled at him. "For normal people that can't tell the future, that is. You get the luxury of knowing what I'll do, for the rest of us, it's different."

She stopped walking.

"He felt he didn't deserve her, like he had cheated." She stepped closer, "Maybe he had. But over the years, it mattered less. He didn't need to slay dragons, move mountains, or be chiseled from stone. She was happy when she was with him, she didn't care about the rest."

"... I make you happy sometimes, don't I?"

She smiled, walking at a comfortable step again.

She tended to walk fast. He had to remind her, on occasion, that although his foot fit the shoe, it couldn't keep her pace. What he kept to himself was that the other foot couldn't match her either.

For the first time, she was headed toward something, not running away. It was a difference that he did so enjoy, such warmth on these cooler nights, floating above the ground.

She spoke a few more times of fonder memories, smiled for no reason. She was going home, and more than that, her fondest memories were not forgotten. If he didn't know better, he would swear she had started to flirt.
**B4.C14**

They had traveled a full month plus a handful of weeks, but it was hard to be sure without knowing the date. Leaves started falling from the trees.

In their nights under the same blanket, she started wearing fewer clothes, back to the nightshirt where it had all begun. Breaths clung to the morning air. She had a different feel; warm, playful even, if that was an appropriate word. It didn't matter. By the end of the day, she would want to sleep alone.

He had plenty of time to prepare over the last month, to learn to look away from her sadness and sorrow. But it got harder the closer they came. She was so happy now, this, the morning of her homecoming. She whipped off their blanket with a smile. The instant cold shivered him, making it difficult to pull on his clothes.

"I don't see why you always get the blanket while you're getting dressed," he said, his trembling fingers were too cold to work buttons.

"Drooling is dangerous in the cold." She was already done, "Besides, it's my blanket."

"... Thief."

"Hurry up. It's today right, we find it today?"

"... Today."

"Well, let's go." She buttoned his shirt, "Geez, you're slow." She kissed him with the last button. "Come on." She went down the rope.

"It's a great design, Dana, but that floor's cold."

"It's good for you, it'll toughen you up."

"Fine for you to say, you never have to lie on it, I do."

She smiled all the time now. "We'll put leaves between the net and the tent next time, but another blanket would have been much better," she leaned in close, "if someone had remembered to bring one of his own."

The tent came down and the walk was on.

She was too excited to eat, managing just a few nibbles for lunch. It may have been for the best, his visions had not prepared him for what he saw when they arrived.

Two enormous towers of stone topped with blackened wood looked out over the land. Overgrown fields of sweet smelling grass were surrounded by acres of toppled charred trees. The first human remains were still a long walk away from the buildings.

He had seen this in visions and had nudged a better version of events for his tribe. But this, the skeletal remains of so many, it hadn't been enough to conquer them, a gruesome example was made. Remains were arranged like a long line of gruesome scarecrows to each side of the road, as far as his eyes could see. What a grisly tale it told.

Joy would not soon return.

To him, they were just bones held together by threads and held off the ground by spears, lives long dead. She looked at each one. Familiar, even now.

He touched her hand. "She's, not out here. She's, inside."

She stood, eyes closed, hands over her face.

They were too far away to even see the gated wall.

Most everything wooden had burned years ago. They had done everything but salt the ground. Charred outlines of houses, buildings, homes, and the thick wooden gate were mere skeletons amidst the unchanged structures of stone. Fireplaces, chimneys, ancient stone walls, some still stood over those toppled onto blackened charred ground.

"Before the night sky," she quietly said, "this place was a prison. These walls, those towers were made to keep the rapists, the murderers, the criminals inside. The walls were still strong after all this time." She stood at the opening of the largest standing one. "They just couldn't fight an army and the nature of this place, beckoning such evil back within."

They passed through the opening.

"Where?" she asked, looking at the ground.

He squeezed her hand, then led her down the hall.

Blackened, charred spines floated on puddles of ash, inches deep in one room. Some wooden ends of plundered shelves survived nearest the walls. The library, her sanctuary, was lost forever now. What remained told a tortuous tale more gruesome than the road.

They walked past rows of halls then up a flight of steps that opened to a massive, central room. To each side were rows after rows of broken doors. The rooms were half or a third the size of his own, cast in concrete. Her family of three had lived in one of these tiny rooms. He paused to take it all in, then walked across the echoing floor.

A shinbone lay next to the wall, removed below the knee, just above an empty leather band.

Dana dropped her bag. Her hand started to shake. It was worse, there was more, but never a piece larger than the first he had found.

He held her, tried to comfort this girl who didn't cry. She did not scream, or yell, or even gasp. She kept it all inside, shaking to get out. He felt so sad for her it raised the hairs on his arms, quivering in sympathy. His eyes blurred with the tears she refused. He didn't know why, just, he couldn't be this close to her and not... feel.

He walked her to what he knew was her room, sat her on the lower bed, then pulled her blanket from the bag.

"Dana, you knew. You just hoped it wasn't. Hope is a very good thing."

The shaking had stopped minutes ago, but he continued to rub her arms through the draped blanket, much as his elder had once done.

"Let me do this. Let me spare you this," he wiped her cheeks, "what we really came here to do."

He pulled the sheets off the top bunk, then left the room.

When he offered, he thought it would be different. This woman was of no relation to him, just bones, no different from the rest he had walked by. But the closer he came to the nearest part, the harder it became to even spread the sheet down.

To look at the empty leather band and not see the severed connection was nearly impossible. He lifted it by the boot then moved it to the sheet. The second boot was next, nearby. The first hand and wrist were only a few yards away.

A vision flickered through him when he touched it.

The bone was cut on an angle, married with his glimpse. She had been very much alive when this was done.

Had it not been for the thready remains of clothes, it would have been difficult to move all the bones and pieces of what had once been her mother, alive until that one, bitter end. The one part not in this room, her head.

She knelt at the edge of the sheet. "She, was my mother."

"She died... She, was gone, before this was done."

"... Thank you."

"I, I have to touch you one more time. There is... she's missing, her—"

"Ok."

He did.

"I'll be," she sat on the corner of the sheet, nearest a hand, "with her. A few things have happened since last we had a chance to talk. Since last she'd seen, her little girl."

He walked away.

He found a shovel and an unmarked spot in the weedy rear field where her father was buried. He started digging. He had searched just in case, but even Dana couldn't have found a suitable box that day. Wrapped in sheets and placed in a dresser drawer would have to do. While he dug, he thought of— stalled because, he didn't want to know what he would find. He was afraid to touch the missing piece when he knew how it would be found.

White fragments of bone, none bigger than his finger, and two fistfuls of hair that were still as soft and fine as Dana's was all that remained in the bag that others had used in a game, then discarded, lost in a field. The bag had rotted away long ago. With each piece he picked from the grassy dirt, a vision flickered across his mind. Glimpses... These were fleeting, broken shards that flickered much faster than any before. He did his best to remember them, just in case.

She was still sitting when he returned. "This, place," she said with a shrug. "When they were alive, it was such a happy place for me." She shared the edge of the sheet with him, "Now I can hear only hate, pain, a twisted pleasure in both. It's making me sick— I can't take this. Let's go outside, I don't belong here anymore. This isn't my home, it never was. They were."

After they carried the remains to the hole, she sat, motionless, as he filled it in, one shovelful at a time.

"This won't happen to us, Derik. Only one of us will get words and a grave." She broke a clump of dirt between the fingers of her restless hand.

He tossed another shovelful.

"You think about dying, what it'll be like?"

He leaned against the shovel.

"My father, my mother, one day me. Bags to hold all the pieces of painful, prolonged deaths. It's my turn next. Odd, that I should find comfort in that."

"This won't happen to you. I'll see it months away. We can avoid anything like this."

"I wish she hadn't suffered so."

"... It was quick." He continued shoveling.

"The worst was when she handed me to the man who had ruined her life, taken her husband away, and was now the only hope for her child."

He pushed the blade into the dirt.

"The look in her eyes, before she went back in; she knew she would never see me again. Would never know what my life would become. That she had taught my last lesson, spoken her last word. She looked away before I could see her one selfish want, to have her last moments with me, instead of what awaited her inside."

He shoveled in silence.

The only sounds were that of the wooden blade slicing into clay and the small, scraping sounds of stones. The dirt fell into the hole with the sound of heavy hail.

"I wish we had a marker. Something," she said, tossing the last hand-broken clump onto the grave. "But I have no words besides mom and dad. Find me some pretty words, Derik. Tell me what to say to make this hurt less."

He touched her hand... nothing.

"Please, I have to say something."

"You were robbed of time with each other, with your daughter, but you made the most of what you had, and should be more than proud." He rested his hand on her shoulder, as comfortingly as he could. "She is as precious as the moments you spent, and every bit as rare. I met her when we were young, but she was anything but a little girl. I wish I could say I was as good to her as the two of you had been, I've had more time and done much less, but it's never been a matter of time. You have more than words on a stone, and nothing can take that away."

She wiped her finger across her cheek. "... Thank you."

"... I can get your bag from inside, if you want to stay out here, if you don't want to see your room, one last time."

She kissed the handle of a clear blade, then pushed it into the dirt before they went inside.

"I know this place feels like a grave," he said, "but we should look around in case there's something here we can use."

She lifted the mattress on the top bunk, "Get the blanket. It's where my mother kept them, we had no dressers or drawers."

"Maybe we should look through the rest of—"

"Nothing else here is mine."

"Sure, ok. But there's bound to be something in these other rooms. Some water from the well, we're running a—"

"Everything here is tainted. Let's just go."

He grabbed a bow and some arrows from the remains leaned against a wall, imbedded with shards of broken glass. It would be an improvement over the sharpened stick that had served them thus far.

Pity he hadn't the time to explore this place. He was sure there was plenty more, perhaps some shoes, or clothes tucked under a bed here or there. Something, it wasn't all spoiled. But every time he touched her, he could only see the straightest path out. When she wouldn't cooperate, he drew a blank, and this place, even burned, was simply too big to sift alone.

It got dark before they passed the last posed bones, but she wouldn't stop just because it was dark. She was no longer heading toward something; she was running away again. It got light again, then dark once more before they eventually stopped.

"Tired now?" he said.

"I didn't think you could take any more."

"You were right." He lay down; she followed seconds later.

"Tell me a story. Take my thoughts someplace else."

"I can't think of a good one."

"Tell me of children playing, of games that aren't life and death. Of wishes, or dreams, your friend and that girl, anything but where we've been."

He nudged such words, tired as he was, then adjusted the blanket to cover the side of her sleeping face, a gap just big enough to breathe and leave a rhythmic warm/cold spot on his chest by her nose.

The leaves and extra blanket made a big difference. His back was no longer cold, but it was nothing compared to the warmth pressed to his front. Fortunately, she had remembered the blanket, safe from moths, dirt, dust, and all that had fouled the rest of the building. Complete with the occasional long, fine hair caught in the weave, a tickle from the past. It even had a familiar scent.

It was surprising that her village had ever been attacked anyway. He saw no real value, if her room was any example of their wealth. They were poor and had always been. The construction of the beds, tables, and chairs that had survived were well crafted and functional, but mismatched. Most were clearly recycled from other furniture. It was time consuming to turn and cut fancy grooves, smooth and polish every piece. His tribe had invested such time. His room had a desk, chairs, a dresser with ample drawers, even his bunk beds were— it didn't make sense. Her posts showed signs of bark and knots where branches had been. Wealth was nothing she had ever seen and had never been impressed with his, or his status.

And such items were clearly of no value. If they had been, it would not be abandoned. Burned. Spoiled. This was rage or vengeance, or something else. Land was plentiful, but that had always been the case. People were rare, and growing more so. Such violence made no sense. Had they the wealth, perhaps, but all this was for what? He didn't understand the attack he had lived through any better. What would have been achieved had they won? Armies conquered for strategic gain, slave labor, land, resources, skills, or revenge, but they seldom invested such effort on just a whim. But he could come to no other conclusions.

This tent was the most she ever had. It seemed odd, life condensed into just what you could carry, but that had been her life all along. It was a hard thing to reconcile in his mind; bright, attractive, quick, and smart, these qualities did not fit with simple and uncomplicated.

"Why didn't you ever sit with me at lunch?" he said as they approached morning.

"I did."

"No, I meant, you know, at the good tables. I always saved you a seat."

"I didn't belong there."

"You could have, just once."

"And if I did? What would your friends think of your obedient, subservient girl?" She looked him in the eyes. "Your servant doesn't belong there any more than I did, so I never sat. I always thought it was nice when you traded plates with me and stayed in the back after Shela was gone."

"You had a funny way of showing it."

"I was more upset that I wanted you to, than because you did."

"I can't read minds like that."

"... So you keep saying."

"I can't."

He stared at the inside of the tent.

The morning light started its way through the leaf-dwindled branches and the fabric arched over them. It was cold enough for morning breaths to linger in little clouds, but it was much warmer under the blanket. The more he could think to say, the longer she would lay, before the bitter cold would rush in to take her place.

Visions from her mother dwelled in his head. Jumbled pieces, fragmented, tiny glimpses reminiscent of the shards he had picked from the ground. He missed his desk and the papers he could scribe such worries on, and an elder he could discuss and make sense of— he forgot who he lay beside.

"I uh," he said, "I keep seeing, a vision of some woman being discarded on the ground, of a man's bloodied hand in the middle of some open field just before night. He would raise that hand and it would look like he plucked the sinking sun out of the sky. Thousands of fine little lines, bright, tiny, blue and white dots drawing diagonal clouds across the sky. Then it was like day again, noon without any shade, trees swaying with the grass. I, I keep seeing it. I can't seem to get it out of my head."

"Why are you telling me? What can I do about it?"

"I, it's just, sometimes it helps to tell someone. Just saying it can make it go away. Writing it down usually worked too. I used to have one of the elders I could talk to whenever a dream would stay with me like this one has."

"I'm sorry, that was cold of me." She whipped off the blanket.

"I wish you'd stop doing that."

"Get dressed. You have your own blanket now."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. A little warning would still be nice you know."

She smiled as he goosebumped all over, "The last few weeks weren't warning enough?"

"Look, I'm serious." Pulling on cold pants was an unpleasant experience. "Usually stuff that sticks in my head this long is important."

"When has it been? Have any of your lucky bird dreams come true? We're not under a blanket draped across a branch, are we? Have any of them come true yet? Or the one when we both die, or how about that void when you had to go without? Ok, something bad happened, but neither of us died, did we?" She sat closer. "I've never had them, so I don't know what it is for you, but even if it's true, you can't let them live your life. Life is the making of choices." She helped him with his shirt.

"I still think, ok, the world doesn't hinge on the answer, but that doesn't mean it's not important. I've seen plenty of them become disturbingly true."

She pointed a finger, "And if you poke a hole in this tent, you and those arrows are both outa here. I don't know why you had to bring them anyway, the spear was working just fine."

"What if we come across some trouble that—"

"You're not that good with it, and if it's any more than a handful of trouble makers, we don't have a chance. Well, you don't."

"Funny."

"I'm not kidding." She moved closer. "I can beat the crap out of you and I'm just a girl. You've got no chance against anything bigger than a squirrel, let alone someone who knows how to use one of those."

"That's mean. Is that what you really think?"

"If you came across two people, which would you be more threatened by, the one with a sharpened walking stick, or the one with a bow and arrows?"

"Yeah, but what about your—"

"They can't see them. That bow is just extra weight. You can carry it if you want, that's up to you. I thought you would have tired of it and tossed it by now. The stick has helped both of us walk, cooked and caught dinner many times, and—"

"And the bow has just the one purpose."

"Stop finishing my sentences." She punched him in the arm, hard.

"Damn it," he said rubbing his arm. "I'm not finishing your sentences, I'm agreeing with you. I'm just not used to the whole concept of evaluating everything by weight verses usefulness yet."

"If you were any heavier—"

"I wouldn't be useful to a mean little girl," he said, well worth the second punch, besides, "You hit like a girl." That one knocked him on the ground.

It hurt to hold even a leaf with that arm for the next few hours, but it didn't bruise. Her mood improved and that made it worth the pain. For someone who slept so still and peaceful, she could be a very physical girl. She could out walk him any day, had survived years out here, and knew what she was doing. He should trust her opinions more. Good for another argument or two, he continued lugging it anyway. He'd never get better without practice, and it was a skill he wanted to learn.

"A squirrel?" he said, middle of their walk.

She squeezed his sore arm, "A small squirrel."

"It's got better range."

She frowned at him. "You really want an argument?"

"I could step on a squirrel."

She walked faster.

"Look, where are we going now? Do you even know?"

She didn't stop.

"You could teach me, couldn't you?" he said, stopped for lunch.

"It's the learning you have problems with."

"Now's a good time. We could use some more food, don't you think? That smoked stuff is—"

"It's called jerky."

"Well, there's only a few chunks of it left."

"Now's not a good time. I'd like to get more than just a few days from there. It still feels... can't you feel it, all the suffering that went on? They didn't just kill, quick and clean, they enjoyed it. It was a game of cruelty, to prolong the pain. Most of that line were posed, alive, when we fled."

"No, ok, that's— I understand. But we can still practice for a while."

"I'm not killing anything, anytime soon. There are plenty of other things to eat. When it gets colder and food is harder to find, maybe then, but not now."

"Yeah but, I'd like to be practiced by then. If I'm going to lug this thing around—"

"I never told you to."

"It's something I wanted to learn and never got the chance. The hunters and trackers of our tribe always used this kind of stuff, they never went out with a sharpened walking stick."

"It's only good at a distance with people-size targets, not small game. If we kill something big, we have to use it all, and I'm not carrying that much added weight around. An extra two or three pounds maybe, but they were hunting much bigger game, the stuff you feed a village on, not two people. Yes, it would have been nice to carry a mattress, a bed, two or three more blankets, some shovels, some pots and pans and a nice shingled roof, but that's not exactly practical, is it? Neither is that bow."

"As a kid, before I met you, we used to practice with straw targets after chores in the fields. I was usually too sick to run and play much, it was the only fun I had. Obviously, it was an easy way to train the next generation of hunters, but to a kid, it was just fun. I was never any good at it, they said I had poor coordination—"

"You do."

"But I blame the schools, I just didn't have the right tutor."

She sighed with a begrudging nod. "You lug it around for another week, and if you haven't poked a hole in the tent, maybe. And from now on, it stays outside."

"Thank you."

It helped explain why his visions of late didn't include a pit or anything other than plant food. She was not in the best of moods, understandably. He could have saved himself the punch in the arm and learned as much from a well-timed touch, but the more of this one-on-one time he spent with her, the harder it was to pry such private things without the event itself to learn from. It felt like cheating.

That night was too cold to keep walking, even though it was a clear, bright night. It took longer to set the tent up on these colder days, finding enough dry leaves alone took a lot of time. It was hard to remember they weren't into winter yet.

"You sorry you came?" She folded her clothes neatly into a pocket by his head.

"Well, I miss my cold room, hot meals, and my nice soft bed. I'm sorry for lots of things, but not this."

"We don't have to sleep this close if it's hard on you. You've got a blanket of your own now. I sometimes forget how you feel about me. If this were the other way around— It might be easier on you, that's all," she said.

He tucked the blanket around her shoulders, the same as every night before. Before he would fall asleep, the arm she would spend the entire night on would turn numb and would hurt for minutes after she got up, rendering it useless for buttoning. Yet, he wouldn't change a thing.

"It bothered me at first. You've been just what I wanted you to be, mostly," she said with the blanket covering the side of her face. "I used to wonder why and how, but over the years it mattered less." She lightly squeezed his hand.

He felt so sad for her, this journey had not ended the way she wanted. She had hoped to be searching for her mother right now.

"You came all this way for three little words. I don't know why you would give up a room for a chance, not even a good one at that. For whatever reason, I'm glad to have you, but I have only two of the words you want to hear." She kissed him. "Thank you."

Close enough.
**B4.C15**

"I think we're being followed," she said quietly.

"What do you mean? I, I mean, since when?"

"For the last week maybe, since we left my parents."

"Well, uh, how do you know?"

"It just feels like it."

He touched her hand. "All I can see is drizzle and rain for the next few days, nothing more than that. Nobody's following us."

"Well, you're wrong." She finished getting dressed, then left the tent. No words he could say would change her mind, and he was in no shape to keep up with her. Besides, she wanted to do this alone. Had he been able to keep pace, he could have witnessed her running through leaf-covered grounds without a sound to warn of her movements. She was swifter without him, so he didn't go.

When it started to drizzle a few hours after she left, he wasn't worried. But now it was coming down hard, and she had yet to return. She would fail to find them, if they ever were real, but no harm would come of it, that much was certain. The worst that would happen was she'd return soaked and cold, and those two, when added together, were not that bad for a warm and dry Derik.

"I didn't find them," she said, water stringing down her hair.

"I know."

She started shedding clothes, "Turn around."

He did.

"I did find tracks and a small campsite. They cleaned it up very well, hardly a trace of them. You can turn back now."

She hung the wet clothes out the flap before she buttoned it closed, then climbed beneath the blanket with him.

"There can't be many of them. A small handful at most, scouts maybe. No signs of horses or a campfire, but horses are rare now, very rare. Maybe wanderers, drifters like us? The raiders had horses. If they were scouts, then they would have horses too."

"Maybe it's an old camp site?"

"It was cleared of leaves, there were definite signs. They're traveling light, lighter than us maybe." Her hair was dripping, "Can't you feel them in the distance, watching?"

"It doesn't work when I'm wet."

Long, wet hair slapped his face when she shook.

"Ok ok, I'll try." He put his hands on her cool, damp cheeks. She couldn't do the same again.

"Well?"

"You're going to kiss me."

She frowned. "Try harder." She kissed him anyway.

"You don't find them. But the good news is, they don't find us either." He ran his fingers through her hair; water trickled down the backs of his hands forming puddles by his elbows that he would have to lie in until dry. "Are you sure they're not just figments of that colorful imagination of yours?"

"Just like the edge of the sky, we're being followed."

"You need to wind down, Dana. I'll help you find them, you know I will, but nothing's going to happen, not for the next couple of days at least. Well, other than rain that is."

She exhaled in a playful pout. "Cooped up with you for a few days, what will we ever find to do?"

She kissed him again.

"Would it bother you if I did this?" she said.

She tilted his head back, then licked the underside of his chin, tormentful in its unexpected pleasure. Despite eating only minutes ago, his mouth watered to nearly the point of drool.

"I could hurt you, I could make you beg to be hurt. I could make pleasure a cruelty you'd wish would never end." Her lips were inches from his ear.

From his neck to the tip of his chin, repeated again and again. So slow, soft, and warm, these teases between kisses. She brushed his cheek with the wrinkles of her smile.

"It may yet be you, but it won't be in a tent," she whispered so close that her soft sounds drowned the gapless taps of rain. "Is it worse to be closer still, and just as far away? I could stop now, it may be easier for you if I did, but why should this be easy for you?"

Overwhelmed by a dizzy blur of events she didn't, but could easily have done, he clung to the reality he was desperate to remember.

His talent was quiet... gone. It had been for some time now. It hadn't happened in a tent, but something had. What had happened?

Her arm stretched out beneath the blanket, her palm poked out beside his head. He watched a thin, faint cloud rise from her hand to the top of the tent, like a tiny exhale. Her back pressed to his ribs, her head rested where it always had of late. His wrist rested on her stomach, to rise and fall with each of the breaths she fogged.

She had chased and tracked for most of yesterday, excited and worn out at the same time, but that didn't explain why he seemed to be missing hours out of this day. What had happened? It felt more dream than real. He pinched the fabric of her shirt; inch-by-inch, he bunched it up just above the bottom of her ribs.

He had felt a woman before, one regrettable time. He had been bashful then, but got over it soon enough. But Dana, was not her. His hand rested once again, but this was skin against skin. Between her breaths, he could feel the rhythm of her pulse beating past his wrist. His thumb rubbed the outline of her ribs. The same shape and form as any other, like those arranged on the road outside her home.

It had put her into perspective, a gift, a tutor, a friend. A walking companion. A life. She had referred to herself as just a girl, once. She was. And she wasn't. Life. Simple, in its complexity. He couldn't forget she was a person too. Wants, she had acted on some of them. Her life surrounded him in every breath, every beat of her heart.

Should his hand drift inches higher or lower it would answer wants and desires of his. It had been so easy when it was someone else, a woman he cared little about. Dispassionate. That was an option he never had with mean little girls.

His thumb brushed her ribs with little less than a touch, soft, smooth, soothing. If he pressed harder, he could count each one and the gap between. Odd, he thought ribs would move more when she breathed, but they stayed still. It was her stomach that moved.

She had licked him. He traced her path with his finger on the underside of his chin, nearest the neck. Two glands, or maybe just one, it was what had made him drool. It tickled a little, a lot. It felt so good. How did she know it would? He tried to remember her words. It reminded him of an earlier phrase of hers, cruel kindness. He closed his eyes again, so easy to sleep in the thumping loud rain.

"I like that you remind me of life. Your relentlessness is as comforting now as it was once annoying," she said within the pause of the rain.

"It sounds like a drizzle now. We could go outside, give them something worth watching? That wouldn't be in the tent, right?"

"Annoying now."

"I'm madly in love with you, you know."

Her palm was on the tip of his chin, fingertips where tongue had been. Drooling was hard not to do. His mouth watered before her every kiss.

"I want to annoy you some more," he said.

"You don't need to try so hard. I'm not a prisoner of your room, but we're still victims of circumstance. Two people, one tent. It's a small space for tension, resentment, or pressure. You're not a prisoner, but you don't have much choice either."

"You have the most lovely hands." He held the one by his head. "Beautiful hands."

He rubbed the back of her fingers against his cheek.

"I've touched a lot of hands over the years." His covered hers, trying to keep them warm, "Most, my hand felt like a finger in their palm. Big, massive, strong hands. Callused, scratched and scarred like seamless, worn leather gloves. I always pictured yours in one of those. It looks so out of place in mine. They're just as beautiful as the rest of you."

He balled her hand into a fist then kissed each knuckle.

"I remember when these were bruised, and I was trying to get the taste of the floor out of my mouth."

"You went down quick. One punch, if I remember."

"You hit pretty hard for a girl."

"I wouldn't have held back if I had known how hard that head of yours was. I was going to stomp on you for a little while so you'd be sure to remember, but they pulled me off first." She rubbed her knuckles along his chin.

"What are you going to do now, Dana? Where are you going?"

"I don't know. What's worse, pursuing a dream, or finding out that's all it ever was? I thought I was looking for my mother, but I was looking for a place where I belong. I don't belong in your world."

"We can find another village. I can make a deal with them. It won't be the same it was at home, I won't have the same obligations. Maybe we can do something on our terms this time."

"What will you do when it's not you I choose to spend the rest of my life with? A man who won't go down with a single punch. What happens when they want to have many little future-boys of their own? What happens when they become dependent and easily scared your talent will have an end? Can you see all of these from a handful of touches? When has a deal you've made on my behalf ever gone the way you wished?"

His hand continued riding up and down amidst her words.

"I still don't belong. It's the same trap as before. Happiness would end at one, whoever that child was with. I'm not a breeding animal. I asked my father why I was an only child."

She rolled to lie atop him, face to face. Her hair tickled his ears.

"My mother was in labor for thirty-four hours with me, a long, painful labor. She was bedridden for months. They say I look like her, I do," she said while his hands drifted to her hips. "They didn't care what it hurt, no one does. When they did what they did to me, they checked to see if I could, not if I wanted to. No test for how bad it would hurt. No one cared if I would die in a long, difficult labor like my mother almost did. I can, and it can kill me. Would you care if that was the price?"

Her hips were just as narrow as his. He had spent all this time with her and had never noticed. It made perfect sense.

"Where am I going? I think it may be best if we found one of those villages to take you in, you can be that hero of songs children are taught to sing. That life's not for me, it's for you. We both know that. This had always been a tent made for one."

"What happens to you then?"

"Your talent is for a village, Derik, you have a place. What happens if I get hurt? It may be one of the most useful talents I've known, but for the year that you couldn't read me, what is it then? You don't belong with me out here." She slid to his side. "And I don't belong there. Sometimes, I think this may have been a huge mistake, that I may well have messed up my life beyond repair. That I was happier in your room, hoping for a day that would never come and my mother would just walk in through your door."

His hand rubbed her stomach again. The other adjusted the blanket. When the rain tapped louder, he covered her other ear.

"What would you have done if you found them, or worse, if they found you?" he said hours later.

"They wouldn't find me."

"They were good enough to avoid you. That would explain why I can't see them. You're good, but someone is always better."

"I never said I was the best, merely better than you."

"Hey, it just occurred to me, you cooked in the desert on the shield, didn't you?"

"So?"

"That means we could've had hot meals without making a fire all along. We ate cold food for a month because you didn't want to leave any smoke, when we didn't have to."

"I didn't want going with me to be that easy, it's going to get much worse the colder it gets."

"I don't know, I'm kinda starting to like this. I can't wait till we get to cozy up next to a fire."

"No fires, other than for cooking food. It takes a lot of time and energy to find firewood, and then someone has to tend it. You have to watch the smoke, most of the heat goes straight up, and if we're being followed, we don't need to advertise our position. It makes the cold feel colder when it's gone. You get used to the cold, it's better that way."

He changed the subject again. "Would it annoy you if I did this?" he said.

He lightly rubbed small, soothing circles on her stomach. Her waist was much smaller than her hips. His fingers that had covered her ear showed what he had learned under her chin.

When the rain stopped the next morning, his power had yet to return. He watched the wordless clouds add to the dew inside the tent. Colder than this, he could hardly wait.

She pressed closer while he scratched her back for a few seconds. He moved the hair from her face before he replaced the blanket over her ear.

She smiled.

He took pride in that tiny moment. He could make her smile without the talent he leaned on so often. It was a small tent, but she had made room for him. This tent was well made, but it wouldn't last her forever. With a bowl's worth of seeds, she had planned to make some place her home. He wanted to be there when she found it.

A few warm days followed the rain. The clouds trapped the heat low to the ground, uncharacteristic of this time of year, whatever date this was. Her hunch about being followed had them walking hard for the next two full nights and days. His legs were sore trying to keep her pace.

"Well, it finally came back," he said.

"Shh."

She handed him her bag, then walked off into the woods. Silent steps. He hurried to assemble the tent before the overcast left them in the dark. It would be morning before she would return.

He had been a few days without his talent, more than long enough to unnerve him as only the void had done. Now that it had returned, he had no one to share his good news with. He was left to sit, alone, in the tent with his headache.

Lost in the void and after reading most of the village before the attack, it was lost again just a few days ago. She was the extremes, further than any and nothing at all, clarity and a blank.

Perhaps it was a self-defense kind of thing, much like blinking? Being exposed to Dana continuously may have overwhelmed it. She had that effect with him. When she returned, he would have to discuss this.

A hand covered his mouth from behind, "I could hear them, but couldn't catch a look at them."

She pulled him down to his knees then pointed with the hand that had covered his mouth. He could see movement, but nothing that couldn't also be the wind.

"I found the signs of a vicious fight with lots of claw marks, blood and fur mixed with shredded leaves. I may have been mistaken when I said it was people, it may be an animal of sorts. Hungry perhaps, weighing appetite against risk? The leaves were ripped with claw prints, but not all the time. It may even be traveling branch to branch like your archenemy, the dreaded squirrel." She pressed her cheek against his, "Or an oversized possum, I just don't know."

He tried but couldn't add any details to her quest.

"I tracked them in the dark. I was close to where they bed down, but they kept scurrying off every few hours. I still don't know what I did that tipped 'em off."

"Maybe they don't like pretty girls as much as I do."

"Even the cleverest squirrel doesn't cover its trail or clean its bedding."

He decided to take advantage of her nearly flirty mood, "I know what'll help, more bow lessons. It's going to rain later today, so, no sense in taking the tent down."

"It's archery lessons and—"

"I'm getting better, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Please." He kissed the fingers of her hand. "It was fun for me once. It still is. If it comes to it, I'd like to think I could do something more than just run from this vicious pack of wild squirrels."

"You're more likely to hit me with one of those."

"I'm not that bad, am I?"

"Ok, but we put it to use."

He leaned back. "You going to take me with you this time?"

"No, not that way."

He had forgotten how great a tutor she was. He tried to get her to teach him how to throw those clear blades, but she didn't have enough to spare. They broke too easy, the way they were designed. With just the little bow practice he had done, he had already damaged three arrows beyond reuse. The tips were not made for practicing, and the targets available were harder than the bales of straw he remembered as a child.

But he had progressed from still to moving objects, in this case, fish in a creek. Small, fast moving, darting targets that could only be hit if he aimed where they weren't. Thankfully, she had tied a string to the arrows so he didn't have to take another embarrassing cold bath.

He spent hours with nothing to show for his labor. He was getting better, even got close enough a couple times to nick one or two, and had gained an appreciation for the abilities of all those hands he had touched. She was right, it was a tool best used for larger animals some distance away. It was fun, just less filling than the bounty from the net she normally used for fishing. It would have taken minutes to pull it from under the tent and catch all the fish he missed, but today was not about catching fish.

"They were watching us until it started to rain," she said in the tent.

"I didn't see anyone."

"I thought I told you to leave those outside." She tossed the bow and arrows out. "You didn't see 'em?"

"No, I was busy having fun. It's a lot harder than it looks."

She frowned. "I told you that before."

"But it's easier than a spear."

"If you could master the spear, you'd have hit something today. Besides, the spear teaches better stealth and tracking abilities, you have to get closer. That's more important to learn, and it makes a bigger difference in the long run. I'm just glad we're not counting on your skills for survival."

"But I am getting better."

"Aww, future-boy needs a compliment." She patted him on the head. "Good future-boy, learn simple task. Tomorrow we learn to tie shoes."

He tackled her with a kiss, not the smartest thing to do in a tent suspended above the ground. He had packed the clothes and other items into the pockets along the edge, but had forgotten to button them. The small tent was now full of loosed, bouncing objects, all making their way to the center, on and under the two of them.

"Shoes may be weeks away," she said, holding back a giggle.

With nothing left but to kiss her more, he used his only antidote for more words of praise. It worked if he kissed her right; fortunately, he had failed at that only the once. But then, the first time is always the worst.

"You promise to change, but you never do," she said. "It's just too much to ask to keep a clean room. I wouldn't have this problem if—"

He started kissing her again.

"I miss Shela," she said hours later when rain permitted. "I didn't know her before my mother died, I only met her on the long walk. She was just a few years older than I."

He adjusted the blanket to better hear her.

"I was a burden to her at first. I couldn't keep up with the rest, my legs were too short, no matter how fast I moved them. She had to carry me sometimes. She held me those nights I cried for my mom. She held my hands until I fell asleep."

He rubbed her fingers with his thumb.

"She was the first one to wake from my nightmares, long before you. She would hold me still until they passed. Hold her hand over my mouth to keep my screams from waking the rest, from telling the wild there was such hurt among us."

He rubbed small circles on her back.

"She was my friend when I needed one. She held me tight under a blanket of leaves and discarded clothes. She kept me warm when we had nothing but what we were wearing when the attack came, and those from the ones who didn't make it that far.

I miss her. I watched my mother... I watched my best friend..."

"There was nothing you could do, either time." He kissed her on her forehead.

"I could have saved Shela, I could—"

"Don't. You couldn't have stopped that."

"I could have saved her."

She sniffled quietly for a painfully long time.

"I loved Shela, and I just, watched." She squeezed his hand. "I watched her being... She screamed for me, and I just ran away. I'm not as brave as you think."

"It was a pack that was smart enough to lure you into a trap. You're lucky to be alive."

"Her arm dangled by a... She screamed for me to run, and I just grabbed the nearest arm, and ran. I could still hear her, can still hear her now." Her sniffles were hard to hide.

He held her tighter.

"She was my best friend. I think about her sometimes. I wonder how horrible her last minutes were. I remember the first time she held me from behind, both my wrists held in her hand so I couldn't toss and flail. She would tell me stories until I fell asleep, to try to keep the bad dreams away.

She liked you. She thought I was lucky to get a room of my own. She used to give me food off her plate too, even when we had only scraps. She could have stayed at the village before yours, but didn't, because of me.

We had heard of a young seer. I thought it would tingle, tickle or something. I didn't expect just a touch. It took so long to get there that anticipation went from fascination to disappointment with your casual touch. I also thought you'd be taller."

"I thought I would get taller," he said.

"She was there for me when I started getting my... I couldn't go to my mother, I had her instead. I talked to her about you. She took your side sometimes, said I was too hard on you."

He warmed the side of her head with his palm.

"I loved my parents. I loved Shela. I can't be sure if I'll ever love you. I'm not sure you really want me to." She kissed him on the cheek. "But I do like you, the best friend I have. Just not one I chose." It was too dark to see the smile she pressed to his cheek. "But then, I didn't choose any of them either."

She always left him with the truth and a sliver for hopes to cling to. He was always thankful for that.

She had been asleep for a few hours, this girl he better understood, nudged so easy in the silence with the echoes of Shela's loving hand. From behind her, he took one of her wrists in his hand; her second joined out of reflex, pulled tight to her chest, just under her chin. As she curled into a tighter ball, he couldn't resist placing his hand lightly over her lips. The warm rhythm of her breath tickled the back of his fingers. After all this time, it was still there. What had saved her on the journey had left her perfect, silent pray, in a room not far enough from his. A hike and a repeated press, in a few minutes it would be another's turn before she would have been discarded to the floor. It wasn't the violation of her that hurt, the inspection was worse, it was Shela's years of loving embrace that were erased in those moments of unkind. Unthinkable, understandable, what once could have been. His hand that covered her lips, guided them to a kiss of this, peacefully sleeping girl.

It would be weeks before he would get this kind of candor from her again, but it had always been small steps with her. With the distraction of being followed and the weather not their friend, his lessons with the bow had started bearing food. It was easier, once he got the hang of it. The arrow flew true, but its mass was not the same as the spear and it took two more cruel shots before the creature was out of its misery. Each arrow had a personality of its own, leaving much for him to learn.

A bow, left strung for years, loses most of its spring; in an act of incredible generosity, she even tightened it for him, doubling its lethal range.

"It's going to snow, deep," he said, enjoying the treat of the fire.

"Good, it's harder to hide tracks in the snow. I may yet catch our—"

"Give up already. We're not being followed. You've been on that for weeks now and nothing. It's just some—"

"You wanna spend the night outside?" She pointed, "That bow and arrow gonna be enough to keep you warm?"

"I'm sorry, but, if you want to waste more time, that's fine, just don't expect me to keep getting excited about it."

Dana went to the tent where his clothes, blanket, and bag were promptly thrown out.

He packed his disarrayed mess into the bag and huddled it and the blanket by the fire, smoking the remains of the food. He should know better than this. He tended the fire while he waited for her to cool.

"I'm— I apologize. There's clearly something stalking us. It leaves no signs, has never been seen, and has eluded you for weeks on end."

He would have to go back down to retrieve his bag that had glanced off his ducking shoulder, but she kept the food up there.

"I apologize, unconditionally," he said this time, tired of climbing the rope and chasing his things.

She was wrapped tightly in her blanket and showed no signs of wanting to share it with him. Clearly, this would be the coldest night in the tent yet, just before their first snowfall. He lay down beside her. She pushed him away, as much as away could be in a tent that small.

"I love you."

She shoved him.

"Sometimes, saying just isn't enough, is it?" he said, doing his best to tuck as close to her as possible, without being elbowed away.

He would miss being warm.

When he woke, her blanket was wadded where she had been.

He closed the flap immediately after looking outside. Damn, it was bright. He decided to wait for her return.

She was mad at him, clear enough. He would have to fix it, equally clear. But she was wasting so much time and energy on a hunch from some fur and torn leaves. Oh, and a 'feeling' that she was being watched. He had meant to discuss his talent going silent to see if it was related to her being uncooperative, or stubborn, or something, and that was far more important than her hunch could ever be. But his interest was thwarted at every turn.

When he peeked outside hours later, he was nearly blinded by the white for a second time. Everything was white. No, the tree trunks weren't, they were just spotted white in chunks. His vision was coming back. He looked down, footprints. They weren't easy to see, just dents in the drifted snow. She must have gone before it stopped— well, no, it hadn't stopped, the snow equivalent of drizzle.

Pretty, but that didn't mean it was easier to track someone in it. His arm didn't hurt buttoning the extra layers of thawing clothes, no tingling needles of pain. He stretched after his most restful night in the tent yet.

He missed her already.

Landing in snow at the bottom of the rope, his freezing-cold toes were nothing to what was numbing his ankles. The snow was mid-shin deep, and that was under the tent! He balanced on one leg so he could pull the clumps of packed snow from inside his pant-legs. He warmed his numb fingers under his armpits as he looked around, already shivering.

He followed the tracks to deeper and deeper snow, now just above his knees, flakes falling twenty feet apart. He shuffled his feet instead of regular steps to keep the snow from refilling his pant-legs. His toes tingled, but his hands were starting to come around after moving them into his pockets. He was easily twenty minutes from the tent before pondering going back. If it started snowing harder, he might not find his way. She knew what she was doing. Besides, he couldn't find the bow this morning; what would he do on the off chance she was right? She always had those glass blades, all he had was tingling fingers in his pockets.

He inspected the tracks, now shallow dents in drifted snow.

Ice filled his ear and burned his turning face!

His shoulder puffed!

The back of his knee went out, face buried in burning snow.

He lobbed a fistful of snow in a blind return, only to get pummeled on the back of his head.

He tried to sit.

She shoved his face to the ground then packed the back of his shirt with snow.

"Get up, future-boy," she said, laughing, tickling him from behind.

He had his touch. It was his turn now.

Tumble, tackle, toss, and throw, whatever he had to do to keep the cheating touch he needed, that also warmed his hands.

Freezing wet, he ran, falling in snow.

He was panting hard but couldn't stop. If he relaxed for even a second, she would bury him in snow, not that he had any hope of holding his own.

One more tackle and they started to roll, sliding down the hill. On top, under, top, under, hands grasping anything to slow the— off popped his shoe.

They slammed to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

She was sitting, just sitting beside him. He ground two handfuls of snow into her cheeks, but she didn't move. Not a flinch. She was smiling, looking over his shoulder. She pushed him into the snow just in time to see two snowballs puff her shoulder.

**B4.C16**

She lobbed an impressive volley in return. She had a good arm on her, especially the one she used to hold him down.

Her hand warmed his red cheek, "Go find your shoe," she said, and it was as simple as following a vision.

She grabbed two handfuls and ran the other direction.

Found it. Now came the hard part, balancing on one foot while he cleaned it and his encrusted sock of snow. A nearby pine tree served well for something to lean against.

Something was— He was buried in snow, again.

Dug free, he could see the snow had been avalanched from the branches by something that had jumped from a neighboring tree. This something was fast, just a furry blur of it disappeared over the hill— the same direction Dana ran!

He had to hurry. Frozen feet or not, he had to hurry. And now!

Tracking this thing in the snow, he realized it had difficulty clearing the drifts. Sometimes it would jump over, sometimes dive under, but when the trees permitted, it jumped from branch to branch, tree to tree. It was hardest to track up high, and it had one hell of a lead. Fortunately, he could follow Dana's tracks that weren't so hard to find. But he was losing time, slogging through the snow, when it could almost fly.

He topped the hill to find Dana on her knees before a figure at the distant, flat bottom of a valley. The furry figure raised its hand, and Dana slowly fell, face first, to the ground.

No No No! Not this! He should have foreseen it, could have, had he touched her last night. No. No bow, no arrows, no spear, nothing but harmless snow that he couldn't throw even half that far. All he could do was run.

Faster!

What was— Dana was moving; she was still alive! She was trying to crawl away from the figure, its hand raised, splitting its gaze between him and the fleeing her.

"Over here! Over here!" Derik flailed as best as he could without slowing his frantic pace, yelling as often as his lungs would allow.

It was working; she was crawling away.

Keep going! Keep going! Good girl, he'd be there in seconds.

She was headed for a hole in the snow. Her hand was already in it, she was almost safe before the furry figure grabbed her ankle. As she struggled to get into the safety of the hole, this creature was clawing its best to drag her back out. He was still seconds too far away! Faster, louder, it didn't matter. It wouldn't release her leg!

He was almost there. He had nothing to fight with except his fists, and this furry thing had already taken Dana down. He was prepared to lose; with hope, he could give her time.

Two steps away.

The snow made an echoing, cracking sound as fingers of melted snow spider-webbed from where his foot broke through. He was already soaking wet up to his shin when the other leg fell in too. Close enough! He grabbed for the furry creature, but got Dana's shoe instead. Furry pounced to stand on her shoulders and swung wildly near her head. It was out of his reach, and she was pulling hard for the hole now; he tried his only edge, one more time. He read her.

With both his hands on her ankle, he leaned back and pulled with all his weight this time. Her head emerged from the hole with furry swinging wilder, slinging red lines onto the snow. He pulled his hardest yet when something smacked his foot under the ice.

She pulled free and slid past him on the ice.

Her shirt was soaked wetter than his pants, but she didn't seem to notice; she was hugging a drenched bundle of fur pressed to her ear.

She wiped the fur from a tiny blue face, covered its little mouth and nose with her lips, then blew in half cheek-sized puffs.

Dana pressed two fingers into the bundle, followed by a few quick puffs. Her hand wiped the little face hidden inside. She was drenched from her waist up, but her red face continued to puff and press.

He stepped closer, but was stopped by the other fur-dressed figure. This one was a little boy, threatening with a blood-dripping furry hand.

"We've got to get out of this cold," he said, but she didn't have time to pause. "Dana. Dana, we've got to get out of this cold."

He inched a step closer, only to get growled back.

"Dana, come on. We have to get out of this cold."

With a well-timed step when this little furry guardian was distracted by tiny coughs, he touched Dana's cheek where words no longer need be said. A few seconds longer, and he had seen enough.

"Just start walking that direction, the boy'll lead you the rest of the way. I'll meet you there." He backtracked his trail to the tent as fast as drenched feet allowed.

A blanket? Take both, and some socks, shirts— he changed his pants and socks. It slowed him now but would let him move that much faster through the snow. Plus, it gave him time to think. He filled his bag the best he could, now cramming random items, mostly clothes. Take the tent? No, too much time.

He had to go! She was soaking wet and in the cold.

Seconds counted, and were quickly ticking by.

He jumped down and into the snow.

Had he not circled back to the ice and followed their tracks, he would never have found this thing. It was nothing more than a tree, broken over and buried in snow. Its trunk remained tethered by bark and splintered strands to the three-foot base, still rooted to the ground.

For the second time today, he was stopped by the little, furry guard with a growl. He got past this in the vision, but because it was unimportant to Dana and something she didn't see, he was clueless as to how.

"Look, just step aside and let me in. I'm not going to hurt you," Derik calmly said.

"GRRR."

"I don't want to hurt you, kid."

"Grrr."

"Look, nothing but clothes and stuff." He put his hand in the bag.

That did it! The boy pounced, ripping open the bag. The snow was now strewn with its contents.

"Oh come on." What a mess. "It's just clothes, damn it!" But yelling quickly made things worse.

Eventually, the boy calmed down and let him in, but remained watchful and ever in between Dana and him. He had to hand each piece of cloth, one item at a time, to the boy for inspection before Dana could make use of it. She was hunched over this little one hugged so close that even her breaths added to the child's warmth.

She used the first dry articles to wipe all the wet away from the child. The wind didn't get in, but it was still unpleasant under this fallen tree. Actually, he was still outside really, allowed to get only close enough to hand clothes in while the snow continued falling, harder now and on his exposed head.

"Come on kid, I'm not going to hurt you. Let me in a little. Can't you see it's snowing out here?" he said.

The kid, clothed in knotted strips of fur, growled at any advance.

"Can't you say something to him, Dana? Tell him I'm not going to hurt him."

"It wouldn't make any difference, it's the little girl he's protecting," she said. "We need a fire, she's not doing so well."

He slowly reached in to touch Dana. "You need to want to find it."

The boy growled.

He moved his touch. "You don't have to go, just want to," he said. "It's not working, Dana. You have to—"

She wouldn't. A thousand nudging words, but nothing he could find would make her leave that faintly blue little girl, completely concealed by the blanket. He couldn't even nudge Dana's gaze.

"I'll do my best," he said, crawling out into the snow.

He hadn't a clue.

His talent wasn't gone, just useless. Her conviction was admirable, but wasteful; all she had to do was just once be willing to leave the kid and he could shave an hour off this chore. She didn't actually have to go. Lack of cooperation. Stubborn.

Respectable.

He wasn't any good at this. He should be by now. He had done it often enough, never in the snow, but rain was similar. Think. What were the telling signs? He had never paid attention. Great tutor. Lousy student. As the snow fell harder, his tracks would disappear soon. He would have a hard time finding that broken tree again, struggling hard enough the first time.

Great.

Perfect.

... Bitch.

No, he was just, frustrated. By her. In many ways.

He returned an hour later than need be. His wet shoes hid numb toes that tingled in a most unpleasant way. And yet again, he was stopped with a growl.

"Perfect!" he said, dropping everything. "I don't have time for this, Dana."

The growl grew louder.

He looked in, just to check. The forms under the blanket were lying down, not even a hole left to breathe by. He recognized the shape all right; he last saw it on the bunk above his, a tight, small, little ball. He remembered how warm it used to be, this one had an extra little lump.

He was allowed to slide the bag out, but only with deliberate care in every inched move. Dana kept a small bag of animal fats for making soap, but it worked for this purpose too. A hard, white glob in this cold, he smear it on the bark at the bottom of the kindling. If it caught, it would add enough heat to dry even damp, snowed on wood. She kept some black-powder sealed in pea-sized wax balls for special occasions. This was one. He broke it open, then sprinkled it like pepper over the fat, saving a few fat grains to smear on each of two small, smooth rocks.

A sliding slap of the stones showered sparks on the kindling, one lucky hit and it flashed into smoldering just fine. A cloud of smoke hung in the air and refused to move as it sizzled like bacon. Even before the fire started to take off, muffled coughs came from the blanket.

When smoke gave way to healthy flames, he added what wood he brought with him, and thawed his feet before hunting for more.

Sitting next to the flames, he formed a wall of packed snow to direct the fire's heat back under the tree. Working alone, of course, under the constant scrutiny of the boy. He was even treated to a warning growl whenever he approached too close to the girls while trying to warm his hands and feet. This was going to be a very long day.

He shook his head in disappointment at the anemic flames. He didn't need to read futures to know that he would be the only one fetching firewood for the next few days. With warm shoes, he started collecting those sticks close by, but thought better of it. What would he collect tonight if he misjudged the amount of wood they needed?

A fire was high maintenance, just like Dana had warned, but oh, my, was it ever warm. He stoked it while he sat, still outside in the snow. As far as his damp feet were concerned, fire was even better than sharing a blanket. But he looked at the blanketed lump anyway.

Lucky little girl, in more ways than one.

What decently sized rocks he could find, he placed near the fire. When hot enough, he moved them to the feet of the well-wrapped girls, growl permitting of course. His day was spent gathering wood, tending the fire, and warming his feet. It wasn't until it started getting dark that he was allowed under the shelter's edge, such as it was.

It was just a fallen tree with all the central branches broken out, then woven into what remained to make the sides; a simple, makeshift shelter, with many obvious drawbacks. For one, it was on the ground, and this ground was frozen cold. It sucked the heat out of any body it touched. It took more than just a blanket to keep warm. The fire didn't heat well that low, and the only warmth was found four or five inches off the ground.

He couldn't sleep, not that the boy would let him, kept awake by furry scrutiny alone. He once kidded Dana about her searing hatred; this boy had it. Unblinkingly. The boy only gave the blanketed two a casual glance, but he glared at Derik throughout the nightlong chore of feeding the fire.

Derik made it to morning sunrise with a few sticks of wood leftover. Not bad for a guess. If he sat still, the boy might not wake while he watched the stirrings under the blanket. A small hand poked its way out like an adorable chick emerging from the warmest of shell.

The little girl sat just inside the blanket, her tiny hand on Dana's neck. The color had returned to this cute little kid, dressed in clothes many sizes too big. She adjusted the blanket to keep the rising sun out of Dana's eyes.

She had the cutest little smile when she looked at him. This one was well on her way to being a beautiful girl. He couldn't help but smile back.

He tried the relaxation technique again, as he had been all night.

So tired, he desperately needed sleep, but Dana wasn't up yet, so he hunted for wood unassisted, again. "You know," he said to the waking little boy, "I trust you here with her, you seem to trust the two of them; the least you could do is come with me and help."

"Grrr."

"Just come with me, just this once. We can carry twice the wood." Not a nudge. "You don't even have to do the lifting, just help stack it in my arms."

The boy looked only at the awakened, partially blanketed little girl. He wouldn't be moved by words.

Alone again.

Fine!

When he returned, Dana was still covered, unmoved.

"Dana."

"Grrr."

"Look, little man," he said. "I'm not going to hurt anyone, but I am going in there."

"GRRRR."

"I'm serious."

"GRRRRR."

He started to crawl in.

The boy inched back then growled again.

The little hand grabbed Derik's arm as sharp, little points poked through every layer of his sleeves, and the boy issued another growl.

"I'm not going to hurt anyone," he said, "but I am going in."

It hurt, but it didn't puncture the skin. And it was a touch. If he moved slowly, this little boy wouldn't do more than growl and poke the occasional hole. Derik gradually inched close enough.

"Dana." He pulled the covers from her face. She didn't look good. Not good at all. "Hey, come on girl. Let me see those deep brown eyes."

He put his hand on her forehead. This was not good. She was sick. Bad. Very bad. For the next few days bad. Hot to the touch, he could shake her and wake her, but there was no point now. He knew the same without disturbing her rest. She would wake wrong enough a few hours from now. The good news was the little girl looked fine. Absolutely adorable, for a girl who had nearly drowned.

The path to the tent was hard to follow, and it wasn't getting any easier in a drizzly drifting snow. Partially sunny was his best chance of finding it; even his shoes were fire dried, ready, and warm. He should have it packed and back before she woke and he would be needed again, or even missed.

He wasn't worried, his touch told him enough about this fierce little guard. Derik was twice the boy's size, but had he moved fast instead of slow, he would be bleeding badly with no use of the arm. That little boy may not defend Dana with such ferocity, but he would the little girl, and from the looks of it, the two girls were not going to be separated anytime soon.

As he walked, he pondered his situation. Now, and for the next few days, he would be denied her warmth as well as any of the closeness he had gained over the years. Not that his most recent fight hadn't done that already. She was a gift he had never unwrapped, all this time he just—

Stop it! Just walk, follow the trail.

Pack the tent. Just once he wanted to take her in his arms and—

Stop it!

He possessed the strongest, most useful talent that any of his elders had ever known. He had the words, had talked many before her into doing and saying things they never would have done without the nudge. Easy. So very easy. But not her, not this girl he was so attracted to.

Tutors, rooms, homework, times, lunches, breaks, any and everything he wanted was a verbal nudge away, even his favorite meals. Words alone. It was natural for him. Yet, the most he had ever done in all this time, kisses and a hand on her stomach. Was it too much to ask to just once—

Stop it! Just pack. The sooner he bagged this crap, the sooner he could put his feet next to the fire. Damn! Both water bags had ruptured. Keep packing.

She wasn't that attractive anyway. The woman he had been sent to was stunningly beautiful by comparison, larger, firmer breasts, wider hips, fuller lips, and more than that, not a single punch in his face. No comparison. His few minutes with that woman could have nudged those three words from her, could have had a life with her had he asked, instead of cold and aimless in snow-covered woods.

Stop it! Pack.

Dana was smarter and far more skilled. He could argue his best and lose to Dana, something he could not do with another. But smarter had a downside too. He had history with this girl, common experiences. He couldn't control her. Was that all it was, all his fascination had been? Was that what happiness was, to him? Wouldn't he have been happier with someone who didn't fight his every wish? Truth be told, he didn't know what was under Dana's clothes. It wasn't a faithful comparison, if he would ever get one.

Dana had the better smile, hands down.

He searched the snow until he found the bow and the last few arrows. They might come in handy when they ran through what little food was left. He split his gaze between the path and the trees, bow at the ready.

It paid off by the first hill when he viewed a squirrel swimming in the snow, headed for a tree. By the time he aimed the bow, it was ten feet up the trunk, fifteen by the time it stopped to look back.

Miss! It scampered twenty feet before he could aim again, it was big for a squirrel. He had already lost one arrow to the tree, now he had lost two. It seemed to stop and mock him, now thirty feet up, but it stood still a little too long. The third was the charm. Arrow and squirrel were stuck to the tree, thirty feet up. Stupid, wasteful, and dumb! He cursed himself for his carelessness.

Better off saying nothing, he just moved on.

His thoughts drifted with the snow, quickly sliding from one stupid thing to another. Frozen toes added to his distractions. His thoughts finding a home in Dana again, trying to imagine what that first night might be like, with a girl he couldn't control. Difficult to predict.

Derik was so distracted by the time he returned that he forgot a very important lesson, one that was repeated just in sight of the camp. The boy broke the bow from his hand, snapped like a twig. Had Derik not been flooded by visions when the boy shoved him to the ground, he might have fought back; instead, he covered the tent with his body and remained perfectly still. Thankfully, he was well practiced at being knocked to the ground.

It took a few growls and several long, dirty looks before Derik was allowed to sit. One at a time, he showed the boy every item in the bag before repacking it. Only then was he permitted within sight of the girls.

At the top of his list was to thaw his toes and food by the edge of the flames. He tied a loose knot in the waist of a clean shirt before packing it with snow and suspending it with a branch through its arms near the fire. A bowl under the knot collected its constant drips. He never would have guessed a shirt stuffed with snow melted to a swallow more than a cup, but it was what had to be done without the water bags. At least he would get hot food for the next couple of days, so long as the wood held out.

"Hello," he said.

The little girl waved back.

"What are you guys doing out here, besides swimming that is?"

She had an adorable smile.

"What happened to your parents, your tribe?" he said. "Any family? Some place we can take you? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She seemed to.

"You have a name, little girl? What about the other kid?"

Maybe she just smiled when he stopped talking. Polite.

"You two brother and sister?"

Puzzled look.

"You two family? You know, same parents, same mother and father?"

No. She understood that.

"How's Dana doing?"

Little frown.

"She still hot?"

The girl shrugged.

Palm to his forehead. "You know, hot, warm?"

Puzzled.

She must have been around people enough to pick up some words, but someone her age couldn't have picked up much. No grand conversations like he had with Dana. "Can you talk? Is your throat sore, does it hurt?"

No.

"No, it doesn't hurt, or no, you can't— That's not going to work, is it?"

Silent little laugh.

"You hungry, little girl? Thirsty, maybe? The water's still warm, it's a little clothy, but plenty wet. I've tasted much worse, trust me."

Derik was growled down when he moved too close, handing the bowl to the fur-covered boy instead. Well, it was more like he set it down before the boy.

"This dried— uh, jerky, and some roasted nuts is pretty much all we have left, but it's warm. About lunchtime, I guess. Here," he sampled one, "it's not the best, but it's filling. She's a better cook than me, than I." He shook his head. "You don't understand anyway, but the tone of my voice is nice, comforting, non-threatening."

A low growl came from the boy when Derik tried to approach.

"Ok. At least eat something, drink a little." He sat. "You like them, Dana's clothes that you're wearing? You've got a lot of growing to do before you fit 'em, but I'll bet they're more comfortable than some old animal skins, right?"

She wiped her little hand on the rolled-up sleeve and smiled before she broke off another small piece then softened it with a soak in the bowl.

"She's gonna be waking up soon," he said. "It's going to be bad for her. She got real sick when she pulled you out of that water. She's gonna start coughing in an hour or so, and it's not going to stop for a long time. So, you might want to eat up while you still have an appetite, this is as good as it's gonna get."

She understood that.

The coughs started out slow, phlegmy, and wet, but soon grew coarse. By that evening, they were speckled with blood and resembled dry heaves. The only good side was that the boy took such pity on her that Derik was allowed inside without a growl. The boy even added wood to the fire when needed, but drew the line when the pile was gone. It was up to Derik to find more.

She had passed out again, but would otherwise be fine for a while. If he left now, he would have just enough time to find all the wood they needed for tonight. Where had the day gone? They were out of food too, for small children, they sure could eat.

He wanted to stay with Dana, to hold her sweaty hand, to wipe her mouth after the next round of coughs, and to move the hair sticking to her face. He wanted to do these things for her, but he had to— it was necessary this way.

Getting up, he had firewood and other chores. With a touch the woods would have opened wide, but today they would have to settle for acorns, the only source of food a moron like him could find.

He knew when he would return because Dana would be awake. Knowing what to expect helped, some. It would be just before dark and he'd have a smoky struggle to bring the fire back to life. What he lacked was any idea where to find the stuff.

He started his search for nests. A squirrel would have made a better meal, or a rabbit for that matter, but they hid on days like today. Nests were easy to find, especially on fresh snow, just look for the discolorations around trees and he was sure to find a fresh one.

The bigger problem was getting it down. It took twenty or thirty lobs of dense snowballs before spilling to the ground, and then came the chore of picking each acorn scattered across the snow, with far fewer nuts than expected. At this rate, it would take most of the day to wreck enough nests to make a meal, but he knew hunting would be a waste of time. Even baiting snares wouldn't work, another skill he apparently lacked.

As he picked nuts from the snow, he couldn't help but ponder. He had the tent and all the gear; he could just leave her and find a village on his own. She wouldn't go with him anyway— Stop it.

Keep looking for acorns.

So what, she was scared she wouldn't survive a pregnancy, life didn't come with such guarantees. It was still no reason. She wanted to or she didn't, there was no reason to keep playing him along. Teasing him. He didn't do that to her. He wore his feelings where she could see. So what if she had bad luck in life, it wasn't his fault.

Stop it.

Just pick up the acorns, look for more nests, hollow stumps too. Keep an eye out for fresh ones on low branches that squirrels can't reach.

He owed her a lot. This was not too much to ask. Life on her terms, but what about his? He should never have kept his promise with her elder.

Stop it. Think acorns, firewood, nothing else. Focus.

Just as predicted, the fire was mere embers, covered by ash as the sun disappeared. The boy had put some green branches over the fire and tossed in a few rocks, but that did nothing to add to the flames. It may well have made things worse. The little girl was under the blanket again, where he wanted to be.

"Rocks don't burn kid, but they do soak up heat." He picked them out. "Nice try."

He had tried a raw acorn in the woods, horribly bitter. But he knew they were edible, and only hoped roasting them would improve the taste. The bottom of his bag was filled with them, maybe a few days worth, but he only roasted a handful at first.

Melt more water, tend the fire, chores chores chores.

"What are you doing?" Dana said.

"I think I wasted the whole day," Derik said, spitting chunks into the snow. "These acorns are horrible, even roasted."

"You don't just—" She started coughing.

The little girl handed Dana the bowl of water. It helped.

"Shell 'em, then boil them," she said. "When the water looks like," she took another sip, "weak tea, change it. Keep boiling it until the water stays clear, it'll take all night. Then roast 'em if you want. They'll never really taste good."

It was already dark.

"Derik," she whispered, voice course as her midnight coughs were subsiding. "Set the tent up, we need to get off the ground."

"You can't climb a rope right now."

"When the snow starts melting, this ground's going to get soaked." She had to stop for another session of heaves. "Three feet—"

"Off the ground would be fine." He had touched her long enough. "Leaves first, then fresh pine-needles pulled off trees. I'll get started in the morning." He held her a little longer, just to be sure of tonight and the plan; nothing bad, no predators, no packs of wild dogs. It looked like coughs were contagious, but the little girl's were nowhere near as harsh.

A little cute, actually.

By morning, he had the tent set up, despite the boy's scrutiny and usual offer of no help.

When everyone was awake, he handed out the boiled-all-night, roasted acorns. It was slow eating, and it took a lot of water to wash it down. It had the taste of a crunchy, chewy leather glove. The taste lingered for a few hours, but it was filling and a huge incentive not to get hungry.

"You up to being moved?" he asked Dana, unable to get her out from under the tree without her help.

He helped her into the tent. Her blanket and clothes were damp with sweat. They would have to be washed and dried, moisture killed in the cold. For now, he just traded blankets with her.

She heaved most of the first hour, with the tent riding out each one until she hadn't the strength for another. Sadly, had she been in worse shape, she would have passed out after the first few minutes. Her sleeping breaths were labored, loud, and coarse for the first time since he met her.

They had plenty of hot water at the fire, more than enough for laundry, which gave him an idea.

"I think I know something that'll make you feel a lot better," he said, back in the tent.

She was breathing through her nose again, soft, quiet, restful breaths. The worst had passed, and she was slowly returning to the Dana he had always known. But still mostly out of it.

With a clean cotton shirt dipped in warm water, he washed the sweat from her forehead and the hairs stuck there. He held a saturated cloth of warm water over her gunked closed eyelashes, gently wiping until her face was clean. Fever broken mere hours ago.

He continued washing her hair, rinse and repeat; sweat was harder than dirt to get out, but he had nothing but time. He had never washed hair this long before, it tangled and knotted easier than he had thought. Long, fine, dark brown hair, he squeezed the water from the strands of the last rinse. The most beautiful, she wasn't, but a close second easily, even sick.

Her skin had lost that shine and some of her color. Funny, he never noticed her freckles before, spaced in such a casual way to guide the eye across her features, while drawing no attention to themselves. He pulled her arm from under the blanket, cradled in his hand. She would wake for a few moments, but it wouldn't last, no more than a dream to her fever-broke mind.

"What's caught your eye this time?" she said.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"You do that a lot when I sleep. I don't mind."

"I never noticed you had so many freckles."

"They're not new." She tried to move the arm he held, "... so tired."

He continued washing her arm.

"That... feels nice... I'm so tired."

Gone again, he knew she wouldn't last. He looked at her arm and the freckles on her hand, few, rare, unnoticed before. He just held it for a minute, his eyes closed.

Scars, three of them, each about a pinky-finger long, two were on her upper arm and one was just below the elbow. He washed her arm, and they were gone. No, they just weren't there, yet. Careful, mind the broken wrist, not yet. He closed his eyes again. It felt like he had bandaged and bathed this arm before.

Many years from now, while setting a table for five, a plate slipped from her grip. She looked at the hand she lost use of every now and then, scarred on each side. She rubbed the scar with the thumb of her other hand until she could use it again, cleaned the mess, then set another plate.

His opened eyes could see the faint lines drawn on the palm he rubbed with his thumb, a damp cloth on the other side. A third line between the two he could see. She never complained.

He had washed what was safe while she slipped into deeper slumber. He stalled before what he had made his mind to do. She would not wake now, would remember it as just a dream, if remembered at all. She would forgive him anyway. Legs and arms were now clean, the rest was all that was left. He had wanted this moment for years. He took off her clothes.

"You're upset, something wrong?" she said, the whole day gone.

She tried but was too tired to move her hand enough to break him from his trance.

"Is the little girl all right?"

"Yeah, uh, she's fine. Just a little cough."

"Why so down?"

He held her hand.

"Where's the little girl?"

"Outside."

She struggled to sit, but failed. "Why aren't they in here with us?"

"Well, of the four of us, you're the only one who likes me."

"Help me up."

He did, but she could no more sit than she could move her arm.

"Come here." She managed to hold her hand out the tent. "It's safe."

The little girl came close, but stopped well outside arm's length.

"Has he been feeding you? Haven't you been feeding them?"

"No, well, I was, till we ran out. There's nothing left within walking distance. I've been keeping the fire going though."

She leaned out the tent. "You know I'm not going to hurt you. You recognize me. You remember me, don't you?"

The little girl hesitated with a backward step.

"Please, you have no reason to trust people, but you can trust me."

She stepped within reach.

Dana touched the little girl's cheek, soon brushed to a smile with a motherly thumb. "She's starving, Derik. They probably both are. What did you do to the little boy?" who was now in view.

"He saw me with the bow and went nuts."

"You never listen to me, do you?" Then to the girl, "It's going to get cold soon, I know you see the fire, but it'll be better in here. You two did fine while you were on your own, but you're not well yourself."

The girl looked back at the boy near the fire.

"If you do, so will he. Boy's are like that. Just one night, so I don't worry."

Reluctant, the little girl still climbed in.

"Don't you have something to do?" she said to Derik.

"Yes ma'am," he said, leaving the tent. "I've, got laundry drying."

The clothes were almost dry; another hour would do it. He learned the hard way that a fire dries very slowly in comparison to a warm sunny day. It also left a smoky smell on the clothes. He was doing his best, as sad as that was.

Dana would be asleep soon, but the little girl would stay. With just a sharp, pointed walking stick and an hour or two of daylight, hunting didn't look promising. His talent was useless again.

What had he done? What had he talked himself into doing? Removing her shirt felt so natural, like something he had done hundreds of times. While working the buttons with his fingers, he had looked over at her motionless arms and kept seeing them bound with torn clothes in splints made from branches, wrapped from elbows to fingertips. A bandage about her slender waist covered a scar of torn flesh, a paper dream through which a rock was thrown, precisely where he had taken to resting his hand of late. Her black and blue ribs matched one side of her face. Real. Vivid. Waiting to befall her.

As he listened to the eery quiet of snow-covered woods, he could hear the whispers of the argument they could have had over her swollen ankle, the same ankle the boy had grabbed, the same that had the healing puncture marks. It swelled more like a bee sting than a snakebite, probably not poisonous, but some sort of reaction for sure. They could have argued it, would have, had he not known its ultimate end. She would defend the little boy even in light of the incident with the bow. She could be most stubborn, when she wished.

He had bathed her, soap and warm washcloth over every inch. A boyhood fantasy come true, and what of it did he remember? What memories did he have for this moment he risked their relationship on? Scars, not yet there, and freckles on her face. Beyond that, he didn't remember a thing.

Standing, waiting, looking with a sharpened walking stick for something that may or may not cross his path was what hunting used to be. He had nothing but thoughts for his silent company. Annoying company. Why did he do it? Why that way? She always made a point of making him turn his head or leave the room, why not simply wait? How could he continue to be so stupid?

"Can't sleep?" He asked the little girl after his unsuccessful hunt.

She glanced at him, then back at Dana, while holding the same hand he had seen the scar on.

He placed the dried clothes inside the door before joining the girls. He remembered to button the pockets when he put them away this time. With one touch, he knew Dana was out of it; he could have jumped up and down and she would not have woken. "I can't sleep either, but I bet it's for a different reason," he said to the worried little girl.

Her little fingers were gently rubbing the back of Dana's hand. Her small little hands only made her miniature frown seem that much sadder.

"She'll be ok by morning, I know these things. She won't be up to walking for a few days, but she'll be ok. Mostly. I can see the future like that, I just wish I was smarter about using it."

She looked out the tent door.

"If you want, I can tell you when he'll return," he offered his hand. "It won't hurt, you can't even tell when I do it."

She nodded no.

"I know someone else who didn't like me snooping around in her head. Who just wanted—" he stared at Dana's hand, "just wanted to be loved, to make her own decisions in life. It sounds so simplistic now. Difference between taken and given.

I can't tell you when he'll be back through her, just that he'll be here and ok by midday when she wakes to the smell of cooked food. Smells good though. I just thought I would have caught it tonight instead of in the morning. You sure? You won't feel a thing.

Ok.

I've brought a lot of bad luck into her life. She's had a hard time, and it doesn't look like it's soon to be over. But I bet the two of you haven't had it so easy either."

No.

"She warned me, fair and straight the entire time, from our first day. I've known her so long, since I was about your age, maybe older. She's a good person. I can't say that about many people. You two have probably seen how bad some can be.

Just be here when she wakes up, it's important to her."

She answered with a perfect little smile.

"I'm not going to get much sleep tonight. A guilty conscience has little rest. I didn't really do anything wrong, but I meant to. I could tell her and she would forgive me, but I feel even worse knowing that. If I tell her, it'll be more to make me feel better, probably why I'm telling you. The best thing for her is to not say a word, my penance to suffer in silence, from my own self-inflicted wound.

But my problem is not your problem, little one. Don't worry; he'll be fine. I know these things."

They sat in silence, Dana asleep between them.

The girl looked outside every hour or so for the boy's return. Derik let the fire die, tomorrow would be a sunny day and they had the shield to light it again. Nothing to worry about, but it gnawed at his conscience just the same.

The tent shook before a—

"GRRRRR."

Derik backed the best he could away from the flap. "It's ok, relax. I'm just sitting. You broke the bow, remember?" He kept his hands in view.

"Grrr."

"Look, I can leave if you want."

"GRRR."

"Or, I can sit right here and make no sudden moves. That's what I'd rather do anyway."

He calmly put his hands on his lap.

"We calmed down now?" he said. "I've got another blanket, but you'd probably prefer that smelly fur coat. That's fine, I'm not one to judge."

Good, no growl.

"Ugh, smelling real bad now."

The little girl sniffed the air, then slid closer to Dana.

Derik lay down to escape the smell, but got no relief until he pulled the blanket over his head. And even that was just a little better.

The morning light shining through the weave of the blanket glowed red through his closed eyes. He had been asleep, slipped beneath the same blanket with Dana. His arm resting around her waist let him know she wouldn't be up for hours. He should get an early start on the cooked food, the smell of which was supposed to wake her.

The boy had curled about the girl, it had been her little hand that opened the flap of the tent and let the full morning light in. Perhaps it was an attempt to let the smell out, but it had made it worse instead.

The smell was outside. A large raccoon had gotten into a grudge match and drug itself there to die. Horrific. In its last moments, it must have tried to hide, partially buried in the drifted snow just under the tent. Its spilled guts were the source of the stench. Well, he knew what to do. It was partially frozen, making it difficult to cut and clean without thawing it first.

Fire, water, cook, he knew well his morning chores.

"Morning. Or uh, more noon, I guess," he said, offering the plate of food through the flap.

"Smells good," Dana said, the little girl snug on her lap.

"It's a little, I don't know, off. It looked like it had been recently beaten to death."

"You might want to stay out there for a while, I think the boy doesn't like you much."

"Yeh, I kinda get that," he said. "That's why I've uh, already eaten. Anyway, I've got some more, uh, things to do."

"When did the kids sneak off?" he said.

Dana was curled under the blanket, asleep. A touch made sure.

"Wake up, you're going to soon anyway."

"... What?"

"You didn't see them leave, did you?" he said, a bit too late. "They're not coming back."

"I should have realized. The boy killed it, then dragged it here as payment for saving her. He thinks we're even now." She stared at him. "They never trusted you. They've probably mistaken you for a man."

"Thanks, you don't have to explain anymore. They're not our responsibility, you know. You're not their mother."

"If we didn't know they were out here, that would be one thing, but we do."

"It's going to be hard enough just taking care of you for the next few days. You could barely stand now if you wanted to. In about a half hour, I'm going to have to help you walk over to those bushes—"

"Get your hand off me," she said.

"Sorry. Look, I can't read you like this, not usefully. Maybe it's for the best they went off, they seem to be able to take care of themselves."

"I can't believe— That doesn't matter, Derik, it's not right. They're malnourished, they haven't learned to speak, they're not even properly clothed for—"

"We don't have anything that'll fit 'em, Dana. I understand that you almost caught pneumonia saving her and you've gotten attached to—"

"She's a little girl, not a puppy. They're children, we have a responsibility here."

"I'm not even sure we're going to make it much longer, they may be better off fending for themselves."

"I'm not useful to you anymore?" She glared at him. "You feel like I'm holding you back, do you!"

"Not like— I didn't mean it like that."

"You don't have to stay with me," she said, "I'm not making— We'll find the first place that'll take you."

"I don't—"

"I didn't ask you to. You can leave now if you want," she pointed to the flap, "if I'm too much a burden to you. You think it's so easy two little kids can survive, why don't you give it a try for a while."

This was going way wrong, worse with each word.

"I can't believe you sometimes," she said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"Don't touch me."

**B4.C17**

"It's been two days, Dana, say something."

"I'm still mad at you," she said, her back to him, wrapped in her own blanket.

"I said I was sorry. You're right, we should do something for them, but they clearly don't want our help. We've been in the same spot the whole time, and they've just been avoiding us. I'm not sure we can help them anyway."

"Don't touch me."

"Look, you're almost back to the same mean little girl that would stomp me at the slightest provocation, that means you can track them again. You'd be slow at it, but that wouldn't make any difference this way. You'd still be able to keep tabs on 'em without them knowing you were," he said, tempted to touch her anyway. "It'll make me feel better, useful."

"What makes you think you deserve to feel better."

"Is this about you and me, or them?"

A closed book, no more.

"You sure do sleep a lot now," he said, middle of the day.

"Stop touching me," she brushed his arm off, "I'm still mad at you."

"I can't believe you're still under the weather. The swelling's down, your fever's gone." He flapped the blanket back over her. "I think you're faking it. I don't think—"

"How much time I spend sleeping is directly related to how tired I feel, and talking to you, being around you constantly is exhausting to me. I'm not here to amuse and entertain you."

"At least tell me what I've done that's set you off."

She turned her back on him.

Frustrating. Stubborn.

Dana.

The two kids stayed nearby under another fallen tree just beyond the view from the tent. She caught— would have caught the boy spying from his perch in a tree, a cat and mouse game that would have made the children more suspicious, instead of what they now had, Dana keeping tabs without leaving the tent. Odd that this worked, yet the same touch wouldn't warn of their more frequent fights.

Easily set off. He had offended her some way.

Tell her of his shame? No, if she knew, then there was no need. Besides, she had enough of a burden with the nagging cough that occasionally woke them both. Still sleeping most of the day, she was seldom awake for more than four or five hours at a time. It had all taken so much out of her.

It didn't matter, her skills were easily nudged to find the food they so enjoyed now, hours took minutes again, no more standing in silence with a stick.

Hardest of all was to sleep apart in the same tent, back to back. By design, the heavier objects accumulated in the dip at the center, the very reason for the buttonable pockets around the edges. But the laws of physics didn't matter to her, if it was too difficult for him to leave her alone, then he could sleep outside. She would change her mind, eventually. He was just denied the easy words to nudge her there. He'd have to earn his way back without cheating.

"They're still following us," he said in the middle of the night, holding her hands, knee to knee in the tent. "They found the spot you picked out for them, and the food you left, much better than what they had been eating. It won't be this week. Soon maybe." They had been walking slowly, moving only when they had to, making sure it wasn't too hard for shorter legs to follow, and always stopping just out of sight from a suitable broken tree. He never found out what he had done so wrong, she just took his arm like that first night and pulled him down like a blanket. Not a word. Scars, not yet there, flickered behind his blinking eyes whenever they touched.

"They usually feed children to the dogs to give them the taste," she said. "They must have survived out here long enough to outgrow their old clothes, to no longer fit their shoes. Hardly worth the expense of an arrow, crueler to let nature kill them, let them slow the fleeing, let their cries live in nightmares like those posed on the road. They argued over whether to abandon us after the first week, the children and the injured and any else that would eat, but couldn't keep up. You never had to live through that.

We have to help them."

He held her from behind as they lay down in the dark.

"You've only known one home, were born knowing your place. This was my home, but it was never a place for children to go it alone."

He rubbed his thumb over a scar that was not yet there, "We are helping them, as much as they'll let us. Go back to sleep, coughing girl. You need more rest than anyone I know. I was raised to think differently about people, about others, about children. I have a lot of unlearning to do, but I have a great tutor."

"When little legs couldn't keep up, they had no Shela. One morning they just woke, and everyone was gone. Can you even imagine how that must have been?"

He tried, but couldn't.

This nice, warm day was rare for this time of year. It was warm enough to cover twice the miles, were shorter legs not a factor. It didn't matter anyway, she had never told him, "Where are we going?"

"To find you that village, so you don't have to put up with my company anymore," she said.

"I'm not— I think it's best we find one, but not for that reason. Maybe I can talk 'em into looking after the two kids, or trade for some children's clothes."

"We don't have anything to trade except our services. For yours to be proven anything but a scam, you would have to stay until visions came true; and as for me, my answer is still no."

"You had those seeds with something in mind. A home, somewhere."

"You're reading a lot into soup."

"It was a garden's worth of seeds."

"... Was."

"I love your company, Dana. You'll love me one day; I can wait. It wasn't meant to be soup, and I wasn't meant to be your captor, or your burden."

Over the next few days, her coughs became a rare occurrence. Clearly, they would not abandon the children, now their responsibility. After being exposed to her convictions for so long, it seemed impossible to believe he could ever have thought otherwise. Less than a week and the children now walked within sight and camped just to the edge of their elevated view.

"It was a week or so after our escape when this girl wandered onto our fleeing walk. She just stopped and looked, dazed, waiting for us to pass." She rolled onto her back like him, both watched their words form frost inside the tent. "Shela was the only one to notice her, I was just grateful to stop for a minute."

He adjusted the blanket to warm her new position.

"We didn't know her, she was just as unnoticed by the line that passed as we were to her daze..."

She fell silent, lost in the frost.

"What happened to her?" He hoped to spur her on, some burdens she held too long.

"Shela talked her into walking with us. She never said a word for two days, just took turns carrying me. She was so sad. She had been beaten, but nothing that wouldn't heal.

Just, one night she started to cry, something Shela was already familiar with. They talked while they thought I was asleep. She just woke one day and everyone was gone. She followed their trail for hours, of those who had abandoned her. Of those who had kidnapped her. Of those who bound her to a stake on the dirt floor inside a tent, just one of many she could glimpse when another man would enter through the flap.

A line that would last most of the day, they would stay atop her as long as they wished, to do as they wished, but most were only minutes. Every hour or so, one would come in with a bowl of water and a piece of cloth, and tell her to clean herself for the next bunch expected after the march. While she waited, she was made to wash their soiled clothes.

Her first day in the tent, she cried all the time, worse with each opening of the flap and the sight of an endless line. Before she was abandoned, they had taken to beating her to hear the screams they loved. They had other, newer toys to play with after the raid. Ones that struggled, fought, cried and screamed. Ones we knew by name."

He held her closer. "You were never a toy to me."

"She took to counting them, twenty or less on the days near the end, but in the beginning it was many times more, too many for teary eyes to count.

My father spent a few months on my bed because he couldn't make it to the top bunk, his arms bandaged, his face swollen and bruised, bandaged nearly head to toe. I think he knew he didn't have long to live. That with him gone, my mother could never leave, that we would be at the mercy of those who had beaten him. I was too young for the talks we had, but I remembered them.

He used to hold me on bruised ribs with broken arms, it hurt so bad I could feel it, could hear it in the stagger between his words. It made me cry, that he preferred the pain they left him with, over that of a wasted moment with his daughter. That a touch, could mean that much.

He told me this was the way, less so in more civilized villages, but more men than not would stand in such a line."

What he had done had been different, but just by degree. It had been something somewhat acceptable, hidden behind words like duty.

"He told me of the same lesson Shela had learned from this, he just had a better way of saying it. Men like to think that they are stronger, faster, and smarter, that these are important things. That they prefer to believe that, in all things, man is triumphant, conquests, but I ask you, Derik, do you believe any man could survive what that girl lived through?"

He held her hand instead.

"Men and women are different. Shela told me once to hurt you in the way you asked to be hurt. That if I wanted, if I wasn't scared, it could be a week before you would walk right again. That I could break you, embarrass you, and own you all at the same time. I thought about her words of advice a lot since she died. I was tempted one night, but that wasn't what I wanted.

He had a nice way of saying things; my father used words as well as you. He told me they had made love only the once, they started the first time they kissed and hadn't stopped yet. Love was never in that tent."

He was at a loss to fill this silence. She had paused to let him say something, anything. But he rubbed her fingers with his thumb instead. It was a cheat, stolen from a memory turned dream, she had once so generously shared. He hugged her a little tighter.

"I don't want those two living like that. My parents found that tribe, had me hoping they could give me a better life than they had. That is the duty here, the responsibility. When I let you venture further, I accept what possibilities come with that, that I could hurt you, or be hurt by you. It's a risk I decide when I'm willing to take. You sit and look at me with utter confidence that I was always supposed to be here. I'm just another dreamed page you kept in the drawer, no risks at all for you."

She faced him now, partially on top. Dark, cold, and a frosty backlight in blue made a hazy halo for her.

"I couldn't fend you off because you knew I wouldn't hurt you, it just added to your persistence."

She lay down, while he tucked the blanket back around that familiar, comforting her. She was a very smart girl.

"Tell me they were on one of those pages too."

"I'm sorry."

The children followed within sight over the next week, but would get no closer.

They walked most of this morning with the children lagging many steps behind.

She pulled the bag off her shoulder and handed it to him. She never told him to stay, but there was no need. She turned and walked toward the children, alone, midday. They would let her get within five feet before they might scurry off, like in so many visions before. He had seen this very scene when he held her hand earlier this morning. This was the point where they were about to run from her, balanced on indecision.

Dana knelt just then, before sitting; her eyes now even with them, hands resting calmly on her lap. This was it, the moment when the boy would run. He was ready, itching, had turned one foot in preparation but hadn't stepped yet. They would run soon, to follow at the edge of sight for another week. It was sad to watch, but she had to try. She wouldn't be Dana, if she didn't.

The little girl was the key. The boy tugged her to leave, to run from this woman calmly sitting on the ground. With a few more seconds of tugging the boy would win, he had seen it end the same in every vision thus far. In none of his visions since they met the children did they ever stay. Dana was wasting her time. She insisted on learning the hard way.

The little girl sat down.

He was stunned with fascination.

The two girls just sat, the two boys equally awed at what occurred between them. He tried to figure out where his talent had gone wrong. How had he missed this? It made a difference when she tried. It made a difference when she wanted to hunt, forage, or find. He put both bags down, sitting on his, full of clothes.

Motionless minutes passed with the boy's fur-covered foot pointed in each direction, but never a step in either. The two girls were sitting knee to knee, something Dana had done with him many times before. The two just held hands while they sat some more.

If she spoke any words, they were as soft as those he had first heard in class. The clouds passing overhead that cast crawling shadows on the ground were his only marker that time continued to move. The fur-clad boy was the last to sit, poised to jump either way.

The children walked only feet behind from now on. Through a casual touch when he handed her the bag, he knew it would be four in the tent tonight.

It was getting colder and harder for short legs to keep up. It now made sense why Derik had to walk several paces ahead while the girls walked the middle and an ever-watchful fur guardian patrolled the rear, making the occasional detours into the brush to investigate the odd sound or smell. His bow-wielding presence had kept them away, and why wouldn't it? Neither feared Dana, why would anyone? His good intentions alone were enough to be feared.

Every so often, he would turn to see the little girl held on Dana's hip, a favor returned.

They cooked a fine meal that night. Young, baked, wild potatoes that were almost sweet with crisp skins, so small and bite sized that four easily fit in a cupped hand. The wild onions were smaller still, and every bit as flavorful. The liver, diced and fried on a flat fireside-rock, was crumbled then sprinkled on top, a little like bacon.

It was hard for him to intentionally sit this far from her, opposite side of the fire, but it was for the best. It defused the situation. This night's lesson was in the proper way to prepare the kill, skinning with precision to later be made into tiny, warm, moccasin shoes. She followed that with the making of wooden plates, curved and shaped to double for bowls, and two carefully carved spoons.

They learned very fast, smart for wordless children. It was so touching to observe this woman with two children, even from the opposite side of the flames. She filled the role better than he could dream. The little girl had given Dana her complete attention, curious with every move Dana made. The boy was more easily distracted, often glancing Derik's way, forever suspicious of the man who once wielded the bow.

Fur was difficult to work and would take weeks to properly prepare, but Dana was a long way from a loom and unwilling to wait. First, she made the most out of what was on hand. She tailored much needed child-sized underwear and socks out of two of their shirts, unweaving the scraps for thread. Clothes from cloth were easily completed by the end of a long day.

The two girls went up first, followed later by the boy. Then, with the prerequisite growl, Derik was at last allowed inside.

Dana and Derik shared one blanket, the littlest two shared the other, all lumped to the center, the nature of the net. The boy even slept with an occasional snored growl. Well, more of a progression from muffled muffs climaxing over a minute or so into a full growl that seemed to mark the end of intense little dreams. Funny, he couldn't see either of their dreams, only Dana's played behind his closed eyes. Perhaps hers was so strong that it drown the other two— no, drown was a less than an appropriate word.

This should have been weeks or months away, according to even his most optimistic visions. It was puzzling. But then, Dana had always been unpredictable. Rules changed for her. At the end of the boy's snore, Derik settled back to sleep.

Cold. So cold.

What was that bright light, first thing in the morning? He squinted at the open flap, letting in more than just the light. Dana was there. With a morning growl, so was the boy. Girl too. He reached over to close the flap, then snuggled back under the blanket, desperate for a few more hours of sleep.

Bright again. The flap was open, again. He counted heads, then closed it.

It was the little girl who kept opening it. She was studying something outside.

"What is it?" That wasn't going to work, "Some animal?"

No.

"Some dead thing?"

No.

"I didn't get the fire out?"

Cute smile.

"It was too warm in here?"

She hid a bashful laugh.

"If I close it, you're just going to open it again, aren't you?"

Most definitely.

"Does it have to be opened so wide?" He held his fingers close together, "Perhaps just a peek of an opening?"

She closed it a little.

"Thank you." He pulled the blanket over his head, covering Dana's eyes.

He could get another few hours at least. He slid his hand between her shirt and stomach, then closed his eyes. She was so warm and easy to get back to.

"The boy's covered in scratches," she told him when they were alone in the tent after the littlest two had left.

"I thought you were still asleep."

"Some of them are very old, deep scars. Some are relatively fresh. He's very protective of her, but she's got some too. They're not well. I can still see ribs on her. They don't eat right. I wish we had some milk or something, little kids need that kind of stuff. Maybe we can capture a goat or a deer? It'll be better than nothing."

"We can only do the best we can." He sat up, pulling on freezing clothes, "You got them into underclothes and eating with utensils, that's a lot more than I thought you could do in one day." He patted his arms for any heat it could give, "Besides, I like the little girl, she's kinda cute, don't you think?"

She smiled a little.

They finished dressing in silence.

They shifted from moving every other day to, at best, once a week. It was a nod to the necessity of making clothes from animal skins. It was a long, yet simple process, nothing complex so much as labor intensive. The hair, when left on, had to be cleaned and washed, then cleaned again every time the other side was scraped. In addition, it had to be stretched then dried, same with the stitching made from strips of muscle. That, and fashioning bones into tools, took time. Little was wasted, and little time was spent on anything else, but Dana somehow made a fun week of so much work. The week had been the perfect mix of stories and lessons. Now that the last of her soap was gone, they had to make more, again, taking more time for another elaborate, yet simple process.

She wove strips from the darkened cores of cedar branches into a tight basket, then packed it with ashes. When she had a bowl of boiling water, she poured it through the cup-shaped cedar basket, collecting its steady drips, then pouring it through the ashes again and again. When the saved scraps of fat had liquefied by the fire, she stirred in an equal amount of this filtered water, then poured the final mix into leaf-lined dirt forms to harden into that familiar bar shape.

Cedar scented soap. It wasn't as nice as the bar from home. It hardened a little lumpy with marble-like waves, but it lathered with the most pleasant smell. Hard to believe it was boiled ash and fat and a full day's worth of time. But time was always well invested with her.

She was good with children, it shouldn't have come as the surprise it did. They took to her, fast. He had not fallen that fast. The little girl had a fascination with everything Dana did, but today she seemed obsessed with the knots that held the net and the construction of the tent. They spent most of the day learning knots, and when they moved later that afternoon, the little girl assembled the tent herself. A very quick study for a girl so young. Sad to say, but her first attempt was better than his.

They stopped within walking distance of flowing water this time. He didn't need his touch to know they would stay near the flow through the hardest part of winter, so long as the hunting lasted.

"No, don't help her," Dana said. "She wants to do this on her own. Just sit down, she'll be ok. She's learned a lot over the past few weeks."

They both sat and watched the little girl dress, clean, and prepare the meal while tending the fire. For one so young, she was very self-assured, displaying excellent coordination in peeling husks off the nuts and the bitter outer part of some roots. She had a natural sense of timing with respect to food.

"She remind you of anyone?" he said, "Stubborn, confident, wordy, cute."

"She talks."

"When?"

"She talks to the boy all the time. Watch her hands, her fingers, the little gestures."

"She's very independent," he said. "She helped you sew, soon as she figured out how. They still don't like me though."

"Trust is a hard thing to give, I thought I told you that."

"They gave it to you easy enough. But then, so did I."

He watched the little girl. She had such an intense focus in most things she did. This was her sixth stirring of the soup, last time she turned clockwise, this time counter-clockwise and exactly eleven stirs, same as always. The spoon had to sit just right on the plate,and the plate had to sit just right with respect to the bowl before she could move on to something else.

The little girl approached with a sample for Dana's approval.

"Very good," Dana said. "But see right here, this should be a little darker. Sometimes it's better if it's further from the flames. It takes longer, but it'll taste less bitter and be tender enough for new teeth to chew. It's hard to tell what's inside from how it looks on the outside." She kissed the little girl on the cheek. "Very good."

"I notice you always touch her when you're talking to her."

"Why would I be teaching her to cook?"

The little girl ran back to the fire. Exactly eleven clockwise stirs.

"You know," she said while watching carefully, "she unwove my hat yesterday. She knitted it back, but it's too tight now. She's curious about everything, I'm afraid she'll take the tent apart next."

"I didn't poke any of those—"

"He can't help it, it's probably why he was left behind. Deformed. He won't let me look at him close, afraid to be touched. Probably ridiculed by others, even that young. It's easier to be cruel when you can distance yourself, when you can rationalize it by saying he's not like us," she looked at him, "someone from that other tribe. It's easy to forget the someone part. She was the one having trouble keeping up, keeping pace with adults. They weren't perfect enough maybe, simply got left behind. Nobody got a chance to get attached to them."

He hugged her as they watched. "That's not exactly true."

The little girl adjusted the logs in the fire with a damp stick until they were aligned with the bowl again.
**B4.C18**

They moved upstream over the month, following the easy meals whenever the last spot dried up. The little girl hadn't unmade any clothing since. The boy was still forcing himself to stay awake until he was sure everyone else was asleep. Dana was right, the boy was deformed and often hid his hands and feet. The little girl seemed normal, except she didn't speak.

Both were quickly becoming someone in his mind. An us, instead of a them.

"You wanna take those off?" Dana said when he climbed under the blanket that night, fully clothed.

"I'm tired of being cold in the morning. Aren't you tired of putting on frozen clothes?"

"It'll be w— Fine, do it your way."

She turned her attention to the little girl. Her thumb brushed the tiny cheek into a smile— no, it might be a smirk.

"Good night, little one." Dana kissed her little forehead, but the boy still shied away when offered the same.

Bright and cold this morning, again, thanks to this curious little girl.

He slid out from under the covers. This was much better. Warm and toasty, why didn't he think of this sooner? No uncomfortable, stiff and cold morning clothes to goose-bump his skin, he simply crawled out the already open flap then down the rope to take care of morning affairs.

He came back a shivering fast enough.

The little girl was laughing too.

"Want me to tell you why? Or, is that it doesn't work going to be good enough for you?" Dana said.

"Let me back under—"

"Uh," she pondered with a finger on her chin, "No."

"Come on! I'm twice as cold, have mercy. Please."

She held the blanket closed. "What should have been your first clue?"

"Please."

Shivering and patting his arms, the whole tent quivered with his flails.

"I uh," teeth chattering, "Uh, because, uh," he couldn't stop them long enough to think of, "You weren't doing it?"

She let him under, most likely to stop the tent from shaking.

"Ok, why?" he said.

"I spread my clothes out every night, why did you think that was?"

He was shivering too much.

"To let them air out. You're cold now because your clothes are moist, moisture wicks heat away. Just like me, your clothes need a break from you, at least once a day. If I wear socks to bed, they're not the same ones I put in shoes come morning, are they?"

"No."

She helped him out of his precious layers while the littlest two left. "Sweating is the worst thing you can do when it's cold. That and drooling," she said.

"There's got to be a better way."

"You left that better way, months and miles ago. Thought it all out before you left, remember?"

"Oh yeah, now I remember why." The tent was bouncing again, pockets buttoned this time.

"They need names," she said, hours later. "Little One's not going to last forever."

He didn't move, lost in different thoughts.

She lightly swatted him on the back of the head. "Get off me."

"Yeah, uh, sorry."

"What's got you now, future-boy? Why the worried look?"

"Nothing. I've, just been having a dream, a real old one."

"... Well."

"It, uh, it was the first one I went to my elder with. I used to get it all the time, even before I, became important. It was real blurry but, always the same.

It was of the elder I liked the most and his younger wife. They, see he— neither could have children, so they were together for a long time. If anyone loved back there, it was them, even though she was at least twenty years younger than him; that's how I knew who it was.

He, he would wake in the middle of the night and look around, confused. Just this sense of familiarity, but he couldn't remember where he was. He'd look over at this woman in his bed and wonder whether to wake her or not, wonder who she was. That if he looked at her long enough, it would come to him. It was then that he would realize he didn't even know his own name. That's when he would get scared.

He'd look at her some more, so peaceful. He'd try to think about his childhood, his parents, his friends, the table, the chairs, the room, and of everything that a life was made; but he couldn't take his eyes off this sleeping woman. The one and only thing he knew— was clinging to, was that he loved this woman he had no name for.

I guess I'm seeing it again because it's starting to happen to him now. When I first told him, he started writing his life down in a notebook by the bed, filling it with the good, happy things he wanted to remember. I started coming to him whenever I had one that bothered me. Some were terrifying, horrible.

His weren't that bad. He would wake her, and in a sleepy voice, she would roll over and rest her hand on his neck and say 'go back to sleep my husband,' and he would realize that was all he really needed to know."

"Not exactly a happy ending for her," she said.

"I think she loved him."

"Nope. Still not happy, even more sad that way."

"I don't think all his days were so bad, just every now and then. He said it wasn't that uncommon when people lived to be that old. If it was so bad for her, I don't think they'd stay together. Come to think of it, it shouldn't be happening now! If I remember, she had a few streaks of gray in the dream. She should be a long way from that, even now."

"I don't know what you think I can do for you. It's just a dream, like all the others. Life's the important thing. I'm not used to interpreting dreams, I doubt I should even try. But if it's of any importance, it would be as a message from one side of your mind for the other. Which means you would be the one it was tailored for, not me, and not an elder. Saying it or writing it down only forces it through your conscious state, message received, but still not understood."

"It— They're just so intense. It's hard not to put a lot of importance on them, no matter how insignificant. They don't have the feel of dreams, they feel like visions."

"I don't put much importance on your visions either," she said.

"I know, but I do."

"Sad again." She smiled. "If you want to impress me with that talent of yours, find them names amidst all those pretty words."

He tried. Nothing. "I guess it was the namelessness that triggered it."

From his perch, suspended between trees, he watched the magic of this woman who tried again. The nameless little boy walked to her this time. She got her look, her touch. Trust. Over the course of the rest of this day, it came to him; all three were better off when they held him at a distance, further than the net to the ground.

He watched as these nameless two felt the love he had been asking for all along. He was so jealous of the unspeaking two who went from a life-and-death game of hide and seek just months ago, to running and playing games with her now. With so much to give, it would be a sin should she not have two of her own. Such a marked improvement in mere weeks, what would it have been if she had had years with the two?

His visions plagued him more frequently now. Her scars, bruises, and broken bones kept wandering past the colorful dreams he so enjoyed. Visions she would never heed. Besides, he couldn't see the cause, only the aftermath. Without a cause, it might well be unavoidable. Inevitable.

They kept moving every few days, following the scarce food.

The girl stopped at the edge of the bushes, well within sight of him. Dana and the boy had gone off on a hunt earlier that day. Derik was losing his tutor to this boy who was already better at tracking. The little girl paced at the bush's edge, looking back to him, then to the spot in the woods where the hunters had slipped from view. Unlike Dana, he had never gotten close enough to touch either child yet.

Clearly, the girl hated being alone, eventually sitting beside him and the fire he coaxed to life for the hunters' return.

"They'll be fine," he said. "She's very good at this."

Yes.

"You worry about him, don't you?"

No.

"You miss him then?"

That was it.

"The two of you been together for a long time?"

She looked where the two had slipped from view.

"Dana and I've been... I've known her since we were— I've wasted so much time."

She looked at him now.

"I talked them into giving her to me. How could I have done that? It was the only way, I still can't think of another. Every time I try to help her, it just explodes in my face."

She put her little hand on his knee.

"She's a good person. I've lied, told others just what they want to hear, no wonder she doesn't trust me. Why should she? She, she told me from the beginning that she wasn't for me, that I was never right for her. I just forced myself into her life. That's probably why this has turned so badly. Now I'm out here in her world, like you, I guess; I can't walk fast enough to keep up with her, can't hunt without her skills. I can't hardly find anything without that cheating touch." He stirred the fire to uplifting embers, "I look at the world through her eyes and she— she finds kindling, roots, nuts, and food so fast, whatever she wants. She looks at the world and sees it so differently. I hardly save her minutes anymore. If I ever did."

She pulled back her hand, then turned to the woods.

"I'm sorry, they'll return soon. Twenty minutes at the most, I saw it this morning." While distracted, he was tempted to touch her little hand, "You want me to tell your future? It's really all I do well."

No, but she returned her hand to his knee.

"Wise enough, it hasn't been much help to another cute girl I know."

She smiled before her gaze shifted back to the woods.

"Soon now, little one. Soon."

Little squeeze on his knee.

Derik was instantly alone the second the woods stopped hiding them. Her little legs could run fast for short distances. If only Dana reacted the same to his absences.

"What's got you still up?" she said, middle of the night.

"I was just thinking about—" he faced away from her, "I think we should move again in the morning."

"You worry too much. Go back to sleep."

She adjusted his arm around her waist, but it didn't seem to be enough. She rolled to face him.

"I remember when sleeping with me was enough for you." Her hand slid to the side of his neck, "What more did you want, other than to be alone with me and two children?"

"I was hoping for children of our own."

"If not ours, then whose?" She kissed him. "It's not too hard," she pressed against him. "Just relax, close your eyes, and try to think of good thoughts. Breathing slower, shallower, all your worries belong to another day, nothing left to this one."

His eyes grew heavy.

"Relax behind closed eyes, it all starts with that."

Warm.

"Sleep, my little worrier..."

How easy it was, when she spoke the words.

He woke hours later. His hand roamed every inch of her back, careful, detailed, shoulder to shoulder, hips to the back of her neck and more than once up and down her spine. Smooth, soft skin, he just felt the occasional freckle's slight raise beneath his fingertips. No holes, no scars, no puncture wounds. She was still asleep, good. Oh, good. She was fine. It was just another dream.

It was also much harder to fall asleep without her words. The dream had felt so real, it hurt.

"I think it'll be easier for us over there." He pointed the other way in the woods.

"... You sure?"

"Yeah."

"... Ok."

Packed, they walked his way for a few hours, which was all the little girl could do. They set up the net after lunch.

The littlest two were the first into the tent.

"Dawn and Guar," he said, weeks before she would. It wasn't dark yet, and they were still outside watching the colors band across the sky, the sun lighting the distant clouds from the underneath.

"Ok, I kinda get Dawn, but why Guar? You know that's an herb, a plant right?"

"Well no, I didn't know. I was thinking short, uh, little for guardian."

"Odd, but appropriate, when you put it that way."

"And Dawn because—"

"It's a pretty girl's name, and she likes to watch the sun rise."

"Mind-reader," he said.

"You talk to her about me behind my back, don't you?"

He turned to her, but couldn't look her in the eyes. "What'd she say?"

"Not a word."

"She's a good listener."

"I'm not?" She stared at him. "You think I don't know something's wrong? This is the fourth time we've changed directions. We're not taking shortcuts anymore; we're running away. I know the difference. That you think you can't tell me, hurts."

"At first," he looked at the beauty of the sky, "at first it was just broken arms and scars. Now you die, or I die. It's never clear."

"Why would you think that's something I shouldn't know?" she said.

"You're happy now. Besides, it's nothing you ever believed in. It's nothing I have a date for, or a time, or a place. I thought— I hoped I could avoid it without—" he looked at her, "You're right, it's something I should have told you."

"My life is not your responsibility, I'm not a child. Because you see something in a dream, doesn't make it real, or something to be afraid of. I will die, someday, most likely beaten, broken, and scarred, just like my parents. Everything that is born will one day die. I don't think I've had that bad of a life." Her hand on his chin lifted his gaze from the ground, "I'm very much alive right now. So are you."

"It's soon, Dana. I could stop an army of— No, I just postponed it, twisted it. This can't— I see them for a reason, it has to be good for something. It can't be just my own personal torment, to watch it every night till it comes true. Life can't be that cruel."

"I can help you with that. When you needed a good dream, you always came to me in the past."

"It'll be when the leaves are back on the trees. I know that much."

"Plenty of time," she said. "Dawn and Guar?"

"I don't know, I've only seen through your eyes. I doubt I could read either of them that far, even if they trusted me poking around in their heads."

They stayed outside, leaned against the same tree, until day left nothing but night. She was still his tutor, he had just forgotten to ask.

Brave little hero girl.

Her dreams easily drown his nightmares, never any doubt.

He hadn't dreamed another since he mentioned it to her, but he still glimpsed the scar when he touched the wrong hand.

She spent a lot of time with Guar and Dawn, doing her best to prepare them for survival on their own. She had even taught Guar a few simple words, though Dawn refused to speak. They had become quite the little family. But what he loved most were nights like tonight, when it wasn't too cold, story night.

He already knew the story about the edge of the sky, "Tell us the story of the birds."

She had to now, Dawn's little face was already lit up and ready to hang on Dana's next words.

"That's not much of a story, it's just a page out of evil's life," she said.

Dawn opened the blanket, then sat on Dana's lap, looking up with the only other brown eyes of equal depth. It would take a lot to just stop there; Dawn was primed to get a story.

"You know what a bird is," Dana's hands flapped like wings, "they were nature's favored flying creatures. Like butterflies, only bigger, some were even more beautiful. Chickens are mostly all that's left, too many were kept for food and were too easily bred. But the ones in the wild, most of them are extinct now. The songbirds with voices as pretty as their colorful plumes were some of the first to go."

She tickled Dawn's back, stirring an infectious smile.

"Generations ago, one man came close to ruling the world, what was left of it. He called himself simply, The Emperor. He declared war on his enemies and, at the height of his power, he declared war on birds as well. Be it jealousy, anger, or vengeance over his enemies' use of them to quickly relay messages, all of these or some of these, but I prefer to believe, he simply went mad and probably always was. He ordered them killed on sight and poisoned by traps his armies spread everywhere, baiting and tainting every field. Guns were hard to use, most were made of metals now cursed by the sky, but cannons could still be made, or a form of them, exploding rocks and pebbles that could kill a sky's worth in a single shot. It took decades, but they were dwindled down to too few, still hunted in nature. They now number no more than those that learned to hide, with nothing left to sing about."

The sad little girl wiped her face on a larger sleeve, while Dana punched him in the arm.

"Some went extinct on their own, those that couldn't adapt. Few species mate for life, and some of those were birds. Those were the first to go, no hunting required." She watched him rub his arm, "Man adapted to the changing rules, eagerly, appealing to his nature.

They used to soar, high and free, they looked like they could touch the clouds should they wish," she bounced the net a bit, "floating in air easier than a fish swims in water. I think it was their freedom he hated most.

He was obsessed, as men easily are. He spent decades breeding common grass to give it a honey smell and blades that are sticky when touched. It's a hardy weed that spreads ravenously in the openings between trees. From the air, any animal struggling to free itself would look to be an easy meal, becoming more bait. It thrives on decay and his army spread them everywhere. If that wasn't bad enough, the very creature lucky enough to get free was covered in its spores, spreading them everywhere it went for months.

Even with such insane obsessions, he won undying loyalty by personally leading his armies into battle, something few rulers ever do.

Some say he was never defeated, only overthrown. Betrayed, as so many are, by worse from within. There were rumors that so much evil could never be destroyed.

But don't worry, for every evil there is often an equal amount of good. Just our bad luck that evil often gets replaced by something worse." She kissed the little forehead cradled below her chin. "I think a happy story would have been better."

Dawn agreed.

"There once was this little girl, a princess whose pretty voice was stolen when she was lost from the family that loved her. She wandered the woods until she found this prince, equally lost." Dana paused long enough to rub Dawn's tiny back and adjust the fallen blanket back onto her shoulder. "She couldn't tell him the words for what had happened to her, how glad she was to not be alone, who she was, or how to find her home. The little boy was left to look at her familiar face and wonder what was trapped behind her silence. Circumstance put them together, words held them apart, but time didn't stand in the way. They had plenty of time."

"Tie M," Guar said.

"Not all stories end bad, some good can come from even the worst intentions," she said. "Best of intentions... It's too early to see where that'll lead."

"Ta I'm," Guar tried again.

"In time, they learned to laugh and play, but time had a way of turning spring into summer, then again into fall. It was harder to find food, harder to survive, hungry more days than not. Scared, grumbling stomachs, cold, afraid of all the strangers they had seen, chased away by most they had approached," more to Derik, "every village they stumbled on. But misery was their fortune, it craves company, and they were found by caring strangers in plenty of time."

"Time." Guar was rewarded with a kiss for this, his best attempt.

"It started bad, but it's getting better. You'll have to wait until tomorrow for what happens next."

They let her tuck them in, but then, so would he.

They waited for the kids to fall asleep while they snuggled under their blanket.

"You're very good with them," he said as quietly as he could.

She didn't move.

"It took me a lot longer to learn what you've already taught 'em."

"I'm tie R D."

"Marry me."

"Never happy with the now, future-boy."

She knelt on the frozen ground to look Guar in the eye. Every time she did, his first instinct was to look away. Eye to eye was a challenge to him, an invitation to fight, and none here wanted such with her. She guided his bashful chin every time.

She held his disfigured hand, then pressed it to her neck so he could feel where the veins, the vital arteries, and the windpipe were. It was the same with most creatures, big and small, simple as where the head goes. The boy fought on instinct, from her he learned technique, same she had tried to teach another boy he knew.

They came back from hunts much quicker, with less suffering, less effort, and more usable remains. Soon they would have more fur than any would want to carry, almost too much for this tiny, toasty warm, fur-lined tent.

Fire, food, clothing, shelter, even he was feeling good about how much the littlest two knew. When the time came, they would be fine on their own. And that time was getting close; his dreams had whispers of their end, now looming months away. He traded sleep for rest instead, with too many dreams destroyed and distorted by the scary wounds that invaded every casual touch. It would be getting warmer soon, time for leaves to bloom.

"He'll be back by morning," he said to the sleepless little girl.

She kept opening the flap.

"You can't sleep without him, can you?"

No.

"Let me show you a trick. It doesn't work for me anymore, but it should work for you."

He pulled the blanket down to reveal Dana's back, then pressed his ear just below her left shoulder blade, moving a couple times to find the best spot.

"Here, put your ear right here." His finger marked the place.

Puzzled look.

"She's getting cold," not yet. "She won't mind. I do it all the time."

He moved his finger for her little ear.

"You ever heard the symphony that's life, the way it's played by her?"

Cute little smile.

"Close your eyes, just listen. Quiet. If you're quiet enough, you can hear it between the lubs, in the pause between silent breaths."

She snuggled to Dana's back., as he tucked the precious two in.

"My favored lullaby."

He lay under the blanket by himself, looking at the sleeping faces of two adorable girls. He had studied one all of his life; yet the other was no easier to leave out of his stare. Natural, nature, soft sounds of life's whispers pressed to one ear. Only one was left, still awake, in a tent floating below the clouds.

"Remember her for me, with me. She should not be forgotten, little princess of another story, still searching for her prince."

Dana's sleepy smile was mirrored on the child. He touched a kiss to Dana's lips and glimpsed another mother and child playing in a summer field, not far from a father and a lunchtime meal. How easy, in the absence of light, to imagine these to be the same two. It faded with the release of the kiss.

Dawn was so tired. She just needed a reason, an excuse to hide little brown eyes. Her worries' easy diversion, he was equally exhausted, just not so easily distracted. Oh, how he wished to be brave enough to sleep. All he could do was close his eyes...

He stacked another pillow behind her head, nearly enough to bring her to a full sit. She guzzled from the cup she grasped with both hands, spilling more than she was able to drink before folding over with another timed pain. He wiped the sweat from her face with a damp cloth.

Breathing, panting hard, she squeezed his hand with the next crippling pain. He could hear himself scream with her, he had for hours less than days and had yet to leave her side. His voice, unable to form the simplest words, squeezed another scream instead.

The pain... he had no idea. It was worse than a knee on flames, more nauseating than even the bite had been, but as overwhelming as that seemed, it fell a distant second to the urgency he felt beating within, awaiting its chance at life. He moved to sit between her legs. Amidst the blood and screams and the tears impossible to stop, a child nearly fell into his hands while the sheets soaked in growing red. Dana's knees collapsed, flat on the bed, the last push she had.

The swaddled child lay silent, serene, until the second it was freed from her mother when it burst into anguished cries. Dana's fingers moved amidst baby's screams in a wordless beckon for her little girl. He did his best to stop the flow of blood, then nestled his daughter in Dana's motionless arms.

When he woke again, Guar had yet to return. The two loveliest girls were still tucked and sound asleep, much like the girls of his dream, a slight smile swelled each cheek. Dawn's hand uncurled from under her chin to dangle off a larger shoulder where Dana's hand now was. Life could be more touching than any dream. He closed his eyes and could still glimpse a daughter and two birds with a windowsill view, still no when and no where, but he had an idea of how it would one day feel. He opened his eyes and saw how it might look.

He watched them, his new refuge from the nightmares that lingered ever larger, only a month or so away.

Dawn anxiously waited from her perch by the open flap for Guar's return. Dana was now the only one left still asleep.

"He back from investigating the sound yet?" Dana touched his arm, then asked him again.

"... Oh, yeah, Dawn went down a little while ago."

"You still with that distant look? You're afraid to touch me now, aren't you?" She wasn't afraid, "What happened to that boy who would take any opportunity, no matter how silly or contrived?"

Knee to knee, eye to eye, the blanket draping them both.

"If only I could've made you this afraid of me, when it would've done us both some good. Look at your leg. You were afraid of it until you gave it a good look in the fullness of a sunny day. Look at it now, just faint little lines; it hardly hurts anymore. Look at it."

Forehead to forehead.

"Look at it."

Her palm warmed the back of his neck.

"Don't be afraid."

He took a deep, slow, taught breath. He wasn't afraid anymore. He closed his eyes and took one good, long look at a future he was desperate to avoid.

Running from or frantically searching for, what he couldn't tell. Branches snapped and slapped as he ran faster through the newly leafed woods. She had taken a different path and had lost sight of him. No, this— this spot was familiar... it was all so familiar.

She pushed through its thickest patch, emerging into a field spotted with struggling weeds and grass. Bleached white, broken rocks robbed the ground of life-giving dirt.

Reddish-brown, twisted frames were lumped in lines, columns, and rows scattered across the field. Each lump had a long tube that vines clung to, dangled from. Derik emerged from the far side, lost in thoughts of his own. Her hand outstretched to the nearest one, the one with a gaping hole. Deja vu.

Run! Run! He shouted and waved his arms, but she just stared at the hole. When he was close enough for yells to be heard, she ran toward him instead of away. He stumbled then fell, back on his feet again, but it was harder to— fell. The ground was so hard and cold, wet and red. So light, like floating in the air, this must be how it felt to be a bird, looking up, swallowed by clouds. No... he didn't want to go, not yet. He glanced down and watched three red stains grow on the shirts that two face-down figures wore. Dozens of archers approached in groups of three from hiding places all around.

Nothing to be scared of.

"It happens in a—"

"I'm not the one afraid," she said. "Now that you've had your good look, you can see beyond what blinds you. Don't look at this as the end of you and me, but as the best test you'll have. To be the master of these visions that plague you. When will you ever have a louder voice to try to hear past? Your fear draws you to the scar, it's time to see the leg."

He closed his eyes again, deep, slow breaths.

"I believe in you," she said.

"... I can't see anything but—"

"You can. It's as easy as wanting to."

And with that, he did.

"Time you earned your keep around—" she started.

The tent was bouncing again.

"Why'd you stop?" she said.

He looked through the opened flap at the children investigating the commotion.

"We can protect them from the cold, the weather, strangers, and dangers, but I'm not going to protect them from affection." She pulled him back for another. "That's part of what's wrong with you."

"Some things children are too young to see."

She gave him a light swat on the back of his head, "Not in a tent."

The children climbed in as it started to drizzle.

Dawn went straight to Dana's lap and looked up with big, brown eyes, then tugged on Dana's nightshirt. Story time.

It took two stories and a hard rain before Dawn got sleepy, but Guar was out right away. There was something about the sound of rain tapping fabric without rolling in, surrounded on all sides by rhythmic sound, not unlike a heartbeat. He was a little sleepy too.

He woke from his third nightmare to the rain thumping louder than words.

He ran his hand across her back. "I love you," he whispered before kissing her.

His hand checked her back for holes again, just to make sure. Futures. She would wake soon, were it not for the small circles he rubbed, fingers through her hair. Odd that he would count the seconds. One, his fingers were just at the edge of her forehead; two, three, four, now just above her ear; five, six, seven, eight, they reached the end of delightful strands, middle of her back. Each pass was lighter than the one before, she wouldn't wake for hours more.

Like Dawn on the previous night, she just needed a reason to sleep. Rain was good enough.

Spoiled by the week of warmer weather, this hour was a seasonable cold, but it didn't come without compensation. He loved this part of the morning that Dana so seldom did. Only on these rare occasions when she slept wrong or a little too long, she did this morning stretch with a twist.

Impulse overwhelmed him every time. His hands followed the back of her arms while her stretch rolled into a reach for cold clothes. He grabbed them first, squirming fast enough to tuck them between his back and the tent beneath. Freezing cold clothes goosebumped his back, but he minded less when what he warmed was hers.

"Tell me what this day will bring," she pressed her smile to him, "my future-boy."

"I don't want to," he refused her pending kiss, "and you can't make me."

Dawn covered a silent laugh.

"You'd be surprised what I can make you do," she said. "I made you leave the only home you've ever known."

He turned his head away, refusing a second, then a third.

"What an odd thing for someone to say, while warming my clothes." Fourth was hers to have. "You sure you want to stick with this silly notion?"

"You heard me," he said.

"Another test then. Laugh,"

Her tickles forced to mind how full his bladder was.

"Squirm."

He couldn't stop.

"Smile."

He hid his face so she couldn't see.

"Tell me, my husband wannabe."

He uncovered his face. "Ask me again."

"Don't be afraid, my brave worrier. What can be changed, may yet be, what can't, I won't blame you for. You're not the master of my fate, just an observer."

"Ask me again, like you did before," he said.

Her confused look could not have been clearer had it been on the face of Dawn.

"Ask me again," he said with sudden seriousness.

Little smirk, "Tell me, my husband—"

He stopped her lips the best way he could, and would have given anything to have her leave the rest unsaid.

"—wannabe," she finished.

"I like the sound of—"

"Wannabe."

"Marry me."

"I know that's not what you see."

"Is it that horrible?"

Now they had Dawn's full attention. Her silent words might even have taken his side, if only there was some way to make her speak up.

"Am I that bad?" he said. "Do you just want me for the shortcuts my talent offers?"

"I wouldn't mention short, cuts, and talents, I've always been unimpressed by your, talent, remember."

"There are children in the room you kn—"

She swatted him on his head.

"You like me though?" he said.

Yes.

"More than when we met?"

... Yes.

"More than when we left?"

She matched his seriousness. "How would you treat your wife differently than you treat me now? What would calling you husband change? It won't happen in a tent by any name."

"That's not what I'm— I don't— I, I just want you in the rest of my life."

"I've got a month or so, remember? If you think you can keep from upsetting me for that long, then I don't see a problem."

"I, I just want something to head toward, Dana."

She pulled back a little. "Now is never enough for you. I've never had a choice between you and someone else, it's always been you or else. I still don't like that. No, for now." Her cheek brushed his, "You've been moving toward all along. Whether you get there is up to you, and me, and the pending approval of Dawn."

"It'll be a nice, warm day in a few hours, just a powerful cold morning. By the way, your clothes are done."

"Was that so hard?"

Killing me.

The children had run off to play, something they often did on these less than cold days. Guar could run circles around Dawn; she wasn't much of a playmate for wrestling, roughhousing, or even just walking about. But that didn't dull his fascination; her deep brown, innocent eyes held his complete attention, something Derik was familiar with. Dawn's little guardian. A deformed, deadly hunter who killed by hand; happily picking leaves, digging holes, patiently walking with this silent, slow little girl.

He foresaw a hot meal tonight. It would be hours later, he knew when and where, they just had to wait. He could be useful sometimes. Dana used the waiting time to mend the tent. He could ask, but she would just say the boy couldn't control it when he sleeps, like wet sheets on a child's bed, a comparison to something that could have been much worse on a net with a natural dip.

He just helped in silence, mending dozens of tiny holes. It was best a two-person endeavor, one on each side, passing the threaded needle between them. In this case, he got the spot between the net and the tent.

"Those nice fur coats are going to be too hot soon, you know," he said by the tree, tent above them.

"I'll be taking up another donation before then." She fiddled with the fire.

"It's not like we have spares. Besides, they'll outgrow anything you make long before they'll wear it out, especially the way they eat."

"One battle at a time, worrier," she said.

"It's not something you haven't thought— Look, I like them, I do. They're sweet, lovable kids. I just don't know what the best thing to do here is, knowing what I see."

"I'm not made of answers."

He sat on the ground beside her while she returned to mending clothes. "Can I touch you?"

She didn't say no when he put his arm around her.

"Can I kiss you?"

She didn't move when he made her hand a fist and kissed each knuckle.

"Can I trust you with what I have only the one of?"

"... Yes."

They had an hour yet before the where and when of the next hot meal. With so many fillers of idle time one his age could think to do, sitting between the tree and her, his arms around her waist lent an extra hand, while she returned to needle and thread.

**B4.C19**

Tonight's campfire stories were about evil emperors, armies, and lies, and how easy it had been with terror and fear to amass allies by worries of whose side would win, not whose was the noblest fight. Each story had a moral that cut two fold, they learned the tricks evil used, while he, the group mentality that had led to all his wrongs. With full bellies and suitably entertained, the younger two made the climb to the tent and bed. Someone had to tend the fire while they dried the rest of a young deer on this cool, blanket-would-do, night. Fortunately, theirs was already down by the pit when he tucked it around Dana.

"Do you really believe all that stuff?" He added two branches to the fire.

"What stuff?"

"Those stories. Good and evil, emperors, curses, wrong easier than right."

"Little prince and princess."

"Oh, that one's clearly true. Who wouldn't believe a princess taken from her family, words made her curse."

She smiled.

"What do you want, Dana?"

She opened the blanket for him to join her. "Surprise me."

"Roof over your head, floor beneath slippered feet, a nice soft bed, warm fireplace, and a table from which to eat. Soup's worth of a garden, easy water stream. I kinda picture you only settling if a suitable swimming pond is nearby."

"Settling."

"A big tub to be spoiled in, right beside the fireplace so the hot water doesn't have far to go," he said.

"Hot rocks, cold water, have you learned nothing in all this time?"

He pressed his cheek next to hers. "I've seen you give birth, a little girl."

"You've seen me dead too," she said.

When the center of the branch burned through, he folded the shorter pieces back into the flames. She held open the blanket for him. He had many talks with hunters, elders, and friends about moments like this that went to another end. Most were with the words they came to him to find, the kinds he couldn't say to her. There was something so comforting about just being with her.

Calming.

He liked this better anyway.

They watched the fire for a while, sharing the blanket.

"When I— before we met," he started again. "I had just moved into our room, I used to walk those halls at night, alone.

I, I remember stopping at one of the doors. It was closed, except for a crack, just enough to see inside.

I remember standing there, for the longest time. There was this, this beautiful woman standing by the edge of the bed as this man paced back and forth ranting about some, thing, his day or the likes.

You could see the look in her eyes as she followed his every word, fiddling with her buttons, smoothing the lines and wrinkles from her dress in the moments he wouldn't observe. She said only the occasional word like that's not right, it'll be ok or better tomorrow. She spent such time and care on that dress, making sure it was just so.

When he finally stopped pacing, he just sat her down on the edge of the bed, lifted it in the front and loosened his pants just enough.

I remember she kept trying to put her arms around him, just a distraction to him. He used her offered embrace to better hold her down, never slowing his pace. All she was left with, in the few moments they had left, were the legs he hadn't the extra hands to resist, hugged about his waist.

It was maybe a few minutes at most before he just, pulled up his pants and walked to the other side of the bed, laid down, and went to sleep.

She, she just sat there, her hands out where he had been. Then, she smoothed her wrinkled dress. Left without even a kiss.

I remembered, in the days that followed, overhearing her words of praise, of how close and happy the two of them were, and his boastful words echoing the same.

I, I have no idea what I want with you, Dana. I have only this to go by, so similar to all those that flashed in my head at every hand I touched. So little difference."

She didn't say anything. Nor could he read the expression on her face.

"I, I think I was closer to you on separate bunks, than they were on the same bed. I know what I don't want," he said.

Not a word or indication.

"I was so crazy over you, just this lonely girl and this wonderful feeling I had whenever I was around you. You know, I used to stand and stare at your sleeping face."

"I always slept so you could," she said.

"I just figured it was because it was safer that way, never a back toward the door and all."

"... That too."

"I could talk you into the room but— I used to think—" he stared at the fire, hoping for clarity, "I used to believe everything they said about me, how powerful a talent it was. I had such an ego then. The right things for the wrong reasons."

"... Closer now."

They sat and watched the flames as the red streaks coloring the distant sky, fading layer by layer with the falling sun. Clouds that soon made this night less than cold left only the flicker of fire for light. No moon, no blue night glow tonight.

It was truly beautiful, perhaps the first sunset he ever watched.

Why had he never taken the time before? Winter's silence in the woods, the crackle of the fire, it was all very profound.

"I, I remember when my headaches were the worst I'd ever had," he said. "The first person to notice, the first person to care, was you. That meant so much. The first sign of affection you had ever shown, and all those nights after that, when you would kidnap my dog.

I, I used to stand on the edge of my bed, so I could better look into yours. A smile I couldn't stop every time I saw your head resting on a pillow, tucked under a sheet.

I would stand on my tiptoes until the backs of my legs burned, working up my courage. I would trace the outline of your head with my finger to make sure I didn't pull a single long hair before I took that final step, to sit up there."

"... There was always enough room," she said.

"I was so jealous of that stuffed dog, snuggled where I wanted to be. I— It took a lot of practice, but I was finally able to save just enough for one vision, one little glimpse. I can't tell you how hard that is, to avoid all contact between the last, and you. A simple bump in the hall and it would be gone. I came so close for a week, then one day, I found myself there.

More than a glimpse, I had saved several seconds worth, just sitting, one casual touch away. And all I could think was how peaceful you looked, how touching it was what you were doing, for me. Good, personal dreams you were willing to share, and all I wanted was to sneak a peek in your head."

She was quiet. "What did you see?"

"I didn't. This'll sound so stupid now, but, I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but I couldn't. It wasn't like you'd ever know, I kept reminding myself. But I, I was so careful to just touch the dog. You moved and touched me anyway."

She was getting upset. "What did you see."

"What I was hoping to. That I could climb beneath that sheet with you, that I didn't have to sleep on the bunk below yours. It was worse than not knowing. I felt so bad about it. Guilty. I could have my one more night, but it would cost me the dreams. I felt so bad. I felt like telling you right then, that it was an accident, but that would cost me the same."

"So, you tell me now. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that." She looked away, then back when she had the answer. "Do you know why? I cared about you. It hurts worse, when someone you care about uses you.

You controlled every aspect of my life until it wasn't mine anymore, and you made it so very hard to hate you. You tried so hard. My future was yours at a touch. My life was feathered a page at a time for you to change, kept in a stack in your desk. I thrived on your attention as much as I disdained it. With you, it could never be just a compliment or a good deed, without being another nudge in the direction you wanted me to go."

"I love you."

She looked away.

"I love you. Do you know why I say those words? Still say them when they've never been returned? When I can touch you and tell they never will."

He got his look.

"When, when I wake in the mornings from a dream of you, to a life with you, and I see those eyes and that brief little second when they change, when you recognize me. I wish I had better words to describe that single moment, I wish I could do better than words. I, I tell you, because, I can't let another second of your— of the life I only observe, pass without hearing those words, those inadequate words.

The first time I saw your head on a pillow, I thought I should be the happiest man on Earth. My first real victory, and it felt so wrong. I felt bad for making you— for forcing you to have a pillow. That sounds so silly when I say it aloud. Sad lot we are. Inadequate. I, I have done some things right, haven't I?"

"... I like when you hold my hand until I fall asleep, the same way my parents and Shela used to do. I like the way you try to coax one more good dream every morning, though I suspect that's for selfish reasons now, an obsession with sleeping faces, perhaps. You kiss a lot better than when we first met, and at more appropriate times. You're starting to think of me as a person now."

"I feel so— I have no idea what I'm doing around you. My life is full of too many examples, glimpses of nothing that applies. I knew exactly what my duty was— what was expected of me back then." He held back a laugh, "Lost in the woods now."

"Not lost, just not there." She moved closer.

The clouds had faded to black. Branches, lit from the underside, flickered and danced in the firelight. It was so easy to imagine the world outside its light had simply disappeared.

"I want," she said, "I want to be happy. It's never been more complicated than that. I want what my parents had.

Endless affection, even their fights bordered on flirts, and always ended as one.

My father used to tuck me in bed at night. He used to kiss me on the cheek and tell me I was every bit as beautiful as my mother was at my age. That I was going to break a lot of hearts in my life, and how honored he was that the first heart I got to break, was his.

It was more than just his way of saying goodnight; it was his way of finding out how much of life I was able to understand. He knew when I was ready for more, that first time it made me cry instead of giggle.

Before he died, my father told me a secret, many really, about their relationship, about being in love. How it takes more skill to win by a smaller margin or to just barely lose. When she played games with him, with me, she played differently than against others. She never played against us. When he first figured it out, it made him mad, until he understood, with us it was never win or lose, it was about fun.

It's about fun, joy, happiness, that's what family is about. My heart was never something you could win.

I heard them some nights. Once, I even climbed to the bunk above. She was sitting on his lap, like hundreds of times before at a picnic under a tree, just facing each other instead. They weren't moaners or screamers, they hardly moved the bed. What they did most, was soft laughs between kisses. They kissed constantly. In that way, in many ways, it was no different than how they normally were, never less than an embrace but an extension of, the difference between love and sex.

She saw me first, but then, his back was to me. No shame, no hiding. If anything, she smiled more when they lay down, his cheek inches from my leg.

He would lift his head just enough to kiss her, his hair would tickle my knee every time he did. I shied away the first time, almost climbed down, but she turned me back with a finger on my chin. Every kiss he touched to her, she touched to me. I could feel his in every kiss of hers. When I woke, I was the stuffed little dog in their arms.

It was the one and only time I was up there, the top bunk was their room. That night, I doubt they did what we have yet to do, but I doubt I would have known the difference. I don't think it would be that much of a difference, not because sex meant so little, but because everything else meant so much more.

Teacher. Mother. Friend. His duty to her was the same to me, to make life better."

He fed the fire then sat on his heels before her, smile to smile.

He looked up at the tent. They were fine, probably had been asleep for at least the last few hours. He had made her mad a couple of times this night, but neither had spoken loud enough to wake the kids.

"I get points for trying," he said, "don't I?"

"Very trying." She opened the blanket, then closed it around him, still face to face. "Intentions of now?"

He was lost in her deep brown eyes. Deeper in the dark, if the light ever had the chance to explore their depth, framed by a faintly freckled face.

She asked again.

His cold fingers rested on her hips. "Well, it's not a tent," he said.

"Oh, I get it. This is the part of your little plan where I'm supposed to be all sexually curious and submissive. I didn't chase you, and if I had, I hardly think you would have turned me down."

"I did once."

She tried not to laugh. "That doesn't count."

"Can't you hear your parents saying the same, so many years ago?"

She threw open the blanket to lie flat on her back, stretched to the ground before him. Her arms raised above her head, far out of his way. "You're just going to nag me until I give in. Fine, I give up."

"I can't believe it worked," he said, wasting no reneging seconds moving her legs out of the way, flailing his arms with wild mockings of tearing imagined clothes made of wrapping paper, then tickling her stomach before lying atop her with ever-slower kisses. He held his weight inches off her, propped up by his elbows so he could look at her face.

"I don't get you sometimes," she said, laughs subsiding. "You act like this sex-crazed boy, and here I am, finally giving in, and you decide to turn it into some sort of odd tickling/wrestling contest."

"Well, in all fairness, any boy that spent as many nights with you as I have would be well crazed by now. You know, at the end of the day, every day, you are still a very attractive, beautiful woman. And I'm still just a guy."

Her arms were still above her head. He thought to test, to peek if her offer had been real, but he had far more control over his power now, not even a whisper in all of this. He was better served not knowing.

"I kinda like this, being on top and all," he said.

She flapped the ends of the blanket to cover his back, then pushed his elbows down. "I'm not going to break," she said. His weight was now on her.

"Not on the ground outside a tent, either?"

"No."

"You, um, you know, you've taught me more about my talent in the last year than they had in my lifetime before. More about myself, who I am, and who I want to be. And I'm sure, quite by accident, you've let me learn a little more about you."

"All this effort you put into me, would have been better spent on someone else. Someone who didn't have this twisted tragedy awaiting them at the end—"

"The end of a beautiful love story," he said.

"That happily-ever-after is hard to find anymore. You had it before you left. One more thing I guess you forgot to pack. I hope the last few months were worth it."

"Hmm, sex-crazed boy, one thing make happy. Make it all worth it." His hips exaggerated gyrations, harmlessly by her leg.

"Down boy," she said, her last words this day.

He slept so infrequently now. Resting was as easy as closing his eyes for longer periods of time, but sleep, he stayed away from that. Awake, he could control them, could keep the visions turned nightmares at bay, but asleep, he had become their prey. He could tell her and disrupt her slumber; she would help, or at least try.

But he looked at her sleeping face again, resting on the blanketed ground. He bothered her too much with his problems as it was. He stared and pondered. What point could there be in ending such a life? What possible gain could anyone get from that? And what was it that she demanded from life that was so unreasonable?

She smiled when he touched her, even on the edge of a dream. He had changed that much. But then, that too may well have been just a joke a mean little girl would say.

He could go without dreams for another month or so. Just a month or so. Sleepless month.

Month or so.

He should have known he couldn't keep such a thing from her, that she would discover his sleeplessness and try to help. And did she ever. His talent was still gone, this, the third day, and not even a whisper.

The littlest two slipped away before dawn, something they did frequently, now that it was getting warmer. No longer needing the layered look for warmth, she took up their last donation and had been making little clothes for most of the morning.

"That scratch on Dawn's arm was looking much better," he said, helping her sew.

"He's hard on his clothes too, keeps puncturing the waists. Have you noticed, he's taken to touching her face with the back of his fingers, to keep from scratching her. I think it's kinda sweet."

"Why's that?"

"He can't feel much that way, it's not natural for him. It's like if I told you that you could only touch me with your elbow, there wouldn't be a whole lot in it for you." She ripped open the seams of a pair of his pants, trimming them to a smaller size. "Even less for me."

He wasn't sure, but she might have ended that comment with a wink.

Well after noon and finished with sewing for the day, she looked around. "It's getting late," she said. "Where are they?"

He touched her, "I don't know."

"You search that way." She went another.

**B4.C20**

His eyes watered from the stench as he coughed then gasped another foul breath. Gagging, the air had not only the smell but what he could only imagine was the taste of urine. The loud buzzing in his ears was easily smothered by his pounding headache. Piercing, it was like black powder had been poured in his ear and lit by slapping his head between two rocks, embers charring a path to the stem of his brain. He blinked tears from his eyes before wiping his face on his sleeve, unable to see beyond shapes creeping across the darkened floor.

His arm failed when he tried to push himself off the putrid ground. He tried again, using both this time. This was when he experienced a new order of pain. His torn shirt stuck in wet chunks to his back, while his spine throbbed with every move and even the simple task of sitting. He struggled for a deep, full, instinctual breath in order to scream, but expanded his definition of pain instead.

He clenched his ribs just below his heart. The air filling behind his fingers only stoked the fire inside, far worse than breathing the bitter smoke of smoldering green pine. His coughs were so wet he could hear the drops hit the floor.

He focused on slowing his breaths. Focus. Just the breaths, same as taught. Focus... Just breaths, nothing else. Slow... Draw each with the care he would feather an ever dist— "Dana."

"Silence!" A fist pummeled him down.

Dizzy... Dark shades blurring into—

The weeds cracked their way through the crumbled white stone his cheek rested on. The cracks were only the width of a finger, but from a standing height, this manmade ground looked carpeted in weeds. Funny, life wore down such a dense thing so easily. Life, a force as unstoppable as this, dripping away onto ever reddening stones.

Two knees filled the ground before his eyes when a tugging, ripping sound came from his back. One, two, now three wooden shafts were on the ground between familiar knees. His unblinking eyes, so dry.

He could see her now, knelt over his body. His body... He was standing over them— that didn't make sense. Taller now, he could see groups of three approaching from everywhere. Blurry, like a fog rolling in, he looked down to watch three red stains merge into one on the shirt on her back, slumped over him.

A crowd formed around the fallen two.

"Who released those that struck the girl?" A foot rolled Dana face up. "Step forward. Now!"

One knelt before him, "The boy only, master."

A slicing thud added a third to bleed on the ground. "Test the girl."

"Master, her shirt is stained but unbroken. Six wounds, but only three arrows, three holes."

"Test them both."

"Life of seconds sir, he as well. The seed of her sprouts even now, faster than the two we found earlier this morning. Perhaps, of the awaited line."

"These arrows were released by a man of your command. All under you shall share the fate of her. Keep that in mind, captain..."

Dark, dizzy, and a smell putrid enough to awaken even the dead, he woke but couldn't see. It wasn't necessary, he had heard these sounds before. He tried to sit while surrounded by moans that reminded him of home, on a very bad day. Like then, his mind could only focus on a single thing.

His eyes slowly adjusted as he realized his foot was tethered to something. It felt like rope, but smoother, and no sign of a knot. Not that he could untie anything more complex than shoestrings in the dark.

Talent. With it, he didn't need to see, simply touch someone who could. He roamed all within his tethered reach.

Why was he alive? And how?

He had been struck down, had felt the shafts pulled from his back, three should have been more than enough. Their mumbled words echoed in his thoughts.

No, this one couldn't see.

No, he pulled his hand back. That one was dead, cold, and a best guess for the smell.

Black and white, shades of clear gray, he could see the vine-covered floor and walls of a room bigger than the dining hall, shoulder to shoulder with people sitting on the floor. Two hulking guards paced the length of the room's center. If there was just some way to make this person look around, but he stayed focused on a single, blurry lump on the far side of the room.

The lump moved just enough for a glimpse past, a little form was pressing its fingers to the back of another's wet shirt.

His touch moved down this neighbor's arm to a wrist, then hand. Where fingers ended, a thick, sharpened nail began, curved near the tip. Guar.

"It's me," Derik whispered, squeezing the clawed hand. "They won't hear this, I can see for a minute or so, enough to get in a few words."

"Her tied bed."

"Hurt bad? You?" no "Dawn?" no "Dana." It had to be.

The guard would hear his next word.

He could breathe if he kept it shallow, even whispering to Guar had hurt. He lay face down, waiting for Guar to get another glimpse beyond the blob. But his talent was exhausted all too soon, yet his thoughts still dwelled where Guar continued to stare.

Everything hurt, his head, back, chest, even each slow breath. Funny what the body gets used to, he didn't notice the smell anymore. His visions were gone, but it was clear she was dying. He could feel it slipping from her just a few steps away, lying on the same floor. He wanted— needed to think. Save his talent, his strength for a moment when— What was the point? If she didn't die this night, it would be the next or soon thereafter. Even rested, running was a dream; he could barely sit, let alone stand. What was his talent without her? Conserve, rest, breathe, focus. As dire as this was, his talent may be his only hope.

A familiar light blue leaked through the gaps in the walls and under doors. Night already, he must have passed out. He felt worse, if that was possible. He groped until he touched a clawed hand, Guar could see just fine in the dark. The two behind the blob hadn't moved; her shirt was a darker shade. He knew enough, save the rest. Five or ten minutes of range was about his limit now. It was returning, slowly. With luck, he would have enough saved by morning to be useful.

At least Dawn and Guar seemed fine. Tomorrow he would know if that was a bad thing, or worse. He could do nothing but worry now. If this was the place he thought it was, he should hope she would pass in her sleep.

Good luck, bad luck, and birds. Luck was always unfair to her.

"On your feet." A heel ground his hand to ensure attention, the bond at his ankle was gone. The girls' end was already empty.

The instant Guar became untethered, the nearest guard was taken down. Vicious, quick, and quiet, were it not for the gurgling and the thud. The guard blocking the path the girls had been taken fared much better. Three hundred pounds of muscles and the loss of surprise were greater odds than Guar could surpass, reduced to a child-sized, motionless lump on the ground.

The legs of the fallen guard stopped twitching, punctuating the last few seconds of Guar's silent little life. He spent them well, but another guard had already taken their place.

Herded up the stairs and out into the morning light, it was all he could do to stand the pain, stumbling up each step. He couldn't run, where would he go? The brighter the light, the worse his headache grew.

Fresher air, but not free. Between the buildings, he saw an enormous gated wall built of boulder-sized stones, wide enough for men to pass while they marched atop it. About every two hundred feet, it expanded to a wooden tower with archers. None of this would have mattered to Guar, had he known. Hopeless, useless, these were the thoughts where Derik best dwelled. Guar only knew he had to try, whatever the odds or cost.

In the distance he could hear the stomps of an army on the march, hundreds, probably thousands, sounding no chance at all. Worse. He had seen this before, something similar happened— would have happened to the scouts of his tribe before the attack, an in-the-field version. They were to be asked questions, tortured and killed; or just tortured and killed, often the questions were just a cruel kind of fun.

He bumped the hand of the one behind and knew better than to fall down now. The first who did would be killed on sight as an example to the line. Soon enough, they had their first unfortunate volunteer. Unlike the one in the dark that flopped until quiet, this one was kicked a slight distance from the line, where the towers could exhibit their skill. The guards counted aloud the arrows that hit, but did not kill. Five minutes of moans and pleads, more than thirty shafts. A cruelty counting game for all to see.

Midday. Hot, thirsty, and in constant pain, those five minutes were looking better all the time. He could see the front of the line and felt an odd chill being on this side of it. An old, gray-haired woman touched every passing hand. No words, no begging or pleading, no bribes, lies or half-truths would do. He remembered the role well. What he didn't know was what she was testing for.

Plan it out. Think. He could scream out her name, he had the breath for one medium yell, a touch to test. It would only get him killed, and if Dana somehow heard, she was smart enough not to answer. That was stupid, like screaming for wordless Dawn, and he had just wasted a precious glimpse. Stupid! Think.

Throbbing pain filtered between his thoughts. Just, watch the line.

It seemed to split in one of three ways. Some women went to the buildings to the left, the rest to the cage straight ahead. Some men went to the cage, the rest to the buildings to the right. That didn't help. Think, think, think.

Questions... He could ask questions. No, that would get him killed. While she read him, he would read her. Would that even work? He had never read someone that was like himself, but what else did he have? Think. Think. Just a few minutes now. Think!

What questions should he ask? Where is Da— that's stupid, how would this woman know who he was talking about? What! Quick, think, it would be soon or never!

If Dana had yet to be processed, he could tell. No, that was stupid. They were gone before he woke. Possible, but wishful thinking. Think. Think.

Deep, slow breaths. He concentrated, ignoring the pain. Relax. Let it pass. He needed her help for this. He was useless without her. He needed her back, but it was too late, time for the touch.

"A seer, similar to me. Greater detail, shorter range," she said. "Living a lie best believed."

Dazed, he was shuffled to the right where other men had gone. The lucky ones, if this was a place for luck. His talent was gone now, what little of it that was left after the woman was wasted on the man that shoved him to the new line. Flashes of visions still circled, muddied by the standing pain. He clung to these desperately glimpsed, confusing clues. They were all his hope had.

The line paused to witness an execution, imaginative in its excess. A man was strapped to a stone wall, a loaded catapult with its cradle filled, at a distance of less than twenty feet. While a team prepared to fire, the bound man chewed through his hooded gag.

"My fate was written before you were born. Your curse is my guide, your hand cannot change the words carved into his charge that is I." His calm comfort found in a sightless hood, never a wavering or unclear word. "I am not yours to harm. My destiny lies else—"

"Fire." The wall was reduced to rubble. "Retrieve the body."

The line continued.

Funneled down some steps to a damp, cool, airless cellar, they were in human storage. He stood in a large, open room with thirty or so others, waiting for the door to close. Something was crawling around on the floor, slithering on his leg like standing in a pit of snakes. Tethered again, they could sit or stand but none could walk around after the door closed.

They waited in silence as he pondered his jumbled visions amidst the poundings raging in his head.

Words, glimpsed and jumbled, words that only he had heard from the woman at the gate. Reading a reader seemed to compound the disorganization, like adding thousands of chattering people to an echo-prone room, then trying to focus on the most distant voice. It all added their confusing weight in poundage to his head.

No food, no water, dizzy, feeling faint. Without strength, sight, talent, hope. Her. Face down on the floor, at least this one smelled better.

"Fit that one. The Emperor shall see him next."

When the door opened, Derik's bindings loosened and allowed steps only toward the door. It fell off like blades of grass, unbound when he passed its threshold. They marched him up the steps and outside.

"This?" The portly man looked Derik over. "Ridiculous. Do you realize how hard these are to raise? Two years in training alone! I'm not wasting one on this scrawny thing."

"I'm sure his majesty will understand." The guard held Derik still.

"Fine." The portly man reached into the tub and pulled out a dripping serpent. He stretched it out, head in one hand, tail in the other, while he approached Derik's neck.

It slithered wet circles, three, four, or maybe five laps before the inevitable, feared bite. Derik's knees shot out from under him, the pain contracted every muscle into convulsive seizures. His heart felt like it was beating salty needles of pain. His fingers tried to pry loose the serpent, but Derik's arms were wrestled behind his back, his face shoved into the dirt. He couldn't— mustn't touch it! Visions went insane, flooded in thundering echoed sounds.

"Listen up boy, I shall only say this once," the portly voice echoed in Derik's head. "It dies, you die. The poison is a part of you now, and this is your only cure. Lie, disobey and it will—"

"Choke me, same with the word from any of you. Stop repeating it!" Derik said.

"Pain."

It tightened about his — he couldn't breathe — eyes tearing, blood on fire again... Dizzy...

"Not much to look at, is it?" a voice said.

"The witch said this boy was touched, her words were something like sees within the day with clarity. The replacement she said would find us on the very day she would be lost. My master, this is such a day," another voice said.

Dizzy... sprawled on the dirt. Where was he now?

"Stand him," the first voice said.

With a fist of his hair, Derik was made to obey.

"Impress me," said the man seated in an elaborate chair, the only one not wearing armor of any kind.

"Master," was the only way the serpent would allow Derik to address this man without being punished, "if I may, your aid will arrive with a message he believes is importance. I do not know what or why, but it will outrage you. You will then ask me to better describe this, as it differs from that of the witch."

The aid ran to his side and whispered in his ear, instantly outraged.

"Master, if I may explain," Derik continued. "It's by touch. I hear and see most, if not all, of what passes before that person over a given time." The snake punished lies and deceit, rendering words much harder to nudge. "With most, it's limited to two days or less. It's most useful in finding lost items, paths, game, poisoned and ruined items and such. Those things that people don't change. At its best, it saves time."

"We have no need for finding lost items, we need a replacement for the witch. Can you see fertility, numbers, quality and breeding, sizes of opposing armies, talent and purpose of prisoners? Have you any use beyond parlor tricks?"

"Master," damn that serpent, "in the past, I have proven most useful to others in such a fashion. Time may prove the same to you. What comes to mind would be the speedy results of hours of torture of a long line of prisoners, the reports of scouts days in advance."

"Tell us of the girl found with you."

"I don't—" the serpent choked him to his knees. "Master, what would you like to know?"

"Start with the similar wounds."

"I don't know—" strangled.

"It's an order. You may not wish to obey, but the serpent has no choice. From you or the girl, matters not to me, I will know."

Reading the serpent, he could only hear sounds, gasps from him and more words from his new master. Dead in a minute or less. What would be the point of that? "Dana's..." his breath returned. He stalled, exaggerating his struggle to stand.

"Where's that parlor trick now?"

"Master, it's seldom useful to me." The serpent believed.

"And the nature of the girl with wounds worse than yours, but a hole free shirt?"

"Master, it was something she kept secret from me. I don't fully understand how or why, but she can heal someone's wound by somehow moving it to herself."

"Interesting, but hardly useful. We need no healers here. The dogs need to eat too."

Words had been the key to his power. Without lies, he was left to pick from the best truths to say, "Master, I apologize, I only say now what would be said later. She may yet prove useful. I do not pretend to know what her limit is, but I am proof of what's within her reach."

He waved his hand. "Bring her."

Good, the servant had already been dispatched. It would seem immediate, full disclosure was less enforced, it had a serpent's brain after all.

"What is she to you?"

Friend? Lover? Companion? "She called me husband once." Funny what it let him imply.

The tops of her shoes dragged the full length of the field before the servant dumped her, sprawled before this important man. The fingers of her hand approached a pale white. She looked to be dead. Her shirt was the same wet red, showing no signs of ever being another color. He had lost her. This may be the closest he would get for the rest of his life. His readings of the serpent were a constant reminder of the instant demise for any but the one, clearest course.

With another waved hand, the ever-willing servant lifted her shirt; the same was done to him so a comparison could be made.

"Interesting," Derik's new master said, still seated. "A power that's harmful to the user. They were good hits, all six— all three of them."

At a gesture, the servant dug a finger into the lower hole on her back, closest to her spine. Her hand twitched, but that was it. When released, she collapsed to the ground.

"Wake her," the man ordered without rising from his chair.

The servant gripped her shoulder and yanked her to a stand, a knuckle ground at a hole in her back. Her arms moved a little, she wobbled for a few seconds before falling to her knees then slamming face down.

"I shall have my demonstration!" He rose from his throne.

"Master, if I may offer my services, meager as they are." He had to try, "She will die, and soon, but if I am allowed to touch her, I may find a way to have her serve a use to you."

He sat in near disgust. "Healing wounds is of no importance here. I doubt she has any use left. I can't see her lasting the night."

"Sir—" the serpent administered pain for Derik's inadequate word, "Master, weak as I am, I can only hear minutes ahead through the serpent. But, when I could see days with others, I could see weeks and months with her. Minutes now could reveal the few crucial days. The path that keeps her alive would be clearest of all. But it must be soon, s— Master."

He looked disinterested. "Seems hardly worth it."

"Master, if she could do this, think of what she may be able to do for those ones of ten having problems now. She may be able to have one child a year at most, but her touch could possibly heal six or twelve over that same period. That may be just another kind of wound for her, and obedience could be gained the same as mine." Not convinced yet, he read ahead. "Is this not worth a moments touch? A test of me if nothing else."

Rewarded with a wave.

She was hurt, bad, and cold to the touch. She was going into shock, the loss of blood alone. That she lingered was impressive, visions expanded to days again. Still holding her hand, "The key is the little girl, the mute found on the same day as us. If they're together, she'll survive and be of use by the week."

"The mute? They mother and daughter?"

"... Yes."

"Odd how often that works, threaten the daughter and the mother will do anything. Her first child I'll bet. The bond is always strongest with that."

"... Yes, master." He let go of Dana's hand.

"And now, the test of her. I will see this for myself."

"S—" choked to his knees, "Master, she's at the edge of conscious. The test you have in mind— she'll die, pass or fail. May I suggest something similar, just a much smaller degree? Instead of cutting off his hand, a small cut on his arm would do." A four-inch gash was not what he had suggested, but it was achievable.

"So far, I'm less than impressed."

"Master, it's by touch, same as mine."

The servant with the cut grabbed Dana's hand. Nothing. Now it became unpleasant to watch, but it would get worse if it became known how much this bothered him. He focused past her, blurring the hand smacking her around, the knuckles ground to her back, the foot kicking her with every new command to heal. He could only wait until the serpent would allow the words.

"You can see Dawn from a tent, or your cell." He was choked to his knees for speaking out of turn. "Master, stop, I beg you. Look at her arm now, and his."

The ripped sleeves revealed the matching red lines, a deep scratch on her, but the original no longer bled. It was something. "Not as impressive as I had hoped, but, it may be worth a week's rations. But they will not share the same cell."

"Master, she dies by morning without the little one."

"Why? What talent does the daughter have that made the witch go mad and would make any difference here?" he said with visible anger at the thought that anything was being withheld.

"Master, I wasn't smart enough to discover Dana's talent, the girl is a mystery to me. All I know is it makes the difference."

Her toes dragged while she was removed. It was hard to watch, nearly impossible, without showing emotions. A week. She would live, but would never see him again. How much more of his help could she survive? Better to have died in such a place. He just listened, and, when needed, he said the words the serpent allowed. He needn't pay attention with the snake's constant buzz in his ear.

Tested to the point of exhaustion, he was rewarded with partially chewed scraps scraped from those plates that were headed for the trash. His day ended in a new cell for special ones, like him. Talented, skilled, enslaved, those honored few given a snake.

The cell, only three steps wide and four deep, was shared with four others. He quickly found the only open space before being tethered by the slithering floor the second the door closed.

Hundreds filled these cells but were totally silent, just his thoughts and the serpent's low hum buzzed in his ears.

He had eaten. He had a roof and a floor, a room less crowded than most. He spent hours staring at that single, red, wet little spot on the back of his hand, a smear so small that if he touched it with his finger, it would disappear. It was at most a drop or two, just a whisper of her. Drops, damp and wet. Alive.

Connected.

Life, reduced to struggle or submit. He sunk to the floor. He had touched her, had been inches from her ear, but he whispered those three words to the smear.

Alive, they had a chance. Alive, there was hope. "There's still h—" choked on a lie.

The guards came for the others first thing in the morning, leaving him alone in the cell until about noon. In the light of day, he got a good look around. He was near the dead end of the hall with the last three cells empty. No sounds at all.

The door was made of the same vines that carpeted the room, only bigger, thicker. It didn't open so much as unweave, much like the finger-width vines of the floor that wove into the rope that tethered him. It was incredibly plant-like in that it was rooted to the ground, yet it responded to commands by the guards and moved like a field of grass under its own breeze, perhaps related to the sticky grass.

He checked his hand again, moist, but dying, the whispers of a single thread connecting them. He whispered her morning words. His pounding headache hurt the backs of his eyes. Stick with what he knew, the technique.

It helped.

Practice. It took lots of practice. Total silence helped.

"They are massed outside, young one, they will not hear us. Tell me of this morning prayer of yours. It has been some time since I have seen a believer that was allowed to keep his life," a soft, yet deep voice from one of the cells at the end said. He had thought they were empty.

Breathe. Focus. Ignore.

"I would show more care with when and where and who you let see these prayers of yours; they have killed for much less. If there is a god to pray to, they will capture him soon, and imprison him here like you."

"I'm not praying."

The voice laughed a little, "Perhaps you should start."

Focus, one breath at a time.

"Some have used such a form for meditation. If done correctly, by those of experience, it is said to lead to enlightenment, inner peace, and clarity. Are you seeking these, in such a place?"

"I just want the headaches to stop," Derik said.

"This is not such a place where things get better. You are new, and young, but surely you have seen enough to know that much. Here is the place of only two paths; die a servant of evil, or a victim of. Do you believe yourself to be a good person?"

The serpent tightened while Derik refused to answer.

"Then I shall give you something to ponder, the thought that finds all good men at heart. The sooner you die, the less this place will taint your soul; for every day you live will fulfill evil's wish, to a service that can serve no good.

I shall tell you the story of another good, religious man. For weeks, he prayed for the strength to endure, one day more. To take this punishment, this test his god had given him, the day he was captured and not killed. He was thankful for the food that sustained him, the tasks and toils that distracted his mind.

He wasn't aiding their cause, just translating scripts and books, The Emperor's old notes. None were ever hurt by his hands. It was natural to want to live. He had been spared so he may live; it was all a part of some grand design. He had been saved to fill a role.

We talked often, when moments like this allowed. It was months before he told me that he understood the true nature of the test, the task he had been given. Suicide was a mortal sin, but evil often has a way of using the good. To be an instrument of such or commit a damnable offence, he held in his hand the chance to hurt no one, and stop a servant of evil's plan. It happens rather fast when the serpent is removed. It is painful, he yelled out for a minute or so, but it is most fatal, and designed to be that way."

"They will be here soon," Derik said.

"We shall speak again, I have until destiny deems to free me."

He liked to think of it as saving those he touched a lot of unnecessary pain. Giving the proper questions, the most effective threats, and the answers that would eventually come, he reasoned, would save these people a great deal of brutality, while saving their captors a lot of time. He had rationalized being a servant of evil.

By the end of the day, he couldn't bear the whispers of a damp, red stain. He washed his hands in shame.

The headaches never left him, now a constant pressure behind his eyes. The technique helped, but offered no cure like before. Perhaps it had to do with the snake.

"I overheard that the witch had gone mad some days ago, about when you arrived. Last night, when it was quiet, I could hear her rantings," the voice at the end said when they were alone. "She kept repeating something about circle's end, a daughter she kept apologizing to, and the sin of taking a heart that can only be given."

Derik focused on the technique.

"Do you know of whom she speaks?"

The serpent choked him when he didn't answer.

"I have learned over my years with the priest that if I phrase my questions differently, I can force responses from you. It is not a pleasant way of making friends, or making conversation to fight our common enemy, the boredom of time."

The serpent relaxed a little.

"I have been here for years, decades perhaps. They torture me with all that is left to them. Punished by silence, tormented with nothing but my own thoughts, my past has been my only constant company. I wish to hear of outside this room and the many doubtless changes since my stay."

What could it hurt? But Derik had other concerns. He needed to focus, to practice with the buzzing of the serpent's ear. It would take enormous concentration to tame it and learn to use it, or to ignore it when he wanted.

"What harm can it be? Even when the cells are crowded, they forbid the use of these closest two, just to torment me. Your silence is to obey their command."

"I don't know anything of the witch," the serpent constricted, "beyond the few words she said to me," tighter, "and the jumbled visions I still don't understand."

"Visions? She never gave someone visions; she gets them. How odd."

"Not for me," Derik said as quietly as he could.

"Ah, I am in the presence of the seer that she foresaw. It is interesting that she would know such things, and be unable to prevent the madness that took her mind."

"It seems visions are all the same that way." Derik ran his fingers through the strands that made the floor. "It's a little comforting to know that it's the same curse to everyone."

"So you were touched by The Emperor's hand as well?"

"No. His guards never would have allowed that," Derik said.

Laughs filled the hall. "That man you saw?" laughs again. "Is that what he calls himself now? He may use the words, but he is nothing The Emperor was." He laughed louder. "The witch who you replace was one of six, bred to serve. In all, it was more than sixteen offspring that coupling produced. Mating— breeding people is a harder task to master than that of plants, but he knew what to look for to increase the odds of getting what he wanted. The witch was the youngest and last that is still alive. Most go mad long before their thirties, she was the weakest, and perhaps that was the key to her longevity. She was also the least useful, vague and often confusing. I overheard yours is, clearer. I guess what I meant to ask was if you were bred for the same?"

"I suppose, maybe I was. But, I never knew my parents, so I never asked," Derik said.

"Born of chance, born of a village, raised by the way of the group, am I right? One or two mothers for a room full of children, it is common practice now. It was not always.

I was born much the way of the witch, by the design of his hand for a single purpose.

Those notes the priest translated were the key to making more deenayseeds, the same used to breed creatures like the witches, serpents, this cage, and me."

What are "Deenayseeds?" Derik asked.

"A seed, hard to grow, even harder to reproduce because they don't make seeds themselves. It took The Emperor eighty years to breed them again. They only sprout when dipped in blood, then bloom and die in thirty to sixty days. It is no wonder you have not heard of them, they were extinct until the priest.

You may have seen them in old battlefields, but not known them for what they were. Dead, they look like a coiled, multicolored vine. Each color could be read, marking an individual trait. Back in the days of The Emperor, everyone was tested. They were the key. Match the parents with the best chance for the traits of the child.

I apologize. I tend to talk too much, with a tendency toward ever-longer stories. I had not intended on boring you with a common history lesson."

"It wasn't, uh, I didn't know," Derik said, reclining on the grass. "They tested me with one, I think."

"It is a funny thing. The Emperor was overthrown because they believed he went mad over an obsession with birds. Yet, even today, they continue hunting them, just in case he was right. They test with the seeds looking for a match, just as he had. It seems like twenty years or so ago, time does not mean the same in a cell, they found a woman not far from here that matched closer than any had before.

She was long dead when the seed bloomed. Rumor had it there was a child they are still looking for. Odd, how the obsessions of a madman make sense when they are worded a little differently, and said by someone else. They paid The Emperor's words no mind until they sent scouts back to track for the child and found two birds in the room near the remains. Now they hunt birds with vigor again."

This was good, the more this man talked, the less Derik had to. And it seemed easy enough to get him started. "How long have you been in here?"

"Since The Emperor fell.

I was his greatest warrior. I gained his favor by taking the place of a slave he needed freed. I never questioned anything they said. I've done nothing but question since.

Funny, how when the life you've led is all you've known, you never notice the things you do. Killing was a part of breathing; I never learned the word remorse. I think sometimes... Do you know why they keep me now?

They learned from The Emperor the value of breeding. His army was like me, but I was the best of them. Hundreds of years of meticulous matings in an attempt to bring order to those brilliant little budding strands.

A person's fate, decided by the bright colors of a plant, I remember when it was the other way around. Funny, how life consists of so many circles. I must apologize again, this was not what you asked. I fear over the years of tortured silence I have become that doddering old man, ample reason to remain hidden in the back of some forgotten cell. I have been here since the witch was a little girl I held on my lap."

He hadn't been listening; instead, he had been focused on the technique. But, if he stayed silent, he knew the other man would not. And that suited Derik just fine.

"The witch foretold I would carry the cure, that I would free it to the world. Every so often, they bring a woman for my cell, her tongue cut out, ember's fresh scab left in her ears. Most that are allowed to room down this hall are done such to. For you, they need your words, need you to hear for some use to be made. These are the people you aid, young seer, these are who you serve.

It has never worked, but they continue to try. The child will grow for a month or two, then the woman will die. I think it is the way nature intended such things. When I opened my eyes for the first time and took my first breath, it was to taste her last, to watch my mother's eyes forever close. My first victim was her.

I like that I— I can't tell you how much it means to have another that can listen, or talk. The priest was the last, and such a long time ago.

They keep me because they can do nothing else. I am a prisoner of destiny, the same that brought you to them in time to replace the witch. To here. To me. Just as foreseen. Odd, don't you think? They have spent all this time trying to find one little girl, when the witch's words will bring her to this very place. What were her words, something about—"

"Guard's coming," Derik said.

In one or two months, they would know who Dana was. He had damned her to worse in trying to avoid this with his constantly changing directions. One month. With her luck, it would be less. In another few days, while she was still unable to stand, they would start putting her to use. They would start threatening Dawn. The guard would be gone soon, but this was the last of tonight's stories.

It explained many things, why these cells were so quiet. A slave needs to listen, not often to speak. He pondered the blessing it must be, to not taste the food.

He missed that warm body he had slept beside. Dreams, he could use a good one, and dreaded the same. How much worse would this place seem, to wake from such joy to live in agony.

"Who is Dana?" said the voice from the always-dark cell.

"I don't want—" the serpent choked Derik's refusal.

"It's clear enough from your mumblings last night that you shared the same bed. She was captured with you, was she not?"

His eyes started to bulge.

"This is pointless, young one, I mean not to harm you. Your strangled silence conveys the same as a yes."

When it relaxed, Derik could breathe again.

"You have a child by her yet?"

"I... don't want... to talk... about..."

"She infertile?"

Choked.

"That is a shame, young one. I am, sorry for you. From your muttering it sounds like you care for this one, and hers is a sentence far worse than yours. It would be better should she not have been, her death would have come within the next few months instead of prolonged over decades."

"Please, I'll talk, but not about her. That's my deal. I'll lay gagging on the floor first."

"A deal then, one I shall hold you to. It is a shame, I think, the best way to endure this, your new life, is from within the memories of a pleasanter past. To deny such things is to let them win. You feel responsible for this, guilty?"

It would hurt to say less than "... yes."

"I would not, if I were you. I have pondered many things, least of which is prophecies. She said you would be here in their moment of need, and that—" the voice paused. "Oh, interesting, I remember now. 'Mine will be done when I have the heart of she who frees me.' That one sentence, uttered before you were born, is what imprisoned me. Not these walls, or those soldiers outside. Prophecy, it is the strongest bond I know.

You were destined to be here, now. Some role I don't yet see. Interesting. So many years I've had to ponder the meaning of those words that elude. What were her others?

Something about the safety of the beginning, or going home— No, it was the journey home... No, it was the journey to the beginning that would touch her heart, where the end of my quest would be found. So long ago. I had thought my memory better than this, but the precise words elude.

Tell me, if not of this girl, then let us talk instead of where you come from, so I may imagine a past to go with such a young voice."

"There's not much to tell," Derik said, "a village, I was their seer. I warned of bad trades, thieves, attacks, where the best game would be found. Stuff like that. It was six months," it constricted, "more of a year's walk from here. We passed through a desert, I remember that much, but I wouldn't be able to find it again."

"I would not be concerned, you will never leave these walls. This is your home now. A year you say. Quite a journey, an adventure it must have been. The survivors of a raid, no doubt."

"Yes," Derik said.

"Tell us something of this grand adventure, the sights you must have seen, troubles, perils, danger around every turn, I bet. Fleeing an army for a year, that is quite the feat."

"Well, we weren't fleeing an army. We had defeated them, my village I mean. And with my talent, we avoided most dangers, it was less eventful that way."

"Victorious. That is very rare, and equally impressive. You must have been at a fair range from a base of reinforcements. But then, they are not as organized or as united by fear and common fate as they once were."

"It was less a victory than it sounds." Derik read the serpent's whispers, "They'll be here soon."

Derik stood before the line, processing these unfortunate souls. He decided left, right, or straight ahead. Unfortunately, he now knew the difference.

Ahead lay a pit filled with dogs, fed on the taste of flesh from those kept in the cage. It was the last stop before a brutal death. Those who got sick or couldn't perform a full day's labor were tossed to the pit for the others to watch and ponder. It was not the nicest of places, and the cage was that last desperate spot, balancing life over death. It was sadly typical for here.

To the left were women. To the right were men of any useful talent or skill, or, in the rare occasion, knowledge that needed to be, extracted.

He read those sent left harder than all others, hoping for that glimpse of a girl, one of two actually. Glimpses, he had but a cherished few. Most went to a large, central room where they were tethered to the floor, similar in style to a tent from a story Dana told. They had no witch anymore, just the hints from trained dogs for which ones to concentrate breeding on.

Back to the old ways.

Brutal and efficient, it was practical, in a sense. Daily lines would find who to keep and who to cage in only a few months of food. And none but those tethered to the floor would complain.

He saw it all, the worst two days would bring.

Process the line. Endless lines.

Talent gone, it was time for the cage.

The end of the week found Derik alone in the cells again, an opportunity that would not pass unused.

"I have heard your sobs for long enough, young one," the voice calmly said. "I cannot believe you are still so stuck on this one girl. She is gone now, the property of others. If you are a good, obedient, and worthy servant that proves his worth as days turn to years; if they come to depend on this talent of yours and happen to deem her the best match, then you may be allowed to see her one time more. But she will never be yours again. She will never be that girl you knew before.

I shall give you some advice. If, by chance, you pass her again, the neck is the easiest to break. If you are lucky, they will kill you quickly out of reflex. That is the best you can offer her now.

You still don't understand.

You still have hope of escape, don't you. It is not the army, those archers, the walls or the gate; it is one man with one word. He has but to have the strength to say pain..."

Derik crippled over, writhing on the ground with the feel of fire ants marching inside his veins.

"You awake again, young one?"

"... Yes," Derik said.

"I am sorry for uttering that word. I shall not again, but it had not sunk in until now. Until you realize the power of words, of one, single word, you will not understand the nature of your cage.

That single word is what keeps you theirs."

"I know—" it constricted, "but it's not the only thing."

"She still has you then. Tell me of this girl that holds such hope over you. This girl who never made it here."

"I... don't... want... to."

"Then I shall tell you. I am an old man; I have loved and lost before, a lifetime ago. I have seen kindness turned to pa— suffering. I have hurt and been hurt. These things are not new and not likely to change. It is best to just let go. The girl that these dreams and all this suffering is about, never made it here. What you see is all that is left of her, it will be less with every glimpse you get until she is just another sad face, like yours."

"... Please stop. Please, leave me alone," Derik said.

"Let go, it hurts less that way. It's ok to cling to memories, just know that's all they are."

He tested the binds at his feet. "We, had a deal."

His headaches had gotten worse, and the technique grew less and less effective each day. Enlightenment would be unachievable at this pace, not that he ever had a chance of that. But he had a lot to think about. Letting go of her was just as impossible to do.

Another day.

Torture. He gave them the questions, the answers, and who and how to threaten. This one has a bad knee, that one has sensitive feet, afraid of water, fear of fire, that's his sister, he feels for that one. He had become as sick as them, one of them. He was thinking the way they thought. Chilling, how easily he had adapted. Doubtful that Dana would take him back. Back, less than a dream now. He no longer lingered for the glimpse.

Guards were all the same. This one was looking for a way to cheat in the games. Would they come if they knew a few seconds could see all their sins? No, it was a subtle difference. His tribe was ashamed of their shortcomings, these didn't care, if not proud.

Tainted, and in a surprisingly short time, a week and a day. He ended the technique with a silent prayer for one night of sleep without dreams.

Two manly hands pinned one of her wrists down while she screamed and flailed with the other. Her resistance was too easily tethered by an ever-obedient slithering floor. These masters of terror refined their art on ever-younger little girls, those easiest to make scream... Wake up.

Wake, Wake! Stop it!

"They woke you again," the voice said in the middle of the night. "You think that if you try, you can hear her muffled screams among them."

Derik wiped his eyes and looked around his cell, the rest were asleep. They had not heard, or had slept through, the cries mixed with manly laughs from across the way.

"If you close your eyes, you are afraid you will imagine another, others in that place that had always been yours."

"Shut up."

"Guilt, because you were her guide, that ended her here."

Derik covered his ears. "Stop it."

"You thought you could protect her, you tried to save her from this place, but it was your fate that trapped her. The witch's prophecy of a seer swept you both into their hands."

"... Please." He wiped his cheek on a sleeve.

"It will be one day, if it is not this one. If she ever gives them the pleasure of a scream."

"I have to find a way before that happens. There's always a way."

"Escape again? It has been a week, and you still have problems standing, young one. What is your plan to outrun an army such as this? Wait until they go to conquer and their numbers here are few, when it takes just the one with a voice. No, this cage does not hold me as it does you, but I am a prisoner behind it all the same. Where would you go? Where would you run? You said you couldn't find your village of old, I doubt any you could find would shelter you from an army such as this. They are not the unity The Emperor held, but they are vast.

You have seen The Emperor, have you known his nature, young one? You see him, yet you have never seen him. Would such an important man stand with a mere handful of soldiers to his side, even in a stronghold such as this?

He is not here, seldom here, and you have never touched him. He cannot be killed because his is the art of illusion, a mastery of tricks and slight of hand. With the ability to project illusions over great distances, he quickly became The Emperor's messenger to even the most remote outposts. Just the service one would need to manage an empire this size, and a perfect position from which conspiracies are made. A man who could not be struck down, the same words used to describe the ruler he replaced, but a different meaning entirely.

Perhaps you may yet escape, but it will likely be found within a mastery of that talent of yours, in the careful crafting of prophecy. The bending of fragile words."

"I have to. She, they don't belong here." Derik sat up, his forehead pressed to his knees.

"But they are, and so they must. You haven't a clue yet what you are. You have no idea the power of prophecy, or how much glimpses weigh."

"It doesn't end here."

"For me it doesn't. My fate lies elsewhere."

"So you keep telling me, but someone's not just going to come down here and open that door because a mad woman said it would happen. You have to—"

"Why not? It's why you are here. Prophecy, curse, visions, these tend to blur to the same. You see the paths that lie before someone, the choices they may make of them; limited, bound, drawn only within the lines of the nature of each to whom it is owned. I have generations of experience in this that you dismiss.

You cannot talk an honest man into telling a lie, nor can you guide an evil man to the light. You could do nothing but end up here, only chose a different path."

"I've saved lives, I've changed the—"

"I'm sure you did, and some you could not, those touched by fate. A fire that consumes a building can spare the contents of a desk, though the building was fated destroyed. Prophecy can be easily bent, but broken is a much harder task. I ask you, young seer, the vast majority you see comes to pass. And so I wait, patient, anxious, nervous, or calm, it matters not, it shall happen, and happen soon."

"Surely you've tried to escape, thought of it at least."

"And what if I did, what if I told you I had? With my army defeated and my body bound in ropes, the general of their winning campaign and three of his most loyal men in this, their greatest seat of power, readied me for execution, bragging of the spectacle they would make of me down this very hall, so many years ago.

I broke the bindings and lifted his feet from the floor with a single hand around his neck. Swords, daggers, axes, and pleas meant nothing to me, as all three of his finest men could not pry him free of my one lone hand. Their swings freed my binds instead, compounding their errors at hand.

It is an easy thing to kill a man, to take his breath away, just a finger and a thumb. If the man is healthy when you crush his windpipe, he can take five, sometimes ten minutes to die. Two arteries pass inches within the same grip and are even easier to close, a minute at most for a sleep without waking.

I made sure he had taken a deep breath before I crushed it, then set him to a corner so he could watch The Emperor's greatest achievement, as I walked down this hall at a leisurely pace, piling bodies behind me. It takes ten you see, that was what they did not understand, the lesson taught again that day. It takes ten men to match me; ten could not fit in this hall. It wasn't until I had gone outside did they finally remember.

I walked when I should have run, but I had no place to go. Besides, I had the witch's prophecy to protect me. I have a destiny. A destiny that demands I wait here, for the heart destined to be mine to open this cage, for within its safety, will I at last be free."

Derik looked up from his knees. "Have you tried since?"

"I wait. This is the place for me to be freed. I cannot be freed if I am not here, so I wait."

"You haven't tried? How long ago has this been?"

"Since my stay began, but you would like to know the days. It is not measured in such. Decades may even be units too small."

"So all you need is someone to open the cage so—"

"The cage does not hold me, I have told you before. I am simply to wait."

Why hadn't he been paying more attention to this man's rantings? "You can open the cage yourself?"

"It does not keep me."

"Try, try to open it!"

"To what point? When the time comes, it will be opened for me."

Derik was standing now. "You have to! If you're— I can help you escape. If we can free Dana, I'll have the range of a month again. Shortcuts, surprise attacks, wrong ways, I can be of great aid—"

"I have pondered this. It is one of the reasons I have been talking to you, to get to know you better. For if I do not take you with me, I must surely kill you, for the very reasons you name."

Uh Oh. "If, if it was prophecy that I be captured and put down this hall, it could have been to aid in your escape, just as Dana may have been destined to me to extend my range to make your escape possible."

"Or to make your death convenient, to prevent them from following me. The witch's words were not clear about you, yet it can be only one of two possibilities."

"I can help, more than—"

"I am not so sure of that, young one. You were captured, the two of you. It is how you came to me."

"I wasn't killed, wouldn't it have made more sense if—"

"Yes yes, it is something I still ponder."

"Guards."

This could be bad. Free, or dead. No, both promised a vast improvement over the present.

Conversations had taken a change of tone, now that it was all out there. He doubted that someone would simply open the cage, but the point was made, he had been with a girl that gave him a month's range and was captured, evidence that all visions were not made the same.

The hot sun added to the spoil his clothes had become, but he dared not ask for a bath or a change.

"Start with the small toe," Derik said.

Some sort of soup was for dinner today. What kind?

"Ease up or he'll pass out, burning the stump will help."

It would be chicken with potatoes, onions, and something else.

"He's ready to talk now, but it'll be the lie I told you about."

The rolls would smell so good. The pieces he would get were— Oooh, one would fall on the floor. With a little cleaning of dirt and gravel, this would be a very good day.

"You can stop now," Derik said. "He's dead."

He couldn't sleep. The pacing guards denied conversation. A large influx of prisoners from the returning army had everyone up. Drinking and celebrating, it was midnight, and he just couldn't sleep. They were screaming again, faint, fresh, new voices. It had been days since any had screamed.

A black and white dream swirled the witch's words in his head. 'Her heart is for another, this you've always known. Mother to three she is destined to be, but only one can you call your own.' The words circled endlessly.

"Wake up boy, you've got work to do." A fist of his hair yanked him to his feet.

He had readings to do.

The headaches were now so intense that the technique needed two full hours to numb the pain enough to sleep. Relaxation was taking a lot of concentration.

Night found Derik tethered to the cell floor, his talent used up, mumbling to himself, "Trip her, you have to trip her." A script of short phrases he had to learn by heart in the next three days. It was confusing, if he thought about it too much, but he had learned that by repeating a warning or phrase all day that the serpent was more likely to hear it, which somehow extended his range by a few days. Maybe he had that backwards again? No. Stop thinking about it, it only added to his confusion. Just keep repeating it.

"Trip who?" the voice said.

"I don't know."

"Then why would you?"

"I don't know. I hear myself repeating it all day tomorrow, so if I say it tonight, then I'll have heard it, yesterday? Something like that."

"You are an odd seer, boy. No wonder most do not remain sane for long."

He rehearsed the script again, it would prove important soon.

Midday chores, readings, and the always-annoying echoes from the serpent wrapped around his neck, he was rewarded with slop and partially chewed scraps for supper. It was hard not to smile when he overheard the news that one of the basement guards had died of an infection, from an eviscerated arm. Score two for the little man.

He had given them the answers to the interrogations without the need for one, but it changed nothing. It only acted to confirm the answers. With luck, over the years, this would help those tortured souls. It might even lessen that of his own, but that would not be today, or any day soon.

His task had been finished for some time now, they had simply forgotten about him again, left tethered in the room. An hour or so remained, judging by the serpent's hum, but he didn't complain. Silence was a prize wherever it was found.

He just watched, never any harm in that.

He looked at the only other person in the room. Once so full of life, it was now just a lump, hung against the wall. Broken, just a farmer, the most he had ever done was work the fields. They thought the farmer was someone else, questioned like he was, but now were satisfied with the answers Derik had given them that morning.

There was still life. Odd how often this happened, as the life of a perfect stranger dripped away, that stranger would search the room for the friendliest eyes and lock into a stare. A plea for compassion, understanding, or the desire to not die alone. He had thought to ask why, but this stage had no strength for voice. And now, the eyes drifted to the floor, an exhale, and nothing more.

Eyes open. Before his stay, he thought most would die eyes shut, but that was rarely true. Most passed like this one, eyes open. Some that passed out from the questions would open their eyes in that final gasp. And a few, a precious few, closed their eyes and slipped without notice, the way he would prefer, a sleep without a wake.

Just like that, he was alone.

In a few minutes— yes, there it was, gravity took back the last drink and meal.

Since it seemed rude to ignore someone's final moments, he had waited until now to try the technique again. It required a lot of practice, but through it he could limit the serpent's echoing noise to minutes, it was just an animal after all.

Focus, practice, breathe. That's it. The noise faded from thunder to drizzle in his mind's ear. Headaches never left him anymore, but he could lessen them to ever-greater degrees.

"Back to your cell, boy."

Where he would wait, relax, and try to sleep in the noise until night when he knew he would have a chance to talk, and to influence what may be his only chance of escape.

"Do you now know who this girl you are to trip is, young one?"

"No," Derik said. "I only hear my warning through the serpent's ear. It's not a full accounting of events, just enough to get the job done."

"Interesting trick. I wonder why the witch never thought of such."

"Hers seemed more general, mine is intimately specific. It probably wouldn't work for her."

"A running girl should not be tripped. No good can come from that. She had made the choice to run, her choice of what fate to follow. Who are you to take that choice from her?"

"I can only repeat what tiny bit I know and hope it'll be the right thing to do." Derik practiced harder.

"I have had many regrets in my life, young one. I regret believing without questioning any of The Emperor's words, and everything ever told while in his serve. I regret obeying all that was said to me, the harm is not always done to those other than me. I regret prideful rage, when it would have been best to run than fight that day."

"I regret leading the only girl I've ever cared about to a place like this."

"How much more do you plan to add to that list, young one? Be careful you do not end with such, that its size surpasses your ability to bear. Some, written in red, can never be undone. What has passed, you have to accept, but you are practicing anything but redemption. I speak as one who has had many silent years of reflection, denied any way to lessen the weight of my own."

"Help me escape," Derik said. "Help me free her. She doesn't belong here, help me set this right."

"Escape again, when I'm so close to getting freed? You have seen this place, the vastness of the troops, the towers, the archers, the open spaces between buildings. You have no idea which one is hers."

"I can find her in one touch, a matter of seconds. It's the one thing I do best, finding the lost."

"Interesting..."

"What?" He moved the length of the tether toward the voice. He focused on reading the serpent, waking it again. "What!"

"You may yet have a purpose to me. Something to find, that I forgot was lost."

"Help me free her while there's still something left of her, just name your price." The serpent didn't hear a yes, but he learned from Dana that didn't mean he should stop trying. This night would prove the serpent right.

The interrogation over, Derik was left alone with the struggling corpse for company. Hours dripped by with the pace of pinesap on a backdrop of struggles without any hope of victory. He stared at their empty eyes. Hope had nearly left Derik as well.

A partially naked girl ran past him from one of the far rooms, when he tripped her. Had she made it outside, she would have been killed and he would have been punished for not stopping her. She was still going to be killed, and worse, but he had saved himself, a beating. Himself... What had he become?

Silence, no longer the prize it once was.

"I have heard rumor that they are amassing to expand their holdings, young seer. Another line of touches for you to pass judgment upon," the voice said.

Derik wiped his face on soiled sleeve.

"How does it feel, to be helping them slaughter hundreds more than they would have, to increase their army of slaves?"

He closed his eyes, "What choice do I have?"

"The same as the priest that ended his restless nights."

"I, can't. I, have to help her."

"And if that is the source of her suffering?"

He wiped again. "I have to help her."

"There will be no screams tonight."

From morning until noon, he touched futures two days' journey away. Such vicious violence was coming through, all too clear. His talent could never be exhausted enough to undo the mounting regrets of this day. He sat in his cell, and when his breath returned, he repeated the word pain. It was the only penance he could think of.

The quiet of the night was broken by the voice from the end. "Did any of that bring them back, young one?"

Derik screamed, "Pain!"

He was out until morning that time.

He had a light duty today, just a few readings, a couple tortures and an execution. Plenty of talent and headache left for the next three days, the earliest the army would return.
**B4.C21**

"Listen, young one, can you hear? Can you smell it?" the night voice said.

"What?"

"Fear. Something is— Certainly you heard that!" Screams, low, deep, and animalistic sounds muddled the howls from the pit.

"What is it?" Derik asked.

"This cage's sister across the way, they are attacking it, burning it. Can't you smell that? Smoke, mixed with burning hair and flesh. Be ready, young one, the time may be near."

Derik stepped to the edge of the tether. "What have you decided about me?"

"I admit I am not fond of ending our midnight talks. It has been a relief I have not enjoyed since the priest made his choice. I believe you may be of use, redemption for my—"

"Hope in the end," he repeated, the serpent could only hear the words.

"There is always—"

"No, it's a message," he said, "hope in the end." Repeating faster "hope-in-the-end."

A shape, just shadows on an overcast night, leaned to the living door at the entrance of the hall. Like any other guard, it opened for this small, distorted form making its way toward him. What did his message mean? He repeated it faster, louder. It paused outside his cage. He shouted the message before it dragged its misshapen leg to the one that held his wordy friend.

The distant cage started to unwind when this enormous figure splintered through it in a sprint to the entrance of the hall, disappearing after two more splintered crashes and the louder, open-doored howls of wolves echoing down the hall.

The shape slid to a lump where pieces of door dangled. Silent. His hope in the end was now gone.

Thud thud, snap. Shadowed forms spilled down the steps at the hall's only exit.

The figure returned, a hand bigger than two from any other man gripped the bars. Pieces of gravel, rock, and block broke free under the strain, while the tether at his feet released in pain, or shear fear.

"Take my hand, boy. Tell me where this girl that extends your range is found."

"She's..." He pointed to the lump on the floor.

With the lump scooped up like a little doll, "Come then." This form was massive, agile, and fast.

Once outside, the burning buildings from across the way were the only source of light this night. It was impressive to see the shadow of a man that big running across the grounds, turning for the length of a single stride as shafts pelted his broad back instead of the lump cradled on his arm. The ax of the nearest soldier was caught in his massive free hand, violently overpowered, then swung to free the guard of his head. Flicked with his wrist like Dana tossed glass blades, the ax severed limbs from the guards at the gate, hundreds of feet away.

"PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN!" echoed from all around. Derik collapsed on the spot, while the massive figure didn't even wince. At least Dana had a chance while he—

Everything was bright red. Funny, all this time he had thought he would go to heaven. He had imagined a place of bright white, cool, and comfortable, but it would seem this was a far more fitting fate. Hot, sweaty, bright red, it was a just price someone should pay for tripping girls.

Every joint and muscle pulsed, his blood simmered, but at least the red was starting to dim.

Clouds, white on a sky of blue, were hovering above leafy trees. He blinked three times, then turned his head away from the light peaking behind the cloud.

One horse was tied to the low branch of a tree, blankets and saddlebags draped over nearby limbs. Another horse was four or five steps away, its head down, grazing. Horses went to hell? Who knew?

His eyes closed.

"Derik, future boy, your service is required." He was lightly slapped awake. "Take my hand, young one. Tell me that there is no other way than to become again, the man I once was. Tell me that running is something we can still do."

With thousands of possibilities, Derik had but one answer. "They're hours behind us, twenty or so, you'll— they won't be expecting you. You have to stop the runner with a scar on his nose first."

"It is as I hoped it was not." The man looked no older than thirty when he stood and blotted out the sun before running off.

He didn't need to know where, no descriptions of the area required. The massive man would run on foot and kill twenty or so, bare handed, no guiding words required. Nose scar was more than enough.

Derik's eyes grew heavy as the buzzing grew louder in his ears. It wouldn't be long before— he passed out.

Something was tingling, walking sticky steps across his back. He rolled over, fist ready to squash some bugs, but found Dawn curled into a little ball, cowering from his raised hand.

"Oh God, no, honey! I'm not going to hurt you," he said, but she only drew the ball tighter. "Dawn, it's ok, you scared me too."

He could barley glimpse her face hiding behind her trembling knees.

He sat a little further from her. "It's ok, honey. I'm sorry I scared you, I didn't mean to. You ok?"

She frowned a no, picked up a leaf mounded with a brownish-yellow paste, then walked to where the horse was grazing. Its head alone was big enough to hide her tiny form from his view.

He struggled to stand, but was too dizzy to walk far. Crawling became a much better idea, only ten feet or so. The horse wasn't grazing, it was licking one of Dana's hands. It stopped when he got closer, stomping a hoof and flaring nostrils while Derik cautiously sat near the hand it had licked.

A spot of blood was on Dana's neck where a serpent had been. An eye was black and swollen shut, the blows of a man instead of boyhood bullies. He looked at her hand, wet wasn't all that was wrong. The fingers were curled, knotted, and twisted; her knuckles were swollen but not discolored. They had broken her hand.

Dawn continued smearing the paste over the holes in Dana's back, sticky fingers walking again. He looked at Dana's hand and heard another hoofed stomp.

He touched it anyway.

Two stomps and a threatening snort only got worse when Dana's hand jerked to under her chin where another with a fist was formed. He saw a crack between the swollen shut eyelids and what could only be the mirrored blinking of the one nearest the ground as she lay on her side. The broken hand inched out, while the fist remained under her chin. She rested her hand on his, so he could hold what the horse had licked. He lay down in time to catch the last few blinks of her now closed eye, the horse snorted and stomped twice more.

Her lips were swollen where the upturned corners of a smile had been only a few months ago. He watched a drop of drool form, then run down her cheek to the moss covered ground, corners of her lips too swollen to seal. He was so tired. He wanted to hear all these bruises had to tell, but he was lulled into her silence, soon asleep in the body of pain he also wore.

Color dreams again. A row of cells lined one wall of a grand, open room. Girls and women were tethered across the floor with a single step of walking space between them. The guards at the entrance opened the door for whoever wanted in. It stayed open a lot. Those known to breed were kept in the cells along the wall; Dana and Dawn were in such a cell, Dawn often hiding behind her.

A warty one liked to stare at the little shape Dana hid while he did to the youngest on the floor, pointing, laughing, taunting just outside their door, until that day when he denied his urges no longer.

The guards at the entrance were gone for the day. It was quiet, just him and the last of the little girls, so broken she no longer screamed. He approached the cage, commanding the door to open.

It loosened, but did not comply. Dana leaned against the wall to stand, tucking Dawn behind her. The man commanded again, and again, then hit it with his fist when it denied a fourth order to open. The warts on his hand crackled a faint flash of blue when he laid his hands on the door. This time, it opened.

Dana limped between him and the child. Her broken hand kept Dawn behind her while her good eye focused on him, but she went down with a crackle when touched the same. She helplessly watched him step—

Little fists pounded him on the chest. Dawn was kicking his hand away from Dana's motionless, broken one.

"Stop it, Dawn," he said, not loud enough to wake anyone.

She poked a finger into his chest, covered his eyes with her palms, then covered one of his ears before she started hitting him again.

"Ok ok, I'm sorry. I didn't do any of that to her, or you."

She didn't stop. She kept kicking him with her tiny feet. Each touch could tell she wouldn't stop until he moved. Worse yet, the horse was stomping again. He moved.

Dawn sat between them hugging her knees, rocking forward and back.

"I'm sorry, Dawn."

She threw a clump of moss at him, continuing to rock.

Dana's broken hand drifted to the little girl who cradled it on her tiny lap before tossing another clump at him.

Dawn was crying now.

What had he gotten them into?

With a pounding headache, he lay down and watched from a safe distance away, eyes closed again.

"Ah, young one, you awake?"

"Yeah," Derik said.

"I have need of your talent. It would seem it is more useful than first thought." The man wiped his enormous hand on the ground before offering it to be read.

"They uh, we have to leave tonight, sundown at the latest."

"I see. It is as I feared, I cannot keep doubling back. My diversion seems not to have worked as well as I would have thought. We have an additional problem, young one."

Both looked over to Dana, soaked in sweat, shivering, and holding her stomach. Dawn, ever watchful, was rocking, teary eyed. "I'll have to touch her to find out."

Dawn answered with a clump.

"Dawn, honey, I have to—"

Clumped again.

"You care about her, I know you do. So do I. Let me help her. You know I can." He got his touch, "It'll pass in an hour. She needs water and food. A lot of water." She was burning up.

"Then I shall find you some." The man grabbed the saddlebags from the branches, then untied the horse, who immediately trotted straight to Dana, stomping and snorting until Derik backed away.

Before the trees had a chance to hide the big man, his headache had returned.

An hour later, the horse stomped toward the edge of the bushes, where the enormous man emerged. Setting the saddlebags down by the tree, the man collected the agitated horse— it actually head-butted him in the chest and had to be wrestled and tied to the tree before he could bring the bags over to the group.

"I believe that we have never been properly introduced." The man knelt before Dana. "They call me, Nyin Nabral, and I have waited a very long time to have the pleasure of your company."

She looked at Derik, "Why were you yelling to open the end?" she said, shunning the offered food and water.

"I didn't. I said hope in the end."

"That makes even less sense."

It was obvious now, her good arm was propping her up. The fingers of her broken hand were of no use, and she was trying to hide that fact from this man. "Dawn, you got more of that paste stuff?" Derik said before he moved behind Dana so she could lean on him and make use of her good hand. He made busy work with the sticky fingers on her back, most of it pretend.

"I apologize," Nyin said standing up, "it would seem I have been quite rude. My attire is vastly inappropriate for dining, even such as this is." He kissed her good hand. "I shall return when I have washed much of this out. Feel free to eat without me." He untied the guard horse in passing.

"Why free him instead of you?" she said when Nyin was gone.

"Because they— we would never have gotten past the walls and the guards without him. I'm not even sure how we— how he did it. All I remember is that soldier yelling Pa— that word and passing out."

"What word?"

"That word that would have stopped us."

"You mean pain?" she said, but his serpent didn't notice.

"How do you do that?" He stopped smearing the paste.

She ate from the bag.

"It doesn't matter, they sent twenty or so men after us—"

"Or him."

He looked at her knotted hand by her side, her purple cheek, the sweat soaked clothes wetting his. "What's wrong with... what did they do to you, and Dawn?"

"What you told them to."

The bag of water was hard for her to work with one hand, spilling a line down the front of her shirt.

"What do you know about him?" She chewed a few berries from the other bag.

"He's, he thinks he's fulfilling prophecy. Something like, uh, about a... it doesn't matter. The point is, he thinks the only way to redemption or something is by ensuring your safety. I just, I guess I was hoping to use it to help."

"Your helping me seldom works, you know." She ate another berry. "You shouldn't prey on someone's beliefs."

"He was waiting for someone to free him, who's to say that wasn't supposed to be you?"

She lightly elbowed him in his ribs, "Now's not a good time to argue." She picked a handful of berries from the bag.

"I... Guar's dead."

Dawn teared up, pressed forehead to knees, then started rocking.

"He, uh, he ran after you two. You'd be proud, he killed one and the, the one that got him, later died."

Dawn walked away.

She held the berries in her hand, while she watched Dawn in the distance. "She knew," Dana said. "She knew that day."

"I, uh, sorry."

"What is this grand plan of yours now? How friendly do you think he'll be, when he finds out you nudged him, like you do me? I can't even... It takes everything I have to sit up. I can't use my hand, or feel anything from the waist down. I have to fight to keep my eyes, my eye open." She squeezed his hand. "I wasn't afraid of dying, that place frightens me." She leaned harder on him, "I hope you've thought this out."

"I'm sure I've made it worse."

He felt her getting hot again. It came in sweating waves lasting an hour at most, but it was a long hour for her. She faded fast, mumbled a few words before he laid her down. He sat and stared at her, what was left of her. What was left? What comfort could he offer?

The childhood bite on her arm was a faint outline. It had been years since he had studied it. They had hours before night and they would have to move again, he did the one thing he knew she would appreciate. With plenty of water left, he sat by her feet and untied her shoes.

He remembered the last time he held this shoe, the same he had laced that night the strings had been stretched, knotted, then cut. Now the toe was worn paper thin, a hole the size of his thumb. The eyelets that had been deformed to slots had torn some time ago, two new holes punched further back. The laces had started to fray. The sock fared little better.

On her bare ankle, he could see the faint puncture wound drawn beside a fine line that followed the curve of her foot and calf of her leg. The same leg of his she had saved, had limped... The leather band, concealed by pant-leg and sock, still contained a few clear blades. He wet the socks then washed her feet, finding a spot in the sun for the socks to dry by the time Nyin returned.

"Will she be ready by sundown?" Nyin said.

"Yeah, ready enough. She'll have to be. They hurt her pretty bad."

"I was expecting something, different. Someone different. That is the way with the witch's words, always never as they sound to be. The picture I carried for decades in my head strayed far from this girl." On his knee beside her, his massive finger moved the hair by her neck. "Removed, and she lives. Odd, they should never have placed a serpent on her. The Emperor never would have. Why would they, I wonder?"

"Control, same as me," Derik had to answer the question.

"Clearly not the same. It was made for obedience, true, but never intended for women. A child cannot be born sharing such poisoned blood. It was why they cannot simply breed another witch when she wore one as well. She has been ruined, spoiled, a shame for what could have been. None have survived its removal before. From her looks, she may yet prove that right."

"She's more than first impressions."

"I am impressed already, young seer." He stepped back, then sat in the same form Dana had taught. "The horses are exhausted, unwilling to aid in our flight. We cannot run, so we wait, we rest. With luck, our smaller numbers and lighter loads should keep us a day ahead, all things being equal." He closed his eyes, then drew a deep breath. "I had planned this, have been fated to overcome this. Had thought I imagined all the possibilities. I didn't conceive of having to protect someone so injured. But fear not. It is a fate I can not fail."

Derik ate from one bag, drank from the other. Berries, leaves, and an onion he could have done without, it was filling, but not a real meal. But then, it wasn't someone else's scraps either. He lay down so he could look into her only open eye and hold her mangled hand. Tonight they would ride horses. Rare, beautiful horses. She would not wake in time, he would have to wake her, and she'd have one more session with the sweats before then. His reading was foggy into the following morning, most likely because she fell asleep. He had read far enough, he let go of her hand, closed his eyes, and drifted to a dream of his own.

"Young seer," Derik was rudely shaken awake, "I have prepared the horses and await a touch to tell how many more moments we can let my charge rest."

The sun was almost down. He woke her. It was time.

Nyin put one hand on the back of her knees, the other under her shoulder nearest the ground. He placed a groggy Dana onto the horse with less effort than had she been a saddlebag. Her good hand lingered on his thick neck, he leaned in for some soft words and what could have been a ki— No, it couldn't have been.

Derik had a far more difficult time helping Dawn with the same, struggling even more when he had to make his climb onto his own saddle, unassisted. It was nearly dark, made worse by the overcast. A rope linked all the horses into a single-file line, a few paces apart. Nyin had prepared each with food, water, and even some weeds for the horse so the march wouldn't have to stop.

It was silent going, just a steady wobble in sync with a bounce. He had never ridden a horse before. Fun for a while, but in the dark, he quickly learned to duck and keep low. The horse never warned of low branches, and the strength of the breeze he enjoyed was a measure of the sting that such unavoided limbs could yield. Horses were marvelous creatures, they walked faster than he could run, and had done such for the past few hours. They had already outdistanced what a man on foot could run in a day. With such a creature, they could have crossed the desert in days, a week at most. Going home... He hadn't thought about that in months, it now seemed possible.

He pressed his ear to the largest neck he had ever embraced. Louder, stronger, more resonant than even that other life he listened to, many months ago. So warm, his cheek was wet where it pressed fur, but hugged this close, he wouldn't get hit, and it was easier to keep the balance he had almost lost four times now.

When the clouds thinned, he looked around. It appeared Dana had the same idea; she was ducked low, hugging the horse's neck. It was reassuring. Little Dawn hadn't the same problems, her height was less the issue and her weight would never be a challenge to such an animal. Perhaps her arms weren't long enough to reach around its thick neck? Nyin was far in the lead and the hardest to glimpse, but was the least fazed by branch slaps, unfazed by everything thus far. Twenty had been dispatched in minutes, reduced to just stains on a ripped shirt.

Hours of bouncing in the dark were punishing to Derik's lower back. He winced with each hoofed step, and it was getting worse. His hand-covered coughs were distracting the horse so much that he had to pet the side of its neck just to keep it from paying his troubles any mind. It was surprising that this was one of the horses charged into battle. Yelling, screaming, blood and sounds of exploding violence it ignored without notice, but his muffled coughs, it paid mind to.

That hardly seemed right. But every cough caused a slight pause.

Headaches, backaches, coughs, it wasn't looking good. He was begging to stop, if he had the breath for it. But he hadn't. Dizzy instead.

When they finally stopped, Nyin was getting neighed, stomped, and snorted at by a horse. Nyin raised one fisted hand while the other held the reins and the massive head still. It didn't flinch, it didn't calm down, it may even have stomped on his foot. Nyin let go and walked away, shaking his head when another horse came to its aid, now two against one.

"What's up with the horses?" Derik asked him after getting down. His legs didn't seem to work anymore, so he leaned on the horse until the feeling came back.

"It happened again, as it did that first night. The horses are not tired, they simply refuse to go further. I thought changing them would help, but it didn't, and we just don't have them to spare."

"Maybe a little rest will help."

"Those that follow will not be resting so frequently, young seer." He took the boy's hand, "Tell me again, that we have run far enough this night. That I have a choice other than that I was born to be."

Derik shook his head no.

"I see. This will narrow their search to the direction of scouts not reporting back, even should I get them all. It is either here, where I must protect; or there, where I must simply kill. I shall be back; I have a destiny to fulfill."

Derik leaned on the horse while the tingling slowly faded, walking would be possible soon. Nyin had run off. This second glimpse was as frightening as the first. Quick, lethal, Nyin was a full-sized Guar.

When legs allowed, he made his way in the pre-morning dim to the other horses to help little Dawn down. His throbbing back stumbled him so badly that he almost dropped the little girl. Riding a horse was faster, but it had drawbacks. He decided not to lift the saddle and bags, just unfasten them, then slide them off to fall to the ground.

He worked his way, horse to horse, until it was time for the two huddling in front. When he stepped closer, they stepped away. Stepped closer, hoofed away. As he inched carefully closer, he saw that the two were tied to a tree and were three or four paces from the desperate end of the rope.

"It's ok. Just, be calm," he said as the closest one stomped the ground. "It's ok. I can't hurt you, wouldn't if I could. I'm just a little guy. I just want to help you get that heavy saddle off."

It made a deep snort and simultaneous stomp, no wonder Nyin wanted to hit this horse.

"Just calm down, I'm not going to get much closer." He took another step. "Just listen to my voice, hear how calm I am. You remember me from the day before." It nipped at his hand. "Don't jerk your hand, it won't bite hard. Don't get any closer." He repeated the serpent's warning aloud.

As it got brighter every minute, he could see a dark line the width of his little finger that started about shoulder level on the horse's neck and feathered down its leg to darkened hairs by the first joint.

"It's ok. Just breathe, easy and slow. Relax. It's ok. I'm not going to hurt you."

He petted it on the side of its face and down its neck to the top of the wet line. It was sticky, blood. The horse didn't seem to mind, it wasn't sore.

"It's ok now. I'm going to just walk over and loosen the saddle." He slid it off with a thud, "See, doesn't that feel better?"

Another sharp pain bolted down his lower back. Damn it hurt, his knees tingled too. He regained his posture over the next few minutes by leaning on the horse.

"I'm just going to walk to the other side of you now, ok?"

It nosed him in the center of his chest, knocking him to the ground.

"That was uncalled for," Derik said. His bottom smarting enough from the riding, he didn't need this too.

He wasn't together enough to stand, so he sat and reflected, looking up at the horse. The one behind it had the same darkened line, feathered near the knee. It trailed up the leg to an arm and a head, hidden by long hair.

"You ok, Dana?" He tried to stand.

Nosed down.

He could see her arms around the horse's neck, her good hand gripped the wrist of the other. Her dangling feet on either side of its belly only moved when the horse took a step. He sat, the horse allowed little else. He closed his eyes and read every possible word the serpent might hear him say until he stumbled across, "I've been keeping some words that belong to you, for you, that I haven't said in a while." He repeated such words until he touched the horse, and the girl.

She was pale. The lips that wouldn't seal had dripped the finger-wide blood trail. Dana was heavier than Dawn, taking all his strength this time. He loosened her grip on her wrist, moved her arm to around his neck, then, with a deep breath, he pulled her from the saddle. They landed as a pile with her on top.

The force of the fall knocked the—

It was noon when he woke, or close enough to it. The sun shining straight down, he noticed Dana's weight was no longer on him. He wouldn't swat at the sticky fingers on his back this time.

He slowly sat to be sure not to startle Dawn while he looked around. "Honey, I'm not the one hurt, she is." He could see the wet red of Dana's back, but sticky fingers continued. "What do you mean no?"

She put the leaf down to better talk with her hands. She poked her finger to his chest three times, wiped an imagined tear, pointed to Dana, then pinched the fabric of her tiny shirt as if to take it off then put it back on. Confident that it should be obvious even to him, she picked up the leaf then dipped her fingers again.

Blood, pain, and suffering, he had seen a lifetime's worth in the last few weeks and had become numb to it. Worse yet, he had participated in it. He stared at the lump that was Dana, the wet of her shirt, and the puddle under her lips. He felt... nothing. Was unmoved by the sight of it. He had lost a lot back there.

Nyin noticed his sitting status and approached. "She is worse now than the day before. Our only chance to stay ahead of them is on horseback. A few more days of that, even should the horses obey— She may not last the night."

Derik touched the massive hand, "We can't stay. They have a direction, the numbers, surprise is no longer yours."

"Use your gift, seer, find the way. She is my charge, young one. I am to see her to safety. That is my destiny, and redemption."

"I... I'm sorry. I can't see—"

"Then think of one."

"I'll try."

Nyin gathered the horses and led them to a field, perfect for grazing.

Derik watched Dawn move her fingers across Dana's back, adding little clumps to slow the flow. An army stalked hours behind them, the same that had numbed him to all of this, the same that had done such to her... to him. He looked over the two of them. That caring little girl, less than ten feet away, was in a place he no longer belonged.

If there was to be a way, he would have to touch her.

He eventually crawled over. Dawn had been rubbing Dana's hand until it almost looked normal. A trot? Camouflage? Hide, or maybe a constant walk with the horses, similar to what she had done with her knee? He touched. All of these would get them caught or killed. Worse, she could not be woken for more than a few minutes today, and it was entirely possible she would not wake at all if she went for a ride like before. She simply couldn't take it.

She could not be moved, and they must move to avoid being found. Even Nyin could not stop the accumulating numbers chasing after them. Two groups to date had stopped reporting from the same direction. A concentration of manpower was focusing behind them. He had to think of a way. He released her to save the touch that was perhaps the only edge they had.

Dawn ate from the bag while staring at him.

"I'm sorry. I, I can't think of anything." He lay down, facing the girls. His back was still bothering him while greater pressure built behind his eyes, forcing them closed.

"You must wake, young one," Nyin said between light slaps on Derik's face.

"... What is it?"

"It was a dexterity game when I was a child." He pulled Derik to a sit. "We would race between two bowls, one empty, one full. The trick was to carry water from one to the other, one spoonful at a time. I was never defeated."

"I don't understand."

"The trick is to move as fast as you can without spilling a drop."

"Yeah, I get that but—"

"I could run when others could only walk. She is the spoon from which no drop must be spilled."

"Yeah but, you can't—"

"Take my hand and prove it to yourself. Test this idea in the safety of what might be, before it becomes what is, what must be."

He did. All his questions, answered. This man would hold her in one arm and keep pace with— No, set the pace at just under a horse's trot. No harm would come to her. Derik was once more, in awe.

"We need a when, young seer, if you are satisfied we now have a how."

"Uh, just before sunset would be plenty of time."

"A few hours then, good." Nyin looked at the two girls on the horse-blanket. "She looks a lot like her mother. Funny, I can't see much of you in the child."

"Dawn."

"Dawn and Dana, and Derik. A family bound by the letter D, funny."

"It wasn't meant to be." Derik caught himself staring too.

"It seldom is. Psychology is a slippery thing best viewed from a distance. It matters not, it is still a pretty name, and she is still a cute little girl. It is a good thing she was not left there much longer; they have a way of making such beauty wither from within." Nyin sat in a form similar to the technique. "We are fighting two fights now, her health worsened by movement, and worse only hours behind. I do not need your touch to know I cannot defeat them again. It will be groups of more than twenty now, hundreds even. By now, they have ample reinforcements.

Mother and daughter, the two blooming seeds so close to that The Emperor sought. It would have been interesting to see which was the closest match to the woman's remains, surrounded by birds, but it is obvious, and a shame."

"I suppose."

"A few hours then, young seer. Young Derik."

"A few hours."

"Good, this is good. Problem solved. It is becoming clear you were to have more of a role in this than just her guide to me." Nyin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I am glad to have someone to talk to." But he said nothing more until dark.

The horses were saddled and tied so the one in the lead guided them all. Night travel made that a necessity. With limited visibility, it would be easy to lose sight of each other. Nyin had devised yet another trick to be used. Since Dawn's weight was meaningless to a horse, the two should change horses often. It would keep the horses as fresh as possible. The plan was to ride the next two days with never more than a ten-minute stop every few hours, day and night.

For the most part, Dana lay unconscious on the moss while the horses were readied and Dawn was lifted into place. Derik went to her motionless form and tried to wake her, but groggy was the best he could do. "We've got to go now," he said, reading hard for any reply. Nothing.

Nyin approached. "She will survive it, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Help me remove her shirt."

"What?"

"She is injured on her back, correct? I must see in order to avoid—"

Derik pulled off his shirt and turned his back to the man. "It's exactly the same as me. Only worse."

"Very well."

Nyin had her cradled like a doll on one arm by the time Derik buttoned his shirt. It would be hours before anyone but Nyin would feel ground beneath their feet again.

By morning, he had gotten good at changing horses; it was actually easier to change on the run than he thought. He would wait for a stretch in the open where he would be assured a wide enough path to get two horses side by side, then either pull the rope of the one tied behind or speed up to catch the one in lead. Either way, the guide rope posed the only problem; if given enough slack, it could tangle and trip the horse. A warning from Nyin that would never have occurred to Derik, though he liked to believe the serpent's constant buzzing would have provided warning enough.

They weren't traveling fast, only a light trot to the horse. His ear pressed to its neck was not soon made wet, little effort at all to such a creature. And it was such a creature. Strong, fast, excellent at living off the land. And the distances they could travel! Had they had such animals at home, it would have made trade with others so much easier. But they, like many things he had seen of late, were best abused for war.

Trading horses every so often would force an army of a hundred to have two hundred just to keep up. From his discussions with Nyin, the most horses ever counted numbered well under a thousand, and hundreds of horses would never be expended even if they were bred by artificial means like Nyin suggested. Every two days that they could maintain this pace would increase their lead. In a week or two, the gap would be insurmountable, but the next few days were key.

Noon, or near enough, it was certainly the hottest part of the day. Nyin had laid Dana down in the shade of a distant tree, but was still kneeling, inches from her head. The brush between them hid everything else, but Nyin was definitely lingering. By the time Derik got off the horse, fell to the ground, and made it back to his feet, Nyin had taken two horses and was gone.

Standing was a struggle, the pain in his back was the same as the day before, and they had the rest of this day and all of the next yet to go. Dawn was holding her arms out. This he understood; she wanted down.

"You'll have to wait a second, honey." Derik leaned on the horse, "Or a few minutes. Why didn't you ask Nyin to let you down?"

An emphatic no.

"Ok." He made a few timid steps with the horse, then a few more on his own. It was going to hurt, but was worth it when she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him for that safe ride to the ground. She surprised him with a kiss on his cheek before she ran off to the bushes. If he could run, that would have been a good idea; he settled for a limp and less privacy.

By the time he was done, Dawn had taken off her moccasins and socks, and was sitting in the shade of the tree with Dana. Dawn was so happy to see him, she was waving and pointing his way, her fingers motioning around her little lips warned him to walk quieter. She waved and pointed more until he slowed to make even less sound. That must have been quiet enough; she stopped waving.

He sat beside them in time for Dawn to lean over and punch him. "Ouch!" he said, rubbing his arm, "What?"

She was jumping up and down while pointing at the horses he had just walked past, a hand on her stomach before gesturing at Dana.

"Oh. Why didn't you say something when I was over there?" He winced before the little girl punched him in the arm. She could easily be Dana's daughter.

The food and water in the bags were inches beyond her shorter legs' reach. She wouldn't or couldn't speak, and he was doing a miserable job of listening. It was so clear. Now. Of course, the headache wasn't helping, it had gotten worse, but he was reluctant to exhaust his talent just to ease his pain with so many chasing behind. He had to save it, every bit of it.

He fetched the bags.

Frustrated again, he put them down when Dawn refused to let him sit, pointing instead to a specific spot behind Dana. "What are you trying to say now?"

She pinched him on the arm, then did the same to Dana.

"I don't—"

She did it again, that was when he realized Dana's pinch was holding the shape much longer.

"Oh." He got the water out first. Dawn took the bag from him, then pointed to the ground behind Dana. He sat. She touched one of his hands then pointed to Dana's head. She touched his other hand then pointed just under Dana's arm. He was slow but it was coming back, Dana had done the same for him in the desert. He propped her up, best he could, mindful of wounds he well knew. Only when they were sitting did Dawn open the flap on the water bag and hand it to him. Dana coughed the first swallow, but drank all that came after.

Just keeping Dana sitting was a lot of work, but it was worth it, if for nothing more than Dawn's little smiles between pickings of her favorite foods in the other bag. All he had to do was hold out his hand and she would fill it with whatever she was eating at the time. Before too long, he was full and Nyin returned to take the other two horses to the waterhole, where he would clean and inspect their hooves.

This was to be the longest stop of the day, about an hour, mostly out of a consideration for the horses. What better time to stop than when it was the hottest, but it would be over soon. He had saved his talent all day for this. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to hers. Blank. Strong, but blank, just the sounds of footsteps and the occasional focusless glance, but it was mostly blank. There wasn't much he could do to bring her around. He had never seen her this bad. His headaches had worsened.

After riding for hours, Dawn and he switched horses. Not that Dawn changed horses much; with her weight, there was little point. It was more like he was switching between three horses. This was his last change before night. Even as good as he was getting with swapping horses mid-stride, he wasn't about to try in this much dark.

He woke on the horse, nearly tossed off the saddle. He struggled to get back upright in the dark. Nyin had warned him of such, and good thing for it. Without the advice, he wouldn't have thought to tie himself to the saddle and easily would have fallen by now. He put a lot of trust in Nyin, a man he truthfully knew little about, and much of that could be a lie. He had assumed Nyin wore a serpent, like everyone in the cells. Nyin didn't. Both girls were guarded around him. Dana hid her hand, and Dawn waited for Derik's slow help before trusting this man. But neither had known Nyin that long. The only truth he knew for sure was that they had no choice.

He was slowly learning how frustrated Dana must have felt, growing up with him.

This was the second journey he had made without knowing where they were heading, not that it mattered. Now was not the time to discuss such things, away was all he needed to know. If any knew best how to elude those following behind, it was Nyin. Just ride, that's all he had to know for now.

The bounces still hurt his lower back, just much less now that they were at a trot. His inner-thighs were worn raw and his ribs hurt from bumping the saddle horn whenever he hugged the horse to keep from falling off.

Asleep or blacked out, he wasn't sure which, either way he woke when the horse came to a stop. Nyin was lingering over the head of a form lying on a blanketed, distant mossy ground.

Untied from the horse, Derik promptly fell to the ground. His stiff and tingling legs needed his arms and the saddle to stand. Whatever was happening, Derik was powerless to do anything about it.

Nyin tended the lead horses before offering Dawn a hand, only to have her slide down the other side then dart behind the nearest brush.

Nyin approached the last horse, Derik's. "She seems to be improving," Nyin said, "or, at the very least, we have halted her fall to worse. I am concerned about one of her hands; she hides it from me for some reason. If it's broken, it should be splinted to keep the bones from healing wrong. Either way, she will not let me tend to it, and I doubt you could tend the needs four horses. A touch to be sure all will be well until I return."

Derik nodded after the touch. With that, his leaning horse and Nyin were gone.

He wobbled to the blanket where Dana was lying on her side. Her swollen-shut eye was now only bruised, and the puffiness was replaced with a darkened blue. Her hand remained a twisted knot. He looked, but Dawn wasn't around, so he eased up the back of Dana's shirt.

This was his first look at the wounds she wore for him. Near— No, fatal wounds, if worn by other than her. A glimpse of white in the hole on her lower back, where the arrow had nicked the spine, caused the struggle in his walk. The next higher would blow pink bubbles were it not for the scab, a punctured lung, his pained breathing, and the ink for feathered lines down the horses' legs. Last, and highest of all, was an inch or so below her left shoulder blade. A spot on her back he had marked with his finger for a cute little girl to rest a tired ear. He couldn't bear to look anymore, covering them with her shirt.

He lightly pinched her arm. A discolored eye opened long enough to guide her hand to his. She wasn't dehydrated; she'd be ok. She was in no danger of getting worse. Nyin had trotted four horses to exhaustion while carrying her on one arm, the same arm for two days, spilling not so much as a drop.

"I love you, you know," Derik said.

She squeezed his hand, eyes closed.

"You thirsty?"

No.

"Hungry?"

"... Tired." She let go of his hand.

He stretched out on the blanket, lying on his stomach to avoid more harm to his back. He looked at her bruised face, the lips that didn't drool. She was in someone else's hands now. Those strong, capable hands he had always envisioned her in.

Hands that were not his.

Nyin plucked two rocks from the ground, cracked them together like eggs, and dragged the most jagged edge vertically along a leg-sized tree in the distance. Nyin paused, looked at Derik, and ran the stone around the trunk at the top and bottom of the line, then peeled the bark off in a thick sheet. He separated the inner rings and replaced the bark such that from a distance it looked untouched. Fashioned the same way Dana made wooden plates, Nyin did it much faster and created a thicker sheet.

Nyin ripped four strips from the closest blanket as he approached. Derik struggled to sit by the time Nyin reached them with cloth and an oblong plate in hand.

"It is as I thought. You have not seen to what I asked. Did you not know how, young Derik?"

"I'm sorry."

Nyin held the wood's edge near her elbow, gripped a spot even with the joint of her longest finger, then ripped the wood like paper. "Here, your fingers are smaller than mine. The thickest strip is for padding between wood and skin, one tie by the elbow, one by the wrist, and the last by her fingers. Remember, just tight enough to immobilize her hand, not stop circulation. Feel for the bones of her hand, they must be kept straight if they are to heal properly. My fingers are more for the breaking of such fragile things, ill suited for mending.

It is nothing to be embarrassed about. Knowledge is not something we're born with, it's the sum of everything we've figured out." Nyin stood, then looked around. "Ah, there she is, trying to hide." He supervised Derik while he worked hard with the splint. "She is right to be wary of someone my size. I suspect she would run in fear if she had seen the side I shared with you."

"She hasn't had a lot of good experiences with strangers in her life." Derik lightly rubbed the back of Dana's hand, checking the straightness of bones. Many, delicate bones. It was so similar to what Dawn had done. How could he have watched and not known?

"Fear is a good thing. It often keeps us from doing stupid things. I feared nothing my entire life, and have filled it with regret. I shall bring some bags closer to you, then stay with the animals. It is the company I am most accustomed to."

Dawn finally made her way to the blanket, now that Nyin was not so near.

It seemed odd, wrong even, that Derik should be in such a need of rest after riding a horse. The horse had done all the work, yet it was tiring to him. Then there was Nyin, who only stopped because hooves couldn't keep up. Nyin's endless energy seemed the most tiring of all.

He read her to make sure. If he shook her hard, she would wake, but it wouldn't be anything coherent. Dawn seemed ok, so he lay down again.

"The horses are rested, saddled and ready to ride, young Derik." Nyin woke him. "Come on now, we have a princess to save."

Derik was plucked to his feet. Dawn had already picked out her horse and was impatient for assistance when he walked over. The nap on his stomach had improved his back, but he still wasn't ready. "Kneel this time, don't stoop." He repeated the serpent's warning aloud. When he knelt down, Dawn wrapped her arms around his neck. Then, all he had to do was pull himself up, and she was on the horse. Much better, that wasn't painful at all.

He had wondered where Nyin had been keeping Dana's blanket. Now he knew. With Dana cradled on one arm, Nyin folded the blanket into a neat square then placed it in the hand that held her legs. The cushion under her knees was only visible from the front.

They were now moving faster than a trot, but had yet to make the horses sweat. While the sun set, then fell, Nyin pulled further away. The gap was getting harder for the lead horse to keep, now that it had gotten dark and hoofed steps became less sure. The horses were tied to each other, but only sight tethered them to Nyin. It made sense the way it had been explained, Nyin may be as fast or even as strong as a horse, but he didn't outweigh it. Should he step when the horse wasn't ready, the horse would not be the one to fall. It made sense, tripping hazards of a slack rope not withstanding.

Nyin could obviously leave them behind, should he choose. The horses showed more fatigue than Nyin at the end of two days, and he was not sure how much faster Nyin could go. In visions, Nyin outran a man fleeing on horseback. Should he snap or turn on them, the one clear thing was that their survival hinged on this man's graces. Dana was the only one who was prophecy bound to be delivered to safety. They were just along for the ride, providing the horses could keep up. He snacked from the bag before changing horses that final time. Sleep was his only relief from pain, and it wasn't sleep so much as passing out.

The stopped trot woke him. He could make out Nyin kneeling in the distance and Dana's upset voice. Her words were not clear, but her tone was unmistakably angered. He got off his horse, the one in the rear.

Nyin stood then walked away before Derik had time to approach. Dana was sitting on the ground, picking at her splinted hand, biting at the knots.

"What's wrong?" Derik said, "Is it too tight?"

"Did you put this— take it off, untie it." She was shaking it.

"You shouldn't be flailing it around if it's broken."

"Untie it. Untie it now!" She held it out, steadying herself with her good hand.

He untied it while she wiped her cheek on her sleeve.

"I can't stand to be tied. I hated that brace I had to wear on my knee. I hated it." Flexing her fingers and wrist when free, she wiped her face again.

"If it's broken—"

"It's not."

"But if—"

"Help me up."

It was a struggle, but he managed. She gestured a direction for them to limp. When they were out of sight from the rest, she pointed to a tree for him to lean her against, in a partial squat. He walked enough steps to give her some privacy, then waited until she asked for help again. They limped together another twenty steps or so, when he could tell she was exhausted and ready to sit down.

"Was it your bright idea to have him carry me?" she said, her panting slowed enough to talk.

"No, but we didn't have a choice. You wouldn't have survived another horseback ride, and we would have gotten caught if we stayed longer than we did."

"Those aren't the same horses. Only one of them is."

"I didn't—" the serpent tightened until her touch.

"He killed them, didn't he?"

"Probably. He, I never asked. He couldn't leave them behind. It's the only way they'll... They're beautiful creatures, but, they're just animals."

"Like us."

He closed his eyes and read her. They had time until Nyin's return.

"You don't get it, do you?" She leaned into him, "It's not broken. It's arthritis, hot-flashes, cramps, I'm going through menopause."

He put his arm around her.

"They would bring an older woman in, set her in the corner by the door. Then a man like Nyin would look at my face to see which side the faded bruise was on. He'd beat her on the other side. They would leave for a while to give it time to swell and start to show.

When it told enough, they'd drag her over to me, tie our hands together, then they would put Dawn in the same corner by the door before they left.

That woman would plead with me, she would beg me to do nothing, to let her use to them end, to let her free from that hellish existence. She would tell me of when they captured her, of the months she spent in a tent on the march there, of the beatings, of the torment that only paused while she lay pregnant on the floor. The nights she would pray to die in childbirth. How she watched those children grow, taking their place on the floor or in and out the door.

She didn't understand how it worked.

When they came back... " She stopped to find his hand. "In the mornings after, when only women were in the rooms, Dawn would come over to me, would kiss me with little tears in her eyes until I woke. She would make a little fist and keep all the telling bruises fresh."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I don't ever want to be tied again, do you understand? She's not going back, neither am I. And he's not going to carry me anymore."

"He has to." He read her to make sure. "You'll be unconscious by morning riding a horse. You have to."

"I don't."

"I know you just want to sit here and wait. You think they'll just pass you by, that they're really after him. That might be true, but they will find us, and Dawn, whoever they're searching for. It's the only way we can stay ahead of 'em." He ran his fingers through her hair. "He's not that bad, I don't think."

"He never shuts up, always one horrible story after another, whether it looks like I'm listening or not."

Derik almost laughed, "Yeah, I know. He'll start repeating 'em soon. He's lonely. He's been very alone for a very long time. They tortured him with silence."

"I wish he'd use some silence with me."

"He's coming. Let," he checked, "let me talk to him and he should leave you alone, for the rest of today anyway."

He met Nyin halfway.

"Look, Nyin," Derik said. "One of her lungs was punctured. She doesn't have the breath to argue with you, just talking is harmful to her. I know it's difficult, but I promise, whenever we stop, I'll stay up and talk to you, if you give her some peace."

"I apologize, young—"

"It's ok. We're still ahead of them, but we have to keep going." He touched Nyin. "She won't like it, but she'll let you pick her up. Don't apologize, don't say a word, just pick her up."

A helping hand for Dawn and they were riding again.

They stopped a few more times, Nyin setting Dana down on a flung blanket before gathering the horses. It was now a distinct pattern and everyone was familiar with their roles. Derik's task was to get Dawn off the horse before Nyin could get the saddles off the other three. It wasn't something he could always do; Nyin was quick. After Nyin had gone to the grazing spot, Derik would usually have twenty minutes to check on Dana. She was getting better every day, but the squabble with Nyin was the longest he had seen her conscious and coherent.

Every two days they stopped for ten or twelve hours to give the horses, and everyone else, a break. He prepared by trading horses a final time then lashing himself to it, padding the saddle horn, and hugging the horse until he fell asleep. This way, he could be fresh for Nyin's long talk. He had promised not only to listen, but participate. This morning they stopped for just such a conversation.

Nyin and Derik sat a comfortable distance from the girls. It was odd to hear Nyin this silent, but he was just sitting, staring at the same two girls.

"I have met healers before," Nyin said. "Usually it's limited to cuts, bruises, broken bones at most. The strongest The Emperor could breed would be exhausted and bedridden for a week after healing broken bones, but they never wore the wounds. It never caused them to be injured themselves. She is something rarer. Something different. She is not a healer, young one."

"Not exactly. I guess not."

"Her hand was not broken as it appeared to be. She can be quick to anger."

"Yeah," Derik said.

"You've known her since childhood, grew up with her?"

"... My best friend."

"I can see why you could not stop thinking of her. She will never be yours, you know." Nyin's gaze never left the distant two.

The morning light let him look at this big, sitting man. Nyin's hands alone were huge, Dana's legs rested in one as comfortably as Dawn could fit on Derik's lap. His arms were thicker than most legs. His feet maintained the large proportions, but the shoes, it almost made him laugh to look at them. The shoes were just the leather tops, held on by the laces and the graces of gravity, while the soles were completely gone. The biggest toe of one and the littlest of the other foot showed, socks frayed to strings trailing a knotted mess by his heel.

"The horse she rode that first night had to be destroyed to remove her from its back. I had never fought a horse before. I had never been attacked by one either. I put her on mine and ran beside it for a few hours, until it too refused to continue. The same happened with each and every horse she was placed on." Nyin looked down to him, "You never had a chance, young one."

They sat and looked at the two girls.

"She's spent years more with you than the time she spent with the horses, animals trained to charge fearless into battle, animals that would now die to protect her. Do you know the secret to the first one?"

Derik sat, silently.

"Its fight was limited. It wouldn't run, or rear up. It could have defeated me, it would have had a chance had it tried, but it wouldn't take the risk of further harm to her. I suspect the serpent she was fitted with came to the same conclusions, die rather than harm as ordered. You hadn't a chance, young one. I suspect you never did. She owns you."

Dawn and Guar were won over by the first touch. She wanted to stay and he had to find the way, touched at the gate. He had wanted other from her and it never was nudged to be. "Aren't you afraid the same might happen to you?"

"They tried to poison me, burn me, stone me, drown me. I am as The Emperor created me. I am as I was named, and nothing can harm me."

"... But if I can read you, and the same with the witch—"

"Not the same, young one." Nyin touched the boy, "Read me now."

He saw nothing but Nyin sitting, frozen in place until the army surrounded them in two days. One, pure constant.

"You see? I can use you, the same as the witches before you. I have had many lifetimes worth of your kind with talents like yours. I can even tell your future, young one."

Derik was reading his hardest ever, but the words came only when Nyin spoke them.

"All seers, be they like the witch, long and vague; or like you, short and clear; all the generations The Emperor bred ended the same, imprisoned in the madness of their own mind. And those were designed and bred to be the most useful, the most stable, not random accidents. You will die young, mad, insane perhaps. I am surprised it has not started yet. By the time you reach your mid-thirties, you will have trouble remembering your name. You won't be able to tell vision from life. It is a sad fate, I'm afraid."

Derik played with the dirt by his knees. "Thanks."

"I see. You still do not wish to speak of her, too many thoughts occurring to you, too many to sift, just now. You can remember all the fights the master of words lost to her, all the wants of hers you could do nothing but answer. It is a hard thing, realization, ownership as a slave. I was born to take the place of one. I lived, fought, and was imprisoned as one. And here I am now, slave of destiny. Win the heart of she who frees me, then too, shall I finally be free."

"... Yeah, you keep telling me."

"To other things then, how many and how far behind?" Nyin was willing to be read.

"Uh, too many to count. Some two horses each, wagons hours further behind. A full day behind."

"A full day to the wagons in back, but that is me running to them, meeting in the middle, correct."

"Yeah—" the serpent tightened "more than the middle, you are measurably faster."

"Two days ahead. Our gap has grown. About as I figured them to be, but they can't sustain that pace for long. This is good, very good. It is all happening as it should. A week to gain a day."

They discussed other things, most were stories Nyin had told before. He was used to them by now. Just listen, that was the most important thing. The one of the priest was his favorite, but he was noticing the stories were not always the same, though they were only minor differences. It was the same pattern when he quoted the witch's words, but the gist remained. Dana's heart was to be Nyin's, not his, the same the witch had told him in line that first day.

**B4.C22**

In the two weeks since they broke out, the wagons supplying the army were proving the liability Nyin had foretold. They had changed their choice of terrain to exaggerate that factor and had grown their lead to a solid two days. It didn't sound that impressive, but there was a lot of comfort in two days.

Nyin's carrying skills improved with use, giving Dana a chance to heal. With enough effort, she could now make short use of her bad hand. The bruises were gone, and with some limited success, she could briefly stand. Her conscious state sometimes extended to nearly half an hour, a vast improvement over the few minutes it had been. But he was seldom to benefit from them. This silence deal with Nyin had cost him time with Dana, and Dawn.

He missed them both, as the two men sat a fair distance from the girls.

But it was what must be.

Bed rest and constant care for a few months would have done Dana far more good, but they hadn't the time. Carrying was the best they could do. Nyin often set a pace that was at the edge of the lead horse's sight, usually the last one Dana had ridden. It would do anything to keep up. It had become his favorite, now that he was able to tell them apart. It was the only one to notice his coughs. He was jealous of the effortlessness, the time, and the closeness of carrying Dana on a distant arm. Knowing that it was the only way didn't make it better. She had used him, it was so clear now. How could he have never seen it?

He had lived it, and missed everything.

The sun was setting and Nyin had disappeared, outdistancing the lead again. The horses had been at a full trot for hours and were nearing what should be the end of day two in desperate need of a stop, but Nyin was pouring it on.

The lead horse was starting to panic, a little foamy at the mouth—

They stopped. When they caught up, Dana was sitting on the tossed blanket. Nyin was nowhere to be found.

"Where'd Nyin go?" he asked Dana after getting Dawn off her horse.

"He doesn't discuss things with me; I guess he assumed you would know." She smoothed the blanket beside her.

"I uh," he looked around a bit, "I should get the saddles and stuff off, I guess."

"I guess. Unless he's planning to lead us further tonight. Maybe you should ask him."

He was about to read the serpent but stopped, staring at her.

"He's not in charge. We didn't elect him to be the leader, or savior. The two of you never asked me if I wanted to be carried, it never occurred to you to ask. You never asked me where I wanted to go. You're still doing this to me. It's my life." She smoothed the last wrinkle. "You don't know where he's gone, I don't know where he's going, or what he plans to do when he gets there."

"We're running away. I don't know where, does it matter?"

"Why don't you discuss that with him tonight, while you avoid me."

"I'm not av—" it constricted.

"... Did you ever love me? Was that a lie too?"

"I love you. I don't remember ever not loving you." He knelt on the dirt beside the blanket.

"... So you believe," she said.

"You're not the only one who would rather have stayed put in the woods till they caught us. Riding's not easy on me. My legs are sore, my back hurts from the constant bouncing, I can't walk right for the first twenty minutes, and I don't like sitting so far away from you, the two of you, listening to him. I'd rather talk to Dawn, but that wasn't the choice; the choice was him talking to you, upsetting you, or me. As for me, I'd rather be home, if it wasn't for the empty room."

He sat and watched her gather her breath, still a long way from healed.

"The serpent only hears things," he said. "Can I touch you?"

Yes.

He did. "He, uh, we get a hot meal today."

Derik started digging the pit, not far from where she sat, bigger and deeper than those he had dug before. He knew this task well, what he didn't know was how to make the fire. But he knew Nyin would be back soon.

The girls watched him while he dug. Dawn sat beside her at first, then, toward the end, she lent little hands to the hole. She had always liked playing in dirt. She even gathered an armful of kindling, pity they had nothing to light it with.

Dawn busied herself with polishing then stacking the few fist-sized rocks from the hole. She liked playing with them, rearranging them, using one to smooth the pointy edges of another. She was very particular about them and had sorted them into several piles based on roundness, curves, shape, and size. It was clear there was a purpose to the piles.

Dana had lain down; digging holes were not as interesting to her, neither were sorted round rocks.

The next normal thing to do would be to refill the hole with a nice bed of heat-holding stones. Rather than take a chance on angering Dawn, he pointed at each pile then to the hole until she gave a nod. The jagged, sharp ones, the biggest pile, it should have been obvious. Why hadn't the serpent— he hadn't asked aloud, and Dawn would never have answered aloud. He just shook his head. He hadn't quite caught on, the serpent only hears.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, the serpent had no ears. He learned through Nyin that it heard by resting its jaw on his throat, which was why mumbling to himself worked so well. It also did more than feed off his blood with that bite it never released. More than a month had passed, and he could feel its fibers weaving into his spine while sounds became ever clearer.

But loss of blood and fibers were the least of his concerns, his body had absorbed a lethal dose of poison. A trick that gave it complete control over him. To pain, immobilize, or kill, it simply withheld the antidote. He would die when it did. He was stuck with it, much like Nyin, and simply needed to make the best of it.

He had distracted himself again, and returned to lining the pit.

Nyin returned with a large animal. A young deer perhaps, it was hard to tell. Missing all its extremities, gutted, skinned, bones plucked from sockets, all that remained was just the most usable, sizable pieces of meat. All the messy work had already been done. If glimpses of battles were any clue, it happened quickly, Nyin could kill with a single blow. It may even have been more than one animal. From size alone, it looked to be an easy sixty pounds, a week's worth of food, depending on how much Nyin could eat.

Nyin inspected the hole. "Good, young one. It is of adequate size and depth." He pruned a sapling of most of its branches like a child would pluck needles from a pine, then twisted it at its base, breaking flush with the ground. He drove it into the dirt near the pit before hanging the meat on the remaining branches. "It would appear fire is the next order of the day."

"Yeah, uh, how?"

Nyin used some kindling too large to fit the pit. Laying one piece on his forearm, running from elbow to wrist, he held the tip of another in his hand. "It's simple really," his large fingers dragged the tip across the cradled length of the other. "Heat is relative to speed and friction, multiplied by pressure, of which I have an ample supply." The screeching was a testament to the immense pressure applied when he rubbed the two together. What wasn't turned into noise was turned into heat, as the tip at his fingers crumbled in size. "Easy." It started smoking, and, with a few puffs on the ample shavings, it was flame. Even the shield wasn't this fast. A match, like horses and whatever meat that was, would have had trouble keeping up with this man. "I trust the rest is in your capable hands, young Derik." With a slight bow to Dana, he turned to the woods. "It appears I have soiled my clothing once again. I shall return when suitably clean."

With Nyin gone, Derik tended the fire, adding the rest of the kindling before searching for more.

Dawn was nothing like Guar. She joined him in gathering all the close, big pieces of dried wood. With a tug on his pant-leg or a point, she had a clear picture of the right and wrong kinds of wood. Sometimes she physically spit on his choices until he put them down. It was best not to argue, Dawn lost arguments about as often as Dana had, especially with him.

The long pieces she insisted they drag to the pit were too lengthy to fit in the fire, but that didn't deter Dawn. She may have gotten carried away with it though; she kept pointing to a huge tree, tugging his leg, then pointing again.

"Honey, that's too big, and it's still alive," he said trying to break the smaller pieces across his knee, desperately missing Dana's hatchet.

She punched him in the arm, pointed, then tugged again.

"It's too big, honey."

She took the stick from his hand, drug it over to the tree, threaded it between the Y-shaped split in the trunk, worked her hands to the end of the stick, then walked around the tree. It broke even with the split.

"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?"

Wow, that was an angry look, that faded to a cuter smile the second he smiled back.

"Thank you."

She carried the little pieces he broke to the pit, now that they were a manageable size.

She was a smart, little, wordless girl.

Dawn had saved a few of the sharpest edged stones in a pile with some that were very flat. Those were obvious now too, for cutting and trimming the pieces to fillet size to answer the immediate hunger. He kept busy, turning, cooking, adding and tending, while Dawn played with the pile of rocks. She placed a select two near the fire's edge. He was sure that with all the time and effort Dawn had expended on picking them that they had a purpose that wasn't yet perceptible, to him. Something more useful than that.

"Dinner's served." Derik handed Dawn the littlest piece, still on its cooking stick.

She held it from the wooden ends and nibbled at it.

"And one for you." He handed Dana a much bigger piece before joining her sit on the ground. Sitting was still a challenge for her. Without his support from behind, she couldn't eat something that required both hands.

Nyin returned in time to witness Dana tear off bite-sized chunks, putting every other piece into Derik's mouth as she had done once a very long time ago.

"Very good then," Nyin said, inspecting the pit. "You have an excellent bed of coals. We should smoke the rest."

Derik swallowed quickly. "That big piece is for you. It's cooked. It should be plenty warm."

Nyin looked at Dana in Derik's arms. "... I'm not hungry, thank you." He stuck it into the ground well within reach of anyone on the blanket. "Please, by all means, enjoy. Protein is key for healing, repairing and building new cells. I am only sorry you could not have this sooner, but our lead was not large enough to allow hunting before now. It is getting dark, I am less hindered by the dark. I shall gather the green smoking woods, birch, willow, or hickory, if it can be found." With that, he walked off.

It was a good thing Nyin brought over that last piece, Dana ate more than Derik guessed she would. Perhaps there was something to Nyin's comments after all.

With fresh water and hot food, they ate well that night. Not yet dark when they finished, but it was dimming fast.

"Help me up," she said, "young seer, young Derik." She wiped her cheek on his offered sleeve.

"Yes sir—" he said a little choked on sarcasm the serpent didn't get, but he was able to help her stand and to take the weight of her lean while they walked a safe distance away, then back to the blanket when business was done. Sitting, she had moments when he could forget; she could sound, act, and look completely healed, but when he helped her walk, it was clear the extent of the injuries she concealed. Most were hidden inside, the reason little Dawn had to do some very adult, cruel things, refreshing those few that showed.

Terrible.

He tended the fire while avoiding her, them. He stared at the fire in guilt. Guilt for where he had led them. Guilt for not being the man Nyin was, for not being able to save them. Unable to lead them to safety, make fire. Guilt over Guar, he felt more useless than ever.

"Help me sit, please," she said.

He did, reluctantly. He sat beside her, taking her lean to keep her upright.

"There's enough wood in the fire." Her forehead pressed to the side of his neck, "I know you don't like me much right now, don't trust me anymore. I can't figure why." Her arthritic hand knotted, the best she could manage was an awkward grip with her thumb on his other shoulder. "You, feel I used you." She leaned her hardest yet, "You trust a stranger more than me." With her good hand, she pulled his arm that had propped them up. They thudded to the blanket.

Her arthritic hand tried to grab her knee but couldn't get a grip, guiding his instead. He moved her leg until her bent knee crossed his lap, as it had many times in a tent. Her knotted hand rested on the shoulder her head did not, like so many nights before.

"You think I would use you. That I tricked you into purchasing me, bartered like furniture for your room. That I tricked you into running after me, to share a tent I made too small for two. That I never tried to make you go home. You can look back on this, with distrust." She struggled to stay awake, "If I told you now, would you believe, if it wasn't in a vision of yours?" She was almost gone now, "I miss you. I wonder what of that you will believe." Asleep.

He was pinned beneath her weight. The bumps and lumps under the blanket were more than uncomfortable, almost painful, but he had no urge to move. No urge to disturb her, or adjust her. With one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder just above the wound, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of a scent that was only owned by her. It had been months since he had been this... comfortable.

He watched the leaves and branches, lit from the underside, dance in the rising heat. Dawn sat at the edge of the same blanket, her hands covering her ears, forehead pressed to her knees, rocking worse than before.

He watched over the little girl while he lay, unable to sleep.

Dawn eventually pulled a fist of leaves from the lowest tree, went to the pit, and removing the two, rounded rocks with a nature oven mitt. She put them near the edge of the blanket where she sat, dripping water on them periodically until the drops didn't hiss.

She moved them again, bare handed this time, placed on the blanket beside his shoulder where an arthritic hand lay. Dawn cradled the knotted hand, slowly rubbing the back of it with the flatter hot rock until it relaxed enough to hold the rounded one in the palm. Tiny hands slowly moved the heated stone while the knot untied itself. After a few minutes of rubbing, Dawn slid the flat stone between his hand and Dana's shoulder blade.

This he understood.

Hotter than he had expected, his palm sweated just holding it, but the results spoke for themselves. With a slow, gentle rub of her back, even he could feel how soothing it felt to her. Who knew you could iron out muscles too? He watched Dawn working the palm. Even Dana's breathing had changed, softened to match.

Nyin returned. Maybe it was the way the light played across his features, lit from the ground up, but he looked mad, vengeful even. Nyin stared at them, at him, while snapping green branches thicker than Derik's wrist, by hand. Effortless, like a twig to another man. When reduced to fist sized chunks, he reached a bare hand in and stirred the coals. The skewered strips were precut and assembled by the hole, Nyin only had to suspend them, then cover it all with leafy branches to trap the hot smoke. The light was almost gone, but Nyin's look of anger lingered in his mind.

Derik turned away, never stopping with the sweaty warm rock. Trapped beneath Dana, there was nothing else to do, he wasn't the picture of health either.

Dawn rested her little hand on Dana's now unknotted, larger one, as she lay on his other side. He and Nyin were soon the only two awake. This night, he would do anything not to look or talk to that man, on the chance that the light had not played a game with his sight. But he didn't want to appear unfriendly either.

Given his choices, he chose to look at Dawn. Such a smart child, the stone in his hand remained warm for a surprisingly long time. She reminded him of Dana, how she may have been before they met. She even slept in that same still form, a learned silence from years of living in the woods. A survival habit, since most night hunters tracked by motion and sound.

When no warmth was left, he tossed the stone to the blanket's edge, leaving just his hand to warm her shoulder. As the fire gave off a muffled pop, his fingers drifted down her back to where the sticky covered scab had formed. The closest he would come to touching her heart may have been through that finger-sized hole. He took another whiff of her hair. She would wake soon, but just for a minute or two.

She let go of the rock, then flexed her fingers with a full range of motion, ending in a tight fist before moving the stone out of the way. Her palm, once warmed by stone, now warmed a little cheek. Her thumb brushed lips where a kiss might have been, had Dana the strength to move that far.

He closed his eyes, it wouldn't be long before...

Morning. The horses were packed and ready, the pit filled with dirt, and Dawn's pile of stones was gone. Nyin would try to rouse them soon, but it was better should Derik wake them and avoid the fight.

"It's time, Dana." Derik moved her leg off his lap. "You too." He nudged Dawn.

He helped Dana sit and put on and tied her shoes, still too painful for her to bend her back that far. Dawn was already standing by her favorite horse, the one that often led. Refusing Nyin's offer, she would wait until Derik had time.

So started another long, silent, two days worth of riding. Silence could indeed be a cruel torture, but his was self-imposed.

When they stopped for those times when Dana insisted on being set down, she was able to walk far enough herself. She stopped asking for Derik's assistance, now that she was self-sufficient again, within limits. She stopped asking for help sitting, struggling through it on her own. She adjusted her legs by hand, stared at her hand until it righted itself, then forced a sit into a stand with a stick-assisted walk.

Nyin would outdistance the horses to ensure her plenty of privacy, then leave her leaning against the tree he had pruned a suitable walking stick from. He would wait with the others, stopping the lead horse until called. Returned to his arm, they were off to a running walk again.

Whenever they stopped for the night, Dana and Dawn curled on a blanket together, much like a mother and daughter. Close to a week had passed since he last touched her, and he found himself dwelling on distant glimpses, like an arm around Nyin's broad shoulders that seemed to linger a few seconds too long after setting her down.

So many promises had been made in his life, to her elder, to her, to Nyin. Bound and confined by all these words he said, his promises sold his future for the moments of then. He sat, talking to Nyin, while he stared at the two sleeping girls, so far away from this promised away now.

"She sits still," Nyin said while they continued their nighttime talk. "She is awake, but she pretends to sleep to discourage me, to diminish the urge to talk to her. She hides the progress of her hand with the same care she did the existence of its harm. I did not think it would be so easily so, but I will miss the coming day when I no longer carry her."

He put his big hand on Derik's shoulder, a pat on the back.

"Tell me of the next few days, should I spend them running the other way. Tell me our lead has grown beyond two days."

"It has." He tried harder. "Easily two days, perhaps three, but Dana's the only one I can see that far with, and it's been a week since I've touched her."

Nyin was usually more talkative than this. He had calmed, noticeable even in the way he spoke, a lack of urgency. "Did I ever tell you, I was there when The Emperor declared war on birds?"

"Tell me," Derik said, braced for the serpent's response.

"Hmm, you are getting better at telling lies with the truth."

"Yeah."

"Look at them, Derik. Look at them now, for the first time, as time sees them."

They did for a silent while.

"Thousands of years ago, it was widely believed as fact that they were simply the only vessel for which a man's seed could grow. The saying's still popular today, sowing oats and all.

Within the pages of one of the greatest books man had ever written, it was said that those were made from a piece of a perfect creature, man made in the image of God.

I ask you, young Derik, it is as simple as which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"I've heard that one before, I don't know."

"The egg. A duck, a bird other than a chicken, can lay the first chicken egg, but a chicken, as a part of being a bird, comes from an egg. It is a simple question worded in the guise of thoughtfulness, provoking anything but," Nyin said, but it was clear Derik hadn't gotten it. "They are one half of one cell from the whole of the species. One half, of one cell.

I was The Emperor's grandest design. I was to be that perfect man, his vengeance upon the world. I can outrun a horse on foot; I can go days, years without sleep. No weapon has ever harmed me, I have never felt pa— discomfort. I have lived since before all the rules changed. They changed with me.

I have, at his command, led a battle that lasted weeks. I killed more in those days with my bare hands than a horse could graze in blades of grass.

In all this, in all those lives I've taken, I have yet to add one back. We are exceedingly good at this we do, but does that make it our design, our purpose in life? That I was made to feel no, discomfort, make me the revenge he designed? Does being his perfect form of man make me the image of God? Pity us all if it does.

I close my eyes and imagine what that perfect image would be, and open them to see two such lying there.

Patience, nurturing, guidance, unconditional love, is that not the image you see? Look over there and tell me, what are we?"

He stared and realized, he had never really seen them before. "I don't know."

Awkward silence seemed to rustle the leaves in the trees as they both shared a common, distracting stare.

Crackle of the flame, smothered by smoke and leaves.

Nyin eventually broke the moment. "Have you ever seen a deenayseed, fully bloomed?"

"I don't think so."

"Unfolded and stretched to full length, it covers most floors like a rug. One central stem branching forty-six times, each of those branching, multicolored, fernlike leaves, many tables long.

A complex color code, combinations of just four colors; like the words, sentences, chapters, and books that could be written using the same four letters. The Emperor was the only one who could read it like words on a page, but you didn't have to know as much as he to make use of it. If you found someone who had a third eye, let's say, or a trait you wanted more of, you compared his to hundreds that didn't and another few who did, then you would quickly see the similarities and the strands that greatly differed. Once, that was called the height of genetic science, being able to tell between similar and different.

But men and women, that was easy to tell, even a child could by just comparing the two. The same number of branches, but for one, instead of many tables covered, it would measure the size of a shoe. This, less complex creature, we were told and for thousands of years believed, this was the perfect one from which the other was made. The simple shoe that best fits man."

They sat in the second lull of the night. Derik had perfected the art of listening, seldom using the serpent for cues anymore. He knew this pause was Nyin distracting himself.

"We think the question of chicken and egg is hard because we were always told it was, and thus, we always believed that this creature of such complexity, this creature clearly more god like, was simple ground for seed to grow.

It is clearly not so. Then that leaves, what are we?" Nyin said.

"... I don't know."

"Stronger, faster, less cautious, often confused with brave. Traits we used to rule, but it comes with a price.

We live, on an average that is easily skewed, seven years less. We age more rapidly, the price for speed and strength. We think different, react different. Aggressive is built into our nature instead of nurture. Why? Why would it not have been a more simple, satisfying design, to have given her that other half of a cell? The Emperor designed me for vengeance, but that was not the plan for man. So, what if thousands of years were totally wrong, but by accident, almost right?

What if she was the image, and man was a lesser piece made from her? Why make him stronger, bigger, faster, why make a lesser more? Why make him strong enough to provide for more than just himself?

For those years when she would be perfect prey, tethered to a child. Imagine, if you can, how this scene would play should everything remain the same but on foot instead of horse. She would carry Dawn to the price of herself being caught. Why should it not matter that you not last the length of her, why was the answer easiest to make a lesser, faster burning her. A nod to the necessity of two to raise a child. Born a servant, same as me." Nyin laughed at the awkward silence, only loud enough for Derik to hear. "It is clear I've spent too much time in a cell of soundless echoes, and not enough words with a priest to gain the enlightenment I so seek. Fear not," he said, a pat on Derik's back, "I am done tormenting you with my wondering words for today. Thank you. I think she would not understand what silence is for me."

"Goodnight then."

"In the morning."

He closed his eyes for the dreams in gray, of a full color girl he hadn't touched in a week, hadn't said a word to this day.

"I don't care," she said louder, "I'm not going."

Horses already prepared, Nyin was kneeling before a Dana refusing to be touched this morning.

"Take your hand off me."

Nyin did. "It is what I am to do. You cannot be safe if you—"

"That's not up to you, Nyin, I'm sick of this! I'm not Derik, I'm not going to blindly follow you because you're the biggest one here. I'm not afraid of you."

"Nor should you be. I am charged with your safety." He tried to touch her again, but she slid further away.

"I'm not saying it again. I don't care what the two of you worked out in the middle of the ni—"

"Dana—"

"Shut up, Derik," she said. "You haven't had anything to say to me in days. Just continue avoiding me, you've gotten good at it."

"Nyin," Derik said, now that the serpent was awake, "you two are scaring Dawn. It won't get better until you sit down over here." The focus of all three shifted to the little girl with her hands over her ears, hiding eyes behind rocking knees. "We can do this without terrifying her."

A few calm minutes prevailed.

The rocking slowed, then stopped.

"Where are you going," she said, "and I didn't say we."

"Strategy. A fair question." Nyin sat in perfect meditation form. "We cannot stay, backtracking is not an option. I haven't the time to waste hiding a trail. Besides, it wouldn't fool them anyway. That leaves forward, as straight as can be managed, because they are surely trying to flank us. Their weakness is their size. We have the advantage, a small one. We can live off the land, and we get to live off it first. We are more agile, they must feed a hundred where we are only four. Our lead will grow, but this alone will not be enough. This brings us to the question, where?"

"Eventually," she said.

"Yes, you are right, I tend to talk far more than—"

"Where," she said with building anger.

"It is a circle you see, prophecy said it isn't complete until—"

"Where!" she said, Dawn rocking again.

"The mountains. It is a harsher existence and will place the highest stress on their supplies. It will put an end to the flanking and constrain their passage. Some paths will reduce them to a very vulnerable single file line. In my cell of silence, I got good at listening; I have heard many things. There are villages, pockets of humanity scattered in there that thrive because plundering them is too costly, too remote, too impassable for an army of size. This is where we go. It is the place of the beginning; it is the only place safe for you."

"Why do they want you?" she asked.

"Same as you and the lovely Dawn, I am afraid. It was said I carry the cure. They want my child as badly as I suspect they now want yours. We can discuss this in depth if you wish; I can keep a horse's pace and converse simultaneously. I would prefer it actually, now that your health has improved enough to allow such."

"You're not carrying me anymore."

"There is no other way, it is what must," Nyin said.

"I don't like it, I've never liked it, and it stops now."

"I understand your discomfort—"

"You don't speak for me," she said.

"You have been in control of your life, until now," Nyin said after a calming pause. "It is hard to give that up, even symbolically, but there are simple truths that a mind as sharp as yours cannot deny. You distrust me, but I have yet to harm you like those behind us have. Four horses, four people, with one on each it cuts our daily range in half. We are gaining days because we are essentially one riding three, an old Genghis Khan trick used by the hordes. It forces those behind to do the same; their numbers are no more than a third of their horses. They have endless men, limited horses. It was why I could leave neither behind. Those flanking will try a ratio of three or even four to one to try to overtake us, but their distance is greater so long as we keep straight and steady. They should never close the gap.

Should you ride it changes that ratio, dwindling our gain. And there is the fear that you would again be that peaceful, quiet girl who seldom opened an eye, let alone argued with—"

"Nyin," Derik said at his growing impatience, "that's not the way to settle this."

"I apologize," he said calming down. "We are getting off wrong again. It is because you know nothing more of me than what you can see. I have held you on my arm for three weeks now, and this is the most we have ever said. It is the way misunderstandings begin, and my silence has fed it to the size it has become. This too is a failing of mine for which I must accept blame."

She leaned forward, struggled to a stand, then walked over to them, pointing once to each, "My life. Mine. I decide what I do and what I don't." She staggered to mount a horse. They soon followed.

With a touch on her ankle, Derik said, "You'll be unconscious before noon." Her horse walked away.

Time would prove Derik right.

It was night before the horse refused to move or let anyone near, Derik's best words included.

Nyin approached, "Take Dawn away and set a blanket up." He clenched the reins in one hand. The horse was visibly nervous, but as noted before, limited by actions it was unwilling to do.

He had never heard a horse slammed to the ground before, it made a hollow, yet deep, loud thud. In a few minutes, Nyin walked into sight, laying Dana on the blanket.

"One day's lead, gone," Nyin said. "With luck the horse will recover, though it is equally stubborn. We must wait until the horse is able to travel. We cannot replace it or take the loss. Should I attack our neighbors, they would scatter, so obtaining another is not an option." He offered Derik his hand.

"A few hours, it's just knocked out. Nothing broken," he said of the visions with Nyin doing nothing but standing over the horse. "We'll have to take it easy. Set a slower pace for the next few days."

"This could have ended much worse, had you not stopped my words as soon as you did. I am not used to, this art of conversation. I am, out of practice. I'm used to a world of orders, given and received, neither ever questioned. She will never be that way."

"No, she won't." He looked over to the bush's edge where Dawn stood with a leaf of goo, Dana's shirt getting wetter in three familiar spots.

When Nyin left to watch over the horse, Dawn started her sticky walk. He watched Dawn smear the paste; she did it differently this time. When the hole was covered, she tore a piece of leaf to cover each smear. He almost asked, but he was getting better at this. "That's very smart, it keeps it from getting stuck on the shirt," he said aloud, saving them both the game of charades, the serpent only hears.

Just on cue, the horse was back on hoofed feet. It stumbled around, dizzy for a while, but soon put it together. It would never look at Nyin the same, would try to keep out of reach at all times, and would quickly become Dawn's favorite, probably for those very reasons. Saddled and ready to go, this would be the last time he would see Dana for the next few days. Nyin picked her up, then walked on.

The next two days moved slower than all those before. Perhaps little lead was lost, but it would take another week for anything to be gained, in lead and Dana's health.

"It's going to rain late this afternoon," Derik said in their midday hour of rest.

"Good, it has been a while. If it rains hard enough, it will slow those behind and we can gain back what we have lost," Nyin said.

"No, you don't— It won't do any of us any good to get wet, least of all the one you're supposed to—"

"Ah, I understand."

"Dana waterproofed her tent by doing something... I remember finding the stuff," he tried, "but I can't remember what it was or how she used it." He touched Dana's leg. "She's not going to be any help, even if I could wake her."

"There is no need, young one, it can be done with a wide variety of— now is not a time for a lesson or more endless words from me. I shall tend to it." Nyin took three of the four extra horse blankets with him when he led the four to graze.

Dawn sat beside them when Nyin was gone. She looked at him, then Dana, then back to him again.

"What?"

A frown.

"I know."

A definite no.

"I warned her."

She hit him.

"Fair enough. It's still my fault."

Yes, but she hit him again.

"You know, you're really not her daughter."

Her hit put that in doubt.

"You easily could be though. It's hard to remember you're not, sometimes."

She smiled before lightly pinching Dana's arm. Ok.

He slid to the edge of the blanket before lying down. Bouncing on a horse was fun for little girls, but it was killing his back.

Whatever Nyin used, it smelled horrible, even worse when it rained, but it worked. It went from drizzle to downpour, but he stayed dry from his head down to his shins, the blanket only covered so far. The horses didn't seem to mind, but they did walk slower, and he noticed the occasional wobbled step when a hoof would slide on muddy ground. Footing meant a lot to a horse.

He discovered another thing he never knew about himself, he got sick easily. He had thought it was from getting wet, but it was from bouncing around with the blanket covering his head, unable to see where he was going. He read the serpent for how much worse it was going to get, "motion sickness" he said, remembering to say it again in a little while.

The rain kept falling while the horses stopped to graze. He felt it bending down, felt it chew, and could even feel the swallow as it was pulled up the neck and between the front shoulder blades. What an amazing design this creature was, a neck always long enough to eat and drink off the ground. Such a tall animal too. It seemed silly that grass was all it needed.

A hand pinched, then lifted the corner of the blanket enough to let a little rain and light in. "I wanted to tell you what you probably already know," Nyin said, one shoulder covered like it was in a sling. "The horses needed to stop. I have asked Dawn if she wanted down but all she wanted was away. It may be best to stay where you are, the ground will be no place to lie for the next couple of days."

"Thank you."

"Oh, I almost forgot, you need not worry about trading horses, we are traveling too slow for that to matter."

"How is she?"

"The same. Asleep, unconscious, or pretending, there's no way for me to tell. She hardly moves, and in the noise of the rain, it is hard to say when she even breathes."

"That was always hard to tell."

Nyin released the fold.

He peeked under it often as the horse chewed and moved around, but he always saw Nyin with that sling, water dripping off his huge features. Just standing. Nyin never knelt or even changed arms or hands. It was easy to disbelieve the twice-defeated twenties, he had only envisioned them, but this was with his own eyes. Undeniable. His own ears had heard a horse flattened to the ground with a single punch. "How long will it rain?" he said, but for the next two days, the serpent only heard the word drizzle three times, and stopped, not at all.

Two days.

The sky was dry, the ground squished beneath his feet, but at least he wasn't sitting. He wasn't really standing either, it was a cross between a stoopered wobbling and sliding, but these steps were his own.

"How well do you trust the waterproofing?" he asked Nyin.

"You're dry, are you not?" The sling concealed one arm.

"Good enough." Derik tossed the one he had, treated side down, on the highest part of the ground. He proceeded to sit, then, when nothing soaked through, he pulled off his shoes and socks. His feet looked like his wadded, wrinkled socks, but it was the only way to dry them both out. With all of that bouncing, his back had to lie down, wet ground or not.

"Ah, an excellent idea." Nyin laid Dana beside him and spread the sling to drip dry over the branches of a neighboring tree. "This will give me the free hand I need to inspect and tend hooves, it's been days."

Nyin wasn't gone long before Dawn stopped hiding.

"We get at least two days of no rain, that's a good thing, isn't it?" Derik asked Dawn.

She smiled before pinching Dana's arm. Still ok. Nyin must have figured out how to get her to drink, or that sling wasn't waterproofed as well as he thought.

"Is she awake?"

No.

"She feel ok, warm?"

Shrug.

He touched her. "You can wake her if you want. It won't be easy, but I think she'd like to see you."

No, she poked him with a finger.

"She's probably still mad at me, she can hold a grudge."

She poked him harder.

"Oh. Honey, my back is killing me."

No, she pointed at Dana.

"I'm sorry." He closed his eyes.

She poked him a few more times, even made her first sound, an angry little huff she blew through her nose. He felt bad about pretending to sleep. He knew the little girl wasn't buying it. She must have learned the snort from the horse.

It had taken two or three weeks before Dana could stand after the escape, it had been, at best, three or four days since this last step back. He hated to think of it taking that long again. He hated to think of her suffering. And why shouldn't he? They were his wounds she wore.

He held out his hand and squinted. The rain had stopped, but the breeze pulled drops from the trees in little cold, occasional sprays. Flat on the ground, he felt his spine straightening out. By the end of his pretend nap, he should be able to stand upright, hunched under a water-deflecting blanket hurt worse than bounces ever did.

"Relax, Derik," Nyin said. "We will be here through the night. You can read me if you wish, but I doubt the horses will venture this night. The path ahead is tight for one, narrow, rocky, and overgrown. Add overcast and mud to that, and from here, it starts to get slow. Rest well, we start early in the morning."

"Ok," he said, surprised Dawn hadn't left the blanket this time. She was poised at the edge, farthest from Nyin.

"Since we have the night, perhaps now would be a good time for another hot meal."

"Won't the ground be too wet?" Derik asked.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

The wonderful smell woke him to the crackle of the fire. Sitting, even this far away, he felt the heat of the flames on his face. A modest pit it was not, this was a shade under a bonfire. "Aren't you worried they might see this? I thought that was the whole point with a hole?" Derik said.

"I want them to see. I want them drawn down this path, to have that moment of pause. They knew where we were, more or less, now they know I know, and don't care." He turned to Derik. "They know I want them here. Bravery and fear are caution after it's been ignored. I want them cautious again."

"Smells good." He made his way to the fire.

Nyin reached into the flames to pinch the thickest piece. "It has been a while since I've cooked, but it's not ready. Not yet."

"That's ok, I'll just get some water while I'm up."

Nyin leaned close enough for a whisper to work, "Little Dawn is the least afraid I've seen her."

"It was a month or more before she would sit next to me. Now she, is cautious." Derik took a drink and set it back.

"Caution is a good thing. I think she would like some water as well."

Derik took the bag with him when he went to sit on the only dry ground around, the blanket.

Dawn took a sip, tugged his sleeve, then pointed to a spot on the blanket.

"What? I don't see anything," he said, but she tugged until he touched it. "Oh, it's a wet spot." He ran his hand over the area. A rock or something must have rubbed off the waterproofing. It was the one he had been using, why was she worried about— That was sweet of her. "Thank you."

She smiled but sat elsewhere.

He couldn't help staring at her. She was a very opinionated, vocal little girl. He could even hear her moods, her ideas forming and working themselves out. She talked aloud, all the time, in everything she did. How could he ever have thought there was something wrong with her?

She was staring over his shoulder toward the flames, one knee up, on her toes, ready to run. Nyin approached as the food was almost done.

Nyin served smorgasbord style, one, massive, food-laden plate of differing cuts and roasted roots he had pulled out of the wet ground. The plate kept some of its curved form and must have been ripped from a large tree, as was the other plate on his other arm, heaped with leafy salad-like stuff and an assortment of berries, mostly those Dawn preferred snacking on that first day.

Dawn looked, but didn't touch until Nyin cast larger shadows from closer to the flames. She often reminded him of Dana, always sleeping facing the direction of most doubt, in this case Nyin. She even picked a place near the plates that gave her the most unobstructed view, even though it was facing into the light.

Derik tried to help Dana sit, but she refused. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked.

"No." She tried to lie down.

"You have to be by now."

"You telling me when I'm hungry now, too?"

"Oh, you're more angry than hungry."

"Leave me alone."

He sat behind her, wondering how he was going to talk her into this without another fight, when he got a hand from a most unlikely place. It was more of a tug on Dana's sleeve, from the very little Dawn.

It worked. She was just as angry, but she sat and tried the many samples Dawn brought her.

It was a pattern, more words he never used to hear. Dawn would taste something new, or a new combination or several until she found one she liked, then she would make it to a larger portion before forcing it on Dana. It was effective. He could even tell when she hit on a combination Dana liked in the intensely expressive face of Dawn. An extensive vocabulary indeed.

Good food changed the mood with plenty left over, but Nyin never came back for the plates. He stayed away, as promised, tending other things.

Dawn fell asleep first, as usual. He glanced toward the flames and could tell by the way Nyin stirred the logs that he was desperate for conversation. But the selfish side of him had forgotten how good it felt, being with Dana, the way she adjusted him like a blanket and her quiet little breaths. He longed for the hints of color dreams flickering behind every blink of his eyes. He held his eyes closed and soaked in every second, holding the memory tight. Because he knew it couldn't last.

Obligations...

He had a promised conversation with Nyin.

He had many fireside chats with Dana, now he was getting used to them with Nyin.

"How's your headache, young seer? Better after a fine meal, I'll bet."

"Best it's been in days." He rethought it. "I mean it's gone, but it always did just come and go. Sometimes, I can get rid of it by exhausting my talent, but what really helps is that meditation thing Dana showed me."

"Yes, I'm sure it does. I'm sure she's helped you a lot with it, more than anyone else ever could."

"Yeah."

"You say, but you do not see." Nyin stirred the embers with his hand, time to smoke the leftovers soon. "She takes your headaches too. Every time you try to read her, she wears more of your, misery. You were not meant long for this world. You're small for a man, but I should guess this is the extent of your size, I'm sure this is not news for you. Yours is a choice harder to make than that of the priest, to know that every touch that adds to your life, comes at a cost of some of hers."

Derik looked at the blanketed two, sleeping within the ember's rays.

"And yet, drawn more than any horse, exposed longest of us all. I pity that choice. A longer, happier life than you could have with any other, enjoying every day she shared with you. It gives new meaning to the words." Nyin patted him on the back before leaving for the smoking woods.

Derik didn't have long to ponder before Nyin returned, dragging branches any other would call small trees, snapping them to size by hand. It was no surprise that she recovered so well, carried by this man, nothing of him ever needed to be healed.

"You pledged your assistance in exchange for freeing Dana," Nyin said. "Destiny has a funny way with things. It is clear now that I must take both you and Dawn, as much a part of my charge as the heart of she who freed me. In that light, that promise only honor would make you keep, for she would surely never let me leave either of you behind." He paused in thought. "I know of villages where we are heading, I know of many that you could make a home. I will help you find a good one, should you decide her life, or your own." He raked the coals with his fingers before adding the smoking chunks, then building the teepee with crisscrossing racks of suspended meat strips, covering it all with leafy pruned branches to trap the drying, flavoring smoke within.

Derik simply watched, with far too much to think about, now that the headache was gone.

Tugging on his shirtsleeve, Dawn insisted he wake up now, still a few hours before sunrise.

"What is it, what's wrong?" He looked around. Nyin was gone, and so was most of the smoke and all of the wood. That was clear enough.

She tugged harder until he was standing, pulling him to where Dana lay. He was about to touch her forehead to check if she was warm, but paused before the touch.

"It's better if I don't, I think."

He faced a frown so turned down it was even visible at night.

Dana wasn't warm. "She's ok, what's wrong, Dawn?" He released his touch.

She held one arm tight to her little chest, rocking like it was broken.

He hesitated, but checked. "Honey, it's not broken, it doesn't even look that bad."

She was visibly upset now, hands over her ears, eyes behind knees.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Dawn got up, a pout with a stomp.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She wadded a little fistful of his shirt, center of his chest, close enough to see she was crying. She poked him in the chest with a finger, twisted her fistful then pointed to Dana between them. She wiped another tear.

"I don't... I know I'm hurting her, every time I touch her it— it'll only make it worse." She tightened her fistful of shirt. "She doesn't even lo... It's better this way."

She let go, storming off.

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting within reach, but out of touch.

"She doesn't understand, you know," Dana said, her back to him. "She's at that age when she assumes everyone is as smart as her, that everyone sees the world like she does. She thinks what's plain to her should be obvious to you. She sees you as different than those that came and left the cells across from ours. She looks at you and doesn't understand that a month could change so much. She wants to believe it didn't happen to her. To us. To Guar. I remember how that was."

"I, I'm sorry."

"She doesn't know what I always knew, what I tried hard to forget. That you didn't leave because you missed me, liked me, or thought we were good together. You left because a vision told you to." She lay silent for a while. "She sees me hurting because of you, but doesn't see I've been hurting myself over you."

"I'm making this worse."

She offered her hand held up, an invitation like so many nights before. He stared at the shadows he knew to be her fingers... but he didn't take it. It was a powerful urge though.

"You, uh, can I get you something while I'm up, breakfast maybe?" he said.

"A cup of coffee would be nice, with a slice of sharp cheese, a light spinach salad, broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, diced onion and radishes followed by a nice, long, hot bath, and a bed other than the ground to lie on. Or you."

He walked over to the smoke-drizzling coals, then lay down on the blanket there, alone. He could still get a few hours of shuteye before morning, if he could manage to sleep.

"Good morning, I think this may change your mood." Nyin handed Dana the cup when he saw her sitting. "It's still hot, I think, but I am not as sensitive to heat as I once was."

She sniffed it, dipping a finger, "It isn't, is it?" She touched it to her lips.

"Not exactly," Nyin said.

"It's sweet." She took a sip. "It tastes like coffee, sort of." She smiled with another sip, eyes closed to focus on the flavor. "Thank you."

"Good, I am glad. It has been so very long since I tasted it myself." He backed away to ease Dawn. "It's dandelion root. The Chinese used it for tea. If I am correct, it is one of a few plants which are entirely edible. It is close enough to prove what I have suspected for some time, you have a lovely smile."

She hid it behind another sip.

"It's best if the roots are dried before being ground, but parching works too. I remembered passing a field with an abundance of them, just an hour or so back. I was afraid the syrup would not be sweet enough, I hadn't the time to boil all the water out of the sap." He took another step away, paused, then looked back. "Perhaps we can get off to a better start today. It's at least one smile brighter than any before." He left to pack the horses.

The hilly path, if it could be called one, hadn't been used in years. The ground was impossible to see, forcing the horses to walk slowly.

"I had promised not to talk to you," Nyin said after a few hours of silent morning carrying. "It was an upsetting disaster that first time. You should— I am having, difficulty. Would it be too much to ask, now that you have improved... You see, I am having problems with my footing, the inclines, breaking branches with one hand; if I should slip and fall I can catch myself and keep from landing on you, but as you sit now, you would surely fall. If you would put an arm around my neck, it would let me move faster, free of worry."

She did.

He adjusted to her new position. "Thank you."

"The coffee was nice. And, you're welcome."

He broke branches, clearing the way twice as fast, stumbling only a few times, but never falling.

"There must be something safe we can discuss," Nyin said, hours after the brief noon stop. "This silence... You don't understand what torture it is for me." His hand snapped another arm-size branch. "They locked me in a cell for years with no one to talk to, no one to listen. To just listen. Cooking perhaps? That should be safe, how could it not?"

"I've never had dog cooked like that before."

"Ah yes. You see, most of it is in the catching, the quickness, they never knew they were being hunted. Adrenalin free that way, relaxed, that's the secret. The rest is in the immediacy of cleaning, and then a slow, low flame. The choice of wood is always key, a mix of green birch and seasoned oak."

She was quiet.

"Something I've said again? You don't like canine."

"... No," she said.

"I will find something different next time, unless it bothers you. It does. I will replace what we have tonight; you won't have to eat any more of it."

"That's wasteful."

"They are plentiful, a nuisance, a hazard to small groups like ours. They will not be missed."

"Just don't."

"Very well." They were moving at a faster, branch-breaking speed, silence building again.

"Derik is a fine young man," he said when the path thinned. "He is quite taken by you. He mumbled your name in his cell every night, did you know. This is a hard life he has chosen, just to be with you. He tries to hide it behind a brave—"

"Talk about something else," she said.

"Ah, yes. He is reluctant to talk about you as well. Something else, then."

"Coffee."

"Dandelions. They're considered weeds, you know. A flower most try hard to rid themselves of, in gardens, fields, yards."

"I've pulled my share of them."

"Yes, yet they are very healthy to eat, efficient because they can be totally consumed. Spinach-like leaves, though it is an acquired taste, like coffee with boiled sap for sugar." He almost missed a step trying to catch a glimpse, "You're smiling again." He pounded through the woods, quietly this time.

The silence was more bearable when broken on occasion, by light conversation.

By night, they entered an open field; the last the horses would cross in the dark, balking at the woods on the other side. This time they discussed it, deciding to camp the night instead of pushing reluctant horses. A quick reading by Derik confirmed the two-day lead was still good. Four traveled slowly through virgin woods, a hundred with wagons, more so.

With a campfire and all the ingredients gathered for morning coffee, this time Derik watched to learn how it was made. The syrup wasn't pleasant to view. Nyin's impatience with dripping sap was exemplified by a brutal squeeze of branches as thick as Derik's arm, made scarier because it worked. Dana and Dawn were asleep on a blanket of their own, long before any squeezing was done. But the moan of the wood, too low to wake either of them, was sure to keep him awake for hours. Perhaps even days to come, even as exhausted as he was. Barely able to keep... his eyes... open... squeak... wide awake again.

Dawn tugged him awake, hours before morning. It was surprising because Nyin was sitting so close.

"I shouldn't, honey," he said sitting up, which only encouraged her to tug harder. "No." She tugged her hardest yet. "Please stop."

She tugged with her best sad face, then let go of his hand.

It was hard to look at that face and say "no."

"Ah, littlest Dawn," Nyin said. "I was wondering if you could help me with a problem I was having trouble figuring out." He drew two circles on the ground. "There was this cute little girl who went to pick the garden for her mother." He put a flower in one circle, then scratched the outline of a house in the other. "She had a puppy who followed her everywhere." He put a pinecone next to the flower. "When she had picked a basketful of ripe food, the last the garden had," he put a crumpled leaf by the flower, "the puppy chased a baby rabbit into her arms." He added an acorn.

Dawn was looking, but kept Derik between them.

"Her mother had always promised she could have a bunny for a pet," Nyin continued. "The garden was fenced," he renewed the circle around the flower, "but she could only carry one thing home at a time. If she took the basket, the puppy might hurt the rabbit, if she took the puppy, the rabbit would eat the basket of vegetables. How does she get them all home?" He moved away to let Dawn get a closer look.

It took a while, but she eventually sat by the circles. She picked up the flower.

"The little girl." Nyin narrated.

She added the acorn to the same hand.

"The girl and the bunny."

She put them in the house then moved the flower back.

"The girl and the basket." She moved the leaf and the flower to the house. "She carried the rabbit back to the field," Nyin said, keeping up with the action. "She took the puppy home to wait with the basket then went back for the rabbit. Very good. Thank you, that helps me a lot."

Dawn hid behind Derik again.

"I have another one, if you would like," Nyin said.

Dawn shook a clear no. She tugged on Derik's sleeve, but gave up soon to return to Dana's blanket.

When it looked like Dawn was asleep, Nyin said, "She is very smart, that one. You must be proud."

"Yeah."

"She can't be more than three or four, she solved it very fast, and right the first time. I'm impressed."

"She's always impressing me."

"It is surprising she doesn't talk, evidently there are limits to what Dana can heal."

"I've— I'm sorry, Nyin," Derik lay down. "I could use a few hours of sleep myself."

"Of course, I forget sometimes. I will try to wake you last, if you wish."

The coffee was stronger and sweeter this morning, with more than enough made for Derik to partake. It was his first cup that he could remember and didn't have anything to compare it to. Warm, it made his head feel lighter, more awake somehow. Juice was sweeter, grape juice in particular with a light mix of strawberries, but Dana savored it with slow sips and closed eyes. It wasn't just a drink to her. It was something to be enjoyed. A luxury, he couldn't yet provide.

He was jealous of a drink now, and not even a particularly good one.

The pit was already filled with dirt. In the few minutes Nyin needed to load the horses, Derik lifted Dawn into place. And soon Dana would be held in the arms of a better match for hours this day, like the many weeks before, adding to his feelings of inadequacy.

"You know nothing of me," Nyin said while Dana held on with one arm, "and that may have been for the best. I was not a nice person most of my life. I was born to be a punishment like the night sky, but I was also to free the cure from his enemies. You have known me only as The Emperor wished me to be known, as the weapon he had carefully designed, filled with the madness of a lifetime's worth of rage."

The path narrowed and his hand's rapid branch-breaking distracted him until the woods opened to another animal trail.

"I don't apologize for the man I was. I should, but none alive would care. I was made to feel nothing, bred to be revenge. And I was. I am not proud of the things I have done, but I never knew anything else. The witch foretold of The Emperor's fall, that I alone would hold the cure. It is because of this form that I can save the three of you, it is because of those years in his serve that I know how to elude those behind us. And it was because I was imprisoned in the very spot for destiny to reveal its secrets to me. These mountains, the priest I talked so often to, the young seer, the witch's insanity; do you see? This is my path to redemption, to return you to the beginning.

I finally understand why I am what I am, the only form to fulfill this task. Destiny, your safety is my destiny."

He glanced at her while he walked the path in silence. Asleep or pretending, either way, it was clear his choice of topics did not appeal to her. He snapped branches in wordless silence again.

"I thought I would have it figured out by now," Nyin continued when the path cleared and after Dana had sipped from the water he conveniently kept within her reach. "The witch had told me the prophecies, so many. Too many, and all so long ago. I wrote none of them down you see, I tried— I thought I could remember them indefinitely. Time has left them muddled together. Unlike Derik's, these were vague but harder, perhaps impossible to change."

"Everything changes," she said.

"Memories, most of all. I thought with all that time alone, tortured by silence, that their only weapon against me could be turned into my blessing, that I would be changed by it as she said. What was it... something like, 'my redemption will only be with the heart of she who frees me?' I can't remember. I can't remember which it was, her words, or what I thought them to mean."

"Redemption is found within." Her arthritic hand dropped the berries.

Between branches' snaps, he scooped a handful onto her lap. "You and young Derik are an unpredicted combination. I wonder how it came to be that someone with his gift was ever captured, especially when that range was extended by you."

She managed not to drop any when she ate one berry at a time.

"I think it's an odd thing, don't you?"

She didn't stop eating, just slower, perhaps.

"He told me of when he turned the tide on those that attacked your home, an impressive feat for one so young. Something that is usually rewarded with other than exile." Nyin walked faster now. "He could turn the fortunes of war for so many, yet fell prey when it was just a few. A very bad blind spot, he has with you."

She seemed to have more problems with her hand.

"I may not have figured out the witch's riddle for me, but this, this is easily understood." The faster he walked, the faster he talked, "It was no failing of his. It was a fate of yours he stumbled onto." A path he wove in words with similar ease to that he burst through the woods.

She was dropping them now, taking as many as three attempts before getting any into her mouth.

"The witch had said a seer would be found the day she would be lost, I had thought that was what brought you to me. But it wasn't. Yours was the destiny he couldn't avoid. You, who were to open my door. You were—"

"I didn't open your door. There were two of us, remember?" she said.

"A possibility I had over—"

"Change the subject."

"I had never thought about it being—"

"Change the subject, or put me down."

"Yes, certainly." They traveled in silence, asleep or pretending to be, what she didn't eat remained un-spilled on her lap, like water in a spoon.

This was the last stop of day before the horses walked tonight. The sky was clear, and they had passed the last of the loose ground. The overgrowth prevented anything fast, but they were now moving along animal paths of deer, dogs, and the likes, nothing wide enough for wagons. They had made it a third of the way around the side of the first hill, several hills away from the foot of the first mountain. Nyin estimated it would take another few weeks to get deep enough for wagons to give up. A few more weeks of night and day was also about as much as the horses could stand.

They rested the hour, at least the three of them did, while Nyin tended to horses' needs, food, and hooves. They were running out of places to graze, passing fewer fields. Derik didn't know where Nyin was taking the horses or what he was feeding them, and he didn't need to know.

Dawn tugged him once more, a less enthusiastic attempt to move him closer to Dana. It was more than tempting, but he didn't budge, and she gave up much faster this time.

She sat between them, splitting her gaze, a sad little rocking girl.

"Derik," Nyin said, snapping him out of his daze with Dawn. "Come with me please, I would like to show you something you may find useful."

He led Derik into the woods.

"This is a part of the willow family." Nyin pointed out a particular tree, "Get a good look at it, the branches, the leaves, the bark. This is a common variety in these woods, probably a variation you are least familiar with."

"... Ok?" He had seen trees before.

"Ah, it is as I thought, you don't know the significance of this." He twisted the bark off like anyone else would peel a boiled egg, going several rings deep until it started getting lighter in color. He ripped finger-sized, ring-thick strips. "Here, chew one, but just swallow the juice. It's what they make aspirin from. If it helps with your headaches, it may also help you avoid the temptation of relieving them another way."

"... Thank you." He chewed one immediately, but put the rest in his pocket.

"It'll take a few hours before it will start to work, if it does at all." Nyin ripped a few leaves and a pocket-sized piece of bark, "So you can look at it again in better light. If it works for you like it did for the witch, let me know and I'll always keep some in your saddlebag."

"Thank you, it'll work." The serpent agreed.

"Good then. This is good."

After being in the saddle for the entire night, the paths grew so narrow that even hugging the horse's neck didn't keep him from getting swatted with branches every step. He had to wrap the smelly rain blanket around his arm like a padded sleeve and sandwich his head between the wad and massive neck. The smell kept him up for hours, until the third stick of aspirin kicked in. It could have been much worse, except Nyin always broke the branches on the same side. Which helped a lot.

They hadn't anything fresh to cook, but they made a fire when they stopped anyway. Nyin added some of the step, or shelf-looking fungus rings he collected from the sides of dead trees. Added to the fire's edge, they made a thick smoke that clung to the leaves. It wasn't a horrible smell like the blanket, but it wasn't a pleasant smell either. It did do one thing very well, though. It drove away all the bothersome bugs that were keeping him up.

Sleeping on the ground had many drawbacks.

Before Dana lay down for the night, she insisted Nyin boil some water. It was a valid argument, something Dawn had probably been shouting all along. Dawn's teeth hadn't come in all the way, so eating hard, dry jerky was painful for her. She had enough difficulty chewing her way through cooked steaks. She had to tear jerky into little pieces, then keep them in her mouth until it softened so she could chew it. In boiled water, it became tender chunks in an easily eaten soup. They would have a fire from now on, if only to meet her tiny needs. He should have remembered, it sounded so familiar. But Dawn wasn't the only girl he was constantly letting down.

Nyin and he talked for an hour or so, he wasn't sure about what. He had been chewing that bark and listening for pauses, leaning heavily on the serpent for the conversation. This was the second time Dawn had sat up, looked around, and wiped her eyes, this time she walked over to him. With a single tug on Derik's sleeve, she sat down beside him. He could feel her staring at him while he looked at the small fire. He knew that if he looked at her face, he would surely cry. She could look so sad when she wanted to.

"Ah, we have the pleasure of Dawn's company," Nyin said, even though Derik's position blocked her from view.

She tugged Derik's sleeve.

"I think I have something that will help take your mind off your troubles." Nyin produced a pile of acorn tops, all cup-side down. "One of these twelve has a leaf where an acorn used to be. I bet you can't figure out which one it is in only three guesses."

She tugged the sleeve once more, then shook a clear no.

"Pretend this is a scale." He drew two circles like before, "And that all cups weigh the same except the one with the leaf."

She looked at it this time. Nyin moved away so she could sit closer. She sat with the puzzle between Nyin and her. She put six in one circle, then six in the other.

Nyin pointed to the circle closest to the fire, "It's in that one."

She discarded the six of the other then split what remained into two circled piles of three.

"It's in the pile closest to Derik."

She discarded those closest to the fire then put one in each circle, holding the third in her hand.

"They're both equal."

She looked at the one in her hand, filled with a crushed leaf.

"You got it in three, very good."

They played a few more times until he was sure she understood.

"I bet you could find the right one in three guesses, even if I made it twenty-seven instead of twelve." He added more before mixing them up, then moved away so she wouldn't hide behind Derik.

She stared at the problem for a few seconds, then put nine into each circle, looking to Nyin for the hint. Then, depending on his answer, she would divide that nine into three piles of three. Three to each circle and three held in her hand. Always ending with one in each circle and one in her hand, always taking three guesses to do it, right every time.

By the fifth game, she was bored and wouldn't play, hiding behind Derik again.

"Ok, a hard one then. Something to challenge a mind as acute as yours," Nyin said, but Dawn tugged on Derik's sleeve, then walked away. "Another night perhaps."

Derik put a strip in his mouth. He found it worked twofold, it eased the headache for a sounder sleep, and it gave an excellent excuse for his lulls in conversation.

When the men were again the only two up, Nyin said, "She impressed me again. They are both harder to figure than I first thought. I am fortunate to still have so much time before you help find that secret, safe place in the mountains."

"Yeah, I know, I promised."

"Have you decided between her life, or yours?"

Derik stared at the flickering flame, serpent preventing much of a delay to such a direct question. "... Yeah."

"I see. It is probably for the best. Healed from this, she could easily live a hundred years, I would bet. Longer, I suspect, had she never shared a mortal wound with you. Prophecy is a hard thing to fight, as a seer, you should know. I suspect that secret conversation with the witch confirms much I have said.

I am sorry for you.

It is a hard thing. You had thought the two of you were going to be. But you can't, you never could.

She can't love you any more than a master can love a slave. It hurts, I know, I was traded to free just such a slave. She is for other things, but this doesn't mean you can't have a happy ending too. Briefer without her, yes, but nature has a way of leveling such out.

I am the oldest man you are likely to ever meet, and I can count happiness on a single hand. Time is not the measure of a man, or of a life. There is plenty life, left for you. We will find a place where they will heap praise on you, where it is your wants that get answered for a change. It will be easy for you, and best for them, all those lives and crops saved. Even the witch lived best of any slave. In the right village, you can be free. I know of many I can find for you. Where every wish is a mere word away."

Derik chewed another piece.

"Yes, how to tell her. Goodbye is hard to say, after so many years. Perhaps it may be best you don't. I doubt being within her sphere you even could. It has quite a grip of you, doesn't it? You have to fight the urge to be near her every minute of the day, growing stronger the faster she heals. By the weeks it'll take to find what prophecy says is mine, your will may not be your own. It is a coward's choice, but to simply leave in the middle of the night, might be best.

Think it over, we have time. She's not well enough to walk yet. Wait too long, and she'll decide for you. If it helps, you can keep this in mind, by leaving, you are adding years to her life." Nyin paused in Derik's silence. "Would you want a cup in the morning too?"

"No thanks." Question answered, the serpent relaxed while Derik stared at the flames. "I just wondered what it tasted like. I like juice better."

"Very well. In the morning then."

Derik lay down, making sure to spit the last chewed wood out before he went to sleep. It was better than waking the serpent with his gagging sounds. He hadn't had a dream worth remembering in weeks. His thoughts were often depressing, so much color had gone from his life. Sleeping on these thoughts was rougher than what lumped beneath the blanket. Oh, how he missed the comfort of the hammock. How could he ever hope to say such things to her when it was so hard just telling Dawn no? He pounded his fist into the biggest bump.

He was the best at making things worse.

None better.

He may never grow to like the taste of it, but there was something to be said about how good that first cup of the morning smelled and the look on Dana's face while she lingered for minutes, eyes closed, slow sips until done. It seemed to take her someplace else, a happier place for sure, thanks to Nyin.

Derik watched Nyin stomp out the last of the fire with a bare foot that only looked like a shoe. Nyin made it look so easy with a saddle in each hand, riddles with Dawn, coffee, aspirin. Derik's talent felt more a cheat than ever before. A parlor game next to the skills of such a man.

Dawn was already smarter than he was, what could he have hoped to offer any of Dana's children?

Dawn was playing games with Nyin in under a month. In a few weeks, all his promised obligations would be done. Slipping away some night was looking pretty good. To be again at a village where he could be sought after, could feel important, even useful would be a nice change. Dana didn't need him for anything.

With the horses harnessed, it was time for another silent ride.

Today was broken by a mid-afternoon drizzle that cleared by nightfall. Before them was another two days of travel. Solid, relentless travel. At least this slower pace was easier on his back, or maybe that was thanks to aspirin too? He counted it once; to be headache free took eighteen sticks a day, three just before bed so he could sleep without the pain waking him. With no one to talk to, he studied the piece of bark and the few leaves and was now able to see the occasional willow amidst the trees. He could learn something after all.

The weather cleared and even the moon seemed to lend itself to their aid, adding its shine to the week's worth of riding they had done. Nyin talked to him less now. Not that it was a bad thing for him, but Nyin wasn't one to just give up talking. Dana had to be getting an earful, but was handling it well. And Dawn, little Dawn stopped coming over at all. The girls slept together, separated from Nyin and him.

But soon, that too, would change.

"Ah, young Derik, it looks as though we may get a special visitor again," Nyin said, late that night, just before Derik might have fallen asleep.

Dawn was rubbing her eyes and looking around. It seemed Nyin was right; she was walking over.

"It's been a week, I think, since last we had the pleasure of your company," Nyin said, but she sat behind Derik.

No tug, no sad eye stare, she just sat and looked at the fire, her arms hugged Derik's closest arm.

"Would you like another distraction, something thoughtful enough to keep even the worst bad dream away?" Nyin cleared a spot in front of the fire. "A long time ago, a Chinese master discovered a way to travel from his island," he put a leaf in the center, "to the islands of his three brothers," he evenly encircled it with three other leaves, "by using all seven bridges only once each. Let's see, it has been a while." He broke seven twigs to length. "Ah, yes, I remember now. Only three bridges would his brothers allow on each of their smaller islands. His favorite two he built two bridges each, his least favorite got only one." He placed the twigs accordingly. "That's only five but that was all his bigger island could handle, that leaves two more to connect brother to brother, his least favorite joining in the center of his other two. In this way, the one he didn't like could travel to see the two he did without setting foot on the master's land."

Dawn looked more puzzled than ever before.

"I have confused you, I think. Seven bridges that can only be crossed once each. Two to each of the brothers he liked, but only one to the brother he did not, that's all five on his island. The one he didn't like had two more bridges built, one straight to each brother so he never had to pass through the master's land. I think that might be how it should have been told." Nyin moved away so Dawn could move closer. She briefly studied it then shook her head no, walking away to sleep with Dana.

Derik looked at it hard.

"The master was a genius. This is the hardest yet. Few can answer it. We will yet see if Dawn is one of those few."

"I can't figure it out either," Derik said. "What's the answer?"

"Think on it a little while. My guess is, Dawn will tell you soon."

He read the serpent out of curiosity, no answer that way. But he did know by the time he spit out his third stick of aspirin, he would be tired enough to sleep.

Nyin filled one day and most of the light of another with silent carrying, a rare feat for Nyin of late.

Dana broke first this time, "You going to go kill something tonight?"

"I hadn't thought about it. We should, if we are low. It's been about a week, hasn't it?" Nyin said without pause for the branches he broke.

"I want soap."

"What an odd request. The last time I had soap, it didn't taste very pleasant." He paused, "Yet another first, almost a laugh this time. You see, I can be funny too. There's more to me than what eyes alone tell, I suspect it's equally true of you."

"Soap."

"Of course, I should have thought of it sooner. A simple task, with a simple pleasure. You see, I told you we had plenty of pleasant things to talk about." He silently crashed through the branches for ten or twenty quick steps. "It's me that needs it, isn't it? It was nice of you to try to spare my feelings."

She held back a smirk.

"Subtle, but I get it."

She laughed a little more.

They walked in silence for the rest of the light.

This time it went much smoother. They stopped in a small clearing with enough space free from tree roots to dig a decent pit. Because of the daily fires for making Dawn's soup, they started keeping an ember bag. It was simply a saddlebag that had been lined with a layer of clay, then filled with ash to insulate the hottest embers. With it, they were just kindling and a few puffs away from instant fire. Sometimes Nyin just warmed a few rocks in the bag for heating soup at the next meal stop. It saved on everyone's ears and wasn't quite as scary as watching Nyin rubbing two sticks together, with fire coming as fast as a match.

By the time Nyin returned with the meat, Derik and the ever-helpful Dawn had the fire going good. They had gathered all the right and best kinds of little-girl-selected wood, already broken into uniform pieces. It amounted to more work for him, but Dawn always made it fun, and was a close second to the girl he'd rather have spent the time with.

Dana slept a lot of late, much like she did after Dawn had drowned. It took a lot out of her, the healing thing, and was still something he hadn't wrapped his head all the way around. He limited his contact with her as best he could, knowing it would help her. The aspirin was a constant fixation. He had grown to like the bitter taste of it now. His mouth even felt odd when he wasn't chewing a piece. He would have to remember to thank Nyin again for that great advice. Curing his headache might not have been holding her healing back, but it certainly didn't do her any good.

He watched Dawn play with the rocks she had found, she looked like she was having such fun. Why would the sight of her playing suddenly make him sad?

Guar used to dig holes with her, play rocks with her. Now she played alone. He tried to think of something else.

Nyin returned in the dark and took over the tending of the fire. They had camped near a creek. Well, near was a relative term, they were within walking distance at least, but it was in no way convenient. It was the one good thing that came from following animal trails, sooner or later they lead to water.

He watched as Nyin ripped the meat into strips and pierced them with sticks as the fire grew. Nyin was a good cook, but Derik never saw him eat, even in visions. Never a nibble in hundreds of touches. "Why don't you eat something?" Derik said after sitting beside him, close to the fire.

"I do not need to. I do not need to breathe unless I have something to say." He reached over the flames and flipped the sizzling meat with his hand, wiping the grease on the coals like so often before. "I am without weakness, young one. I can eat, if it makes you feel better. I can enjoy taste, but the only benefit I receive is longer hair and fingernails. It's the only part of me that can be cut or burned.

When I was born, I ate almost continuously for months, until I had grown to about Dana's size, then I just stopped growing for many years. I could eat or not, it had no effect. It would be wasteful if I ate just to satisfy appearances, or grow longer hair.

Besides, by appearance alone, I'll never fit in, whatever I do."

"I don't know, you seem to be doing fine."

"The Emperor saw me as the animal his enemies met on the battlefield, I do not pretend I will ever be viewed otherwise. They look at you and see easy prey; a glance at me, and they are instantly afraid. Pretending to eat will not change this. It is the constant I call my life." He flipped the meat. "But, just as with you, it comes with some advantages."

Derik stared at the sizzling meat. "Yeah."

It would be another ten minutes or so, judging by the smell. In the silence that followed, Derik tried to imagine what a burden it might be to have been that big and to look the way Nyin did. He actually looked handsome in a way, no scars or disfigurations, yet powerfully intimidating, like the subtle difference between a puppy and a pack of wild dogs. It had taken a long time to get beyond that first impression of Nyin's rugged features and calm brutality. It would have advantages, but as many drawbacks too.

He watched the smoke slowly fade from Nyin's hand, fingernails only slightly singed.

"I shall take leave of you for a time," Nyin said before standing. "I have another task before me. Besides, it doesn't take two to tend the fire, and, when it's done, it will still be only you who can hand food to littlest Dawn." He collected two of the rainproof-blankets then headed into the woods.

Derik couldn't reach his hand into the fire, but he could pull the sticks out and sample. In truth that wasn't fair, Nyin squeezed the meat to bring out the juices to be seared, something flammable hands couldn't do. With no spatula anywhere to be found, he made do.

When cooked to perfection, he could tell, no sampling required. Without Nyin around, Dawn was very vocal about when and which piece was hers, and just as insistent about the one she had in mind for Dana. With both in hand, she gave a polite smile before a little leaned-in kiss on his cheek. Another thing he forgot she had learned, from that tutor they once shared. He added more to the fire and chewed on his piece, alone.

Nyin returned holding the blankets, one in each hand, tied to the shape of bags and dripping full of water, easily 15 gallons each. He set them beside the base of a tree before running back into the woods.

Within minutes he returned with an armload of rocks, dozens, the smallest easily eight pounds. He dumped them on the ground near the fire, then nestled the biggest two into the pit.

"If you would, young Derik," Nyin said, arranging the stones into a circle around a pile of kindling. "While I'm busy with another task, we need a hotter fire in the center of these stones. A boiling hot fire, if you please."

Nyin walked to the edge of the tiny clearing with the last rain blanket. He folded over four saplings, bending right angles in each at knee height, without splintering them. He then pruned, twisted, and wove each into the next until he had what looked like the frame for a rectangular box, rooted into the ground. Next, the last of the waterproof blankets was draped and tied over the edges as it quickly formed an obvious, improvised bathtub.

Nyin used the two bags of water to fill it, now all that was left was the many heated stones. That would take time. Besides, they hadn't made the soap yet. The globs of fat now made sense. Derik added the bars to his chores while Nyin left to refill the blanket bags.

By Nyin's return, the soap was almost made, thanks to the preheated stone in the pit. He had forgotten to use a cedar basket, but it was still soap, it would just smell like— "Crap," Derik said, while they cooled in a mold made of mounded dirt, lined with leaves to give it that familiar block shape.

Nyin dropped the last heavy stone from the pit into the tub with a hiss. "It might be an hour before that much water can be made warm, but, however long it takes, we will still have to leave by morning." Nyin knelt a Dawn-safe distance from the blanket. "A lot of heating and drying remains to tonight." He sat in meditative style, "That means, I'm afraid, a bath by the light of the night sky. I shall tell you a story while we wait."

Dawn showed interest in a story; she was the only one of them that hadn't had a bad experience with Nyin's stories yet.

"How shall I start," Nyin said, "Ah, the beginning is always a good place, I guess.

It's a true story, at least, that was what I was told when I was young. It's from a time before the night sky cursed the world, it is how that story began. The story of a lost girl, born without parents, a pattern to be repeated many times since. She was the last born a slave, but she dreamed of being free. She had a taste of it, in these same mountains. It was a place where she could close her eyes and pretend to fly, when the ground would leave her feet. Soaring so high, she could taste the clouds should she wish, a taste, seductively sweet.

She tried to escape, just a wish to choose her own life, but they always had a way of finding her, of punishing her. It was a mistake to believe that having nothing, left them with nothing they could take away."

Nyin paused to add some wood and pluck another hissing stone from the fire.

"She fell in love, that last time she escaped, with a friend she found when she wandered the woods," Nyin continued. "A young man who took her in, when she needed a hand, who doubted her story, but believed in her sorrow. Willing to hide her from imaginations she insisted was real. It would be months before they would reclaim her, more than enough time for friends to become more, and a heart that had healed to be given again, one last time." Nyin sat down. "Eventually, they found her, and taught her that there is no sorrow worse than happiness, when it's taken away.

But it was a magic mountain you see, a place where hope was also born. She was the first to see the genie, and made a wish to be free. A wish to live her one, happy life. But wishes granted in such a fashion, often come with a price.

She was freed, by another taking her place. All the hopes and dreams they stole from her, evil combined to birth the curse of the night sky. Her wish turned punishment, she lived many unhappily-ending lives, every time reborn as a bird."

Dawn wasn't liking the turn in this one.

"It is bad, that's true, but that does not mean it is entirely sad, because it's never just the lonely bird, the number is always two. The other, the lover she couldn't be happy without, his fate was married to hers.

Forever falling in love to every new generation, the sorrow of lives past were never more than a forgotten nightmare, to be fated to meet and repeat, to live and relive until enough time would, at last, find that ending that was right. It is a story still ongoing, just ending badly, thus far.

You doubt what I've told is true, but I remember a time when stars shined in a night sky, instead of this lightning-ball blue." He stirred the fire with his hand. "I am older than I appear, my skin doesn't burn, these are but a few of the secrets The Emperor learned, in his madness for chasing birds." He blew on an ember in his hand, it glowed almost white while little firefly pieces streamed away. "Reincarnation. It is in almost every religion ever known, and this is yet another story where it is told. The Emperor scoured the world searching for her in human form, becoming his obsession, to his ruin, when he took it out on her beloved birds. He believed it had become her only happy state, that she had decided to leave well enough to a life lived closer to the clouds of her beloved sky." He inched a little closer, to speak a little softer. "The mountains are where she was cursed, where the genie was found. It is the only place The Emperor's war on birds couldn't reach, where such spirits may still fly free. We are not there yet, but you may want to keep an eye out for a very close, forever-together two, flying in and out amidst the trees."

He picked two stones from the fire and exchanged them with a hiss for those in the tub, returning the wet ones to the circle around the fire then stoking the flame.

"Have you an answer for me yet," Nyin said, sitting down, "of the four islands and seven bridges?"

No, well, a no with a hide.

"It is a hard one."

That was a yes.

"I haven't given up on you, I think you'll surprise me with another right answer. You haven't missed one yet. I think this may have been a little hard to picture in your head."

A clear no.

"Ah, but it is hard. He was a mathematical genius, and even so, it took even him many years to solve this very simple-sounding problem."

Nyin walked to the tub, tied another blanket to a higher branch, and knotted its lower edges to the legs of the tub, forming a privacy screen of sorts. He exchanged the rocks in the tub for two hissing ones.

"It would seem more wood is in order," Nyin said. "I'll return when I can. By then, the water might be warm enough. You may wish to check it for yourself, my sense of heat isn't what it should be." He walked into the woods, steam wafting off his hands.

Dawn wasn't afraid; she went over and splashed her hand into the makeshift tub. No, not hot enough.

Nyin had washed and almost dried one of the blankets for use as a towel. It wasn't washed so much as thoroughly rinsed at the same creek he had filled the bags with water. Now it was catching as much heat as the fire could give, propped up by pruned branches that were shoved into the ground just a little further away than he would for drying jerky.

It took a good hour of tending the fire, moving rocks, and hissing stones, but eventually, Derik could see little fingers of heat rising past the privacy and out into the cooler night air. Dana was the first into the tub.

Nyin placed her clothes in one of the water bags with a small corner broken off the soap. He sealed the opening with one hand and shook it like a puppy might play with a rabbit. After a minute of vigorous shaking, he wrung them out with a two-handed squeeze, then placed them, minus the soap, into the second water bag where the shaking started again. When done, they were handed to Derik to be hung where the blanket had dried.

From the clothesline, Derik glimpsed into the head of the tub. Her draped, long, dark hair was all he could see, wrist dangling off the edge, like the bed of the bunk above, a perfect match for the ankles that extended past the other end. She may well have relaxed into a sound sleep. It didn't matter. A bath, to her, had two parts, cleaning was just the excuse for a long hot soak. He didn't blame her a bit.

Besides, they were in no hurry. It would take twenty minutes or more to dry her clothes enough to be worn. He found his gaze an even split between ankles so bare and her underwear drying in the bright fire light. There was something so familiar about seeing her in a bath, like he had seen it hundreds of times before. But he knew he hadn't. Even in all his childhood visions, he had never once seen her in a tub. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

After a good half hour, Dawn collected Dana's dry clothes and went behind the screen. Dozens of minutes and hundreds of splashes and quiet giggles passed before either would emerge, both very clean. Little Dawn was just a smiling, wrapped in only the towel, her smaller clothes waiting to dry.

Derik's turn was last, after the rocks were exchanged to bring it back from warm to hot. It was an interesting experience, but it was clear why it was something Dana had never done. Heating that much water, toting heavy rocks, and improvising a tub was way too much work for a few minutes of pleasure. But, oh my, how good it felt. Therapeutically soothing. That extra heat from the stones just under his legs was so much better than the sponge-style bath he had become accustomed to. Warm, almost hot water made all the difference as he leaned back and took the pose he had only admired from a far before.

He hadn't slept that soundly, without sleeping next to Dana. There was nothing like a hot bath just before bed, but morning came entirely too soon.

As always, Nyin had everything packed before Derik woke. All that was left to do, almost any morning, was lifting Dawn onto her horse and mount one himself. Today was no different. A hot bath and coffee, that was two off her list, thanks to Nyin.

Most of the day was spent in silent carrying. Even Nyin was having problems hiding a slight smile, a contagious one at that.

"Thanks for the bath, I really needed one," she said around noon while they happily pushed faster through the hillside.

"Ah yes, you are quite welcome. I'm afraid it will have to last you for some time. The higher we travel, the harder that quantity of water will be to come by." Nyin never missed a stride.

"It's too much work without a real tub, in a real home. But it was a pleasant reminder of how life once was."

"For you, I'm sure it will be again. Even the most remote villages have ample baths."

"... Not for me."

"Ah, you and young Derik have had this talk then."

Puzzled, she looked at the side of his face. "... No."

"Oh."

"What?" she waited while her happiness faded with his verbal stall, "What."

"It would be wrong of me to say that that he has not decided to." Nyin walked faster.

She held on tighter, "Tell me."

He didn't.

"What's with that story?" she said in the wider animal path where her voice did not have to compete with cracking wood.

"It was one of the few happy stories I knew, that was also true."

She snacked on some jerky from the bag.

"Deer more to your liking? More flavorful than soap?"

"Nothing's better than soap after weeks without."

"I'm glad. It was worth the effort to see a smile that doesn't fade so fast."

She started on another strip.

"You distrust the idea that it could be true. That it could be more than a story told to children."

She chewed another strip.

"Many have taken me for magical, like they do young Derik, seers, and the hidden you. To say it is magic, or a genie, makes it easier for most to understand. And, in a way, it is equally true. The night sky's existence bans metal's use with its constant magnetic storm, but it's not magic. It was what happened when The Emperor tricked his enemies into punishing themselves, wars with weapons too easily stolen from him. Ball-lightning on a planetary scale, stable, constant, perpetual, dancing just to the edge of the atmosphere. It is impressive.

Magic. Illusion.

Seers are all plagued with headaches, dizziness, and often are frail like young Derik. It takes a heavy toll on the body, you see, ending in dementia, madness. Why do you think that is?

It's not magic. It is a brain miss-wired to better understand the rules and regulations of probability, to sense the signals and patterns of others, often aided by a synchronizing touch. It is anything but magic. History is filled with them. Most were frauds or too vague to be useful, but that doesn't mean it never exists.

And you. You, I have yet to fully figure out, but it isn't magic either. At least, not a magic of the genie kind."

"And you?"

"And I am years of design. Cells that refuse to age, refuse to die, or to be separated from one another. They called it magic too, but it isn't. The Emperor had me lead the charge to strike fear in his enemies, dressing all his men to look like me. A trick that often worked. Fear, mistrust, deception, the art of telling lies with the truth; these things are far more dangerous than any army ever was.

I apologize, I knew nothing but what they taught me. It wasn't until times of late that I ever started to figure things out for myself. Questioning is the only way answers will come.

And that brings us back to the question of you. A healer, you are not. That too is an old thing. Medicine man, shaman, it has gone by many names over the years, but none describe you. You are something, other. The most healing ever made any who were real was tired, it never injured them. And Dawn," he pulled in a deep sniff, "your child, unwilling or unable to speak. Yet another piece that has yet to fit."

"What puzzle are you playing with Dawn?" she said hours later.

Nyin slowed his hike to reflect the denser terrain. "Mostly math riddles. Very old ones, I'm afraid. I know nothing new. But they're new to her it seems. She is a very smart child. She hasn't gotten old enough to hide it, to find most men can't deal with a woman being smarter, that it strains most relationships because they feel ultimately, unneeded."

She sipped from the bag.

"It is a shame how often that divides happiness into sorrow. The puzzle that has her now is the hardest yet. I'm reluctant to tell you because she reads gestures as well as she speaks in them." He increased his speed along the animal path. "She figured out the other two in record time, a brilliant little girl. And she has quite a grasp on nature with that sap compound she used to sooth and seal your wounds. If you could have only one, she is as fine as any. A great source of happiness for you, I'm sure."

"Don't tell her any more of your stories. You're not her father."

"Yes, of course."
**B4.C23**

Derik watched the little girl braid the horses mane as they rode. The rear of the horse line wasn't his favorite place, but Dawn was most insistent on riding the friendliest one, and she had a way with getting what she wanted, even if she wasn't Dana's daughter. The friendliest was the one Nyin had knocked out and was always in the lead. Quite a juxtaposition, the horse hated Nyin with a passion, but would fight to keep Dana within sight. And loved that little girl.

They had cleared all the hills, tight passes and the likes a few days ago. Now they were looking up at the side of a large mountain range. He read Nyin every other night like he used to do with Dana, and found the two were more similar in visions than he wanted to admit. Nyin's first instinct was almost always right, much like with Dana, and visions saved either little time, if any. He suspected the place he had promised to help find may turn out to be like Dana's home, something Nyin would simply find anyway.

The last few times he tried, the army was well beyond his two-day range. That put them about a week ahead, guessing from Nyin's top running speed. They could cut back, but maintained the pace instead, and why not, so long as the horses didn't complain, why should he? Tonight would be the end of another two days, and he was plenty rested for his midnight verbal barrage, though Nyin was getting much better about them. He closed his eyes and tried to get a few more winks.

When he woke, they had stopped in a small clearing. He smiled, looking around, it was always preferable for fire to be out from under trees, like here. It also meant less ground bugs because there were fewer decaying branches and leaves, a prime bug food.

Nyin was pausing longer, hovering more when he put Dana down. Even riding the hindmost horse, he saw enough for imagined jealousy.

With a small nighttime fire, just enough for a cup of coffee and boiled water for morning soup, Derik picked up another trick. The heat of the fire was a slower, but easier method of getting sap from green branches. A constant steamy hiss from the break yielded little drips of sap. Thankfully, it was a little mesmerizing to look at too, as he sat by the fire.

"It looks like we are due for a very special visitor," Nyin said as Dawn walked over.

She put one leaf in the center, surrounded by three others and the seven twigs. She removed one of the bridges and shook her head yes, then put it back. She removed a few more and even added one every now and then. She returned it to the problem as described, shook her head no, then went back to bed.

"That wasn't it, was it?" Derik said.

"No, and yes. It was the only answer. It is a puzzle whose answer is, it can't be solved. The impressive part is she knew why, and showed it."

"That was a little mean, don't you think?"

"If she couldn't figure it out, it would have been. I suspect she had the answer days ago, maybe even that first night. She is much smarter than her age should be, by far. You're lucky she takes after her mother."

Derik chewed another stick.

"A long time ago, there was a study of people where a specific group stood out, one of every hundred or so. Mostly they were women, but a few men. They could sit next to someone for a few minutes, and in that short time, their breaths and even heartbeats would even out, becoming synchronized. They could not only describe in detail every emotion that stranger felt, but some could even experience the feelings themselves. Empaths, they were called. Some could feel another's pain enough to raise a sympathy bruise, often confused as stigmata like.

Some didn't have to be in the same room. They could feel it from a picture, feel someone's cancer, heart disease, or other such unseen, but it's always intensified by proximity. I think our Dana is the next logical step in that line, something quite rare and unique, a blend of healer and empath. Something I still haven't figured out."

"You're doing better than me," Derik said.

"Ah, but you were in the unique position to be deceived, especially if it was something she tried to hide. She tries to conceal how injured she is, but you and Dawn are the best gauges of that. She doesn't like Dawn talking to me, and our Dawn hasn't since. When healed, I doubt you could sit here with me, and I'll become again the outcast my size portrays. She can hide it, but her effect is easily discerned. She is much stronger but far from healed, as yet."

"Find me that vil—"

"Of course, I promised you that before. Get some sleep, young Derik, I think just as well alone."

He woke last, Nyin's way of thanking him for the conversation. Little Dawn wiped the last of the soup from her lips, waiting patiently by her chosen ride for that lift up. He sat and smiled at the cute little girl. At least she needed him for something, although Nyin could do that better too. He walked over and helped her up. The best little kiss of the morning, longest hug of the day, with no challenging stories of his own to tell, still, she honored him with the kiss. He took his place, back to the end of the line, the last one on a horse.

Last wasn't as bad as it once was.

It let him keep an eye on the little girl.

"I think you and I are more alike than not," Nyin said after carrying her silently all morning. "My cells never get injured; yours don't seem to stay that way for long. You hide your progress, but I bet you're well enough to stand now, even walk a little, should you wish. Odd that you would let me continue to carry you, with your clear dislike of it. Of me."

Silence.

"Pretending to sleep? I can tell the difference. It's ok, prophecy said this too would change. I was to be here, the only one who could deliver you from them. The right person, at the right place, at the right time. Funny, how often that's the case. Destiny, prophecy, plan, it is anything but left to chance.

They found the seeds of ancient wheat once, buried in a crypt for thousands of years. With nothing more than a great deal of care, those seeds, when planted, started to sprout. Thousands of years as seeds, only to grow old and die in a single season. Life is an amazing thing.

Captured and imprisoned, stored in the right place to be found. Seed, ready to be redeemed with the slightest care."

"The seed does all the work, often despite the care."

He quickened his pace. "I thought you were awake."

"I'm not into this," she said. "I don't want to have a discussion with you. I like silence, I like being left alone for a change."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. That's why it's such an odd fit, for you. You strike me as the type with few, but close, friends, where Derik is one for larger crowds. Even your talents portray that flaw—"

"That's up to us, not you."

"How was it for you, when their eyes—"

"Stop."

"Being in the same room when they—"

"Don't."

"And yet, you're so close to me right now, and you feel none of that. An arm around my neck, and you can't read me. That's it, isn't it? Another coincidence perhaps? Or destiny tugging you toward a different path? What you felt from Derik was a lot like what you felt back in that room, wasn't it?"

"I'm happy with him," she said.

"I'm sure he does everything you want, and he's still not what you want."

"I won't discuss this with you."

"Or him, it seems. He wants to know who he is when not being, influenced, by you. He deserves that much, don't you think? To be let free from you? To decide his path in life."

"... He's happy when he's with me," she said.

"Of that, there is no doubt. In fact, I can say, with utmost confidence, that he is happier with you than he could ever be with anyone else."

She removed her arm from around his neck.

"How can he make choices with you in his life? Has he made any with you so near? Why, of every cell and every place to be captured, did he end within steps of mine? Do you even know who he is, when not influenced by you?

The girl of that story, being born over and over again, how can her love be real when he was always born to serve? Destined to her side. Shall I tell you the rest of that tale, from his side?

I don't know after each incarnation, but he was the last in a line of lovers, to be given her heart, and later betray her. His penance is her reward, that's why happiness stays outside her grasp. That is her wish made curse."

He gave her the silence she wanted for what was left of the light.

"How many cells does it take to hold a soul?" he said after the terrain inclined enough for an arm around his neck again, talking in near dark. "One of the stumbling blocks to that story I told. How much of your soul could you lose in the loss of an arm, a drop of blood? Would a baby have less a soul because of its size?"

"I don't know, or care," she said.

"What if it takes just a few, small as an insect, smaller in size. What if that was how the soul was grounded, tethered, transferred from form to form? A tumor-like group of cells impervious to harm, like those The Emperor used in the making of me.

Young Derik talked to a smear left on his hand. It was the first time I heard your name... No, that isn't exactly true. It is an old name; I remember it from before.

He would talk to it in the quiet of night, just whispers he wished to say to you."

"I get it. You can stop now."

He did, remaining silent for the rest of the night.

At first light, Nyin was nowhere to be found. The lead horse could maybe see, but from the rear of the line, he could only make out Dawn. This happened more often now, especially in daylight. Nyin could walk horses into the ground if he wasn't careful. He kept to the edge of view in order to push them faster, but it was also a constant distraction for him, sometimes forgetting to look back. Getting left behind was a real possibility that constantly reoccurred to Derik. They were slowing Nyin down.

By noon there was yelling, definite, angry yelling. The lead horse was pulling faster, but his was lagging in the rear with the worst possible view.

"Get your hands off me!" Dana said in the distance.

Derik only caught leaf-filtered silhouettes between the trees. Nyin was kneeling with an outstretched hand while Dana was hidden by his massive form.

He heard her say, "Keep away from me."

Nyin stood, turned, then balled his fist. "I have done nothing to you! Yet you fear what I am capable of." His leg hooked the base of a tree while he pummeled its trunk with six lefts and one right punch. Its broken-free top bobbed up and down, the branches of its forest friends holding it swinging off the ground while Nyin stomped away.

With the horses stopped, Derik slid off, falling to the ground on sleeping legs. He could see Dana now. A thicket of thorns had stopped her retreat, one hand on her ankle even after Nyin was gone.

Derik pulled to a stand then walked over to her, ignoring Dawn and her plea to be let down.

"Let me." He unhooked the thorns from her shirt and tangled hair.

"He told me he was—"

"I know."

"Was that part of your plan too? Tell me how you thought it was a good idea for him to believe my heart was supposed to be his? Because some mad woman told him? Because you yelled it, talked me into freeing him when it was you I came for? Tell me how this can possibly end good."

"He's not that bad. He wants to change. He's not that same guy I knew in the cells. The witch told me... I've, always known your heart was, for, someone else. She said, you may yet be the mother of three, but only one could I call my own."

She leaned forward, "And that's supposed to make it true? No, you're right, that changes everything. Maybe I should run after him right now, get started on those inconvenient two so you can have your shot." She slapped him. "What's wrong with you, don't you know me at all?"

"Yeah, you told me you would never be mine, and look what mess I've gotten you into trying to change that. I got you captured, nearly killed. Guar's dead, and if that wasn't bad enough, I was the one who told them how to torture you. A month and he's turned all that around. Coffee and a hot bath, an army I could never have gotten you away from."

"First new shoes, now coffee, is that what you think it takes? If anything, I can't stand him. He has a lot of rage inside, I can't be around that," she said.

"I'm not even a match for Dawn, she's smarter than me now. I didn't even get the easy problems he showed her."

"What's that got to do with anything? If that was the measure, I'd never be happy with anyone. Different people are different. I'll always be smarter than some people and dumber than others. What if I said you were too short, would that have stopped you so long ago? Or your hands are too small, your penmanship is pathetic, you think that's enough to exclude you as a friend? It's not endurance that's endearing. I've had enough of seeing where he's going, we can go our own way from here."

"I, I can't. I promised to help him find, whatever vague thing it was he's destined to get up there, that part wasn't important to me. It's supposed to be the only safe place for you."

She sat closer to the thorns, tree still swinging in the distance.

"It seemed like such a good idea at the time." He sat further from her. "I told you, I'm not that smart."

She stared at him, "Why don't you touch me, anymore?"

"I, uh, it's better that way."

"For you?" She put her hand on the cheek she had slapped. "Are you done seeing where we were going? Was it that frightening? Is it that much easier to just go where he tells you?"

He kissed her, lingering on her lower lip, his fingers' slow pace through her hair. He held her for a few seconds, eyes closed, then pulled away to sit beyond her reach. "Did I want to do that? Was that the way I wanted to kiss you? Or was it the way you liked to be kissed?"

"Is kissing badly that important to you?"

"It's not easy, sitting so far away from you."

"Then don't."

"He outruns deer. He walks into the middle of a pack of wolves and picks two, removes heads like hats and skin like it was a coat. I can survive his stories, I don't know about jealousy. Besides, what good have I brought you? I can't help you get better like his carrying does."

She shook a disappointed no.

"I know, it's— You're not that complicated," he said, an idle twig in his hand.

"Do you know what it is to be me? To sit in class with a room of kids who hate me for giving a quiet right answer, or look at me as worthless if I get it wrong? To feel everyone in the room, to be thankful when they don't notice me, or think less of me than dirt on the floor? How the only time I felt like someone was out in the fields, baking under the sun? At least they treated me like family. And you, you never thought of me as your equal until this year. How you looked at me differently when you were standing by the door, and how it changed by the time you reached the bed.

I felt my mother's heart break when they killed my father, I felt her hate them all. It's hard to imagine," she leaned forward to put her hand on the serpent around his neck, "that kind of pain. Her loss, added to my own. I had to deal with both. The pain of every step her broken body took when she carried me outside. The longest distance I've ever traveled, last steps of her life. She hurt so bad, she just wanted to sit down, to let go of the fight, the life she endured for me.

I don't have to imagine it, to wonder what it was to give her child to the man who had her husband killed. I felt it, shared it.

I can't be around that many people, I can't take it. Maybe a life secluded in the mountains is the best I can do, but it won't be with him." She let go.

"Right now he's on a holy crusade, your safety is his mandate, like it was carved in stone. He changes the story every time he tells it, but that part's constant. I, I don't know if I love you, but I know I'm not right for you. We're a few weeks away from finding this thing, his promised land of safety. I know he's not going to hurt you, but he's not going to take it well if I can't talk you into going along." He looked at her. "I'm, I don't like the person I was back there. Nyin's a better man around you, like I was."

"He doesn't make me smile, it was a weed and water," she said.

"I couldn't even figure that out."

"In all this time, I've never boiled one."

"He's coming back." He stood up.

"My mother was the big coffee drinker." She held out her hand to be helped up. "She would sip a cup in the morning, then one before bed. More after my father died, it helped her remember him. Remember them." Standing, she leaned in close. "I like it with cream, no sugar. And a thick slice of sharp cheese to nibble between sips."

She walked past Nyin to climb onto the horse closest to Dawn.

Nyin walked over to her horse. "You'll just end up—"

"No discussion," she said, horse trotting away.

Nyin led on foot.

She was slumped by night. Every chance Derik got, when the path was wide enough, he sped up to ask how she was doing. She would open an eye and smile— perhaps a grimace, he wasn't sure, but she never said a word.

By morning, her eyes wouldn't open when he called her name, but they continued to ride. Nyin broke the trail, this time on horse.

When noon came and they stopped for food, Dana's horse wouldn't let Nyin near. They weren't tied together anymore, so Nyin had nothing to prevent it from walking away. Derik dealt with getting Dawn down first, and got his first hug of the day.

"Dana," Derik said, closer to her horse than Nyin could get, "I'll help you down, but Nyin needs to look after the horse."

His second hug of the day, this was the first time he got her down without landing flat on his back. It staggered him though. Nyin tossed the saddle onto the dirt, then led off the four horses. She was too heavy for him to take her weight, a truth he would never tell her.

Dawn had spread a blanket and was dragging over a saddlebag when Derik sat Dana down.

"Stay," she said, her arm still around him. "He won't be back for awhile. Dawn would like some normalcy. I could use some too." She had no plan to let go.

"How's your back?" he asked.

"It hurts, but I'll live... warranty, remember?"

"You hungry?"

Dawn was. She was warming her water with a stone from the ember bag and was happily crumbling dried food into the cup. He hadn't noticed the shiny wooden cup before, nor the child-sized wooden spoon.

Dana noticed his distraction, "I asked Nyin to make them one night and sneak 'em into her saddlebag. A little soup kit. It's much easier for her because she can make it just the way she likes it. She likes feeling independent."

"Anything for you?"

"I'm not that hungry. Besides, I can chew something on the ride." She leaned on him.

He had forgotten how good it was to sit beside her. Dawn's soup smelled so good that his stomach rumbled. Dana's eyes slowly closed while her arm rested on his shoulders and the cutest little girl sipped from a cup. He saw colors behind each blink of his eyes and a smile between spoonfuls whenever his eyes opened. He could eat on the move too.

A little normalcy was good for everyone.

The hour went by too fast. He shook her awake, "Nyin will be back soon."

"... When I'm feeling better, I can take that thing off your neck, I think."

"It's useful sometimes, especially if I talk to myself, a lot. But it makes me sound crazy... er."

"It's uncomfortable."

"I'm used to it."

She lightly slapped him on the back of his head.

"But you're not." He helped her up before Nyin came into view.

He watched her, so lifeless, slumped on the horse as they rode into the night. It felt like he was making it worse every time he called her name and she opened an eye to respond. He stopped asking, it wasn't needed, the horse would stop if she was getting hurt. Still, the urge was always there.

A small nighttime fire was enough for that comforting flame and the smoke that kept the bugs away. She hadn't let go of him since he helped her off the horse, and now he was trapped under half her weight. It was very nice to be surrounded by the two girls, but Nyin looked so alone, distant.

"Don't," she said, but he got up anyway.

"I remember when I was in that lonely place, on the other side of the fire from Dawn and Guar, and you."

Derik walked over.

"How is she doing, young Derik?" Both men sat by the fire. "Worse, I'll bet, or a don't would have been enough."

"I can't tell. She's not bleeding, that much has healed."

"Internal wouldn't show." Nyin stirred the fire just to watch the embers' insect dance. "She is stubborn, and it cost her. I should know better, but lack the wisdom of foresight, like you."

"I read futures and I make her mad all the time. She's tough."

He stirred it again.

After two relentless days, they had crossed the base of the first in the range, revealing many more that this small mountain had hidden. The paths had gotten so narrow in places that the horses had to be led across by foot. Loose rocks had become a concern. It would have provided them with a shortcut, had they crossed over it, but like the field of sweet-smelling grass, it was much wiser to just go around.

Dana seldom sat upright on the horse. She didn't walk on her own anymore, leaned heavily on Derik just to stand, and often needed his help to push her up onto the saddle. And now, just before dark, her horse slowed to a stop.

He was able to pull her off the horse, but without her help, he wasn't strong enough to take her weight and slammed into the ground. Dawn was already off her horse when Nyin collected them and led them off to graze, struggling with one in particular displaying a great deal of reluctance to leave.

He tried to lift Dana off his lap, but couldn't. He tried, but couldn't wiggle out, so he sat and watched Dawn drag the heavy saddlebags across the ground, two or three feet at a tug. He watched her spread a blanket behind him, half rolled up next to his butt. She gathered the kindling, broke the branches, and made a respectable fire from the embers left in the bag. She did it all while he sat on the ground, Dana in his arms.

If he lay down, the blanket could be unrolled the rest of the way and they would be in its middle. It reminded him of another wadded blanket he almost had to eat. He snacked from the bag Dawn had drug within reach while the smell of warming soup filled the air. It smelled so good.

He woke at the end of a colorful dream of another little girl asleep on a blanket and a real husband and wife. He sat up and looked around. Dawn had been that warm little spot pressed to his other side. Nyin was staring into the fire. He had to go into the brush soon, but it was too overcast to find privacy without getting lost, so he waited. He lay down where it was warm again. His bladder could take it until morning... he hoped.

Dawn was watching the colors band across the sky by the time he woke. She didn't like being on this side of the mountains, her sunrises were less than spectacular, and they were covered by shadows most of the morning. She watched anyway, just with more focus on her soup. He wouldn't be missed for a few minutes, so he left now.

"Take your hand off me." It sounded like Dana. He should hurry back.

"It makes no sense," that was definitely Nyin's voice, "You're just hurting yourself, pointlessly."

"I'm not going to tell you again." That was Dana for sure. He hurried his pants up.

"This attitude of yours is ridiculous," Derik was close enough to see their outlines. Nyin had his hand on Dana's shoulder while Dawn was pounding on Nyin's wrist. "I've knocked out horses with a single punch, I run faster than anything with legs. Had I wished either of you harm, nothing could stop me. It is precisely because I do not wish you harm that I can't allow you to ride again."

"Remove your hand." She slid it off her shoulder. "You do not tell me what to do."

Nyin stepped back and sat, lowering his height and restricting his reach, much less threatening that way. "How much longer then, before you've proven your point? Another two days? Shall you wait until you've regressed to the point your hand knots up? Or until you can no longer tend to yourself, hot flashes return? What happens then? I'm still the only one who can carry you without harm. You can't hide from them. By now they know, the blossoming seed has revealed all your secrets. They may well have doubled their efforts. The paths we've taken have only discouraged, those yet ahead are the impassable ones. Not until after that will you be safe from them."

Derik was now in sight.

"We are weeks away. How much of your stubbornness can you survive?" Nyin continued, "And why, there is no advantage to this."

She leaned forward, adjusting her legs by hand. First one, then the other, she pushed herself to stand. "I get another day away from you." She made it to the horse, unassisted.

Nyin folded the last blanket, picked up the last saddlebag, and mounted a horse of his own.

Another day.

This one would end in rain.

Rain, when added to night on this terrain, made travel impossible. They had no shelter, no tent, and with this much wet, no fire. It seemed silly to sit all night on a horse standing still, draped in a blanket, but it was better than getting wet.

Nyin pruned branches off pine saplings to make a thick carpet of needles at the base of the first tree with a suitable branch less than four feet off the ground. One blanket covered the pile, another tented over the branch, and the last, which had protected Dana, now shielded them from the rain blowing in past the trunk of the tree. Nyin completed it by handing in three heavy logs to weigh down the corners where the blankets met.

Nyin stood outside while the rain drove harder and the wind whipped a light mist inside from the trickle down the trunk. The trees swayed with every lightning flash, revealing Nyin's unwavering stand.

By far, this was Derik's favorite position to date. His arm was around Dana from behind while little Dawn mirrored the same in Dana's arms. Touching, but he thought about it once more. He used one of the blankets from the pile to take his place while he found a corner to himself and contemplated the price of tripping girls, and what Dana may pay for the comfort he so enjoyed.

The storm grew louder toward morning, eventually waking Dana. The serpent gave him warning, but there was nothing he could do.

She held out her hand, but he stalled.

She tucked Dawn in, then slid next to him in the back of this makeshift tent. "What's got you?"

"Noth—" The serpent stopped the lie until she put an arm around him.

"Nothing huh," she said.

"I, I did a lot of bad things back there. Very, regretful things."

"The first time they looked at Dawn that way, I knew it would only be a matter of time. They kept me beaten down, weak. It was looking like... I, was going to kill her in her sleep, you know, to keep that fate from befalling her. Hope is a terrible thing to lose." She hugged a little tighter.

"I got people killed. Told them how to— I thought I was helping those poor... but I wasn't. I remember, I reached a point where I stopped caring. I thought of it the same as killing a stalk of corn, or sap dripping from a tree. How much of that good person I thought I was, was you?"

"How much of me wanted to kill Dawn?" she whispered.

"How did you two escape?"

She loosened her hug.

"What happened after he opened the door?" Derik asked, remembering what of it his visions saw.

"You're not the only one, desensitized to suffering." She was hard to hear, "I guess the cage, just had enough. When it started killing, we walked out. Figured out how to work the doors, and found you."

She was fighting sleep now. He thought about trying to move her back with Dawn, but this was the first time in days he actually felt good. It reminded him of that other night her head ended up on his lap.

If only she was as strong as she was stubborn.

When the rain ended later that morning, Nyin dismantled the tent and, for the first time, helped Dawn get on the horse. Derik struggled to do the same for Dana. Whether it was the rides or her night spent with him, either way he promised himself to never touch her again until she was healed.

Her horse stopped a few hours before dusk. It stood its ground this time, weary, but prepared for another punch. He broke his promise and touched her just long enough to get her down. They couldn't afford Nyin's method.

She didn't wake in the morning when Nyin tried the smell of coffee.

Not a sound when Nyin picked her up in his arms, carrying her again and for the next few days.

"Are you awake enough to converse?" Nyin said mid-step, but she sipped water instead. "Very well, then listen when I apologize. I am not used to you, and yet, I missed this. Your stubbornness is a strength I hadn't counted, but it was evident early on. More crosses my mind to say, but I'm sorry is it for now. Let silence be as much my penance, as much as it is your reward."

And that was it. Not a word while they crossed the passes so narrow even Dawn had to get off her horse, slowing them to the pace of a little girl for days. That big lead was dwindling, proving the wisdom of an earlier relentless pace.

Dana was back to sleeping more, seldom sitting longer than the few minutes needed to eat a hot meal. She refused offers of coffee until Nyin finally made no more.

The paths were now impassable to numbers greater than four. The trail itself wouldn't take many more steps before sliding into total ruin. They stopped every night now, but only because of hoofed feet. Boys slept separately from girls.

"I had promised not to say, but I think that may have been wrong," Nyin said, mid-carry in the afternoon. "It is best should you know, to better understand, prophecies are almost never as they sound."

"I don't want to hear it," she said.

"I think it's important that you do."

"I'm sick of it. From you and Derik."

"It was foretold that I would be freed shortly after the witch went mad. Derik pledged his assistance should I free you. Who knew this would be the turn of things? I was to carry the cure, who knew how literal that would be? I was to go a lifetime without knowing pain, yet be tortured until I changed. So much of it has come to be. The end grows near and it's a myst—"

"I don't want to hear it, Nyin."

"He's leaving you. I think it best you know, after he helps find the beginning so this can end, I agreed to safely deliver him to a village where he can find that life he had before. You knew he was never meant for this way of life. One night, we will simply leave. He decided it would be best that way, too hard to say goodbye."

"... He would have told—"

"How could he be near you, and be himself? You must have known. You can't be blind to your effect over him," Nyin said.

"... He wouldn't leave without—"

"With you, it may be the only way he could."

The sounds of distant hooves were swallowed behind swaying leaves.

"I'm sorry." His urge to talk was gone.

They stopped for an hour just before their all night walk. It was time for inspection and cleaning of hooves, a last big meal, and a last cup of hot soup. While Nyin was gone, they sat in the silence of so much unsaid. The hour ended, it would be morning before any would see more than silhouettes of the other.

Once Nyin returned, they were on the move again.

"Changed," Nyin said, the morning light hidden by the shadows looming mountains' cast.

She closed her eyes, still cradled on his arm.

"When we first met, I thought I had been changed by the preacher's words, that my redemption was freeing the three of you. I thought I had reached that enlightenment, but the first thing I did cost forty men their lives. The first horse to defy me, did so to protect you."

"Stop."

"I have, and I have you to thank for that. I felt such regret for the one that I had to knock out that I wondered where I would find enough will to hit it again, when Derik found another way.

I can tell that you're well enough to ride again. It is a time I have dreaded for awhile. I hope you do not choose that path. I hope to see you healed by the time we get there, because shortly thereafter, I will have to leave to fulfill my promise with Derik. Dawn will need a healed you, even as independent as she is.

I ponder what-ifs a lot of late. I'm not now who I needed to be when they were only hours behind us. I assume they have yet to give up, and most nights, when able, I have left the appropriate traps. Our trail should be lost to them now, with only a few scouts to worry about.

I find I still have that military mind, even if I have lost the killer's heart."

Her eyes closed.

"Thank you for the calm, that you've brought to my life."

This she could put up with for the next few weeks to come.
**At Last**

With such an odd-shaped mountaintop, it seemed laughable that anyone could not have found it, or lost it to begin with. Plowed flat, it had ample rubble scattered everywhere, some blocks even retained the outlines of walls.

"Yes. Yes, this is it! Well done, Derik." Nyin walked over to a massive hole. "This is where it all began." He looked in. "Where dreams took to the air and a slave was freed."

"It's getting dark," she said, helping Dawn off the horse.

"Yes yes, of course. A feast then. The grandest meal I can gather, enough to last the mightiest stomachs for weeks." Nyin looked down the hole. "The fire should be a blazing one, concealed by that crumbled corner over there. I leave that to you."

Nyin charged off, but would return soon.

Derik worked the fire while Dawn investigated the ruins. Curiosity could lead her to harm, so he tried to keep her in sight, whenever possible.

Dana brought over a few large sticks broken to size. She stood long after she had set them down. "Is this it?" she said from the other side of the fire.

"Yeah."

"You just going to leave, when I fall asleep?"

He added a piece to the catching kindling.

"Is that all I get?" she said.

He sat still while she walked around to join him, serpent tightening with his silence.

"It can't be like last time. I won't stick around for either of you to find. There's no going back from this. You can't go, then change your mind."

He stacked a few pieces.

"... You wanted to marry me once." She watched him watching the fire. "My husband, no longer wants to be."

"Please don't."

"Dawn approved of you," she said when he checked on Dawn's play.

He wiped his chin.

She leaned in close. He pulled away. "These actions have consequences," she said. "I hope you've thought them out. Visions don't plan lives people live."

"I have."

Hands in her lap. "I've missed you since we got out."

He shied away from her attempted touch.

She left for more wood.

Little Dawn continued her carefree play with these new kinds of rocks.

He would miss them both, so very much. But it was for the best this way.

The footsteps were silent from shoes with no soles, but the serpent warned him before Nyin showed. It was just shy of bonfire and yet concealed by the standing corner and the restacked rubble. The reflected heat was intense.

The animal looked to be the size of a small horse, but it was a deer. Nyin was holding it off the dirt with a hand on its spine, reached through its ribs. Geez, it was big, perhaps the biggest he had ever seen.

"I didn't have the needed water supply to properly clean it," Nyin said while pruning branches off the tree closest to the fire. The highest branch he broke and left about a foot for a hook. He impaled the animal there with ease. "I hope you don't mind preparing the rest for yourself, I want another look down that hole."

Nyin walked over to it, then, with nothing more than another step, he fell in. Seconds passed before the rumbling thud and a cloud of dust, followed by echoing footsteps.

Nyin had gutted the animal, for the most part, but had left a lot of work undone. It was still very warm and had to be cooled quickly before it had a chance to spoil. Bones, ribs, patches of skin, this one was almost intact. Derik had done this part often enough on a much smaller scale, but it required more than simple hand strength to de-bone. Thankfully, Dawn offered him a sharp edge from her collection of rocks before helping Dana gather the greener food.

"He still down there?" she asked while Derik cooked the first few steaks.

"Yeah. He goes silent for a while, then it's a lot of crashing and tossing and stuff. I thought I saw some flashes once, but I'm not sure."

"Maybe he's stuck."

"I doubt it." He read the serpent. "He's gonna be here before dinner's done. He won't find what he's looking for tonight."

She sat across from him, for a long, silent while. "Pity. You were starting to become useful, for something other than visions for once. I think I would have liked to have seen more of that."

When he smiled toward the fire, she left to help Dawn gather a few more greens before the sunlight was gone.

Nyin's return would have been impressive in more light. First, a fist punched up through the rubble, then opened to a wider hand that pulled blocks and ground back down, an armful at a time. Firelight made it look like the children's story of how a vampire would claw its way free from a grave. A little spooky, now that he thought of it like that, and a campfire to boot!

Nyin dusted himself off with pats that echoed down the smaller hole and out the larger one. "You have to see—"

"Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow," she said while Nyin walked toward the fire where all the blankets were spread.

"Yes, you're right," Nyin said, sitting a little less distant, an arm's length from Dawn. "I think you'll find this place interesting. It has quite a unique history. This is where many stories were born." He pointed to another mountainside, just hinted outlines, "At night, it becomes easier to see the few homes dotting those distant hills and the hints of the many more hidden behind closed windows and doors. And over there, when it becomes light, you will see some very level trees about midway up the side from the valley. It hides a pond of considerable size that is only visible from the sky. A spring higher up fills it, and it, in turn, spills in trickles down to the valley. That was where she was to have lost her heart for the last time."

"I thought this was the place you were looking for?" she said.

"It is. And it may not be. Legends are hard things to find, I thought I would have figured it out by now."

She pulled Dawn onto her lap. "Smells like dinner's ready."

"Yes. Eat, enjoy. Rest well," Nyin looked at Dawn, "tomorrow you will see what only a select few have ever known. Finding this place was the key, the answer awaits within."

"We were in luck," she said when Derik noticed the rich collection of greens, now that he wasn't so busy working the meat. "The horses led us around to the other side, where the sun shines the most. There was a small farm overgrown by weeds and shrubs and trees, but it must have once been big enough to feed whoever lived here. The weeds choked it down to slim pickings, but it had plenty of seeds, enough for a garden-size soup."

"I see you found some broccoli too," Derik said, breaking it into Dawn-sized pieces before adding it to the bowl of boiling water. Some spinach, celery, cauliflower, and even big onions that made him cry instead of the tiny tearless wild ones. And carrots, it had been forever since he had seen real food. It would make for the best soup ever— Well, minus one. He could feel her smiling at him. He didn't feel so bad about leaving now.

"Dawn should be pleased," Nyin said.

Dana smiled more.

"It will be a while yet," Nyin said, "and one story left untold.

A piece of history that was never written, all but forgotten I'm sure. Many slaves were born here; one was a brilliant little girl. Promises and lies, they tie like a knot on this very ground. Freed, when another took her place, left to live her nightmare—"

"I thought I told you not to tell—" Dana held Dawn a little tighter.

"Yes, of course. I forgot for a moment." Nyin sat down. "I apologize. Just a little, overwhelmed, I guess. I've waited for decades. So many things running through my head right now, it's hard to relax."

"No, it's easy." She put her hand on Nyin's knee when he closed his eyes, "Just count back from ten with a longer pause between those yet unsaid, and those that have already passed."

A minute of silence before, "Thank you, I had forgotten." Nyin's voice was now low, slow, and calm.

"You want to eat something this time?" she asked Nyin while Derik spooned out the soup. "There's plenty, if not, he can make more."

Three were all the bowls that had been made, not counting the largest one used for cooking. Dana's had two spoons in it, Dawn's was left unused. "A small one then, to see how Derik's skills have improved." He sipped from it like the dainty cup it looked in his hand. "You have done quite well, nothing too big or too firm. It's a hard balance to get right, without falling to mush."

"I cheat, I mumble to myself while I cook. But thanks," Derik said.

Nyin sipped slowly to finish with the rest. Clearly, he didn't want to wait, often looking at the hole then closing his eyes to calm down again. Dawn was the first to fall asleep, Dana next.

The issue of now or morning was more than settled.

Derik's drying and smoking duty kept him up with Nyin, who seemed to be trying to will the morning to hurry its pace through the night.

"Where's that place? You said we could see it from here. That it was easier to see at night," Derik said.

"Yes, of course." Nyin pointed to a distant valley range. "There's one, the closest of any size. They are smaller than what you're used to, I'm sure, at most a few hundred or so, if that many. Even more are spread across the valley in little pockets that keep separate, except for trade. Your talent will do well there, prosper even; but it's a few weeks journey, even on horse."

"Where is it again? My eyes can't see that far."

Nyin lifted him like a child onto his shoulder then pointed. "Don't fear, young one, it's there. If it does not suit, we will find another that will. You found this place for me, and more importantly, the right words to keep from making a grand mess of things. If it wasn't my promise, it would be my thank-you." Nyin set him down. "Trust me, it's there."

Morning was greeted with what was left of the soup, kept simmering overnight, and a sunrise on a mountain high enough to please little eyes. Nyin had taken over the midnight chore, letting Derik be the last of them to wake.

"I have prepared some torches," Nyin pointed to the wound sticks, "Fat is hard to gauge, but each should burn for several hours. We can go as soon as breakfast is finished." He handed out the bowls.

Nyin went first, this time down the little hole. Steps, long, column after column of steps filled with loose rubble, kicked to one side. So long, Dana had to carry Dawn after the first few flights.

It took a half hour to reach the bottom, good thing they had taken all three torches, but only lit the one. There were doors every so often at different levels and landings, all showing signs of a massive foot caving them in and halls extending into darkness behind them. It became clear that to fully explore all of this could take weeks, months, or even years if Nyin was searching for something small. They passed on these diversions and continued straight down until the last of the steps were reached.

These were bigger, heavier doors that had taken a vicious beating before yielding just enough to squeeze by. And these had been caved in from the other side. Derik had never seen so much metal. Inside, the walls remained mostly white, except a few spots where the paint had burned or peeled. The sun shining down the big hole lit the center of the room. It was huge, a vast openness in every direction that forbid seeing the ends. The white ceiling was taller than any building he had ever seen, his village could fit inside this one room. The hole wasn't so much a cave-in like he pictured it from above, but a large, rectangular shaft that explained the need for so many steps, hundreds of feet down.

"This was a military base, most of it underground." Nyin pointed to the shaft, "What you don't see is the elevator, big enough for airplanes. It was loosely modeled after an aircraft carrier, but designed to take a direct hit from above. All this damage was done from one within, wishing to get out."

Derik looked at the scattered, twisted pieces, "Then, these are—"

"Airplanes, or what's left of them. This is the hangar and that shaft was the only way they could come or leave. One decided to pass without asking. A pilot given a tumor, a cancer big enough to hold a soul, every now and then, born again, as the bird she pretended to be, in her life within one of those."

"So, what are we supposed to be looking for?" She set Dawn down, "Watch for broken glass, honey, moccasins won't protect your feet from glass."

"A memory maybe, it will look familiar. I had decades to sort the witch's words, and I'm just as confused as when I was first told," Nyin said looking around. "I can only trust I'll know when I see it. Obvious to everyone."

"Easy," Dana said, walking off after Dawn.

"Let's see if we can speed this up then." Derik caught up with Nyin, touching his hand. "No, nothing. Maybe I used too much last night getting the soup right."

"It is a different kind of magic, I bet," Nyin said, watching the two walk off.

"I've never seen so much metal that wasn't rusted or burned." They walked a different direction than the girls.

"It isn't all metal." Nyin punched a hole in one, peeling chunks like the shell of a hardboiled egg. "Most are an alloy, composites, and even plastic. This hangar is magnetically shielded more than any other place in the world. None of this could exist above ground." He ripped a fist of wires from inside the plane, wadded it into a ball, then threw it toward the gaping hole in the ceiling. It bounced off the edge then fell to the ground. This time he tossed it up the center. It made a bright flash and a crackle sound then showered down on Nyin like embers, splattering melted metal to the concrete floor. "See, it's shielded, but only down here."

"So, well, I guess while this torch is burning, it would be best to explore the darkest parts first, right?"

"An excellent idea."

It took ten minutes of walking to get to an area that was dim. "Ok, what was it we're looking for again?" Derik said.

"It could be something as small as a ring, or as big as a plane. I just know it'll be obvious when it's seen."

"Yeah, but, how will I know?"

"You will, have no doubt."

They looked at so many wrecks with pieces torn, filled with holes, and covered in inches of dust. Big, it was impressive that it took so much size to lift a man into the air. from the pictures he had seen, he had thought they would be a lot smaller. But the rounded, smooth lines more than made up for it in symmetry, elegance. Most were so big that Nyin seldom stooped to pass beneath them.

The torch started to dim, burning wood instead of fat now. "We should go back, at least head to the light," Derik said. "Can you see them?"

Nyin climbed to the top of one and pointed. "The smoke is over there."

They headed back. Derik held the torch nearly upside down to get it to burn enough to see two steps ahead on the floor.

"It's a pity, really, all this technology gone, ruined by age. Damaged before the night sky in the one place it was safe, down here."

"The sunlight's waning, it must be hitting the shaft at an odd angle."

"Can you see where to go now, that distant, thin smoke trail?" Nyin asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Nyin took the torch. "Then I shall find you shortly."

This was the size he had in mind. It was small, less than a third the size of any other. Most of it was in scattered pieces, spread on the ground in the order that it might be reassembled. It wasn't shredded like the rest, but it was clear why. The holes drew lines passing over it.

Dawn was fascinated by the array of little pieces, these very different rocks. The smooth, seamless skin of what was assembled looked shockingly familiar. He touched it. "This is the same stuff your shie—"

She slapped his hand off it. "Let's go." She lifted Dawn to her hip and started walking away, just not before Nyin showed.

"Nothing yet?" Nyin touched the dripping black end of the stick to Dana's dwindling torch. It made a thick black smoke and dingy yellow flame, but was more than bright enough to see by. "We should have found something by now, we're losing the sun." He looked beyond them. "Ah, the littlest of them all, a hummingbird amidst falcons."

Dana led Derik away.

Nyin lingered, "I almost didn't recognize—"

"Dawn's tired and hungry and we've got just the one left to light the way to the top of those steps." She lit then handed the spare to Derik, holding both torches now.

"We're close, I can feel it." Nyin stood by the parts while the others headed for the stairs. "Can't you feel it?"

The steps proved Dana right. By the time they climbed to the top, the fresh torch was sputtering. They even took turns carrying Dawn between the occasional flight or so that little feet insisted on walking. It took three times longer to climb up, and everyone but Nyin was tired and sore.

They had something light to eat while Nyin paced near the hole, constantly mumbling, "I don't understand, it's not up here, it's down there. I know it is! Should have remembered by now. Seeing should have been enough."

"Sit down and try to relax," Dana said. "We'll go again tomorrow, it's a big place."

Derik tried to kindle a small fire, just enough for soup and smoking embers he needed to finish the massive amount of leftover meat.

"Calm down, Nyin. What will be, will, just not today," she said, but Nyin only paced more.

They snacked on raw vegetables while Dawn waited for the soup to heat and Nyin to cool. It took about the same amount of time for each. Nyin finally sat down.

"It'll be ok," Dana's voice was enough to calm, "we're tired, it happens. We'll try again. Later."

"It's here, awaiting remembering. I have all but the smallest piece of the puzzle, and it's here to be found. Prophecy said it would be found. This is where it began, the circle, the cycle completes in this spot. This should have been enough, but it never is. Always within sight but constantly denied me!"

"After we eat, rest a little," she said.

Nyin practiced silence in a meditative form while they ate and tried to recover from the potentially fatal number of stairs. Nyin sat perfectly still for hours.

"Here, let me give it another try, now that I'm rested." Derik touched Nyin's hand. "No. Don't hurt her, she won't tell you!"

"Of course, how stupid of me." Nyin lifted Derik off the ground by the neck, Dawn was snatched the same way in Nyin's other hand. "It's so clear now, thank you." He flung Derik, back first, to the base of the tree like a human horseshoe.

"What the hell are you doing!" Dana said, jumping to her feet. But Nyin was faster, Dawn was already stuck to the tree like the deer the night before. "Have you lost your mind!"

With a single hand, he lifted Dana off the ground by the neck. "Tell me what I want to know, what we came here for." He walked her away from the tree. Dawn gasped for breath, lungs filling with wood and blood, getting smaller over Nyin's massive shoulder. "Tell me!" Dawn kept getting smaller, "Stop wasting my time."

"It doesn't have to be like this," Dana fought his grip. "You don't have to be that man anymore. I can still fix this." His grip loosened, "You want to be the man of your own choosing. I can undo this," looser, "Just let me go." He did.

He stared, dazed, at the hand that released her while she ran straight for Dawn. A hand on Dana's shoulder flung her to the ground. "How long did you think I wouldn't notice?" Nyin towered over her. "Derik turned into your little maid? The animals I had to put down? Your control is married to your health, girl."

"I'm not controlling—"

"Regret, remorse, these aren't feelings of mine. You're subtle, I'll give you that."

"It's called a conscience, you moron." She tried to stand, but his was the blow of a man, her fractured jaw was driven to the ground.

"Save her and my conscience disappears. How much," he looked at Derik crawling on the ground toward Dawn, "pain can you take?"

She started to slide away, but he anchored her foot under a stomp.

"You remember. I can see it. You know the secret that's mine. Derik's words betrayed you again. Tell me, it's my dest—"

Nyin turned in time to be trampled off by the horse. Dana stood, wiped her lip, then limped toward Dawn. Her little hands gripped the branch, head slumped. She was almost gone, but still alive. Just a few steps away when Dana heard a neigh, a rip, and a heavy thud. One step away, but it was a step too far, this blow broke ribs.

"Tell me." His kick rolled her farther from the tree.

"After I save—"

"We tried that before, remember? Tortured, and you never said a word." He stepped closer.

She crawled away.

"But that was a life time ago, wasn't it?" Nyin looked over to the tree, "We'll try it this way. A daughter is a hard thing to lose, especially for you, isn't it?"

When he turned to Dana, she filled his face and eyes with glass. She flicked her wrist twice more, but he never fell, never staggered back. He blinked it from his eyes like waterless tears, then pounded her to the ground.

"A nice trick, but I've seen it before." He gathered those caught in his clothes.

She covered her face when he threw them back. Broken shards imbedded in both arms, the one aimed at her face was stopped intact, protruding halfway through her hand. She tried to crawl away, but he stomped her other foot.

"She doesn't have time for this," Nyin reminded her. "Not that you have much left to give."

She kicked him off his feet with her good leg; strength and balance were two different things, a lesson she had taught to other men.

But his fall broke her knee.

She backhanded him across his face with the still imbedded blade.

"We'll have no more of that." He caught her wrist in one hand and made a fist of his other.

"You don't want to do this," she said.

"That's why I have to." The blow shattered her wrist. She punched him out of reflex. He did similar to her other, but broke the bones of her hand instead. He sat between her and the tree. "Neither of you looks good. You guard it with your life because you know you'll get another, but what about her?" He looked Dana over. "It's hard to breathe with broken ribs, like a branch stuck in your lung, I bet."

"... Please, while I still can," she could barely speak.

He waved his hand before her swelling cheek. "Hard to form words, blind in one eye. It's not the same when the wounds are your own. Tell me the secret. I have the cells, I need to know how to keep the soul."

"She can't tell you," Derik said, unable to climb the tree to free Dawn.

"Ah, young seer with twice broken back, stand, and you might reach her. But it's too, painful, I bet. Hard to breathe now, isn't it?" He paused as the serpent strangled. "That's fine, you've said more than enough." He turned his attention to Dana, "Minutes now. I've seen lots of death in my day. I've seen you die before. Always the same, stubborn girl. We come to this familiar place again, with you always unafraid to die. I suspect it's different this time, something other than your life on the line."

She started laughing, "... You must be used to losing then." Her laughs were short lived and mixed with specks of blood. "How's it feel to be so powerfully helpless?"

He backhanded her, but she forced laughs past the pain.

"Emperor, beaten by a little girl."

Nyin lifted her off her feet with his grip of her ribs. "Armies I've led, have lost only once." His squeeze forced a scream from her damaged lung. "Conquered kings were the first to call me Emperor," He forced another from her. "But I have always been, Nyin Vul Nabral."

"And yet, you continue to lose. Whatever you wanted, died with her." She did her best to smile. "Wrong girl, moron."

With an enraged yell that would cower the hungriest wolves, he punched his fist through her stomach, reaching up, "What's that, something else smart to say? Make it quick."

Blood dripped down her chin. "... I hate you."

Organ in hand, he discarded her to the ground. "It seems there's more than one way to win your heart." He faced the crawling closer Derik, "Rest up, young one, I suspect in a month or so we'll be using that serpent to hunt birds."

Broken back, useless legs, Dana's heart in Nyin's hand, Dawn dead, all from something he said. He worked his fingers around the serpent's head. One swift pull would be all it should take.

"I will not be denied what's—" Nyin collapsed to his shattered knee, grabbing at the red lines drawn on his arm, his hand twisted to a broken knot. He looked at the heart, "bitch..." Red flowed down the front of his pants before he fell to a face-down lump on the dirt.

"Dana." Derik's crawl was slowed by his dragging legs, his laces tangling on every twig. "Dana." He made it to her foot. He hated to, but he used her leg to pull himself along. Her stomach was torn like paper, as he drug his way to her battered face. Her hand was still twitching, outstretched toward Dawn.

He pressed his ear to her chest. No beat, but he could hear... something. Her mouth was open like a fish on land, suffocating in air. He took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and blew. Pink bubbles foamed on her stomach. He counted five then blew lighter this time.

Lightheaded in less than a minute from the extra breathing, he struggled against passing out. Her eye opened, just a few blinks. Life. A sign that his struggles were not in vain. Between puffs, he picked glass from her hand and arms, his fingertips cut to shreds. It hurt to tie scrap bandages, but it had to be done.

He pressed his ear to her chest between puffs, no beat, but there was a shallow, familiar sound. Not exactly alive, but not yet dead. Her broken hand rested on the back of his neck. Her eye blinked, then opened, focused on him. He wanted to say something, but what? Words failed a moment like this.

What did it matter? "I never understood when you said you would never be mine, just how much I'd be yours."

Her eye closed, a tear for his words or all she'd endured, he couldn't be sure. Her hand fell to her side when he jumped to his feet. He ran four steps toward the village Nyin had pointed out that night, then stopped. His heart pounding — he needed to run — he knew the general direction, but could never get there in time for— He stopped, and turned.

Still gasping for air, her eye didn't open. His back burned while standing on legs that couldn't, only seconds ago. He could keep running, find one of the horses, he could still be the hero of songs. That future was still his to have.

History may remember his name, but his had always been, the story of her.

He pinched her nose.

[End of book four]

. _.. "I— she was dying, beaten nearly to death. She may even have been dead. She— she couldn't breathe. If— if I left her... It just seemed like there was nothing I could do for her. Any help I could bring would be too late. She would live or die, with or without me. I felt so, useless."..._

... The little girl put her fur-lined slippers on before crossing the floor. "What's wrong with Mom?" she said, careful not to wake the woman asleep between father and quizzical child.

With her outstretched hands, he helped the little one to sit on the pillow by this sleeping woman's head. "Your mother, well, that's a much larger story than it seems." Her sleeping face was obscured from his view. "You have known her only as your mother, I have known her as much more. She saved my life when I was only a few years older than you. It cost her, easily cut her life in half. To look at her, you would not think her capable, but she survived a beating that would kill the strongest man. Now, she sleeps late, sometimes all day. You notice, when the morning is cold, I get the side by the window; when it's warm, she gets the breeze. I wouldn't have it any other way, even if I could. She has the strongest magic I've ever known, and I can prove it." He held the woman's hand, "See that smile?" The little girl had one too. "She managed to share that with you."

"Tell me more, Daddy."...

Mourning after Dawn

**Mourning After Dawn**

By TR Nowry

One... two... three... four...

He took a deep breath, sealed his lips around hers, then blew. He had never done this before today. It was harder than it looked. After only a minute or two, he was already lightheaded, dizzy; it felt like a belt was tightening around his ribs.

He pressed his ear to her chest, then listened. He heard a slow, bubbly hiss. He closed his eyes and concentrated. There. It sounded like a beat, but he couldn't be sure. It seemed so doubtful that he— That was a definite thump under his thumb on her neck. Thank God.

Count, he had forgotten— It must have been longer than— He took a breath, pinched her nose, then blew.

One... two... three... four... Blow.

Keep going! He had to keep his eyes open, she's counting on him. Just count and blow, count and blow. He was so tired, exhausted, every breath hurt to take, but he mustn't stop; not all these breaths were his own.

Get up! Wake up!

He had passed out again. He pressed his ear to her chest. Quiet, it was too quiet. He took a deep breath, pinched her nose— She coughed. He let go of her nose.

He moved his ear to near her mouth. One... two... three... four... five, he fought the urge to pinch and blow. Six... seven... eight... nine, he should, this was way too long, ten... eleven. She took a breath. She was breathing on her own.

Good, this was good. He had only given her the most casual of looks, focusing on the most life-threatening first, now, he looked her over again.

Her left eye was swollen shut, the puffy cheek extended to her chin. 'Fractured jaw,' he had heard someone say. A tear ran down his face, wiped before it had a chance to fall. She was so pretty, that beaten, lightly freckled face.

"I'm so sorry," he said, but she didn't move, not even a blink.

She was a mess. Her left arm was badly cut with a battered wrist and stabbed through the palm; her right arm was fine, except for her knotted hand. One foot was broken, as was the other knee, but most serious of all was her horrific gut wound.

He ripped open her sleeve, and paused. He had pulled the big pieces of glass from the cuts down her arm, now he had to inspect them closer, making sure he had gotten them all. The slivers of glass were hard to see; he had been dreading this for some time, but it had to be done. He started digging his fingers into the red lines. The chunks of glass looked like bubbles, but they were easier to feel. Well, the first few were, until these fingers too became as nicked and cut as those of his other hand.

It took several minutes, but he was thorough with the two long cuts on her upper arm, a deep one on her forearm, and the one that passed through her palm. He had no needles or thread, not that he knew enough to sew on a person, he had nothing to work with.

He familiarized himself with wrists by exploring his firmly, noting bones, muscles, and how much pressure it would take before it hurt. He cradled her arm while he felt her wrist, then did the same with the delicate bones of her hand. Her wrist may have been fractured, but the bones seemed to be arranged just fine; it was her right hand that was broken. He couldn't help but feel responsible.

He unbuttoned her shirt, then ran his fingers across the fist-sized purple spots along her ribs. No obvious breaks, no jagged bumps under the skin, it was just what might be considered a normal amount of swelling for the kind of beating she had received. The lacerations on her stomach had stopped bleeding, but he changed the bandage, just in case.

Something fell. It was little, about the size of a shelled walnut. He picked it up and wiped it off. Pink with a tiny string, he shuddered when he figured it out. He centered it on the soiled cloth, folded with the same care he would wrap a present.

He was losing the sun.

Exhausted, he still had much left to do. The fire that had been smoking the remains of a deer had nearly smoldered out. That much meat would take another day to dry at least. If he didn't tend to it now, it would spoil; easily weeks' worth of food, that should be his next priority.

Gather wood.

Dry wood first, build back that hot bed of coals, then collect the greens, willow branches, if he could find 'em. He had a lot to do, and little light left to do it.

He dumped the armfuls at the base of a tree, not far from the fire. He didn't want to look up. He had done so well all day, walking around only looking at the ground, but he knew he had to answer the stare.

"I'm so sorry, Dawn." He looked the little girl in the face.

Her eyes never blinked, never moved, but seemed to always follow him.

He stared back, hoping for a sign of life, just a hint of movement. A sign of forgiveness. He reached up, high on the tree, his hands carefully around her tiny little waist. "I'm sorry," he said, pulling her down.

It was one of the cruelest acts he had ever seen, worse because she had been such a sweet, innocent child. None of this had made any sense to him as he gently laid the girl down, her arms neatly concealed the fatal wound. He placed the wrapped organ in her tiny hand, then closed her eyes.

She wasn't his daughter, nor the woman's for that matter, but they had taken to her, had loved this little girl as if she was. He kissed her cold cheek. "I'll have to bury you tomorrow, little one," he wiped his face. "She needs me more right now, if she's going to make it through the night." He wrapped her tight in the biggest scrap of blanket, safe from bug bites.

He returned to the fire, scooped a large rock from near the coals, then dropped it into the bowl of leftover soup. He was about starved, made worse when the soup started that mouthwatering smell.

There were four— no, make that three horses around, somewhere. One had valiantly tried to defend them; when it was brutally killed, the other three fled. He could hear the hoof-steps in the distance and needed to gather them before it got too dark. The air was full of death, and that was sure to attract wolves or wild dogs. Three horses were plenty discouragement for even a hungry pack, but he had to gather them first.

There, he dumped his last armful of wood for tonight, then closed his eyes and listened.

Concentrating, focusing on the sounds, "I hear you, over by the berry bush," he said, taking his time walking over.

There was an art to approaching a horse. Never sneak up on them, that could be fatally dangerous, and never from behind. These had just recently been spooked. It saw him now and was about to take a step back, perhaps to run.

"It's, ok. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." He tried to be calm.

It stomped a warning tap.

He stopped, well out of reach. "Ok, that's fine. We, uh, we'll just stand for a little while. Let you get used to me again." He tried to straighten his posture and relax at the same time, which wasn't easy to do. "I uh, look, I need your help tonight. I, uh, if we're going to survive this night, we need to be together."

He stepped closer. If he lunged, he might grab its halter, but he was just as likely to get dragged through the woods; it wasn't comfortable with him yet.

"I know what you're thinking, you can outrun any dogs, it's us two-leggers who can't. That's true. I could probably climb a tree or wave around a burning stick and be ok tonight, but this isn't about just us. I need your help. She needs your help."

It snorted at him, but it didn't back away.

Close enough to take the reins, he petted it on the neck instead.

It jerked its head away, but came back to get petted some more. He wiped the back of his hand along its mane, leaving a faint smudge of someone else's blood. It pushed its big head into the center of his chest and almost knocked him to the ground.

"Ok Ok, that's a good boy." He rubbed a smudge on the other side. "Can you find the other two and bring'em back here, please?"

It butted him again, then walked away. It seemed like a yes.

He needed a little more wood, but this wasn't for the fire, he needed to make a stretcher, splints, braces and such. These had to be specific shapes, sizes, and lengths. They wouldn't be as easy to find.

When he returned, the one with the smudges was milling, quite protectively, around his wounded friend, the other two nearby. Excellent.

A stretcher wasn't that hard to make; with two long branches and a horse blanket, he pretty much had it. He set it down, lengthwise beside her, rolled her as briefly as possible onto her side, slid it under her, then leaned her back. Easy enough, she never made a sound.

Too quiet. He checked... No, faint and far apart, but the signs were still there. He lifted from the head end, then slowly dragged her closer to the fire, the tree, and their little girl, Dawn.

He started with her many cuts. He cleaned them, then dabbed them dry, one at a time. With the cut pinched to a fine line, he smeared on a dab of sap. It was mostly willow on the cut itself, then liberally covered with the more abundant sap from pine.

The pine was extremely sticky and hard to clean off his fingers, but after only a few hours exposed to the air, it should slowly turn into a waterproof, protective shell. It worked, that was really all he needed to know. He would get plenty of practice with it tonight, now that he was down to firelight under an overcast sky.

By the time the fire needed stoking, the smell of soup had him starved. When he could put it off no longer, he guzzled all but the bit at the edge that a spoon couldn't reach. He looked at her, motionless on the stretcher, while he drank the last from the bowl. "Sorry, that was quite rude of me," he said, "but, you wouldn't have eaten any, anyway. I, uh, it was still rude, not to ask." He looked at her motionless hands. "Sorry."

He stirred the fire, then mixed more ingredients for a morning meal. With the help of a properly selected stone, he could slow cook it in their big bowl. By the eight or ten hours until morning, it should soften enough for even a fractured jaw to chew.

He looked her over, now that the fire was putting out more light, then tested the stickiness of the sap bandaids. Still too tacky, he covered them with sized, clean leaves before wrapping and bracing her arm. He gave special care to the padding around her wrist, he was sure it had been fractured, and added extra padding around her punctured hand.

Her other arm wasn't cut, but it needed bracing all the same. He dreaded this part. He held her hand and checking it, one last time, against his own. Yeah, three of the bones were broken. He had to tug on each knuckle, then align the ends inside her hand, made worse by his inexperience. One had the tendency to undo the other; eventually, after a few wasted minutes, he caught on and set all three, simultaneously.

Packed, bandaged, braced and immobilized, she was slowly disappearing behind all those layers.

He woke to growling and the stomping neighs of horses.

The fire was still going, but far from a blaze. The horses had encircled them and the fire, protection, just as he had hoped they would. The wolves had come, just as feared, but were content for now to fight over the corpse of the already dead horse a good distance beyond the fire's light. But that didn't prevent the horrible chewing, bone-splintering sounds from surrounding them.

He gripped the thickest stick like a club. It was all he had if any got past the horses. He dragged Dawn as close to the fire as he dared; he wasn't sure how badly he was willing to defend her tiny, dead body, but he was positive he couldn't handle those sounds, coming from her.

It shouldn't come to that, he knew it wouldn't, the wolves would fight over the easy meal first. They were safe tonight, he didn't need the club, but he felt better with it, just in case. Besides, the gruesome sounds alone were sure to keep him up.

By morning, all but the most gorged wolves had disappeared back into the woods. Those that remained were easily chased off by simply waving a club and charging; stuffed and lazy was always easier to disperse than hungry and desperate.

There was hardly anything left, just tufts of hacked up hair, shards of bones, and dragging marks in all directions. On his way back to the fire, he stopped at the other corpse. That of a man, their guardian once, the biggest, strongest man he had ever known. He had glimpsed battles that lasted only a few seconds, where this man had vanquished dozens with his bare hands, now just a lump on the dirt, untouched by even the hungriest canine.

He didn't blame 'em, he didn't approach any closer than ten feet. It still chilled him. He wanted to walk away but was afraid to turn his back, even on this lump. "He's dead. He's not ever getting up," he said. "He's very dead, nothing to fear." But he didn't move. "Nothing, to fear."

He was terrified, but managed to walk around.

He had a lot to do, starting with digging a deep, short hole.

It took half the morning, but he got it dug. The little girl looked so small and alone, laid at its bottom. He should say, something, but couldn't find the words... "I'm sorry, Honey," was all that came out.

He filled in the hole, topped it with enough brick rubble to discourage any digging, then returned to the fire.

The soup was soft and mushy, and the venison had broken into fine little strings, nearly the perfect temperature for eating.

He couldn't sit her up, so he dragged her to the tallest pile of rubble, a piece of a wall it must have been— it didn't matter. The stretcher held her at a comfortable 45-degree angle while he fed her, in complete silence, one spoonful at a time.

He could tell, even almost liquefied, it still hurt her jaw. He was extra careful with the spoon and always certain to wait for eye contact first. Difficult to do, with her left eye still swollen shut.

"We, uh, we have to leave before tonight. The jerky is more or less dry now, it should hold up, just fine... " He scooped about a half spoon, making sure he got a good mix of broccoli, spinach, carrot, and strings of meat, "We'll leave in the evening, at the latest." It was clear she couldn't eat anymore. "I— She's buried on the sunny side, with that morning view she always loved," he said, but her eyes were already closed.

He dragged her to the fire, propped on a much smaller pile of rubble. It wasn't suitable for feeding, but soup would be a cruel meal to try to digest, flat on the ground. A few feet of incline would do just fine.

He broke some test pieces of jerky. Stiff and crumbly, it was acceptably dry right now, but longer was safer and they had a few hours. The few meals worth of soup left, he should save for her; chewing hard, dry food was easiest for him to do.

He gathered up his tools, crude as they were. His hatchet was nothing more than a piece off one of the rubbled cinderblocks, chipped and shaped into an edge then strapped to a wooden club. Only two water bags were still full. He still had to figure what to do with saddlebags, saddles, wooden bowls, three waterproofed blankets, and now down to two untreated saddle blankets.

They were only two now, so he should leave two of the saddles and all its gear behind. That simplified things a bit.

Consolidation, that was the key. Everything he packed today would have to be unpacked tomorrow.

Packed, all that was left was to fasten the stretcher to the saddle. Simple enough. He had allowed for it and had left the ends by her head almost five feet longer, all he had to do was lash it to the saddle-horn and they were off...

He had no idea where to go.

They had to go. The wolves would be back, and hungrier this time.

He looked at her, one eye swollen, the other closed. He knelt beside her, touching the fingers extending beyond the bandages. "I need a direction," he said, but she didn't move.

It worked enough, he had a hunch.

They started walking, hours before dusk. He had lengthened the reins so he could walk behind the horse, with her. It disturbed the horses to walk this slow, but the ends of the stretcher that dragged the ground tended to bump and jar on every rock and fallen branch, bouncing especially hard on exposed tree roots.

There was nothing he could do about it now. As bad as being dragged was, it was better than being draped, dangled, or propped up on the horse. Not that he could handle putting her up there, much less getting her down; he had back problems of his own.

The night sky favored them. Without the clouds, the pale blue of the night sky was plenty light to travel by, even on these wooded animal paths.

When they stopped that morning, she was somewhat awake. He could tell there was something wrong.

"What is it?" he said.

She just stared for a second, then started to—

"No, don't say anything. I, I know. Your jaw hurts if you make a sound, vibrations and fractures and all. Besides, I can guess, uh, can you hold on for just another few minutes?"

She nodded with a prolonged blink.

He thought about the problem. She couldn't sit, the gut wound would open if she even tried. All that bouncing and the fluid-heavy soup from the night before had combined to demonstrate the error in his stretcher design. He needed to come up with something, and soon.

He unfastened the strap under her arms that had kept her from sliding down, something he encouraged now while he worked her splinted knee and broken foot along the ground, as painlessly as he could. The stretcher turned to poles about a foot and a half off the ground; he slid her until her waist was barely off before he loosened her pants, careful not to let his eyes drift down.

Nothing was happening.

He thought about what little he knew about anatomy.

"Oh," he sat her up, holding her as firmly and gently as he could until that familiar sound.

One broken, the other stabbed, both her hands were equally bound. He would have to do the rest as well. He managed, somehow, while never taking his eyes off hers.

She never said a word.

"Uh, you hungry?" he said, "Thirsty maybe?"

She just faced him for a while, until her eye eventually closed.

"Tired? Feel like going some more?"

That was a definite no, even though it was an almost unnoticed shake.

"Ok. We'll— I'll just look around a bit, I guess, find the best spot and all." He walked ahead of the horses, pointing randomly, mumbling to himself, "I wonder if it would be better over there?" then taking a step before declaring the answer "No." He continued in that method until, by process of elimination with single steps and points alone, he wandered upon the perfect spot.

It was a modest clearing, only so because strong winds or a recent storm had toppled a handful of mature trees and opened a little pocket that was perfect for his small group. When the trees fell, their roots even dug a suitable fire pit, he need only take care not to let the fire get too big.

An abundance of dried leaves made for a comfortable bed when covered with a few blankets. He worked her off the stretcher while the thirsty horses emptied the pooled water in these root-free pits, making it much easier to start a fire, when he had time.

He checked over her wounds again. No improvements, but nothing had gotten worse. Most important of all, last night's travel hadn't misaligned any bones. He wanted to keep going, he was sure that was the best thing to do, but she was in no shape to continue. Ideally, he should never have moved her; clearly, that was not an option. He had to find the balance between the harm moving her did, and the woefully inadequate care he could give.

She was strong, but she could only handle so much.

He chewed on his stick of jerky as he continued to stare at her, warming in the sun.

He lay down beside her, his head positioned to keep the sun from her eyes. As children, they shared the same room. Her bunk was just above his. It seemed like they had been friends all of his life. It seemed he had loved her even longer.

So much was on him now. His choices. It was terrifying. Overwhelming. She needed him, and all his failures had led them to now. He had to do better. This was his last chance. They were quickly approaching fall, and she would never survive a winter like this. He doubted she could take the first hard cold. He might lose her yet, just moving her down the side of this mountain was doing her harm.

He swallowed hard.

He wanted to kiss her, that corner of her lips too swollen to seal, that dab of drool caught there. He kissed her on the forehead instead, "I love you," he whispered, before leaving to tend the horses.

He fed each a head of cabbage. He had filled two saddlebags with them, some carrots, apples, and other horse friendly foods he gathered from the overrun garden atop the mountain. He figured it was just a few days worth, maybe more; it was hard to gauge how much a horse could eat.

Soup had to be kept heated or it risked spoiling, that complicated things. They had a converted saddlebag to keep embers glowing for days; with a little reorganization, he managed to make enough room to slide in one of the water-bags filled with soup. It worked fine, it kept the soup slow-cooking and scalding hot. The problem was, now the embers wouldn't last more than a day. That meant building a fire nightly. That took time. Time was something she might not have.

He checked hooves. He wasn't sure just what he was looking for, but he knew it was something important to do. They all looked pretty much the same, so he figured they must be all right.

"You think you could stand guard for me?" He rubbed the horse under its chin, then a few strokes beside the smudge. It seemed to be deemed a reasonable request. It stood over her while he wandered off to take care of personal business of his own.

He chewed another stick of jerky while staring at the stretcher. He had to make it better. Think...

Two main problems.

Too jarring, and not responsive to her needs.

He propped it against a tree, then climbed on. They were roughly the same size, so, what should be right for him, would be right for her. He measured it twice, hopping down just to make sure. "I don't have enough blankets to take the chance of ruining one." He closed his eyes, hoping that he was sure.

He cut out a square where knees would be.

He sat in the hole, fine-tuning it. It would work. Well, it was an improvement.

He checked his pockets and was down to his last three sticks of willow. He would have to search for more, today. He started chewing one immediately, knowing it would take another hour before his headache would start to ease. He chewed with impatience.

He started looking.

Willows. These didn't look like the weeping willows he had grown up knowing. The leaves were much shorter, the trunk and branches more resembled shrubs than a tree, but it was still in the willow family. He found it with that same aloud, single step in random directions method. It was working, he had to just trust, stick with what works.

He picked a light salad of the youngest leaves; he wasn't hungry, but it helped speed headache relief. Leaves were tastier than strips of bark, but leaves didn't keep in a pocket for more than a couple hours.

Willow... Hmmm. It gave him an idea.

He chopped off two of the choicest branches, then tested them for flexibility. It might work. He replenished his supply of inner bark sticks, peeled from the trunk where they were most potent.

Back at the camp, he worked on lashing the branches to the stretcher. He wouldn't know if it worked until she rode it, but when he tested it with his weight, the branches bowed, adding a curvy-like-spring between the rigid ends and the ground. It should help.

Time for another stick.

He stretched out beside her, flat on his back.

She had received the worst of the violence, but he hadn't escaped unscathed. When he closed his eyes, he could see it again, precious little Dawn, impaled before his eyes, so soon after he had been hurled through the air, back first into the same tree. He lay under her tiny, twitching, moccasined feet, well within reach, if only he could have stood. His legs were useless, he just helplessly stared up into that sweet little face, while this woman he lay beside was being tortured, just a few steps away.

Helpless to stop either one. He wasn't so helpless now. His back still hurt, but he could stand, he could walk, and he was making the most of it.

He looked at her as he shaded her eyes with his hand.

"You're going to make it."

Her eye never opened.

"My silent, little hero." He moved his fingers through her hair, then rested his palm on the back of her neck. "You'll be ready to eat in a little bit, another few hours." He slid closer.

He missed sleeping with her. They had hardly done much more than kiss in the years he had known her, but he still missed just being... close. There was just something so profound about that subtle little touch, the weight of her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. So fragile, untouchable now.

He let go, close was close enough.

His back felt so much better, he must have fallen asleep. He sat up, then looked around. No, everything was fine. She should be waking— her hand, she had been holding hands, well, as best as a bandaged hand could.

He stared at it, her fingers, the center two looked wrong. He lightly rubbed all four, the center two stayed where moved. He unwrapped her hand. It was the stabbed one, the cut was between the unmoved two. There was nothing he could do; if there was tendon damage, he didn't know enough to help. Otherwise, it looked fine. He wrapped it again.

He poured half a bowl, then stirred it with the spoon, breaking up all the big pieces, smushing her favorite carrots into pea-sized chunks. He tested it with the tip of his finger; another ten minutes to cool and it would be just right.

He still had to sit her up, and needed to find a more convenient way. The saddles were made of a thick leather, two stacked just so would prop her nicely. As soon as she showed signs, he put his design into action. It worked just fine. Another silent meal, she managed to eat it all this time; now that he was more practiced with the spoon and avoided the painful, unintentional taps of any tooth.

"You ok to sit like that for an hour or two?"

She had the faintest of smile.

"I figure, we can get a few hours of travel before tonight. You think you'll be up for it?"

She would.

"We, uh, I think maybe a week or two and we'll start running into people. I'm not so sure how good a thing that might be, but, well, we need to find a place for winter." He looked at her half swollen face, "I know, we haven't had much good luck with strangers."

He was careful when he wiped the corners of her mouth.

"You're doing fine. I had a good dream last night," he said, but she closed her eyes like it could prevent him from finishing the sentence, "complete with two little hummingbirds."

She turned away.

"I think it's a good sign."

She didn't turn back.

"Well, it was a good sign for me, my first introduction to you." He watched her. She wasn't going to look back. "I, I didn't mean for any of this. I never should have—"

When she turned his way, he stared at the ground.

They didn't travel but for a few hours that day, all she could take. The willow springs helped, it just wasn't enough with the extent of her wounds.

It was hard to judge distance on a forested mountainside, but clearly, they had a long way to go. He figured if they could get to the valley, they could follow it. From the top it looked like a road, at the very least it was free from trees, probably still weeks away.

He unfastened her stretcher from the horse and dragged it to a suitable branch. He propped her up, adjusting for the ideal feeding angle before he left for the soup saddlebag.

"Catch her Catch her Catch her!" he said, turning just in time; the willow extensions were literally hopping her down. He held the stretcher firmly, his hands still shaking. He had nearly been too late. "Catch her," he kept repeating, still shaken.

He propped her back, lashing the poles this time before going for the soup.

"Catch her," he mumbled to himself with every spoonful.

Her appetite had grown since the day before, he even had to partially refill the bowl. When she had enough he sampled from the spoon. It was plenty good, the vegetables were soft enough to fall apart with a gentle brush of the tongue. Only the buds of broccoli remained firm. He had a couple more before he poured the rest back.

"If it's ok with you, I'll just leave you tied there for now."

She seemed ok with it.

He continued readying the campsite, fire, bed, tending hooves and everything else. It was tiring and time consuming, but he need only look to her for all his motivation to endure.

It wasn't going to rain, per-se, but it was sure to drizzle most of the night. That meant a tent of some sort, all they had were three waterproofed horse-blankets. One easily made the floor while a bowed-over sapling made a decent arch for the other two to make the roof. It was a lot of prep and a lot of work.

He harvested some spectacular embers from the fire, perfect for the bag. They should easily keep until noon the next day, so he hurried the fire out. It was already getting dark with clouds and could start at any time. The tent was filled with all the important gear, now that the embers were taken care of; all that was left was moving her.

Dragging her over was easy, the heartbreaking part was when he discovered the flaw. It was simple for him to crawl in the small opening, it was quite something else to drag someone across the ground through the same hole. He disassembled the roof, cursing himself aloud.

Only after she had been situated, could he remake it, crawling in last.

The horses milled around outside and made for a comforting sound while he waited for the rain. It was dark outside, darker still within, but he could easily make out the shape of her. He carefully inched beside her until his hip touched hers; his elbows straddled her shoulders as he stared down at her face.

He could make out the white of one eye as she looked back at him. He ran his fingers through her hair. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Her head inched closer for a kiss. He moved to lie beside her as she turned enough so he could see that one, blinking eye.

"We'll have a long day tomorrow. I think— I mean, I've heard that the trail will be much eas—" He kissed her again, "I've missed talking to you. I miss the sound of your voice." He caught a glimpse of her teeth, "No, don't say. I know it'll hurt to talk. It's silly for you to, just so I can hear your voice. I— I just miss talking to you, that's all."

He used her eye for a guide to find her unswollen cheek.

"No, that's not all I miss." He inched a little closer. He could feel her faint little smile form under his palm. He kissed her again, then inched back away, waiting for the rain.

Morning came without a word, except those he said to himself. He was starting to get worried about that a bit. It was coming more naturally. Too naturally. He talked aloud about the coming events of the day, what fork in the road to take, when and where to stop. By the end of the week, he had talked that entire day, nonstop, from morning to night. He worried for his sanity.

Perhaps it was a side effect from chewing so many willow sticks, approaching two-dozen a day. It left him with a slight lightheadedness, maybe chatty was a side effect too?

They were at another fork in the path, and he had to talk this out aloud.

"If I go this way," he took a step down the left, "it leads to a few fallen trees, then slows even more by some thickets," he stepped back, "but, if I go this way," he stepped to the right, "it wanders zigzagy, but seems to be faster. Definitely more open. We'll go that way."

He led the horses to the right.

It still seemed to be working, the path was zigzagged but it was also open, and they did seem to be moving down it rather quickly.

Once on a path the horse walked it without his guidance while he watched his friend instead of the road. It had led to a few rude slaps from low branches, but nothing that left any marks, they weren't traveling that fast.

It had taken over a week to run completely out of horse food, and nearly out of stock for soup, but they had plenty of hard jerky left. He had taken to turning the horses loose after finding a campsite. Smudges wouldn't wander far and always kept the other two in line. They were hungry though, that much was clear. He would start having problems with them if they didn't reach some grasslands soon. Leaves and bark only went so far, horses weren't really woodland creatures.

He made a tent this night, not for rain but to shield them from the cold. Even so, he wrapped her well in their one good blanket while he managed the night without.

In the morning he fed her the last bowl of soup. He hadn't the heart to tell her there wasn't any more. He had no idea what to do for lunch. He looked around, the horses hadn't returned.

He held her hand, "Don't worry, the horses will be back within the hour," he said.

Sure enough, they were.

She was much stronger today. They traveled from morning until well into the afternoon before she had to stop. Unfortunately, the horses were looking more haggard, hungry, and much less willing to comply by that time.

He crumbled some strips of jerky into the bowl, then ground them finer with a well washed stone. He mixed it with hot water and waited for it to cool. When he sampled it, it tasted like watered down smoked steak. It wasn't good.

But it was the best he had.

He fashioned another tent out of a sapling again, but this time had built it around her, already situated, supported by saddles. He crawled in, the coming rain would wash out what was left of the fire.

"I could try to disguise it with mushrooms or some leaves but," he made her sample a small spoonful, "I would most likely pick the kind that'll make you sick, so, I didn't even try."

She nodded, mouthing 'it's ok'.

"I ran out of soup fixins some time ago. Sorry." He slowly fed her until she ate it all. He set the bowl outside for the rain to clean, then turned his attentions to her.

She held out one arm.

"... No," he said.

She held it still.

"... Please don't."

She didn't put it down.

He cradled it with one arm, unwrapping it with the other. When it was bare, she held out the other. When both were unbound, she slumped forward until he positioned himself between the saddles and her. As the rain started tapping the blanket over their heads, she leaned the back of hers into his shoulder, her cheek on his chest. He cradled her arms and hands as best he could. The slightest jolt or unconscious twitch on his part could cause her immense pain. But she hated being bound and confined almost as much as she craved being held. They were nearly the same thing in his mind, not hers.

"Marry me," he said.

"Never enough, to share my life."

It had hardly been a whisper, but its memory drowned the heaviest downpour. He had gone without her voice for so long, this he hoped to remember forever.

It hadn't been the first time he had proposed. They had been children then. She turned him down then too. He had proposed to her quite a bit in the last few years. She never gave a solid no, she always left him with something. The rain was already too loud to hear, but he could feel the warm, occasional breaths, just under her nose. He did his best to spread the blanket, it would start getting cool soon.

'To share my life,' was a wonderful thought to cling to, eyes closed, awaiting a colorful dream to take form.

This tiny bird, just a blur when it darted around, would stop and hover for a second, then blur away again... He chased it through the woods, in a round about way, careful not to scare it by getting too close. It seemed to be leading him somewhere, hovering just long enough for him to catch up before darting off again. He tried to remember every landmarked turn.

He woke the second he lost the dream.

It was late morning and there was a horse's nose in the tent. Smudges was sniffing his friend, she wasn't looking so good. She wasn't waking up. He slid out from under her, then pulled down the tent.

It wasn't morning, they had slept past noon. He inspected then rebound her arms, careful as he could.

"Hey fella," he rubbed the horse on the patch between its eyes, "if you can bring those other two here, we can get going." He scratched it under the chin, "I got a hunch, today we may find something for you."

A few ribs had started to show as it walked away.

He should have known better and predicted she would relapse.

He kept his eye out all day for those landmarked clues.

It took a while, the first didn't show for nearly an hour. He followed as best he could remember them, divining what he couldn't with the tried and true wandering chatting method.

By late evening, and way off any path, they found a patch of prime grass, weeds, and other horse friendly food. He hurried to collect dandelion leaves before the horses could. Added to a jerky soup, they were sure to make it more palatable, a little like one of her favorites, spinach.

He had to nudge her to wake her.

She opened both eyes this time. It was the first time he had glimpsed what had been swollen shut. Darkened blue, nearly black, at best it had a few freckles of white. The horse moving on that side went unnoticed. She may well be blind. He made a mental note to always approach on her good side.

He fed her, extra careful this time.

"You ready?" he asked, toothbrush in hand. Well, it wasn't so much a toothbrush as a chewed then boiled willow stick.

That was a no.

"It hurts, I get that. I'm doing my best." He had done so well up until then, he waved a finger in front of the eye, "You can't see, can you?"

It was as he feared.

"Shapes, blurs, anything?"

Nothing.

"You think it might come back?"

Shrug.

"You ready to open up now?"

She did. He was careful, but she still winced when he brushed her jaw. He apologized every time.

"Rinse and spit." He was done, mostly because he couldn't bear hurting her more.

The horses had gorged every blade, every weed, and had left nothing but dirt. They were still hungry, it wasn't nearly enough to make up for days of starvation, but it helped. It helped build back some much needed trust on their part, that he knew of their needs and was trying. It was enough for now, and encouragement to leave tomorrow.

She held out her arm again that night, but he turned her down.

It had felt so wonderful, just holding her that entire night, but it wasn't helping her get better, and it could too easily make things much worse. This was about her, that should be his focus.

He tucked her in for another cool night and tried not to notice, as he stared back into her eyes.

He woke with a headache and a horrible realization, he was completely lost. He crawled out of the tent and looked around. Nothing was familiar. He tried his trick of chattering wanderings but no answers were coming. There was a terrible gnawing at his stomach.

Panic.

"Just— just calm down," he said, hands over his face. "You're supposed to save her, that's how it works. Just calm down."

He looked at the tent, hoping she hadn't heard any of that. The last thing he needed was to scare her.

"You can't get married if you can't find the bottom of this mountain. That should be easy, you don't need detailed directions, down will do." He looked at the tent again, "What would she do if she needed to find her way?"

He looked for a suitable tree, but he proved very bad at climbing. He came down scratched and rubbed completely raw on the insides of his thighs, but that pain was mixed with the minor success of a good look around. He had a general direction and a handful of reference points. It would do.

They were slowed by two thorny thickets and a few downed trees, but by the end of the next two days, they had made it to the grassy valley he had seen from the mountaintop. It wasn't treeless, just fewer and further between. There was, however, no road he had been hoping for. The horses didn't care, there was a little creek and plenty of grass. They would follow him anywhere now.

He looked it over. It wasn't someone's field, there were too many weeds and wild flowers for that. He should exercise a little foresight this time. He fashioned another stretcher, much larger and cruder than one intended for a person. On it he packed nothing but bundles of hay, as much as he could yank out of the ground without getting too many blisters.

It got colder that night; he could feel her tremble, even in the blanket.

"She's not going to wake," he said, lightly shaking her. It was starting to freak him out. He slid his hand between blanket and skin, she was warm, feverish perhaps— He needed to find anyone, and soon. She was tough, not indestructible.

Dragging her behind a horse wasn't helping, the ever-cooler nights weren't either. No vegetables, horrible soup, she wasn't eating right because he couldn't feed her right. Shivers were no longer confined to the night. He had to do better. She was spending most of the day completely out of it. She couldn't afford his failures any more.

He wrapped her in blankets then walked the horses, nonstop. He kept pace, a constant walk and watch, as straight as he could along the valley for the next two days. She never moved, blinked, or made a single sound.

Two long, endless days.

"SIR!" He shouted while waving his arms high above his head and running directly toward the farmer. "SIR!" He closed his eyes and listened hard before shouting and waving some more.

The man raised up a bow, arrow notched and ready.

"Wait, sir," he stopped an easy talking distance away, arms still over his head, "Mr. Findick, I need your help."

"Do I know you, son?" the farmer said, still aimed at the center of his chest.

"Uh, no sir, but—"

"What you doing on my land, boy?"

"Uh, sir, I came to trade you two horses for—"

"Looks like three to me."

"Uh, no sir, one belongs to my friend—"

He notched the bow tighter, "What's to stop me from planting you right here and taking 'em?"

He closed his eyes. His raised arms seemed to get heavier with every word, so he rested one on the neck of the closest horse. "Nothing sir, except, well, your explanation to Ellie—"

"How do you know my wife?"

That was a bad mistake, an easily jealous, suspicious husband with a pointed weapon. The next few words had better be right. He gave the horse a calming pat. "I don't, I've never met her, sir. It was just that horses aren't an easy thing to hide from her. You'd have to make up some story to tell. Killing me," he turned the pat into a casual pet while holding his eyes closed, "would be as easy as letting that string go. It would be much harder to look my wounded friend in the face, and do the same. I don't think you're up to killing a woman yet, but you'd have to, because she would know what happened here. Besides, I offer you a very fair deal, two horses to help you in your fields, to cut days off that trip into town. All I ask in return is a corner indoors, so my friend has a chance of making it through the winter."

Mr. Findick lowered his aim to the ground, but was still at the ready.

He slowly put his aching arm down.

"We ain't got no room, kid, go pester someone else."

"Please sir. We don't need much more than the space of a few bales of hay. Just someplace dry, out of the weather. I'm sure you could use an extra hand around here, I'd gladly work for any food we eat."

Mr. Findick was considering.

"Come spring, if she's feeling better, she may even make it an even three, but I can't promise what's up to her."

He relaxed the bow enough to let go of the string.

"You know how rare horses are in these mountains, you could easily trade them for just about anything you wanted, or save yourself a lot of time and effort working the fields. If she could survive the trip into town, I could get a much better deal there, probably even a year's stay in one of their finest rooms, for just one of these. I'm offering you two for a corner somewhere indoors, because she won't make it that far, and she's easily worth more to me."

"... Let's have a look at 'em," he said, bow by his side. "They're looking thin."

"Yes sir, it was a hard trip."

"Saddles too?"

"Yes, of course, all that stuff. They're of no use to me without the horses. I only have the two though, the gear for the third is up on that mountain there. We'll be needing to keep the blankets, some of them anyway."

They made it around to the stretcher. "What'd you do to her?"

"I didn—" he fell to his knees, grabbing the scrap of scarf around his neck like it was choking him.

Mr. Findick drew the bow while stepping back, "Son, you got a snake on your neck."

"—Yes sir," he managed, still gasping, on his knees.

"We God believing around here, I ain't having no snake worshipers in my house, boy."

"I'm not." It had loosened its strangle hold, and he could breath normally again. "Before we escaped, they put this on—"

"Escaped from what? Some sort of serpent cult? A prison? Boy, I knew I should've planted you right from the start."

"Please listen, I... " He grabbed her bandaged hand, "We escaped from the same people who did that to her. They put this thing on me to— I guess it's best described as a kinda lie detector."

"Oh, that's funny, a serpent to tell between truth and lie. Suppose it would know one when it heard one."

He laughed a little. "I never thought about it that way. I guess, who better to know a lie when it hears one, right?"

"I ain't having it."

"Sir, I would surely take it off if I could, but it's poisonous. It'll kill me pretty quick, and that's a far more excruciating death than by one of those arrows." That had clearly confused the man. "See, it wouldn't be any good if you could just take it off. The way it was explained to me, well, I didn't understand it perfectly either, but it gives you a lethal dose on that first bite, then it just slowly feeds off you like a leach, dripping just enough antidote into you to keep you alive. I take it off, I remove the antidote, it's an agonizing death." He let go of her hand. "I'll sleep outside if I have to, you can see she doesn't have one, sir." He sat on his heels as Mr. Findick decided. "I'm Derik, by the way, and this is Dana."
**B5.C2**

The Findick's house was nothing special. He knew there was an extra room in it, but that was a sore subject with them. For now, the barn would be fine. They raised pigs, most people did. Pigs would eat almost anything, weren't picky about accommodations, and they were prolific. Oh, and best of all, they were good eating.

The barn was shortish, built so you could stand on the ground and lift a bale over your head, turn it between the rafters, then stack it up there. No ladder needed, just a box on the ground for someone as short as Derik. During the summer it had been used as a smokehouse. It faintly smelled of soaked-in smoke. And a fireplace, that was all he really needed for winter, but it was there for the pigs.

The horses didn't like it at all, the ceiling was way too low for them; besides, it had been designed with pigs in mind. If it got cold enough, they would come in, but for now, only Smudges willingly would, just to keep Dana in sight.

Bales of hay made for a nice bed, and at a convenient height. He started checking her wounds.

The sap had done its job, none of her cuts had gotten infected, now just raised lines, but he was sure what he couldn't see was nowhere near healed. Her middle two fingers still didn't move on their own, and that was a point of concern. The gut-wound was gruesome, but better.

"Derik, this is my wife, Ellie."

Ellie stepped in, covered her mouth, then ran outside.

Derik followed them out, "Please don't do that, she's at a fragile state. She needs a positive outlook. Hope. That's all she's got right now." Ellie was still concealing her expression. "I know what you must be thinking. It is bad, it's as bad as it looks. I made it worse by dragging her down those mountains, but I had to get her here. If she makes it, it'll be because she thinks she can. Thanks to your husband, she has that chance."

She looked in the barn, looked at her husband, then walked to the house.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Findick, I should have known better. I just— I was in the habit of checking whenever we stopped for the night. Sometimes the bouncing, being dragged behind a horse opens one of... I should have waited."

"I um, I guess, how's she doing?"

"No worse, sir."

George watched his wife go inside the house. "If you want to eat tonight, I expect to see that floor and the pens mucked, and that trough refilled with water."

"Thank you, sir."

He tended to Dana first.

When he was done with her, he turned his attention to the floor. It needed cleaning, badly. Evidently it was a chore that often got put off. With her open wounds, it was to his advantage to keep it extra clean. At the very least it would help with the smell. He started with the pigs kept inside. He assumed they were being breed, or kept segregated for some reason. Why didn't matter, he wasn't planning to let them out, or any others in. Just clean 'em up, refill food and water bowls.

It wasn't hard, just time consuming. There were ten little mini-pens all down the back third of the barn, closest to the fireplace. They were small and confining, especially with two or three pigs in each, there was hardly room for the pigs. He soon gave up on the cumbersome shovel and traded it for the broken, handleless one in the corner. Hands and knees, he cleaned one pen at a time.

The main room was left open, straw scattered across the dirt floor, Dana atop the stacks of hay closest to the fire. He focused on the most soiled spots first, then all that had been tracked too close to the fireplace. He would do a better job tomorrow, tonight that would have to do. He was just too tired. He had taken his last load to the manure pile for today.

He stood at the barn door and watched Mr. Findick's wife walk over from the house.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I, can I see her now?"

"Sure, Mrs. Findick. Just, she hates being in all those braces so, I took 'em all off, but her bones are still broken, so, just be careful if you want to touch her or something."

She handed him a plate of leftovers from their dinner.

"Thank you," he looked it over, there was more than enough for two, "Uh, she can't chew most of this, her jaw's fractured."

"I didn't—"

"I can easily smush it up with a spoon." He smiled at her. "I've gotten good at that, it's what I had to do when we ran out of soup." He led her over, "You're in luck, she's semi-awake. Dana, this is Ellie, Mrs. Findrick."

The white-less eye almost got another gasp, the one sided smile tugged on a tear. "You feeling a little better, Honey?" Ellie asked.

"Don't expect her to answer aloud," Derik said, "It rattles the fracture."

"You're going to be just fine," she found the urge to hold her hand irresistible.

Dana smiled a little, or maybe it was a wince.

"Sorry." Ellie let go of her hand.

When Dana reached for Derik, he cradled her wrist and he held her hand, then lowered it to the blanketed bale. "... I'm sure I speak for Dana when I thank you for your generosity," Derik said as Ellie hurried back to the house, "I'll bring back the plate."

Dana stared at Derik while he crushed her food. He propped her up with another bale then readied a spoon.

"He hits her," she whispered.

"He mostly just yells— apologizes whenever he— It may be best, if we stay out here. They're going to have a fight tonight, she wants to move you into— what they had hoped would be their kid's room."

He fed her the first spoonful.

"I got a pretty good glimpse when she handed me the plate."

The horses multiplied the normal fall chores. That morning he rode one out to the nearest rested field to bale up as much grass as he could. Horses could eat, a lot. It was part of Mr. Findick's worries with taking them in; horses were a valued prize, but three would be hard to keep alive through winter. He had only planted fields enough to feed the pigs and a little extra. It was exhausting, hard work, with only a few breathers when he guided the loaded horse back to the barn. He always took a little extra time, just to check in on her. It was a long day's work, and when it started getting dark, he still had to muck and feed the pigs.

He had to make this work, they had no place else to go.

Sticks! He had forgotten to put a few sticks into each bale so they wouldn't sag through the rafters. Good thing he could put them in after the fact, it still took valuable time. At least he had stopped talking to himself.

Lifting, then twisting bales of hay into the rafters required more strength and coordination than he thought. A painful workout if ever he had one, shoulders, back, even his neck seized with pain. It probably would take days, weeks even, but he would eventually fill the ceiling and line the walls with bales. He wasn't built for this kind of hard work. He wasn't strong, big, or tall. He spent most of his childhood sick, his first five years of life were more than even an optimist would have given him. He still remembered coughing, heaving for hours, and only when they were sure it wasn't finally going to kill him, would they ever offer any help. Scrawny, that had always been how he had been described. But this effort wasn't about just him.

Even tired, he just keep lifting and twisting those bales.

He stoked the fire, one last time. Where had that whole day gone?

"Hey beautiful, how you been?" He kissed Dana on the forehead.

She was still out of it.

He checked her wounds, then adjusted her blanket. "You just rest up, keep getting better," he held her hand, "I'm sure your day, was much harder than mine."

He was so dead tired, he fell asleep right there, on his knees beside her.

His knees throbbed until he woke, middle of the night. He tried to stand, but couldn't; stretched out on the bale beside her was the best he could do. His wadded pantlegs had cut the circulation to his tingling feet. The only thing that hurt worse was when that circulation slowly returned.

The fire had died down, but it was still plenty warm in this room filled with sleeping pigs and one cramped, overprotective horse. Warm, but still blanket temperature. The smell, on the other hand, took more getting used to.

With a quick trip outside for more wood, he knew she could not have survived this night. His fingers hurt just touching the wood without gloves. He closed the door as quickly as he could.

The fire filled the room with light, which was just fine with him. He had always enjoyed watching her sleep. So peaceful. Calm. Almost happy, just to be alive.

He wished to watch, whatever dream it was she now enjoyed. He could use a good one, but would have to make do with whatever his mind could conjure. He needed rest, tomorrow would be another, longer day, baling and stacking hay.

A mesh of exhausting days only saw the rafters half-filled, but to the end of each awaited a hot meal he got to share with her. They kept to themselves, as out of the way as they could, living in a farmer's barn.

"You've done an ok job with this," Mr. Findick said that evening after inspecting the progress. Then, looking at the house, "How's the girl?"

"Better, sir. Not good yet, but better." They had only been there about a week.

"Well, Ellie wants to have you two for dinner tonight before we take the pigs in town." He looked hard at Derik, "I'm sure you can make up some reason not to attend."

"I don't have to, sir." That clearly wasn't what George wanted to hear, "What I mean to say, sir, is that Dana can't sit at a table, she'd fall out of a chair if she wasn't tied to it. When are you two going into town?"

"You and I are. I ain't leaving you here alone, and I damn sure ain't leaving you here with my wife. We'll leave in the morning if it's not raining, I gotta get those pigs in before that crook starts trying to charge me interest."

"Yes sir."

"That trough's looking low again."

"Yes sir."

It was nitpicky. Mr. Findick always found something to complain about on his way out, trivial usually. Practice, for how he treated his wife.

Ellie was a good woman, at least she seemed to be, but Mr. Findick constantly reminded her where she didn't measure up. It was a habit the Findicks had fallen into, something he was careful to avoid with Dana.

He fetched a few buckets to top off the trough, it was best for a guest not to argue.

He gathered up the pigs, and the horses this time, it would get that cold tonight. He moved a stack of wood inside, near the fireplace. It was better to move it in now, than tonight.

He slid his hands under her back, sitting her up, propped on her custom formed wedge-shaped bale in time for Ellie to arrive with a big, steaming pot in hand.

"I hope you don't mind," she said setting it down. "George is tired of soups all the time, so I made do. It's not really soup so much as slow cooked dinner with cups of added water."

"It's fine, Mrs. Findick, you don't have to put yourself out." Derik prepared Dana's bowl and spoon.

"It's not right," she looked around, "you two in this crowded barn while we got an unused room."

"It's warm and dry," He fed Dana the first spoonful. "That's all it has to be."

"Can't she hold a spoon yet?"

"She can, but she shouldn't." He held Dana's hand, "Not for a few weeks yet."

"... I can't talk him out of— You're going to have to walk me through all this," Ellie said, visibly upset at the prospect of dealing with someone so scarred. She had a thing about blood and scars.

He walked her through everything he did, starting with the spoon.

After Ellie left he sat, realizing it would be a week before he saw Dana again. Maybe two. She held out her bandaged arm. Ellie had needed to know, so he had shown her. He unwrapped it, then the other. She held them out again. He knew what she silently offered. He wanted to, the urge was powerful. But he sat a little further away and watched her slowly surrender to sleep instead. He couldn't afford a relapse if he wasn't here, especially not on their last night together.

As quietly as possible that morning, he roped two-dozen pigs behind two horses and heaped hay onto the stretchers they dragged. Then he packed what was left of the dried venison, the refilled water-bags, and two of the waterproofed blankets. In Ellie's care, Dana shouldn't need a waterproof anything, but he left the best one anyway.

They were off at first light. He had everything ready and waiting outside the barn.

He missed giving her that good-morning, wake-up kiss. It just wasn't the same when she was still asleep.

They rode until noon, the pigs just able to keep up. The jarring hoofed steps did nothing for his back; it almost hurt more now than after lifting a day's worth of bales over his head, not to mention the starting's of a headache.

He should have packed willow sticks, no doubt they were not about to make any detours so he could find some. Mr. Findick hardly wanted to stop for the slower pigs.

When they stopped for lunch, Mr. Findick seemed very disappointed in his deal, he had expected more from the horses.

"They'll be an advantage on the trip home," Derik said. "Plus, they're strong enough to drag hundreds of pounds, if you fancied something that was otherwise too heavy to trade for."

"What the hell is that thing you're wearing?"

"Coveralls."

"Where'd you find that crap?"

"I made it out of the stretch—"

"Well it looks God awful, ain't you got something better?"

"No sir. Just what I was wearing when you met me, and this." He was so glad Mr. Findick didn't ask more about it. The last thing he wanted to explain was why that hole his neck was in, was cut so big and square.

"Well, you ain't coming inside with me. You'll be lucky if I let you stand by those horses while I do the dealing." He looked him over, collar to shoes, "No sir, I ain't gonna be seen in public with you."

"That might be best, sir."

"Got three horses, but not a thread of decent clothes." He pointed hard, "You make sure you hide that damn thing around your neck. If they decide to burn you at the stake for it, don't be expecting nothing but kindling from me. I ain't about to speak up on your account."

"Yes sir."

"On second thought, I ought just drop you before we get there. Maybe I'll leave them horses with you while I take the pigs the rest of the way on foot— Nah, you'd probably just run off with 'em, wouldn't you?"

"No sir. But it still wouldn't be that good of an idea. You didn't take 'em from me because Dana was—"

"Yeah, you wouldn't make much of a guard, would you?"

"No sir, I'm not very, imposing."

They went back to eating, it was supposedly why they'd stopped anyway.

When they stopped that night, it had already gotten cold. Cold enough that he left the blankets on the horses and made himself a bed in the hay. The campfire was his chore, of course, as well as watching out for swine-hungry canines.

He could fall asleep immediately after Mr. Findick did, he knew no wolves would come, but by morning he best be still awake, alert, and on guard.

So, staying up was what he did.

Another night that was more than cold enough to have taken that life he held so dear, he had no regrets about their deal.

"I hope you can sleep while riding a horse," Mr. Findick said fully rested, first thing in the morning.

"Yes sir, I can."

As soon as they had packed up, that's exactly what he did.

It wasn't the same kind of rest.

That was just the way it was for the next couple of days.

Mr. Findick grabbed Derik's coat and pulled him from the horse, "Lunchtime, boy." By the way George laughed, it must have been twice as funny as the way he woke him the day before.

Derik just sat and dusted himself off while Mr. Findick walked away.

"Where's my fire, boy," George said while getting his fixings out of the saddlebags. "You don't expect me to choke down Ellie's garbage cold, do you?"

"No sir."

After meals, Mr. Findick had taken to striking up conversation while the pigs scarfed down scraps and beets.

"So, what's with the girl and you? You get carried away smacking her around, she get out of line once too often?"

"No sir."

"Yeah, but you've had to put her in her place a couple of times, right?"

The snake started choking him.

George snapped his fingers, "I get it now! It ain't just a lie detector, is it?"

It tightened a little more.

"You have to answer questions."

It loosened.

"Don't you?"

"Yes."

"She any good in bed?"

"I'm not... going... to... " It choked Derik to his knees for refusing.

"Something special between them busted knees?"

He gasped for breath while refusing to say.

"That's it, isn't it! She likes it rough, doesn't she?"

He'd black out soon, already lightheaded, dizzy.

"My kinda girl."

All Derik could do was listen to the laughing while he caught the occasional breath.

"You'd try to sleep with my wife if you could, wouldn't you?" Mr. Findick stood up, serious, and prepared to demonstrate the proper technique on administering a beating.

"No sir." Derik could stand now, but didn't.

"Don't lie to me. If you thought you'd get away with it, you would." His fist at the ready, "Wouldn't you?"

"No sir." He was breathing just fine.

"You think she's attractive, don't you?"

It started to constrict.

"I knew it!" George let swing.

The answer didn't matter, he was going to get hit anyway. Just take it. Just two more after this one. One more. That's it, it was over. Mr. Findick was walking away, kicking the dirt.

"I knew it! I could tell you wanted her!"

Derik pushed off the ground, sitting again. Horseback riding was punishing, the punches and kicks had added surprisingly little to it. He had been questioned by far worse. "The only woman I've ever wanted is in the hands of your wife, who I've only briefly met for the first time this week. Do I like Mrs. Findick? Sure, she seems nice enough, but it would never occur to me to do anything with her."

George made a fist. "I suppose you been climbing on that cripple every now and then to curb them urges. You don't expect that to set my mind to ease about your moral character, do you?"

It tightened while he paused, "What could she possibly see in me? Huh? Do I look like I could handle working a farm the size of yours? She's not interested in me. She's not. And I would never do anything if she was. Now," he dabbed his bloodied lip, careful not to rub the dirt in, "can we get on with moving these pigs?"

He had to wake Mr. Findick early that morning; these wolves weren't scared of fire, and a few stomps from a horse was not going to cut it. He needed the bow and Mr. Findick didn't let it out of his grip.

"It's over there," Derik pointed just beyond the fire's light. "See it? In another thirty seconds, it's going to go for that pig on the end. See it now?"

"Yep."

The yelp confirmed it.

"Wake me if you see another." He went back to sleep.

Derik listened to it whimper and moan the rest of the night, while the pack just howled. It was horrible to wound but not bother to finish it off, to let it suffer like that. But that had been the intent. Dead didn't strike the same level of respect and fear. The pack had a constant reminder of what awaited them, a member to slow them, as well as an even easier meal, should wounds turn fatal.

It bothered Derik, more than just sad sounds.

They quickly put that sad pack behind. Dogs were a problem. Wild ones were everywhere, and they were nearly as prolific as pigs, but nowhere near as nice, nor as good to eat. He tried to think of something else, to ease his mind enough to sleep, horseback, on a sunny day.

Mr. Findick found another rude way to wake him, not that what he had been doing should count as sleep.

"Snoring on the job again," George said between laughs, "now look at ya. Well, go on, get me a fire going."

"Yes sir." His shoulder was surely bruised from the fall.

"Well, let's see here now," Mr. Findick was done with his meal, time for his evening entertainment. "Busted up face, so, she ain't much to look at. Busted hands so, them out too, no telling how low that gut thing goes. So, what the hell good is she?"

He had gulped a good breath, anticipating the question.

"Now, where exactly is left on her that you can put that thing of yours?"

That gulp wasn't going to last long like this.

"Come on now, speak up."

While funny to Mr. Findick, that last part was not a question. Derik acted like it was as he collapsed to the ground and pretended to be choked, which proved just as entertaining, while being far less painful.

"All right, all right. Enough fun, we got some riding to do."

One of the pigs had gone lame. It was one of the bigger, healthier ones too. It could've gotten top price for sure. Just twisted, nothing more, but it would devastate the asking price. A pig that couldn't walk could just as easily mean it was sick. Nobody would willingly pay to eat it, and it wouldn't get better in the day or two they had left.

Slaughtering it seemed such a waste. It was too big to make full use of, neither could eat that much meat before town.

Mr. Findick readied the blade.

"No, wait." Derik caught his hand, "We'll be there tomorrow, right? Let's just let him ride on a bale until then. No loss now, possible gain in town. I bet you can find somebody, maybe not full price, but someone knows you well enough to take your word on it. Am I right?"

Mr. Findick wasn't convinced to spare it yet.

"No, never mind." Derik let go of the man's hand, then held the pig still for him, "You're right. It'll taint the price for the rest, they'll accuse them all of being sick to drive your bargain down. You get a better deal if this one's dead. It just seems a waste."

The blood sprayed and it squealed briefly, the rest would squeal for nearly an hour. It horrified them, good thing they were tied. The horses never looked up from grazing.

"I bet if we cook it up real good tonight and you told 'em it was nabbed by a wolf, you could up your price by giving away some of the choicest cuts as samples. Maybe even enough to offset the loss."

That's what they did. He spent an hour tenderizing it by hand, then slow roasted it overnight, searing it ever so lightly. They ate the less-than-prime cuts for breakfast that morning. Derik outdid himself, even the scraps were mouthwatering.

Lightly wrapped in the extra blankets, kept warm with hot fireside rocks, it would keep a perfect sampling temperature until they reached the town.

The town was decent sized, but nowhere near as centralized as he had envisioned. The buildings were grouped close, shops near related shops, but every building was separated by alleys the width of roads, and clusters of shops were distanced by open fields. No fortified walls, no army on patrol, not a single lookout tower, it seemed fairly civilized in comparison to where he had grown up. They just wandered in like it was a regular, un-noteworthy occurrence.

His attire got plenty of stares, but the rags under his homemade coveralls would have gotten the same points and sly laughter, except a lot colder. He walked the rest of the way, hiding best he could between the horses; they drew more attention anyway.

Twenty-three pigs, good, healthy pigs, and a plate of the finest, freshest ham, ribs, and loin chops were traded for two armfuls of goods. It hardly seemed fair. Derik said nothing, it wasn't his place. He had nearly made things a tragic mess trying to save one pig. A few more words from him and Mr. Findick would have been lucky to get just the one armload.

He seemed pleased with the deal, though any compliment on the sampler idea was surely out.

The trip back promised to be less eventful, and nowhere near as long.
**B5.C3**

"This is silly," Ellie said in the barn. "I'm horribly alone there in the house, and you're here, like you weren't a person." She leaned in for Dana's whisper.

"I doubt I could heal any faster, in your house."

"I don't take being alone well."

"How would you move me that far? Both hands, one knee and the other foot, it's a huge struggle for you, to get me to the outhouse, right beside the barn."

Ellie turned away.

"Stay out here, I love your company. I'm just not any good, at keeping, my end of it." Her jaw was already sore.

"You feel like eating some?"

"No thanks. It was very good." She half smiled, "I've eaten a pond of soup, in the last month. I'm about starved, for some real food to chew."

"I thought you couldn't yet."

"I can't. Always want, what we can't have."

"... I hope they come back soon."

"Me too."

"... How about some bread? It's fresh, still soft. That's almost like real food."

"Sounds good."

"I'll be right back."

By the time she returned, Dana had drifted off. Ellie cherished good conversation, but Dana was only good for a few minutes at a time.

Ellie went about her chores, she'd check back later.

"Hey, I thought you weren't supposed to do that," Ellie took the spoon from her.

"Derik's a little, overprotective." Dana held her hand out for it back, "He means well, probably right," she took it when it was close enough, wincing with the awkward slosh in the bowl, "but sometimes it feels good, to pretend to be normal again."

"Feeling that good, are you?"

She smiled with each shaky spoon.

"You drifted off again," Ellie said.

"Mid sentence?"

She laughed, "Not this time. You feel like something now?"

"If you could help roll me on my side, that would be great."

Dana woke on her side while Ellie was sitting on a chair near the fire, just staring into the flames. Quiet. Ellie spent almost as much time just sitting quietly, as Dana spent passed out. All Dana could do was wait and watch, her loudest voice wouldn't reach that far. Tired. She always seemed to wake tired. She decided to try for a deeper breath, but got dizzy instead.

Dana reached out to Ellie, startling her by asking, "How long, you been sitting there?"

"Oh, an hour or so. You just went out like a candle. Scared me a bit."

"Something else... " Some white had returned to her eye. "You're worried, a little frightened. Not about me."

Ellie lay on the bale beside her, only inches for a soft voice to travel. "I'm a little afraid I'm gonna disappoint him again. He's so mad about having paid 30 pigs that last time, only to have me miscarry twice. He going to be so mad if it don't work this time."

"Honey, that's not your fault."

"Doctor in town said it was. Said I wasn't a good enough wife to him, said I wasn't putting the cream on when the moon was full like he told me too. I try, I say my prayers, but it burns when I put that—"

Dana rested her broken hand on Ellie's trembling shoulder, "What have they been telling you, you poor girl." She did her best to give her a hug. "That's not how it works." She forced herself to keep awake, to take each labored breath it took to tell Ellie what she really needed to know about her own biology.

Ellie took away Dana's uneaten bread and bowl, "How you and Derik meet?"

"We were real young, maybe ten or so. When he met me, he started talking to me like he already knew me. He uh," she tucked the sides of her blanket, "he sought me out at lunch, that same day, then tried to strike up some lame conversation. When I got up to leave, he ran after me, grabbed me, then kissed me." She gave her best lopsided smile, "I split his lip, when I knocked him to the ground."

"You didn't."

"Oh yeah. He went down, one punch. He was right special to them, they were grooming him to be one of the elders. They even came to him for advice." She stopped fidgeting with the blanket, "He bought me, bartered for me that night." Her eye was freckled with white. "If I had known it was his room, they had moved me into, I probably would have smothered him, with a pillow that night, for treating me like property.

But, he never did. He spent the next few years, trying very hard, to right those first two wrongs with me."

Ellie looked down at her hands. "George, he worked Daddy's farm for a few years. I was so sweet on him, but Daddy never liked him. Crops failed because too much rain one year. I think Daddy only agreed when George forgave for what Daddy owed him. I guess, I was kinda bought too." She patted Dana's scarred hand, "Just, he ain't never let me forget it. He wants a big family, seems to make him angrier every year I can't."

"That's not your fault. Most women can't nowadays, you know that. Like the pigs in this room, three quarters of them can't, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"That's not your fault either."

"Bible says—"

"God wouldn't punish you, by punishing everyone else too. There are some wicked people in the world, but you're not one of them. I'll help you, if I can, but having a child, is not going to fix things between you two."

Ellie was already crying. This was a wedge often used to hurt her.

Dana tried to comfort her, and she calmed quickly.

"You two tried to have any kids yet?" Ellie said.

"A little girl, Dawn. She's buried, top of that mountain." She closed her eyes, "He killed her, right in front of us, because I wouldn't answer his questions," Dana said. "A little boy, Guar, never made it that far."

"I'm sorry."

"They were sweet little kids, who didn't deserve, any of that. We just couldn't protect them. That's what we're here for, and we failed them." She had done well until then, keeping her loss from consuming her thoughts. "Sometimes, surviving, isn't much of a victory. Let's talk about something else."

"You come from a big family? I got six older sisters, three younger, and eight brothers all count. I don't get to see them all, maybe once since I was wed. It's such a long way from here, almost a month round to walk it. They scattered too. Families of their own, some of them. Missy, she about 3 years older, she's had four by now. Three boys, and a girl. I ain't seen them, not since I left home."

"Only child. Orphaned, by the time I was five. Derik was the one who, talked his people into taking us in. I uh, don't take this wrong, Ellie, but this is making me sad. I can't handle sad right now. I hurt too much, to be sad too."

"Ok, Honey. How about cards? You like to play some? I used to play some with George, but he's no fun if he lose."

"Sure."

Dana was doing better keeping up her end of things, but she only had a few games in her and had a lot of problems holding the cards.

But fun had been just what was needed.

One of the pigs had peed that night, the sound of it hitting hay and dirt was sometimes enough to wake her. Usually only when her bladder was equally full. Ellie was sitting on the chair, staring at the fire; she must not have gone back to the house this night. She always had that deep sad, like she had picked a path in life that was overgrown by thickets and was too afraid to turn back and face the thorns again, so she continued down a road she knew was wrong.

It was heartbreaking. Ellie could read and write, but just enough to get recipes right, girls didn't need to know more. Dana had been fortunate, her mother had been the most cherished teacher of her tribe. She had learned more by the time her mother died than most would ever get taught. But she didn't need to read any book to see the source of Ellie's pain.

A child might bring her a lot of happiness she wouldn't otherwise get in that lonely house. One would not be enough for George. She wanted to help, but sleep took her away, from this sadness filled room.

"I hope you don't think I'm imposing, but, is there any way that I could talk you into a bath?"

Ellie helped her up from the cramped outhouse by putting Dana's good arm over her shoulders and keeping as little weight as possible on her broken foot, "Sure. But it'll have to be in the house."

The horse followed them as far as the gate; it didn't much like letting Dana out of sight. It paced the fence until they got inside, then spent a few minutes trying to stare into each window, but the house was too far away for it to see much.

They had plenty of the nicer things, the Findick's had done well with pigs and the modest farm. The wooden table and chairs had a deep, shiny stain. Most were upholstered with leather, but the table was covered with a lacy cloth.

The bathroom was simple, a large tub with a wringer and scrub-board for doing winter wash, a bucket housed in a fancy box for when a trip to the outhouse was too cold or dark, and a pitcher with matching bowl on a pedestal for washing up. It was probably more than most had in these parts.

The linens and towels showed some wear, most had been dyed a darker color to conceal stains and age. It didn't matter to Dana, it was all far nicer than the barn.

It was less a bath than a long, hot soak. The water turned a pinkish hue, but she didn't care, the first fifteen minutes had nothing to do with getting clean. They were all about, "Ahh... "

"I went looking in the barn, but, I couldn't find a stitch of clothes," Ellie said while Dana was still in the tub.

"Oh, this is it."

"I can't let you put that back on. I'll— let me find something."

She had finished with the soak and was slowly approaching clean by the time Ellie returned with a green dress. "I can't wear that," Dana said, "it's too pretty."

"It's last year's colors."

"I'll ruin it, I'm not that healed yet. Not as healed as I thought."

"I'll look again."

"You don't have t—" but Ellie left anyway.

She was bandaged, braced, and dressed pretty blue with an almost unnoticeable stain on the sleeve and a slight fray at the cuffs and hemline. Mismatched buttons in the back. Ellie sat her captive audience in their living room for awhile, trying to give Dana a tour of the place without the trouble of tugging her all around. With each item of interest Dana was brought and told the story behind, she could see all that Ellie left out. These trinkets George kept bringing back, that Ellie continued to show, each was an obvious apology for an angry moment gone out of control. Her house was full of them, each displayed with such pride.

The bath had done her a lot of good. It wasn't the water, but the sense of normalcy, that sense of a fresh, new beginning. She tried to follow all that Ellie was saying, but couldn't. She was only able to sit on the couch thanks to the stiffness of her waist bandages. She managed to hold onto awake for nearly an hour.

"Dana... "

She was on a small bed.

"Honey, you fell off the couch. I thought you might— I was so worried."

"Is this it?" She drifted out again.

It was raining when she woke. Every so often, in the window, she could see the tips of horse ears, pacing.

"I tried to get him to go inside the barn, but he wouldn't. So I put that smelly blanket on him. I suppose it's better than nothing."

"I can still undo this."

"Well, I'm not taking you out in that. You can wait 'til it lets up. Shouldn't be out in no barn on a night like now anyway."

"She can't tell you." She was out again.

Morning came with the smell of bacon, eggs sizzling in the grease.

Dana was served breakfast in bed.

Ellie desperately wanted to be a mother.

They played a few hands of cards, too much mud was Ellie's excuse this time. She really didn't handle alone well at all. Dana talked her as far as the living room couch by noon.

Ellie was desperately missing something in her life. Isolated from her family, sisters, friends. People. A week away from the village, days away from the closest neighbor. Someone to talk to, to show interest in her. Attention. Listen. Simple, everyday things were so neglected in her life. Something she couldn't get from George.

Dana picked at the brace on her wrist; tying it had made Ellie feel important, but Derik had always made certain the padding was wrinkle free. It itched and pinched something fierce. But she never felt so lucky, listening to Ellie telling happy stories between card plays; Dana's problems seemed so small.

"I love your hair," Ellie said, still brushing it when Dana woke. "It's so soft, and fine, and has this natural, slight curl I'm so jealous of. You could be really pretty— I mean, I—"

"It's ok. I know how I look."

Ellie looked her in the eyes, "You must have been very pretty before— before... I can't imagine George staying with... He must really love you." She let the strands partially cover Dana's bruise.

She looked at her lap. "He must."

"I got some fresh bread, it'll be ready in an hour or so, if you think you can stay up that long."

Dana noticed the cards on the table and her unfinished game of solitaire. "I'd love to play a few hand—"

"Oh yes, lets." Ellie jumped to the table.

Ellie loved to play cards. She was a kind-hearted woman, and this was such an easy way to repay kindness.

**B5.C4**

"I told you she wasn't to be in my house," George said, "and she damn sure ain't keeping—" Ellie flinched back in her chair when he stepped in the room, "You know how hard it is getting clothes around here. Ain't but one farmer in two months walking can get cotton to grow on his land, and every year he hems and haws that price up. Now, you had your fun playing big-girl dress-up, get my hard earned cotton off her wretched—"

Derik rushed in quick and scooped Dana off the couch, "Don't you trouble yourself, Mrs. Findick, I'll take her back to the barn and bring back your very fine dress, soon as her clothes dry." He hurried Dana out of there, back to the safety of anger free straw.

Smudges was glad to see her again, following them back to the barn with a bouncy trot. They could hear George scream even with the doors closed.

"That poor girl," she whispered in his ear when he set her down.

"He's just going to yell, probably."

He steadied her with one hand, smoothed the blanket with the other, then tucked her in a bit before adding to the fire.

"I uh, have some chores to do. Smudges'll look after you."

Excitement wasn't her thing, it ran through her limited time too quickly. When she woke it was dark outside, three horses within. She watched Derik by the fire. He was washing himself, scrap of cloth and a warmed water-bowl, the way they had for months now. Every now and then, when the fire flickered just right, it would catch another bruise. Most in places accidents rarely touched, but clothes normally covered. The kind Ellie got gifts for.

Draped in a blanket, everything else drying by the fire, he stretched out beside her. "You look stunning in a dress." He kissed her cheek, fingers through her hair.

She rested her hand over a purple spot he had hidden, "You have a way with words."

"I'm getting better. I was the only one who got hurt, this time."

He unwrapped a bag of stream-rounded stones, warmed beside the fire. He put one in her palm, slowly rubbing the back of her hand with the flat of another. Warm, almost hot, if held one place too long. Small, little circles, lightly damp stones. One hand, then the other, ending in circles on her back. Such a pretty dress.

He was careful with every touch. She had rolled from her side to just partially on top; the stones had lost their healing heat in those first few hours, but he hadn't stopped rubbing circles on her back. He was just limited to the warmth of his hand.

"You know, I didn't... I didn't want to abandon you and Dawn. It was, the hardest thing I'd ever done," he said when he could feel her blinking, "I thought I was doing, what was best for everyone. I—"

She put her hand over his lips. She wasn't in the mood for more misspoken words.

He folded the dress that morning, "I think I would have liked to dance with you, just once, in one of these." He smoothed the last wrinkle before taking it back, promptly, making sure to thank Ellie loud enough for Mr. Findick to hear.

His days were spent baling hay, chopping and stacking wood, and mucking after pigs. It was what he had agreed to. They saw little of Ellie, she stayed to the house; pigs started having litters, requiring more care and room. That many pigs in the mini-pens lent itself to accidental crushings of the young. Those that weren't showing were put back with the herd after getting nicked on the right ear, the mark of a try that failed. Most taken to town had four or more nicks in that ear. Those that had a healthy litter got both ears cropped. It didn't seem like a nice thing to do, but it reduced a pig's history to a casual glance. It was fast, and easy. Ellie stopped coming out.

Splitting logs for the fire was a learning experience. There was a chiseled stone, like two, eighteen-inch tall arrowheads joined to make a pyramid. He would drop the log on the point hard enough for it to stick, then whale a few times on the other end with a heavy wooden hammer. It usually split into fourths.

When he was too tired to split any more, he rested up by stacking. The horses helped with the hauling, and he was always thankful for that.

The hay had filled most of the rafters, what could be filled. What couldn't were pockets around the cross-brace for the roof. Nothing was perfect, but he had managed in a little under a month to fill every available space. That much hay was a fire waiting to happen, but it also cut down the nightly amount of wood needed to keep warm, it was fantastic insulation.

Mr. Findick stopped dropping in, now that he had seen enough of Derik's work-ethics to leave him alone. Hard work had its place; now that the fields were in, everyone could relax. The horses even ate less. His hardest chore now was moving a load of wood to the Findick's house every few days; it hardly counted as work to the horse.

It gave him lots of time with his favorite person in the world. Most of it spent watching her sleeping.

She had been through a lot, more than enough to kill anyone else, but, she held on. She never said, but the eye he had been so worried about, now blinked when objects came near. It was something. Most of the white had returned, except one spot about the size of a grain of corn, closest to her ear. Bruises had faded, she even talked more, but chewing hurt too much to do.

Stomach muscles were used for nearly everything, from lifting a leg to sitting up, picking up objects on either side, or just rolling over. She needed help on all of these, but she could do them alone if she had to. Sometimes she insisted. She had been fiercely independent every minute he had known her; nearly getting killed hadn't changed that.

He slapped the cards down in front of her, "Flush!"

"You're cheating," Dana said.

"Yeah, but I still won. That'll be two, please." He leaned in for the wagered kisses.

She pressed her lips to his cheek, then blew, making a most objectionable noise near his ear. "Shuffle for me."

"Of course," he collected the cards Ellie had left them. It was a tattered, older deck that was short a few, with ample folds, nicks, and missing corners like it had been thrown against its share of walls. "I'll just add those two to what you owe. Let's see, that would be about three mil—" the serpent choked his joke until she touched his hand, "million by now."

"If you're going to pay such a high price, shouldn't you at least tell a funny one?"

"Sure, now you say something." He dealt the cards again.

They played a few more hours, a record for her.

"Why you always wearing that scarf?" Ellie asked, one of her rare times bringing them supper.

"My neck's usually cold," Derik said taking the plate; it wasn't fully a lie, the serpent was cold-blooded and the scarf helped with that.

"Why, it's got to be about sixty in here. Burn some more wood if you want to." She lowered her voice, "How's she doing?"

"Much better, Mrs. Findick. She's sure to make it now, that is, you know, so long as nothing else happens to her."

"Well, I got a spiritual coming over soon, she sees all sorts of stuff, maybe I ask her to pay you two a visit before she leaves?"

"Thank you, but no."

"You sure? She's real good. She can tell you things, she even lifted a black cloud from around our house, once. Gave us a real prosperous crop that next year."

"Thank you, but no."

"Ok then. When she wakes, you tell her I stopped in."

"Yes ma'am, and thanks again for the cards."

"It only missing the—"

"It's more fun not knowing, Mrs. Findick."

She walked out smiling, she had told Dana days ago.

The Findicks had a turkey coop too, but it had been strictly off limits to Derik, until recently. It was a much smaller fenced yard, far away from the barn, with a small, cozy coop, raised a few feet off the ground so the droppings could fall straight through the floor and be shoveled away every so often. Eggs had to be gathered every day, from each stall. Six birds all together, but only one tom. They were kept primarily for the eggs. He was used to chickens that could produce about one a day, turkeys seemed to be bigger, and every odd or third day. With five laying they could go a few days without any, to as many as five, but the average seemed to be two or three.

Mr. Findick didn't trust Derik to collect and deliver them to the house, being how eggs were such an easy food and an unreliable number. A night of loud barking would offset production. Derik was sure to get caught taking a pig; an egg every now and then, Mr. Findick would have no way of knowing, and shortages could be easily blamed on something else. But Ellie hated dealing with it, and George didn't want to bother when some well-worded questions would do.

It only took a warm day to see Ellie's objection when the turkeys came out to bask in the sun, dragging their broken, butchered wings. Turkeys were like chickens, they could fly, just not very far. These couldn't even flap hard, it wasn't pleasant to watch them try. They weren't suffering, but they were so mangled it interfered with how they walked, lopsided, unbalanced waddles, tripping and standing on neighbor's un-retractable wing. It had probably been done shortly after emerging from an egg, a lifetime never knowing flight.

The chickens he had tended as a child had it a little better. They had a long building of their own with rows of stacked cages for the laying hens and an open floor for the dinner-destined ones. They all knew flying, albeit only indoors. The Findicks didn't need to feed a village, enough for breakfast would do.

He never shorted them, not a single egg. It simply wasn't worth it, not that it would stop Mr. Findick from demanding a daily full accounting.

Ellie's spiritualist would arrive in time for lunch, and Derik was a little worried about it. It was rare, but not unheard of, for someone to see the future, just highly unlikely. The lifting of a dark cloud was the calling card for cons. He could only imagine what kind of spells, potions, or prayers a spiritual could conjure, judging prosperity by the sight of three horses. He wanted to protect Ellie from this fraud, but meddling was a dangerous place for a guest to be.

Dana would, but Dana saw things in black and white. Truth often got told at a high price, and they had nothing left to pay.

He had the task that morning of slaughtering and cooking up one of the younger pigs. It hadn't had a chance to get nicked in the ear, just a random male, fat enough to center a big meal. He had proven his cooking skills on the trip, and a night's stay with total hospitality was the minimal price of a visit. He would do his best, like he did outside town, but he doubted even the finest meal would dissuade a con.

He had pictured a much older woman, but the spiritualist was maybe in her early forty's, wearing the most colorful, frilly dress he had ever seen. Bright yellow sleeves, lots of white with a sky-blue hem, a summer-green bag tossed over one shoulder, walking stick in hand, and a white wolf with a mini saddlebag. She bypassed the house and headed straight for Derik at the outdoor barbecue.

He bowed as politely as he could, held, then kissed the back of her hand, blurted out a fast introduction, then excused himself to announce her arrival to the Findicks, all without giving her a chance to get in a word, or worse, a series of questions.

As soon as the Findicks were out, he hurried his plate to the barn. "I've gotten behind on my other chores," was his excuse. Very true, but hiding was his intention.

Dana was up, and he never considered time with her a chore.

"She here?" Dana watched him dicing the food on the plate for her.

"Yeah, she's here."

"You meet her?"

"I kissed her hand."

"And... "

"She's... Mr. Findick and her have this, thing. She talks Ellie into what he wants her to change, they agree on a price beforehand. She's gonna one up him now, figures he's been holding back on her, and, Ellie's too easy to— It's a mess, Dana. If I get— I can only make this worse. We should keep out of it."

"Ellie doesn't deserve to be used like that."

"Being used is just how it always is."

She stared at him, still dicing.

He could feel her stare.

"Say it again," she said.

He stopped.

"I'm using you?" She struggled to lean toward him, "Are you back on that again?"

It tightened while he refused.

"I tricked you into running away from home, getting our kids killed, getting shot and captured, then carried off to the mountains by a madman who ripped— are you insane? I'm, using you?"

He coughed and gasped until she touched his hand.

"Me, using you."

"We all use people. I'm using the Findicks to buy time in this barn, they're using my awkward position to add infinite chores. It's not always a bad thing, an evil intent. It just is. We used Dawn and Guar to grow closer. They used us to shelter them. It's not all bad, and it's not the same as what they're doing. Just, fixing it might not be simple, or possible."

With the pieces now cut small enough, she took the plate and fed herself.

"When has my meddling ever ended for the good?"

She forked a little slower.

He kissed her broken foot, "I don't mind being used by you. It's quite nice, usually."

Derik watched from the barn as the Findicks ate, then retired inside for their personal readings, Mr. Findick first. His was all business, and he was visibly angry when it was over. His fine little arrangement had gotten out of hand. He had tried to play the horses off as belonging to the guests, but the empty spare room set her mind to something else. Derik's attire didn't lend itself to wealth either. Ellie was next, and she wasn't any good at lying.

George stomped around outside, madder than ever, kicking at the dirt.

Soon, she would head out to the barn to judge for herself about the Findick's new found wealth. Price was set by ability to afford, not services rendered, same measure Mr. Findick had used with Derik. Dana would be fine if she pretended to be asleep, but he needed to be someplace else. A nice day for splitting wood, he snuck off with one of the horses, Smudges stayed behind with her.

Swinging that heavy hammer overhead was hard work, but he was taking his time, no need to hurry. He even made a game of seeing how slow he could go, counting the number of hits before a log would split. He had taken the horse to the farthest field, out of sight, out of ear. He planned to head back as soon as it started getting dark, when he was sure they would have retired inside the house.

He had a lot to lose and nothing to gain by being there. It felt cowardly, like running away. He had never been the stand-and-fight kind of man.

Not much of a man at all, really.

He stacked the wood by the barn when he returned.

He had done a hurried job of mucking, and had time to be more thorough.

The baby pigs were cute this young, but another one had died, crushed under its mother. That was three altogether. It wasn't his fault, but it would be his blame. It didn't matter, Mr. Findick would have found another reason to vent his anger.

"Hey beautiful," he kissed her the moment she woke.

Dana turned her head away from him. "I told her all about you," she said. "Now's your chance, she's looking for a partner to expand her act."

"Not funny." He kissed her on the cheek.

"I sold you out for six months inside on a real bed and a weekly bath, soon as she vacates the room, and takes you with her."

He snuggled her on the bales, "I love you." He put his arm around her, careful to avoid her waist.

She rested her hand on his forearm.

He held her, tight as he dared.

He had a lot of thinking to do. He couldn't avoid tomorrow.

Dana was going to sleep late, but he needed her awake for this to work. He tapped her shoulder a little harder.

"What?"

"Play cards with me."

"Now? It's not even light outside." She closed her eyes, "No."

"Please." He kissed her turned-away cheek.

"I don't— What's gotten into you?"

He kissed her again, "Please."

"I really don't want to."

"Just for a few hours."

"Hours? Definitely not." Try as she did, she couldn't roll a cold shoulder his way. She managed to roll enough that he got the point.

"Might help Ellie if you do."

She tried to grip the blanket enough to pull it over her head, but settled for sending an elbow his way. "Maybe late—"

"I know you don't want to, that's why it has to be now."

"You can be—"

"So irritating." He kissed her, while blocking another elbow.

For someone so eager for poker, he lost until the sun started coming up. Dana complained with nearly every hand. Refusing to look at, much less hold the cards, she nonetheless made insanely high wagers on hands she refused to look at.

It was true to her nature. She was easily irritable in the morning. She hadn't had breakfast, and he was being as annoying as he could, without risking provoking a level of violence even George wouldn't be prepared for.

At best he could get another hour out of her. His luck swung to winning, something he could do even more obnoxiously.

She finally refused to play.

Complete silent treatment.

His actions deserved much worse.

"Oh good, you're already up," Ellie said stepping into the barn, "Derik, Dana, this is Icyal."

George kicked the door shut, then started roping six of this season's males together. He wanted the witch off his property as soon as possible.

Icyal went straight for Smudges and ran her hand through its mane, "George tells me these horses are yours. That's not true, is it?"

"Not entirely, no. One of them belongs to Dana, the other two are the Findicks."

"Two?"

She had directed that at George, who looked willing to strangle a pig with rage. "Yes ma'am, three all together," Derik said anyway.

"This one yours?"

"Dana's actually." He collected, then started shuffling the cards. "She refuses to play with me, now that I'm on a winning streak. Do you play, Miss Icyal?"

"It wouldn't hardly be fair, playing against a seer." She never took her hand off the horse. "You got a darkness around you two—"

"Tell me about it. I've had my future read this year already, obviously that didn't turn out so well. I think I have a better chance with cards."

"I can lift it for you." Icyal looked him over now, her hand on their only real asset.

"She can, she really can," Ellie said.

"Thank you, but Smudges is all we have. We'll need him come spring." He nudged for Dana's attention, "I'll play you for him, if it's ok with Dana."

It was.

Icyal reached into her bag. She had a fresh deck, to no surprise.

George jumped at the chance to win back his hard-raised pigs; unfortunately, it required he wager even more.

They worked out a price, a horse was worth far more than six pigs, and a game at those high stakes wouldn't have lasted very long. Longer played best to Derik's advantage. A chips system seemed best, represented in this case with dried corn and lima beans.

The first few hands Icyal won, the next Derik picked up.

Three straight losses was a bit much for George. He stared straight at Derik, "Can you beat a pair?"

"Can you help me up?" Dana said.

"Sure, Honey." He lay his hand face down, "You all don't mind." He excused himself to lend her a hand. She fussed on his scarf.

George tried a few more times, but Dana always followed up with a simpler question. By lunch George was another two pigs down, that was eight all together. He balled his hand and threw crumpled cards everywhere, then stomped away from the makeshift table. Icyal retrieved another deck.

The two continued to play while Dana and Ellie watched from the side.

Derik was always polite, clearly announcing aloud every discard for the observers, every winner, and every revealed hand. Quite professional. He lost more often, folded early on more bad hands. But his rare wins tended to be the biggest pots.

By supper, Icyal had lost all but the chips for one pig, her normal fee for a house-call. She folded, then reached across to shake Derik's hand, "I could only see lots of victories, I lost track of the few that really count. I learned something about futures today. I can still lift that dark cloud—"

"Given enough time, it'll leave on its own."

She took her pig and left.

Derik followed her out, but turned for the Findick's house.

He paused, long and hard, before knocking.

"I got all but one of your pigs back," Derik said when George opened the door, "I think you know what I want."

He could never be ready enough for the punch George squared on his gut.

Derik nearly puked, but managed to steady himself with a hand on the doorframe, "I made you a fair deal, the first time we met." He coughed 'til he caught his breath, "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, you might want to listen to another very fair deal."

"You can go to hell." George slammed the door, just missing fingers.

He coughed twice more, took a deep breath, then knocked again.

"Get the hell off my damn farm!"

"I'll boil and tote the water, and clean up after, but once a week, Dana gets a bath in your tub. I do ONLY BARN chores, no more of these endless additions, you're costing me too much time with her. Fair?"

He heard something slam the backside of the closed door.

"And that blue dress too. Fair?"

Something wooden broke, some distinct kicking, and a wad was thrown out a window.

He walked over to it. It was blue. He dusted it, smoothed it, refolded presentable like, then walked back to the barn.
**B5.C5**

"Sorry about this morning," he said while laying the dress on Dana's lap as Ellie walked in, "Don't worry, Mrs. Findick, I gave George back his pigs— Oh, I hope this was all right."

"Sure, I tried to give her a nicer one earlier," Ellie said, hesitating near the door.

"You might want to stay out here a little longer, he seems determined to stay mad for awhile," Derik said. "You like to play a little till then? A friendly game, no keeping score."

Dana's day had lasted hours too long, she was asleep before he could shuffle.

Ellie was a strong player, not on par with Icyal, but she had a natural sense that served her well.

It was his first real, calm talk with the woman. She was very nice. She liked to talk about relationships, her sisters, childhood pets. She had begged for a puppy but got a pet pig instead. She taught it tricks; it came when called, would roll over, sit, followed her endlessly, and was the only one ever allowed in the house. She stopped short of saying what happened to it, turning instead to some wildflowers she had been trying to nurture. An hour of slow paced play and chat, and she hadn't mentioned George once.

George had a right to be concerned, Ellie was cute, personable, warm, and was treated poorly for it. George deserved to be paranoid, just not about him.

He had shuffled, but hadn't dealt for ten minutes now. Ellie had gone on with great detail about her favorite sister Missy and a flirty childhood swimming-hole event with some friends. He had been hoping for an opening, a lull, or her to notice they had stopped playing cards. He interrupted with his hand on hers, "Sounds like George has calmed down, much longer and he'll think more than cards is going on out here. Thanks for helping me with Dana, she thinks very highly of you. It's easy to see why."

She blushed before leaving for the house.

He finished his barn chores, got everything tidied and checked, then washed up for bed. He spread the dress like he was tucking her with a blanket, to get a fresh idea of how it looked on. It was pretty, flaws and all.

First dress he had ever seen her in.

He folded it, nice and neat, before stretching out beside her.

She hadn't gone to sleep mad, but he still owed her an apology. Good thing he had more than a dress to offer.

Pleasant dreams of dancing, dressed in shades of gray. What a nice thought to drift to sleep by.

He had finished his morning chores half an hour ago and was just waiting for her to stir awake, naturally. The change was subtle. Today it started with the pointing of her toes, rubbing the biggest one against the hay in a circle with about enough vigor to answer a mild itch. Her eyes blinked open, then she turned her head away and closed them again. It would be a few minutes before she stirred again.

He waited.

She often slept with her hands very close to her face, tight under her chin usually. Unsure why he found that so cute. She flexed one, then blinked until open.

"Morning." He kissed the knuckles of her flexed hand.

"You again?" She held her eyes closed while he kissed the back of her hand.

"Sorry about yesterday, she was supposed to say something completely different. It doesn't always work, you know. I think she was cheating."

"You weren't?"

"Of course I was, that was the whole point. You were supposed to be all mad about playing, and she was supposed to—"

"You'd think you'd have caught on by now."

"Well, when I'd—"

"Not interested." She covered an ear with her hand, which only left her chin and cheek more exposed. She swatted his lips away.

"Ok, you just lie there, pretend to sleep. I won't tell you my surprise."

"Good."

Sometimes she didn't say what she was supposed to either.

Ellie brought leftover barbecue for lunch. She usually carried pots in her right hand, today it was the left. "Can't stay long," she said, "I meant to say yesterday, I like what you did for the pigs."

"Oh, it's just a little bandaid. A dab of sap to help with the hurt, keeps the infection down," Derik said.

"Nice of you, all the same. I don't much like the way George does it. Blood all over 'em, making that sad, crying sound. I wanted to tie little colored scarves, or necklaces or something that don't hurt 'em so."

"I think scarves would have been," he adjusted his, "very classy."

She handed him the pot.

"I'll rinse it out before I bring it back."

"No hurry. There's a couple days in there." She paused at the door, an awkward open with her left.

Pressing for bath privileges could wait.

He set the pot for a slow simmer by the fire, no appetite for if right now.

Dana stared at him.

"It could have been worse," he said.

She hardly blinked.

"Would have been." He looked away, staring at the door.

He left for an outdoor chore. Hauling water, or wood?

Both, it took longer.

He knew what Dana was pushing for. Confrontation was not big in his nature. He would lose anything physical against George anyway, it wasn't even close. There was only so much words alone would do. He had a good idea what Ellie put up with; he knew the nature of some of the things Icyal had talked her into. None of this was ideal. Best he had been hoping for was keeping it together enough to walk out of there come spring.

That would no longer do.

George slammed the door on his way out to confront him, "Thought you was just gonna do barn stuff?"

"I was—"

"Don't expect to be getting nothing extra from me."

"I was just—"

George kicked over the wood Derik had stacked by the house.

"Look, I was just helping out. It's easier to move with the ground dry." He started restacking it, "I was just trying to keep ahead before we get snowed in. All this stuff is from the furthest field, and it's easier to move on a nice day like today." He stopped. "I can stack it all by the barn if you prefer, but it was just as easy to put half here and half there. It don't matter none to the horse."

He kicked it over again.

Derik stacked the rest against the barn.

He made over twenty additional hauls that day. That was at least three weeks of wood, maybe closer to two months, if it didn't get bitter cold. Lugging wood through even a few inches of snow was miserable. He was right, this made perfect sense. But he shouldn't have been surprised by the response. Good deeds seldom went without some punishment. George was still trying to figure him out.

Come dusk, it was a fight getting the two horses inside, and the longer those big doors remained open, the more pigs and heat wandered out. They simply did not want to cooperate. If he had to walk around all day with pigs scurrying under foot and his head slumped low so he didn't brain himself on rafters, he would object too. But a cloudless sky was sure to bring a bitter cold, better now than hours later and colder.

He stoked the fire, nice and hot. It was mostly a pile of stacked stones and homemade blocks with arched openings on all four sides so it cast light and heat in every direction. It took an hour of tending, but once it got blazing, the sheer mass of it continued to put heat into the room six or even eight hours after the fire died down.

He stretched out beside her, closed his tired eyes.

Morning came too soon.

They were sleeping on their sides, her back pressing into his chest, holding hands. She ran her thumb along his palm, just before it turned to fingers. "I remember when I came to bed, with hands like these," she said, her thumb rested atop a callus that was ready to blister. "I was mad at you, when I went to work the fields that day. They gave me gloves, but I refused to wear them. It reminded me too much, of the way you forced new shoes on me, new clothes." She explored each finger. "Sometimes pride is just an excuse to hurt yourself, while blaming someone else."

"I wouldn't have refused gloves."

"You didn't ask for them either. Now, for the next week, every chore is going to be twice as hard."

They felt stiff and sore until she touched his fingers with a kiss.

"You should ask, Ellie would surely—"

"Get in even more trouble for giving me some. No, I'll think of something."

She drifted back to sleep.

He let go of her hand and tucked her in with another blanket before starting on his morning obligations.

His hands felt fine, his blister had turned the corner on its way to healed, but she was right. She usually was. He blanketed the horses and let them out so they could walk around with their heads held high again. They enjoyed that very much, they even used a different step, elegant. A canter maybe, but he didn't know enough about horses to be sure. Canter sounded elegant.

Most of the pigs preferred to be let outside to bask in the sun, but they could come and go as they pleased through a smaller, flap like door built into the bottom half of the people-sized one. He only secured it at night to keep the whatevers out. The horse doors vented the barn all at once; those were the ones he tried to limit, especially when it was cold.

He knocked on the Findick's door.

George opened it with a, "The hell you want now?"

"Sir, I need a pair of glov—"

"You need!" He stepped out. "Thought you had everything you need." He closed the door behind.

Derik stepped back, "Mr. Findick—"

"Now it's Mr. and sir, where's all them demands and whatnots? You leave something out?"

"Yes sir. I do need—"

He snatched Derik's closest wrist, twisting it hard to inspect the palm. "Oh, little Mr. serpent freak got a smidgen of work on his delicates. Why don't you just be a man and suck it up, I've washed worse off with a bar of soap."

"Look, Mr. Findick, I've been more than fair, and I don't think it's out of line to ask—"

"Aww, what's wrong? The crip taking offense to them sandpaper paws rubbing all over them nips?"

George laughed while the snake choked his silence.

"She like them bottom-dealing poker hands better?"

Derik was on his knees.

"She ain't here to save you with an easy question. You two double-teamed me, I would of won—"

"Not against her. She came packing her own deck, two of them. That don't strike you as a little odd? Sounds like she just added reading futures to another profession to me. Look, I got you almost all of them back, all I'm asking—"

"You got what you asked for. Ain't getting nothing else."

"You keep me in gloves and I'll keep you stacked in wood by the house."

"Think I'd rather see you sport some man-sized blisters first."

Derik wanted to storm off, "Look, Mr. Findick, I can't do as much— I can do more around here with them, than without. It benefits us both if—"

"Rather not." George went back inside.

That could've gone better. He stared at the closed door. He hated this, mostly because it was pointlessly frustrating. He took a few, progressively longer, calmer breaths. Frustration was the point. Derik knocked again, "Mr. Findick, sir."

"Go to hell."

"Sir."

Nothing.

"Sir."

He was there, just the other side of the door.

"Sir." He couldn't give up. As frustrating as this was, he had to follow this through. He didn't want to. He had to. "Sir." He looked at his hands. His failure had consequences. "Sir."

George laughed when he answered, then stepped outside.

"Please sir," Derik said.

"Persistent little snot, ain't ya?"

"Yes sir."

"Ellie! Give rags here an old pair of your garden gloves." He poked a finger into Derik's chest, "They ought to fit your precious little girly hands, right?" He started to laugh.

"Yes sir."

Ellie's eyes never looked higher than his shoes when she passed the pair to him, then turned inside.

"Thank you."

They fit just fine.

It wasn't as warm a day as yesterday, but it wasn't freezing either, so he made the best of it and his new gloves, hauling loads of wood until way past noon.

He had gotten all that the furthest field had to offer. What was left hadn't seasoned and wasn't ideal for burning. A good enough reason to stop.

The girls were sitting, just talking in the barn. But Ellie went back to the house as soon as Derik entered.

"She brought me some of that stuff you two went to town for," Dana said when he sat in Ellie's warm spot. "It's got dried hot peppers in it. Supposed to be medicine. They've got her rubbing it in places, no man would." She rested her hand on his knee, "She's going to try to have that idiot's child again."

He pulled off his gloves before putting an arm around her.

"How wrong is it of me, to want to help her?"

"She'd make a good mother."

"I doubt this would make a good home."

He kissed her on the cheek, "Sometimes, a good mother is enough."

It snowed for the next three straight days.

Outside the barn, it was about a foot and a half deep, right up to his knees. It was soft and powdery, but the first sunny day would change that. Right now it would sweep with a broom. He kept the swing of the doors clear, every hour or so, and a double wide path to the outhouse. Horses didn't seem to mind so much, but the big-bellied pigs hated it, mostly only going outside to pee. They were good about that, most of them anyway.

The horses specialized in volume anywhere, all but Smudges.

"No!" He ran for the horse but it was too late, it had already nibbled a bale out of the rafters and onto some unsuspecting pigs. The chaotic running and frantic squeals probably hurt them worse than the falling hay.

The barn was most definitely not designed with horses in mind. Had they panicked instead of thinking it all funny, he could have had dozens of trampled pigs.

"Put on that queer getup of yours and get them two ready," George said, about the time Derik had the mess cleaned up. "We're going hunting. I can track the hell out of some deer in the snow, and these parts are full of them. We leave in ten, you best be ready." He went back to the house.

That didn't leave a lot of time, a frown and a kiss amidst saddles and gear. He didn't want to go, it was just easier this way.

After George strung the second bow, both packed to his horse, they rode hard for twenty minutes, putting plenty of distance between them and the house. Tracks were hard to see, even in the snow, this stuff was fluffy enough to drift with the breeze. They were miles out and deep into afternoon before they stopped. George hid disappointment about as well as frustration; he had figured they should have found some signs by now.

"Maybe the—" Derik said.

"Shut up, this ain't no social. Them things got ears too, you know."

"You going to give me one of those bows?" Derik said, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Briefly, and at the last possible minute. Now keep your eyes open and your mouth shut."

Derik nudged the horse up close, then pointed across George to the distant tree line.

"I don't see nothing."

Derik's horse took a step, landing him in the snow between them, "A little help."

"We ain't got time for this." George jerked him up so hard that it felt like a punch in reverse.

"Sorry. Let's try that way on foot, the horses might be throwing it off."

"Up wind, good as any I guess."

They tied the horses.

About half a mile of trudging until an hour before dusk, George finally handed him a bow, one arrow. He pointed it out, then gestured a direction to Derik.

One arrow. Derik was going first, no doubt. He worked his way into position, then, on signal, he let loose.

Hit, but just in the back leg.

It bolted toward George who put two more into it before it sprinted away.

They must have followed the blood-melted snow for that other half-mile. It was starting to get too dark to see. Derik was ready to give up on the deer, more worried about finding the horses again, when the dimpled red snow started coming in globs, signs of staggering. Close, they just had to find where it fell.

Sounds of labored breath trickled behind a leafless bush, sprawled in a dip in the snow.

George frantically put two more into its neck, but it only seemed to wake from a nap, hopping away like a 400-pound rabbit.

It slammed to the snow in less than sixty feet, slid into a roll— stagger, fall.

He had never heard the gurgly bah of a deer, full of anguish and fear.

It had gotten so dark in these heavily pine woods that he could only make out shapes, but he could easily see George grinning as he hung the bow on a branch and went for his hatchet.

The first few blows sounded like he was using the blunt end, solid, bone cracking thuds amidst hoofed kicks, spasms and twitches, fading to a more silent, wet slicing sound. From a distance, it had looked like the deer he had always grown up with. It wasn't. Trapped in these valleys, deer must have mixed with elk, adding much to its size.

"Don't just stand there, help me drag it," George said.

"You sure you don't want me to fetch the horses instead?"

"Well, do that then, just be useful once in you life." He was content whaling on it with the hatchet.

Dragging an animal three times his weight for a mile through the woods wasn't what he had in mind. His numb feet couldn't handle a lengthy backtracking, so as soon as he had wandered out of sight, he put the tried and true chattering step in a random direction into action. He easily found them in half the time.

When he got back, George had it legged, skinned, and split in two, right down the spine. They rode back to the house with it draped like saddlebags. The night sky had dimmed to a pale blue and shapes tended to merge into figure-less forms. He assumed the horses saw much better with those huge brown eyes. They seemed to know where home was, and how best to get there.

Soon, the wolves started up, howling for their share.

"You ever see a mountain lion take down one of these?" George said after they had ridden several minutes.

"No sir, never seen a mountain lion. Never seen a mountain 'til this year."

"I've never been out of these parts. Mountain lions... Heard tell they're about as many as wolves and wild dogs, but they're sneaky and hide and hunt mostly at night. If you see one in the wild, most likely your last name's been changed to prey.

They climb trees over animal paths, always slinking about. Never out in the wide open.

They like to jump down onto its back and ride it, tear into its neck then clamp down over its face, like they try to suck the life from its lungs. Smother it right down.

A pack of dogs, they ain't got no style, no skills, just numbers.

Where I grew up, a man raised some cubs after he took down its momma for eating on his herd. He trained them from little, weaned on goat milk. They were still wild and all, he had to put down the boy, just couldn't control it at all.

But them two sisters, they were something to watch. He'd put on a show with them, trained them up real good, but most came natural to them. One time, I saw six of the meanest, badest dogs turned loose with it. Man was that a show.

Them dogs weighed about the same, but she won't even close. That thing took a paw and just opened the side of the closest one, stuff dripping out. Jumped up in the air, came down on—"

"I get the idea—"

"No no now, listen, that thing just shook that whimpering pup by the back of its neck, set it down like a kid drops a doll done playing with, no concern at all about it getting back up. Them dogs may not have had no moves, but they saw quick enough what was coming down. Won't but four still had something left in 'em. They all got some that time.

Man, it was the most intense next few seconds, I mean blink and it was over, just that big cat licking its paws, chomping on dinner. Looked like them kids illustrated-books for a big brawl, only real life."

George was actually laughing.

"Man, that man even won some guy's house off them cats, 'Taking all bets, see a 150 pounds of cat turned loose on 700 pounds of dogs.'" He turned serious, "I seen some droppings back there, won't from no wolf neither."

It got quiet as a hoof step, silenced in snow, until George started laughing again.

It easily amounted to a month's meat for four that nobody needed to feed, tend, or manage in any way. Just one day's work and a few arrow tips.

They hung the pieces in a corner of the barn where it could drip the rest of the blood out overnight; it would have frozen solid outside. Derik's task in the morning was to butcher it into meal-sized cuts, wrap it, then pack it in the wooden chest amidst shoveled layers of fresh snow.

Tonight he had a different task, he pulled the blanket off her shoulder enough to see the blue-dress' sleeve. Her hair was fluffy, full, and clean. Ellie must have paid her a visit.

She gripped at it twice before tugging enough to cover her shoulder again.

"They still giving you problems?" He lay on his side, facing her.

"They feel fine, until I try to do anything with them. It's not like you might imagine, it's like a constant itch, just on the inside. It's better, not a constant hurt like before. Didn't expect you back for days."

"I hurried it up a little. I'm good for some things, you know."

She leaned in closer.

"Your hair smells nice. Flowery."

"Watermelon. Ellie insisted on using her special scented shampoo, I like it." She sniffed it, "I smell a faint cucumber too."

He took a deep whiff. He couldn't make such a distinction over pigs and horses, but it was nice.

She rested her hand on the back of his neck, then cupped one ear, "Roll onto your back, then look by the door, near the shovel, just above its handle," she whispered.

He did. "I—" it blurred back into the rafters.

"I think they've got a nest in your hay." She pulled back on his shoulder, "I didn't tell you so you could go pester them, I told you so you'd leave that section alone."

He stared, unblinking, "How long have you seen them?"

"Just good today. Little corner of the eye stuff off and on for awhile now." She covered his stare with her palm, tugging his attention back to her, "I was facing the other way, going down the mountain."

He turned back, "I'd never seen one before, just in dreams and—"

"They're not leaving unless you scare them off. Just be careful over there, looks like they found a warm spot for the winter too. If we don't pester them, they'll probably stay."

He turned to her. He had been so tired he could well have been on his second dream by now. But now he couldn't sleep. It was like getting a present that couldn't be opened for a few days; he had never made it that long before. Turkeys were a new twist, but they were too much like big chickens to count. Hummingbirds, locked in the same barn, maybe that dark cloud was lifting.

He had been told that those that had never migrated from the isolation of the mountains may well have survived the extinction that befell all those beyond these hills. Wild birds were so rare that he had gone his whole life without seeing one, as had even the oldest member of his tribe. His childhood dreams with them had been looked on as the height of luck. Even in dreams, they remained rare.

He wanted to get up and pull down those bales until he could get his good, long look. It almost hurt not to, but he didn't, he faced her instead.

"You and Ellie have a nice time together?" he asked.

"She desperately wants to have kids."

"You don't?"

She pressed her nose to his, "I never said that."

He kissed her.

"Just never promised you any."

He kissed her again. "Three? Ok, two don't even have to be mine."

She was a wonderful kisser, even with the left side of her lips a little less than under her full control. Faint hints of cucumber.

"Can you help me onto my other side?" she asked.

"Sure." She could do it on her own, but she labored with it. For him it was easy, one hand under her back, the other under her knees, then turn. Simple.

She made a slight sound. Oh no... He checked.

He rolled her to her back, careful not to twist her mending knee.

He tapped her cheek with the back of his fingers. She was out.

He should have known better. That was the side with the most battered ribs, fractured or bruised wouldn't have mattered much. She survived under a certain amount of constant pain; a little more was all it took to black her out. Something that was too easy to accidentally do.

He should have known better. He pressed his cheek to hers, "I don't care about— I just want time, with you."

He would have to wait.

"I hate this," she said, more than an hour later, "a knee that's not always there, hands that hurt holding cards. Two hands to hold a cup, exhausted, just brushing my teeth. Talking, wears me out. I can't even sleep on my favorite side, tired after hours of rest."

He kissed the scar on her hand, "A many a plate will slip from this grip, I won't blame you for any that break on the floor. You're not the same girl you were. You can try, but you'll never be her again." He ran his hand down her arm, then back to her hand, "I remember her, fell in love with her. She could so kick my ass anytime she wanted, and I never could keep up with her." He leaned in to whisper in her ear, "I can keep up with you." He sat up again. "If you wanted to, badly enough, you could stand up right now, and walk out of here on sheer will alone. Be patient, it'll come. You'll be that girl who doesn't need me soon enough, no need to rush it. I've never minded waiting on you."

"I still hate this."

He had never felt more useful. A side of him liked her like this. He hated the idea of her suffering, but he loved being the one she depended on. This amazing vulnerability she so freely exposed to him was very humbling.

When her tribe had wandered onto his, and he had talked his elders into taking them in, for the price of her, he knew then it was his only chance. She never would have given him the slightest glance had she not been forced to share his room. She never would have accepted this much kindness, had she been well enough to refuse.

He had never wanted to buy her, had never wanted this kind of harm to befall her, but, in a way, he was indebted to both.

This deer had a funny taste, not like the one he had on the mountaintop. There it had been killed quick, not stabbed repeatedly, then chased a mile before being beaten to death. It affected the meat. It wasn't bad by any means, just not as good.

He checked his saddlebag. They still had ten pounds of jerky left. He compared it just to be sure he wasn't remembering it wrong.

Gamey, that was the word.

He washed up afterwards.

**B5.C6**

They had been snowed in for a few weeks, and all that wood stacked between the barn and the house was really paying off. He had been enjoying it, a few games of cards every now and then, a little casual conversation, and best of all, except for five or ten minutes a day, they were left completely alone.

Ellie even seemed to be taking to it, as happy as he had ever seen her.

He even discovered Dana's secret. She would lay still under a blanket for hours without moving, only then would the hummingbirds come out. They were a treat to see, just hanging, perfectly still in the air just inches below the rafters, that long beak pointing one way, then the other. Wings, nothing but a blur. In a blink it would disappear, then he'd spot it somewhere near. He had been perplexed by what they were doing with all the darting. Clearly all that expended energy was behind something purposeful. Dana ruined it by telling him, they were eating bugs in the hay.

He liked the idea of sharing the barn even more.

He hated bugs with a vengeance.

It seemed to be just the two, hysterical to watch on occasion. The one would follow the other around, until she eventually landed. He'd flap a step closer, she'd flap a step away. They'd dance like that until she tired of the chase. He'd close those last few steps, right up behind her, then she'd spin around, put her foot on his head, and flip him across the floor, or whatever they were standing on, before darting away. He'd shake his head, groom for a second, then blur after her, starting their dance again.

Kinda funny to watch, he never gave up.

It never pays to.

Ellie came running in, threw her arms around Dana, and said, "I should have by now!" She smiled then hugged her again, "I'm over a week late."

"I'm happy for you."

"Icyal promised she was gonna say a special prayer for me, that's why she needed my favorite necklace as a charm, to focus the spell and all." She hugged Dana a little too vigorously, "I think it finally worked this time."

"Don't get yourself too excited, you've been here before."

"I know I know, but this time different, I feel it. You're good luck for me. I can't help but be excited, just had to share it with you."

"You'll make a great mother, I hope you get that chance."

Ellie hugged her pretty hard again.

"Take it easy now, don't let yourself get stressed over anything, ok?"

"Sure, I remember what you said."

"You ask Derik to give you a hand if George doesn't, ok?"

"Oh, he'll be fine. We're getting along real good nowadays. I, I just had to tell ya, soon as I was sure."

Derik congratulated her before she left.

"Well," Dana asked.

"Well what?" He sat beside her.

"Is she or isn't she?"

"I can't tell, you know I can't see past a few days, with anyone other than you."

She shoved her hand under his, "Well?"

He shook a sad no, "About three weeks from now."

Over the next week, the snow finally melted enough to get out and about; people, horses, and even pigs enjoyed the one, sunny day outside. He had spent most of that morning moving yet another pile to replenish what had been burned, and hauled a backlogged mound to the defrosted compost.

What a pleasant smell.

With her knee and foot properly braced, Dana could almost fend for herself, at least as far as the outhouse. Smudges was always right to her side in case she needed something to lean on, but was mostly just in the way. Overly helpful, nonetheless.

By the time he returned from filling troughs, she was sitting in the sun, on the bench beside the barbecue, pigs basking in fresh mud. He sat beside her. The wood was a little damp, but the sun on his face made up for it.

"You just missed Ellie," she said, watching the pigs play. "She wants us over for dinner." She swung her foot under the bench, "I'm not sure I want to go, but she'd be hurt if I had said no."

"Just because you're limping around now, don't start thinking you can go take on the world, we're just here till spring. That's it. No waves."

She watched the pigs.

"You gonna wear your dress?"

"Think I should?"

"Ellie would like it, George will hate it."

"That's not really an answer."

"You wear it well. Rags is no controversy, especially if the dress was, say, dirty?" He kissed her hand he held, "It'll match what I'll be wearing."

He put his arm around her, watching the pigs.

"George is gonna hate us showing up, no matter what you wear."

The table was set by the time they arrived, fancy tablecloth, forks and spoons perfectly aligned. He led Dana over, arm in arm, then pulled out her chair. Derik rearranged one of the settings so he could sit beside her. The Findicks sat at either end; it was big enough to easily seat six and had been laid out for everyone to sit across from another.

Ellie brought the roast out from the kitchen, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you two had to s—"

George slammed his fist on the table, "Just damn rude if you ask me!"

"I apologize, Mrs. Findick, Mr. Findick, but I thought it best I sit on the same side with Dana."

"Oh, that all right, Honey." Ellie rearranged the mashed potatoes, string-beans and mustard-greens. "Might work best this way for passing stuff around." She untied her apron. "Why don't you take off your scarf and stay awhile?"

"Yeah, boy, why don't ya?" George pulled up his chair.

"I'm more comfortable with it on, thank you." He held Dana's hand on the table.

"Why don't you tell her the real reason?" George swigged from his glass.

"It hides a scar I'd rather not—"

"A scar!" George's chair fell over when he stood, "That's a damn lie, you piece of shit!"

"Oh, Honey, it don't matter none if he don't wanta—"

"I'm talking!"

She sat immediately.

"Now look what you've done!" George slammed the righted chair down, "My wife busts her butt cooking all day, and your rude damn attitude ruins it all in under five minutes."

Ellie was almost crying.

"I'm sorry sir, ma'am, it was not my intent to be so rude."

"Well, I don't know if I can eat this crap now," George chugged his drink then slapped it down hard.

Ellie jumped to refill it.

There was an awkward silence while he drank down that glass as well, then told Ellie to recite the prayer. Then they all waited for George to take the first bite before starting to eat.

The roast had been slow-cooked most of the day, it flaked apart at the touch of a fork. So juicy and flavorful, marinated in what must have included garlic and vinegar along with a dozen other ingredients he couldn't make out, he hardly need take a sip with a meal as fine as this. She had outdone herself.

"Damn it Ellie, you know I like it fried." George cut a second helping, "Damn babyfood."

Dana put her fork down. She had been doing well until then, easily cutting her food one-handed into small enough pieces, chewing only on one side. She stared at the plate, taking her time swallowing. "My mom never cooked this good."

Ellie looked up, but said nothing.

"If she's such a damn good cook, why'd her mom's sweep her off the doorstep so quick?" He slammed the glass down again. "Huh?"

The bottle was inches from his glass, but Ellie walked around the table to refill it.

"Damn babyfood."

Dana smiled, best she could, while she savored her way through the generous plate of food, potatoes mashed special for her.

Derik particularly loved the lightly crisped potato chunks, seasoned with finely diced green and red peppers, and topped with a light mix of mustard greens. But he lacked the courage to compliment aloud.

They ate in silence, not counting the impolite sounds from George.

He had made the right choice, sitting upright in an armless chair was a bit much for Dana that soon, he caught her waver twice, steadied with an unnoticed hand on her elbow. Had he been seated opposite her, well, George would have been the only one amused.

At the end of the meal, Dana thanked Ellie while he shook George's hand. Dana got a hug and a kiss on the cheek; he got a grip that tried to crush his hand and a quiet reminder that George hadn't invited either of them.

It was dark and a little cold when they walked to the barn.

While they had been snowed in, they had taken the time to restack the bales of hay into armed chairs, a table, and a couch upholstered with horse blankets. It had actually become homey, filled with underfoot kids that every now and then ruined furniture. Some had such distinctive personalities that it was hard to remember, they were all destined to be food one day.

It was easy to see how one could become a pet, then get too big for inside a house.

The babies had grown in size, doubling, tripling so fast, he just days ago untied the last mother pig. It had seemed another cruel rule of George's to tie the mother with such a short rope that it couldn't get up. All it could do for nearly a month was lie on its side and nurse, only able to lift its head enough to eat and drink from a shallow bowl. But every mother that had been done to had kept all its young. Cruel, maybe, but crushing the young, accidental or intentional, was worse, and even the runts of each litter would make a fine dinner, even if too small to be worth much in town.

He sat with her on the hay-arranged couch. "I don't want you getting the wrong idea from all of this," he said, one arm around her shoulders, "I don't care how hard you slam your glass down, I ain't jumping up to refill it."

She elbowed him lightly, before closing her tired eyes.

That meal had been exceptional, as well as big, despite George's condemnations. Tired, stuffed, it didn't get much better.

He stared at Dana for a while.

Ellie's complexion was nearly flawless, her walk, elegant and graceful. Dana's never was, nor could it ever be now. Ellie was genuinely fun to be around, naive a little; but he could always tell Dana held back in conversations, you got all there was with Ellie.

He stared at her more. Her flawed, lightly freckled face, lost-in-the-crowd black hair, the scar on her hand he so adored. It often occurred to him that he was a better fit with someone other than her, as she could easily do better as well. It only served to draw him more, to her, leaning against him now.

Odd these thoughts, he had every now and then.

He watched one of the pigs nurse.

Three weeks went by fast.

Ellie came in, red cheeked and crying. Dana just hugged her, "I know, I know."

Derik stood by the door. He considered bolting it closed, but that could set off a whole chain of events, ending in being locked from outside with less than a day's worth of water within. George was coming, madder than ever; Ellie had walked out, middle of his sermon about why her miscarriage was her fault.

He had no idea how to head this off.

The door kicked open, "Don't you run off while I'm talking to you."

"Leave her alone," Dana said over Ellie's louder sobs.

"Get in the house!"

Ellie flinched.

"Now!" George stomped closer, fist at his side.

"Mr. Findick, sir, you might not wa—" Derik was folded over, mid sentence, with a single punch.

"Now you get in that house!" He stomped toward the girls.

Smudges smacked George to the ground with a headbutt from behind.

Two hoofed stomps landed inches from George's face amidst pigs panicked scatter. George crawled to a shovel and swung it twice.

Smudges stepped back but held his ground, then flung a bale plucked from the rafters. It was a miss, but it still knocked George off his feet, tripped in his frantic dodge.

Derik had a hand on the shovel, "Listen—"

"I'll be God damned if I'm gonna listen to some snake-headed freak."

"If you don't let go of this shovel, I'll be using it to bury you." Derik was no match in strength or leverage, but he held on with splintered hands, a punch away from letting go, offering at best the illusion of a struggle. "I've never seen a mountain lion, but I've seen a horse before. You'll have to hit it thirty times with this shovel, it ain't got to hit you but once."

George paused.

"There are three in here." He firmed his grip, "Dead, or damaged, they're worthless. Look at him, he's not charging, he's had plenty of time to. He's defending. You back down, he will too."

George jerked it from his hands, "I've had enough from you," he whipped off Derik's scarf. "Is this what you what? Huh, bitch! Some serpent-worshiping freaks, trying to talk you into some forbidden fruit?"

Ellie screamed, then fell to the floor before running out.

"I want you two off my damn farm and out of my life." He swung the shovel, just missing Derik's head, "If you're lucky, you'll never run into me again." He tossed it into the corner on his way out the door.

Derik picked splinters from the open cuts in his hands while the squeals settled in the background of the barn.

That could have gone better, somehow.

About an hour later, they heard a knock at the barn door.

Ellie stepped back when Derik opened it, keeping her distance when he let her inside.

She stared at Derik, the ground, then Dana, "I, I can't go back there. I been, just walking... It's cold." She said, unmoved by the drafty door.

"We've got a fire, and a blanket, that you're more than welcome to." He gave her plenty of room.

She pulled up a chair next to the fire.

They sat in silent stares.

Ellie eventually looked up, "George come back, looking about me?"

Dana shook a no.

She stared at Derik's scarf, "Ain't no scar, is it?"

"No ma'am."

She stared at the ground. "You wanta tell about it?"

"We, uh," Derik said, "we were taken prisoner. Some got tortured, some killed, some raped, some bred, and some, with something they thought might be useful, got one of these. Kinda a control collar. A leash, like leading pigs to town." He sat on the couch, opposite side as Dana.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah, especially if I lie, or someone says the word."

"What word?"

It started choking him until Dana leaned far enough to touch him. "He can't say the word himself," she said, "without getting punished, and he can't not answer a question."

"That don't make any— No, I guess it does, a little. I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothing by what I said. Can, I see it?"

He took off the scarf.

She pulled back, "It's biting you."

"It's more like a leach like that, except it doesn't ever let go."

She settled by the fire. "What's so special useful about you?"

"I uh, I read, futures."

She perked up, "Like Icyal?"

"I don't think she does. I think she—"

"No, it's real, I tell you. She really can."

"I, cheated at cards. The, the snake hears everything, that's how it knows when a question is asked. I was reading its future, hearing myself saying how many cards each person took, the bets, and the winning hand. I was cheating, same way she should have been able to. If she was real, she should have won, or known not to play."

Ellie pondered that a while. "Why'd they keep you?"

Dana didn't answer.

"Oh... "

A piglet distracted them all, spilling a bowl before a panicked run to hide behind its mom.

"Tell me my future," Ellie offered Derik her hand.

"It's— Mine is limited to two days, with most people. It's also very detailed, stuff you probably don't want me seeing."

"Oh... "

"I mean, I will, if you want, just, it's a huge invasion of privacy, and I don't think it answers the real questions you have," he said, but she looked so sad. "I, I could tell you what will happen if you go home tonight, I just can't say if it's good in a big picture way."

He put on the scarf.

"It's not your fault," Dana said, "He would never dream of yelling at a turkey to get it to lay an egg, but he thinks nothing of yelling at you. I can probably—" she was distracted by Derik's shaking head, "When he breeds these pigs, once she starts showing signs, she gets a room of her own, so she doesn't have to fight for food. A safe, less stressful place. He pampers them more than he does you." She glared at Derik, silencing his pending protest, "I can help you, that was what they kept me for, but I can't change him."

"Oh please," Ellie was crying, "I'll pay anything."

"You can't," Derik said.

"Sure I can, George and I, we raise way more than—"

"Show her your hands, Dana," he said, "let her know what you mean by help."

Dana refused.

"That's how they tortured her, they made her help their victims. Show her your palms. Go on, she has a right to know what the price is."

Dana was visibly angry, but she turned the hands in her lap, palm up. Deep cuts, splintery puncture wounds, faded calluses.

Derik held up his, a mirror of sorts but little more than scratches on his hands. "She pays, the only price that matters," he said.

"Then it's my choice," Dana said before turning to Ellie, "I can't change him, or how he treats you. That may mean more than anything I can do."

Ellie was sniffling. "I, I should go."

"He's locked you out," Derik said. "Wrecked some of your stuff, broken plates mostly."

Dana nudged him on the knee.

"Let me fix you something, we keep one of your pots simmering by the fire." He fetched it and one of the bowls, "It's not as good as when you first made—"

"I ain't hungry."

"Might make you feel better." He offered it anyway.

She let the bowl warm her hands, stirring it out of reflex, sampling on occasion.

"You're a good person, Ellie," Dana said. "You're an excellent cook, you keep a fine house. You're in no way a bad wife, and you're certainly not being punished for not believing enough, not doing enough. If he treated any of these pigs half as bad as he treats you, you would be the poorest couple in the valley."

Ellie wiped her eyes.

"No cream is going to change that."

She laughed hard enough to ripple the soup, "I can't stand that stuff."

"It was going on the wrong one anyway."

Ellie had a pretty smile, when she had something to smile about.

Ellie went to the house, just to check. The door was locked, she never even knocked, just headed straight to the barn. It wasn't as nice as her expensive bed, fine linens, or fluffy pillows; stacks of straw took some getting used to, but she managed to sleep just fine, all the same.

Maybe even a little better.

"Thought I told you two to get the hell out of here!" George slammed the door on his way in, one hand on the shovel, "I done gave fair warning what was gonna happen!"

"Put it down, Honey, they ain't leaving 'til spring."

He stepped closer, mindful eye on Smudges, "Ain't no place for you, now get in the damn house."

Ellie flinched, but didn't go, "Either your word mean something, or it don't. Sending them out, middle of winter, after accepting and—"

"Ain't nobody gonna say, one way or another."

"Icyal hear, she tell half the valley before the snow starts melting. Gossip her closest cousin. What's not true, she made up good by now." Ellie's eyes drifted off the floor when she spoke, "Easy to break a word, but it's hard to get reputation back, after that."

"Damn it, Ellie, I ain't putting up with no lying, snake-loving—"

"Dana ain't got one, Honey, we ain't doing that, ain't no bible thing to do." She tested a step toward him.

"He ain't no Josseph, and she damn sure ain't no virgin Marry." He was fuming, shovel in hand.

She walked slow and careful, with all the grace she could muster, past him and toward the door, "We got some words needing mending, you and I." She left it open on her way out.

He squealed a dozen pigs by splashing the shovel into the nearest trough, then slammed the door behind them. Straw trickled down in drizzly slips, a haze of confetti celebrating George's departure.

Derik started on chores.

They didn't see nor hear from either for the next two days, hard to say if that was bad or good.

He finished stacking that day's wood, took off his gloves, then stared at his hands. Scratches, that should have been much worse. It made sense, practical to a fault; her hands hurt to the point of uselessness, what was a little more? If they were to have been kicked out as threatened, he would need them more than ever. He still hated the idea of her wearing his wounds.

But it was her choice. Nothing he could do.

The last of the snow was still a foot high wherever it could linger in shade, when the first of today's flakes floated down. They were in for another good one. He had finished stacking just in time.
**B5.C7**

Ellie took commitments seriously. She held to her vows better than she should, regardless of the actions of others. Derik walked in, then poured the last steaming bucket of water into the tub.

The girls stopped talking while Dana tested the temperature.

"You two want that I should leave?" Ellie said.

"I'll—" he leaned in to whisper, "I'll be outside. I wouldn't want to interrupt a pleasant conversation, she gets too few of them too." He took the bucket on his way out of the bathroom.

"I never would have thought, pigs were so smart," Dana said as they sat on the edge of the tub, "and they have such distinct little personalities."

"Yeah, you can teach 'em almost anything. It, makes me sad sometimes, they... I offered once, when we first started having enough of them, I thought I could teach 'em to help work the fields and such, but George, he only thinks about having them teamed to pull a plow. They're just no good for that. I tried, I got one to dig in a straight line, but he— That won't what was in his mind for help." Ellie moved to sit on the floor, her back against the head of the tub, feet rested on the door while Dana slipped into the water. "They have a real good sense of smell, even through right much dirt. He let me train one to find moles and voles, track 'em right back to the nest, every time."

"The littlest ones get into everything, it upsets the horses something fierce, but they're just so playful now."

"Wait 'til you see 'em running around outside on that first day in spring, grass just starting to come back to life. First new kind of plant they see, they fight to be the first to roll on it."

The water was a little too hot, but tolerable, and very relaxing. Dana closed her eyes as she slid under, reemerging to rest with the waterline at her shoulders.

"He don't have enough patience, you know. It takes a few years, you have to let them play sometimes, before you can start teaching 'em to find voles, dig in lines, or cover over seeds. Sometimes, it's like, he expects everything right now. Took me two summers to get fetch and sit right. I, don't even try any more."

"A lot of patience, goes into raising a child."

"Yeah, but I think he'll find more, for something that's his own."

Dana lathered her hair.

"I mean, he's real sweet at times, just that other tends to stick to mind." Ellie's feet slid off the door, knees drawn close to her chin, "He's just, frustrated, he don't handle that so well, that's all." She hugged her legs a little tighter, "He's a good man, you know. He does well for me, we got a bigger home than any of my sisters." She pressed her forehead on her knees. "I get him started most times, not mindful enough about what I say."

Foamy bubbles ran down the side of the tub as Dana leaned over, "That's no excuse."

Ellie tried to hide behind her knees.

Dana wiped her face, but Ellie never looked up. Sadness was difficult for Dana to take. "Tell me something about your sisters, they all married too?" She rinsed her hair before it started stinging her eyes.

That turned her around. Ellie enjoyed filling Dana in with the finest details. The mood was entirely lifted by a well-placed question, mindfully chosen.

It had proven to be a nice treat, not that Dana still needed the help in the tub, but the company was a rewarding touch.

George made a point of slapping the brush into Derik's hand the second the girls left for the barn. Derik said nothing, just brushed and smiled with a smarting palm. He scrubbed the tub in the now silent room. It didn't even feel like a chore.

Ellie had stayed in the barn for a while but was gone by the time the tub was clean. Even so, Dana's smile had yet to fade.

He closed the door behind him. "You two have a pleasant, little talk?" he said.

She tapped the seat beside her.

He sat, "Obviously."

"Obviously."

"I can smell your hair this time."

She pulled his hands under her nose, "You smell of it too."

"Well, you didn't do it yet, did you?"

"She didn't ask me to."

He started—

"It's not up to you, remember?"

He shook his head.

"It might be best," she put a hand on her ribs, "if you didn't try to stop me from smiling right now. Just enjoy it with me, Ok?"

He kissed her on the cheek, an arm around her shoulders.

"See, was that so hard?"

"Obviously."

They watched the baby pigs play, romping in and out of the mini pens, swerving, darting around the cracks in the stacks of hay. A game of tag, hide and seek maybe, returning to the safety of mother at the slightest sign of play turning to trouble. It had been days since he had seen any hummingbirds, but that had always been their way.

Hay was quite comfortable, even stacked like a couch beside a gently simmering, open fire. Nice. Pleasant. Pleasing.

Something worth smiling about.

Morning chores.

He looked at the house as he checked the stacks of wood. George would want to go for another hunt soon. This trip might take days, he wasn't sure. Just in case, he wanted to move a few days worth inside, closer to the fireplace, in addition to overfilling the troughs, whatever he could do to make it easiest on the girls.

He dreaded going, but arguing with George was pointless, readying the horses and gear seemed best. Dana was still asleep, long after they had left.

The last glimpse of the house was easily an hour ago, when Derik stopped his horse, then dismounted.

"The hell you stop for?"

"We've gone far enough—"

"You get back on that damn horse, we ain't caught nothing yet."

"Not 'til we get beyond this."

George thumped down, fist at his side.

"I'll go, after we talk this out."

"Talk! We ain't got nothing to talk—"

"We've been off to the wrong foot since—"

George stepped closer, "You ain't gonna be on any feet if you don't get back up on that damn horse right now!"

Derik stepped back, "Mr. Findick, sir, I have no problem with you, all I want to do is get to warmer weather, then leave. That's it."

"Then you best be keeping that crip of yours from putting ideas in my Ellie's head, she ain't got no extra for that nonsense."

"She's just trying to help—"

"She ain't helping nothing!"

"You'll spend thirty pigs on a scam—"

George stomped closer, "You mind your own, boy."

"But you won't spend a few months making it easier—"

"Boy!"

He was within swinging range now, but Derik had made his point. "Dana gave her needed advice. No pigs, no deals, nothing in exchange. I don't want to know anything about you two, I don't really care, truth be said. You want to believe none of it's your fault." He dodged the swing.

"You keep that bitch in line, or I will."

"Thing is, Mr. Findick, she's not out of line."

"She's a damn—"

"Don't you say it!"

"She's a damn pain in the ass!"

Derik fell to the ground.

"Isn't she?"

He pulled open his scarf, writhing, gasping, packing handfuls of snow on his neck.

"Isn't she! Well, speak up! I guess she's a damn pain in the neck for you too... "

He woke, stomach down, slung across the saddle, arms dangling one side, legs the other, swaying with every hoofed step. Head pounding, flushed with blood. Dizzy. One of his gloves must have fallen off. He cinched up the other, no telling if he'd ever get it replaced.

Sitting in the saddle didn't help with his head. His joints still ached, sore, hard to balance on the moving horse. George had the reins.

Derik just rode, patiently, waiting for his head to clear before he coaxed the horse to trot side by side, then took the reins back.

The girls had chatted in the barn most of the morning; she liked spending time with Ellie. They had almost recovered from the laughter after one of the piglets, upon investigating a bowl, had overturned it, then, wearing it like a turtle shell, started blindly slamming into everything in a high-pitched muffled squeal, straight for it's mom, wedging under one of the rungs of the cage.

Probably a once in a lifetime event.

The sight of any bowl still brought about a snicker.

From the silent lull, Ellie turned a little more serious. "What's... What would it do, to you?" she asked, her eyes on the bale being used as a footstool. "I guess I— Is it going to hurt, or something?"

Dana had been watching the too curious piglet, now permanently cleaved to its mother, "I don't know for sure. Sometimes it does."

"I... it ain't right for me to ask, then."

"Derik's fond of reminding me, I'm not the woman I was. A year ago, it would have been easy. I can't do that much for you now."

Ellie twisted her heel into the bale.

"But I don't think I have to, to help you. I'm a lot— back there, it was something else. I, was someone else. They, they were doing to people, what George would have problems doing to pigs. It's not the same. Remember when you asked Derik about that word he couldn't say?"

"I didn't mean nothing by it. I just thought it best to know, so it wouldn't accidentally come out. Honest."

"It's pain. They teach it to the snakes so anyone at any time can bring a room full of prisoners to their knees. It's not like telling a lie, say it enough and it'll kill, but that's not the point. When I touch him, it stops choking him. That doesn't hurt me, when I do that. It's subtle. I help it make a better choice. I think I can help her, make the best of that first, enormous choice. Years from now, maybe I could guarantee you something, but now, that's the best I can do."

"It ain't going to hurt you none?"

Dana nodded, "I can't offer that kind of help anymore. Besides, I don't have room for another scar."

"George, he wants a son."

"A girl has a better chance." She rubbed her foot against Ellie's idle one, "I can't promise a child, let alone tell you boy or girl, for sure. But, it'll probably be a girl." When Ellie met her eyes, "I think a daughter suits you better."

Ellie turned a sniffle into a smile.

Dana changed the subject to something else.

He trotted his horse even with George, "Hold up for a second, Mr. Findick."

"We ain't got time for more of them girly chatterings of yours," George said, but he did stop.

"Let's just agree to get what we can and hurry back before it gets cold. I don't want to take the chance of getting one of the horses sick," he thrust out his hand, "ok?"

George shook out of reflex.

Derik pointed quickly, "I got a glimpse of something over there."

It turned out to be a lucky two. One had the biggest antlers he had seen, big enough to cradle him like a chair.

It was a little gruesome to witness the glee of George and his new trophy head.

Even gutted, these were too massive to drape over the hind of a horse. They chopped down saplings and suitable branches so they could drag them home, stretcher style. That consumed a lot of precious daylight. Even so, George was giddy with the ease of how the horses pulled such a load, bringing memories of all those he had let go because they had been too big, or too many miles away from home. Hunting was a necessity, now it had the possibility to become a sport, his best hunt in years.

It was barely dusk by the time they saw the lights of the house. The smell of dinner was still in the air. A pie, sweet, fruity.

Derik took care of the horses, then prepped and hung the meat while George took the trophy straight to the house.

He stoked the fire, then lifted the lid off the plate. Cherry. He checked the simmering pot, stew. He sat down to the plate, the pie was perfect. Flaky, crumbling crust, the folds of thick crisps baked on top were perfect for dipping and mopping the spilling filling. It tasted almost too good with each, progressively bigger bite.

It was the largest slice he had had in years, a whole pie would not be enough!

With his hurried last bite, he was starving for more, but all that was left was stew. As good as Ellie cooks, the best stew could only be an insult to a tongue begging for more cherry.

He washed up then headed to bed.

She wasn't there.

He found her on the bales stacked as a couch, lying on her side, back pressed hard against the straw.

Exhausted, he could use a night to himself, stretched out on the bed instead of that crowded little couch. He had a perfect excuse, he didn't want to wake her.

He touched her wrist, both slid tight, under her chin. He sat down, a hand on her knee and it too slid out of his away. He stretched out with barely enough room, one shoulder and half a hip hung over the couch's edge, but she was already leaning onto him.

He adjusted the blanket, best he could.

He had forgotten to brush his teeth and was now savoring a sliver of cherry skin sucked from between molars. That made him more hungry. He found a flake of crust on his shirt. Eyes closed, he tried to sleep. Her hand slid across his chest, thumb and a finger caught in his collar.

He closed his eyes again.

His nose tickled while her hand slid past his neck, then rested on his cheek. He couldn't see for the hair covering his face. He stroked her long strands until they dangled from only one side of her head. Her nose was just a breath above his. She was too close for his eyes to focus, but her eyes were clearly closed on the edge of a dream.

Her weight shifted atop him, her knee slid between his. His foot fell on the floor as his hand on her shoulder kept them from tumbling to the ground. He was wide awake and on the verge of falling off; he thought of trying to awaken—

Her lips touched his, teased to a kiss of just his lower lip. She hovered just a breath above him, a tickling tease of lip brushing past lip as her press turned kiss again. Again. Then again, pausing longer between, until the lightest, the last, an eyelash could not have weighed less as it pressed him into the couch. Her eyes never opened as her cheek caress his in passing, coming to a nuzzling rest, her nose on his neck, her chin a word away from his shoulder.

He struggled to hold his balance as she nestled closer. He let go of her shoulder long enough to reposition the footstool bale to catch all of him that was falling off. Awkward, uncomfortable.

Proudly endured.

He hadn't slept a wink, just closed his eyes, stillness, and rest. He couldn't turn his head without bumping into hers. Limited to the one side or to stare at the rafters, he preferred it when she lay a little lower so he could look around. That was his fault this time, dictated by how he sat down.

Her nose brushed the serpent. It relaxed immediately, inching its curls out of her way, but it didn't seem to be enough. Her hand moved over it as he felt the fangs loosen in his neck. He quickly guided her hand away, another reason not to sleep. It was easy to take off, even willing under her touch, but it would still kill him. He couldn't be saved from poison, by removing the antidote.

He held that hand.

The fire had died down to coals as her lashes blinked against his chin.

She pushed her face away from his neck, "I hate that damn thing."

"Hate's a pretty strong word." He could finally turn his head.

"I don't hate you," she said, first smile of the morning.

"You saying you love me?"

She kissed him instead.

He slid off the couch to a late start with chores; he had a double load of carving to do. He chased the pigs away from drinking the pool of drained blood. That sight was sure to ruin any appetite he had for breakfast. Perhaps even lunch.

He had carved most of one by the time he noticed Dana was sitting behind him.

He stopped, "Something wrong?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I just didn't want to be alone right now. Am I bugging you?"

"No, I just can't imagine this being all that interesting." He returned to carving.

"Maybe, I just like being near you."

He stopped, but didn't turn around.

"... Sometimes... Often, perhaps."

He smiled, carving again.

"You're very good to me, good for me. I didn't want you to think, it had gone unnoticed."

He packaged the armful of cuts, toted them out to the icebox, then covered it with shovels of fresh snow. She was still sitting there when he returned. He hung the next section so his back wouldn't be so rudely facing her.

It was nice to have the company, even if they said few words.

He packed the last shoveled layer of snow, then tamped it down with the back of the wooden blade. He was done with it, just some clean up inside, but he paused with his hand on the lid. He could hear their childhood fights, most centered on the constant clutter he kept their room, yet, not a single word about the barn. They were so far removed from those arguing two, playing grownup today. He lowered the lid.

She was standing by the door, and simply stepped into his arms. Much had changed since then.

They ate lunch by the fire, sitting side by side, a steady lean into him as they spooned from the same bowl. It seemed to taste better the longer it had to simmer, this Ellie's finest yet.

The high from George's glorious hunt kept him out of the barn for days. It was nice, actually. They did nothing different, but it was a pleasant break all the same. He had started to notice that the pigs got very agitated whenever George was around. The sound of his voice had a similar effect.

It spoke well of the intelligence of pigs.

**B5.C8**

"I counted back the days, like you showed me," Ellie said while the girls talked in the barn. "We, just an hour or so ago."

Dana crossed the floor to sit beside her on the couch.

"It ain't gonna hurt you none, is it?"

No.

Ellie inched away.

Dana smiled, "I have to touch you."

She closed her eyes, resigned to it. She remembered the hours of probing, testing, and touching she endured with the doctors in town. She instantly tensed when Dana's fingers moved below and to the right of her navel. She braced herself with a deep breath, and heard Dana take one as well. It felt strange, different. No tingling, no burning, no discomfort at all. Calm. She released the frightened breath she didn't need anymore.

Dana's hand felt— she touched to make sure it wasn't her own. Natural, indistinguishable except for the scar.

"Sorry," Dana said, "I didn't mean to leave it on that long."

"That it?"

She leaned back, "No promises, but I think so. Really not much wrong with you, Ellie. A good beginning is a great place to start, but it's just the start. It doesn't determine the end. You take it easy, let Derik help you, don't let George stress you."

"I remember."

She smiled, then hugged Ellie before she left, not at all convinced but desperate for any chance. It would have been effortless to have traded that tiny moment for almost anything Ellie owned, then blamed any outcome on some failing of hers, as so many had done before.

Dana waited alone in the barn for Derik to return. Ellie's delivery smelled wonderful, but she preferred to eat dinner with him. She was preferring that a lot, lately.

He picked the little piglet off her sleeping lap, "You've got another fan."

"I didn't notice, must have climbed up out of curiosity."

The piglet didn't wander far when returned to the ground, it milled then curled to a spot, closest to her. He helped her sit, then prepared two plates. Fresh venison in Ellie's hands melted into juicy flakes, a perfect mix with vegetables.

"You still having tired spells?" He said, scraping their leftovers into the soup pot.

"Sometimes." She tapped the seat beside her, but the piglet leapt to it first. She rubbed it on the top of its head then under its chin before pointing, "Down."

A snout's best frown and a wagging curly tail tried to change her mind before it did two sad circles then hopped to the ground.

"I want to hear about your day," she said when he sat.

"Oh, it's boring." He put his arm around her, "Just the same, hauling, moving, stuff and things."

She rested her head on his shoulder, "Tell me."

He did, as she slipped to sleep, extra tired that day.

Piglet never left her feet.

"Well maybe you wouldn't be sick all the time if you fried up a real meal like I tell you, instead of all this damned, slow cooked, babyfood crap!" George said, following Ellie into the bathroom where she was midway through doing wash.

She rubbed another fistful of pants against the scrub-board.

"It getting so a man can't even get something to sink his damn teeth into around here. I mean really, I go out and kill the damn thing, least you would think you could do is—"

It splashed back into the tub when she stood and headed for the door.

"The hell you think you're going!"

She stopped, her forehead even with his arm, blocking her way.

"Huh, you ain't done yet."

She ducked it.

"Damn it, Ellie, you ain't finished yet."

She turned in the living room, headed for the door.

He ran after her, kicked the door closed, then shoved her to the side. "Them words you said don't mean a damn now, do they?"

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, then reached for the door.

He shoved harder this time.

She sat on the floor where she fell, hands on her knees. "You want to kick on me some while I'm here? Think that'll help things along?" She didn't look up, scared to say any more or he might oblige.

"Damned fool head of—"

"I can't take this, Honey, I can't. This worse than any sick in the morning." She looked up at him, "You make me cry, when it's a smile I want to wear."

"God damn it—"

"Lord's name ain't for using like—"

She flinched when his punch jarred the door.

George screamed and yelled as he stomped back and forth down the hall, 'bitch' this and 'damn' that, nonsense mostly. Derik just wadded the next article of clothes, rubbed, rinsed, then twice through the wringer before a trip to the fireplace clothesline. He had never done another man's clothes, a little gross to think about sometimes. Ellie's he didn't mind so much, just scrubbed with extra care; hers were far more delicate, thin, and sheer. He had washed Dana's many times, he just pretended this was one, surrounded with cusswords.

With every angry phrase he ignored, he thought of Ellie taking each to heart, adding to those red cheeks and puffy eyes he opened the barn door to, just minutes ago. Neither of the girls had asked him to go, he just found himself here, washing the rest of her clothes. No doubt he should start thinking about what to cook for dinner, most likely that was his next volunteered chore.

That first month Ellie dropped by two or three times a day. Derik found himself doing any number of thankless tasks. No, not thankless, just not thanked by George. By the time Ellie started to show, even just a little, George had calmed way down. It had finally sunk in that she had a real chance now, this, the closest she had ever come.

She hadn't the need to come out anymore.

They had been making their own stew in the barn. George may be doing more for her, but there was a limit to who he would do for.

Spring and the inevitable end of their stay was perhaps a month or so away.

Dana walked into his arms, clean and pressed, beautiful dress, "I think I owe you a dance," she said.

He didn't argue.

No band, no music, but they kept perfect step to the crackle of the fireplace. Her knee and foot seemed fine today. Not perfect, but he no longer had to hold her as though at any minute she might fall down. It had been weeks since her last misstep. They would be ready when the weather broke. He closed his eyes, held her tight, and focused on the rhythmic steps. One, two, three, four. The chair, table, and couch were all gone, long eaten to clear the room for this song. One, two, three, four.

Feet falling, stepping in time, her breath on his shoulder matched each he breathed. Her hand rested on the back of his neck.

It loosened. A warmth flushed his blood, lightheaded a little. He tried to tell her no, but she kissed his silence instead. It let go. He pressed his scarf to her bloody neck.

He caught her stagger when she went limp, tossing the lifeless snake into the fire.

He fought fainting himself.

Fatal didn't mean the same thing to her.

"Morning you two," Ellie said, fresh baked walnut-pie in hand, "I finally got past that wake-up-queasy and thought we could celebrate." She looked at the blanketed Dana on the last stack of hay, "She not feeling so good?"

He took the warm plate. "A bit of a relapse, I'm afraid," he said, "I'm not feeling too great myself."

"How long, Honey?"

"A few days now. Just keep her warm. As good as that smells, I promise I'll wait 'til she wakes. I know she'd love a slice or two."

"Longest I've ever been— things start changing I didn't expect to. I— stuff is sore what never was, having to pee every time I stand up." She covered her mouth, "Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"That's all right."

"No, I— you don't wanta hear nothing about that kinda stuff. I don't know why I said it."

"It's all right, no harm done. I'll be sure to tell her over some delicious pie."

She looked at Dana, "You take care of her, ok?"

"Don't worry. I've got a long life planned with her."

The little piglet seldom left her feet longer than it took to nurse. It would wake every hour or so, stand on its hind hoofs, wag its little tail and try to get some response from behind her closed eyes. It seldom worked; often he would lift the piglet to his lap, then pet it like a hairless puppy. He found it quite comforting, in a weird way.

She would get better.

She would.

He lightly rubbed a knuckle into the spot behind its ear. Odd it would love that so.

Smudges wouldn't leave her either.

He worried about her too, even though he knew better.

The hummingbirds had moved their nest to right above her. It was tiny, but that only made sense. It looked like they used webs to hold it together, but he dare not get close enough to be sure. They buzzed his head like stinger-heavy bees, sounding more insect than bird. It did give him an opportunity to study the colorful feathers, quite a departure from dull turkeys or chickens.

The snow had melted, except what was packed in the icebox on the shady side of the barn. It wasn't warm yet, still a few weeks until spring, but winter's coldest blows were safely behind them.

He had stitched the waterproofed blankets into a tent, crude, but workable. All their needed things were packed into saddlebags. They were as prepped as possible, just awaiting the right day.

He was going to miss this place. It was more like a home right now. Piglet was too big and heavy for his lap, but it still wanted up, would rub the side of its snout on his thigh until he scratched a knuckle behind its ear. He would miss this one most of all. Sad, what fate would bring it.

Those first few weeks and months had only shown in Ellie's attitude, a little in her eyes and rounder, fuller cheeks. Now it was obvious to any and every one who saw. George resented his new role, but it appealed to the cheapest side of his nature. Having a child vastly increased her value, not only to him, but bragging rights in town. So few could.

The longer she went without a miscarriage, the prouder he became in his accomplishment, and the more he was willing to do. He still yelled, they could hear it from the barn, but he stopped at her first minute of tears.

Tears had been the proof of a lecture sinking in, an admission of her shortcomings or wrongdoing. It had become a sign of failure now. That was a huge change in this little a span of time. She may yet go full term.

Pity he had less incentive for change with the pigs.

Ellie came out to visit, seldom to hide. What a pleasant change that made. She and Dana discussed the changes she was experiencing, and those that might yet come. Dana was not a doctor, but she may have more knowledge than most in town. Helpful knowledge, even a little, was more powerful than superstitious wives-tales.

Ellie always insisted on pressing his hand to her stomach in an attempt to feel it move or kick. He never felt it, but always said he did.

She radiated happy.

"I want you two to stay, at least 'til my child is born," Ellie said.

"Thank you," Dana said, "but we'll need an early start if we're going to make another winter out here. Clear land, build shelter, all that. It's a lot for Derik to have to do."

"Thanks, Honey," Derik said.

She had added that last part to see how well he was listening. "Don't worry, Ellie," she said, "you can handle this on your own. The easier you are on yourself, the easier this will be for you. It will."

"You two, you stay, as long as you like, ok? Don't let George tell you something what isn't so."

Derik thawed another deer steak by the outside barbecue while half a hundred growing piglets fought for sprouts of grass and rolls in the dirt. The warm sun felt so good between flips and seasonings. When Ellie first suggested this farewell cookout, well, it just didn't seem right to cook up a pig. Deer didn't taste the same though.

Flip, season, thaw.

Dana sat on the bench beside their packed bag of supplies. Her biggest fan would run up, oink with a tail that wagged his whole back half, begging for her to come play. He'd give up soon, unable to understand why she wouldn't have fun in the mud too.

So big, so fast.

Flip, season, stir.

A pleasant meal under a cloudless sky, it certainly was pretty out here. Leaves were starting to bud, woods blotching with hints of green, bugs not yet out in full. The girls chatted most of the meal, George kept oddly silent throughout.

The girls hugged, one last time, while he shook George's hand.

"I've got one last deal to make, sir," Derik said.

George held his tongue.

"We'll trade Ellie Smudges for an assortment of seeds, and one of your bows."

George was too angry to hold it in, "You'll trade who!"

Dana looked at Ellie, "You take care of him, go see your sisters some."

"Of course," she said, "thank you."

George pointed at the girls. "Now you two just wait a damn minute!"

"Honey now, you can spare one," Ellie said to her husband as he stormed to the house, "You two help yourselves."

Derik went to gather some seeds from the barn while Dana rubbed Smudges on the patch between his eyes, then scratched him under the chin, "You'll look after her for me, won't you?"

Smudges shook no, scratching the ground.

"Won't you?"

A reluctant yes.

Ellie waved them bye as they walked into the woods.

**B5.C9**

It was a cross between a hobo-sack and the horse-drawn stretcher, scaled down to people size. The two poles met on his padded shoulder, a strap held in his hand. They had too much stuff to simply bag and haul; a backpack was out, the thick blankets stitched into a tent alone was too heavy to carry. This felt no worse than her lean; balanced properly he could drag it all day, but there was no need to. Dana couldn't walk that long, an hour or two at most.

Leaving Smudges was a tough decision. Had they kept him, he most likely would have starved in a month or two. He ate a lot. No, it was the right choice, trading him to the Findicks. But for those two hours of hauling, boy, Smudges would have sure come in handy.

Derik slid it off his shoulder. "This looks like a good spot," he said.

"Ok." She leaned her back into a tree while untying the brace on her knee. It made her walk a little stiff, but manageable.

"I'll, gather some stuff for a fire."

"Ok."

He should have bartered for one of George's hatchets too, the one he had was pathetic. It worked well for a broken block lashed to a stick, but a finely honed chopping tool it was not. He used it sparingly. Most of his firewood gathering involved a good club and a few swings on dead, lower branches. By the time he returned, she had the tent up and a little smoldering going.

She fed a few sticks into the fire. "Where do you plan on taking me?" she asked.

"Well, when we were up on top of that mountain, Nyin—" he stopped, she looked angry at the sound of that man's name. "There's this perfect spot I saw, a pond, a creek, hidden from view. Sunny side of the mountain, I thought we'd give it a try. I figure, most of this valley stuff's got a lot of people and all. Secluded best suits you, I think."

She added another stick.

He picked up the bow.

"We have plenty jerky," she tapped the blanket beside her.

He put the bow back.

"Relax a little. You've earned it." They lay back on the blanket, staring up at the sky, "He was insane, remember."

"He could be a little mean sometimes, too."

She laughed at that, but it wasn't really funny.

That night was blanket weather, but far from fatal. The way they figured it, it was better to take a month of chilly mornings and get there in time to plant something, than arrive outside of planting season. It would be a gamble either way.

It felt wrong not to be doing something. Chores, filling troughs and buckets, hauling wood or, just something, he felt incredibly lazy just sitting around.

He wondered how Ellie was doing, he actually wanted to know.

He was missing her a bit.

He tucked the blanket a little tighter, shaping the edge so it covered her ear, top of her head. No wolves tonight. He tried to get some sleep.

They walked along the valley for a few days. It was longer, but easier traveling before turning to start the climb. It wasn't steep, just difficult if you had a bad foot and a healing knee. They went up in a zigzag fashion, not fast, but not too hard either. His aim with an arrow was not especially good, but two rabbits that first week was proficient enough. She could chew, but she had problems with jerky, the hardest of any food. Good thing he was experienced in the art of ember-bags and slow cooking.

It had been a while since they had talked about anything worth remembering, just when and where to stop. It was still nice, all the same. She was well enough to walk around and handle things in the barn, but she wasn't really ready for this. The luck of timing had never favored them. A few more months of rest would have made a lot of difference; it also would have come dangerously close to forbidding any garden wherever they finally stopped.

Climbing hills was hardest still. Walking at an angle all day was painful on his ankles and knees, he could only imagine about hers. Her arm grew heavy around his shoulder, her lean only added to his efforts, but he didn't mind. He could endure it a few minutes longer.

It would rain soon.

The water rolled down the sides of the tent. Droplets penetrated his stitches. He should have done better, but those few drops didn't add up to much. They were dry, that was what mattered. The pelting was too loud to talk, even had the walk not worn her out. He, however, was used to a much more active day. Confined to a tent too small to even stand, let alone pace some of his restlessness out, he looked at her, she had no problem falling asleep, midday.

He liked her best in the dress. It brought out all her feminine qualities, quite a bit more feminine than he had first thought. Odd, that clothes would make such a change. How much more masculine could decent clothes make him?

Her underwear was with his, getting rinsed on the tent guidelines beside the extra pairs of socks Ellie snuck them. Not new, but not likely to ever be missed, like that extra pair of her gloves. She had a kind heart.

Extra bra. Dana had made do with a sheer scarf that wrapped around, across, then somehow wound and laced in the back, far more complex than a bow-tie. It required adjusting every few hours, but it too was being rinsed. She was without now, just and only the dress.

Midday rain left plenty of light outside, and within. He stared at her sleeping, the dress couldn't hide shape or form. So much else his eyes wanted to drift across, but it was her arm that held him. Thin little lines, faint as scratches, a freckle caught in one had healed off-center. His fingers had dug deep into that line, the same his fingers could no longer feel. Her eyes opened briefly while his fingers traced the fading scars.

Walking was so very hard on her.

The rain would let up by tonight, but this was all their traveling for today. Despite how bad it hurt, he forced himself to lie down beside her. If he couldn't sleep like her, the least he could do was hold still so she could.

The grade started getting steeper while new green leaves reduced visibility. Without taking a single day off, her foot was plaguing her more. Their walks lasted only ten or twenty minutes, a dozen or so times a day, whenever she was ready.

The pack he dragged tended to try to topple him backwards on random unsure steps.

A band of dogs had started following them, but kept its distance. Probably too few to pose a mortal threat, but it remained a point of concern. It turned every sound outside the tent suspicious, forcing him to remain ever vigilant. He kept the bow strung and within easy reach at all times.

He missed the serpent a bit, often scratching its absence. But its constant echo in his ears was what he missed the most. It felt so lonely inside his head without the very noise that once annoyed him so. He wanted to hate it as much as she had, but he had grown to rely on it far too much. For his talent to be useful, he had to have someone to read. Anyone. And the serpent had proven very convenient.

The tent was up, fire going, and with all she planned to do today accomplished, she was sound asleep. If he still had the serpent, he could simply sleep in a position such that it could not, then wake on the crashing sound. He could read Dana the same way, except it was rendered useless because she would sleep through the noise, only noticing something had ripped through their stuff by morning. Now, if he had some way to keep her awake and alert, it would be different. Instead, he had the duty of staying up, bow and arrow in hand with a constant eye on the gear, bored out of his mind for hours to come.

There. That was, something. Shadowy. A dab of white. A raccoon. He had missed its approach completely, but there it was, circling the gear, testing flaps and folds for a way in. It was— The damn thing was chewing a hole! How irritating. It would gnaw on the blind side every few seconds, then scratch and gnaw some more. If he chased it off, it would only come back; it could smell the easy meal. No, he would have to bite his lip and wait for it to give him the shot.

The arrow didn't miss this close, sweeping it into the brush.

He waited a good five minutes to be sure it was dead while he checked the damage to his bags. Foamy wet scratches, punctures, and holes, those teeth must be extremely sharp. It clearly understood the ties were the key to opening the bags, but had somehow twisted the easy bows into monstrous knots. It would take full daylight to untie them, if they didn't have to be cut off, frustrating him after a minute as well. He stoked the fire back enough for a nice torch to help find it in the brush. No sense letting it go to waste, it was easily ten pounds of fresh meat and he hoped to get his arrow back.

It was dead and didn't flinch when touched with the torch. Still, he carried it by grabbing the arrow. As much dressing, carving, and cutting as he had done recently, he would have thought he was beyond this squeamish stuff.

He was wrong. It was closer to twenty pounds, and mostly muscle. The hands were a little too people like and gave him the shivers. It was not soft like a bunny.

When he was a child, he had never seen mountains and had always assumed them to be these massive, straight up, impassable things. They weren't. They came in all kinds and flavors with only height in common. Even that drastically changed from one to another. He was no expert by any imagination, but he had seen them go from sheer to level for acres. Some were covered in grass, shrubs, and trees as thick as any forest, to nothing but sliding rocks as far as could be seen. This one had started with a steep base, but after less than a week, it had leveled off to a pleasant grade with lots of trees and shrubs and vast pockets of open grass, prime ground for rabbits and squirrels. He hoped to run across the stream today. He knew he would if they could get off to a good start. And that meant waking her.

Her hands were loose fists under her chin; he started with kissing one of them. She stirred to gesture as if to swat a fly away. He kissed her cheek next, light as he could, a tickle was what he was trying for.

She flicked her fingers. "You think you're cute, don't ya?" she said, pushing his face away with her open hand.

"I don't have to answer that."

She squinted.

"Come on, get up. We're about out of water, and today's going to get hot."

"We still have some soup, right?"

"For breakfast?"

She nudged him, "It's got water in it, silly."

"I, was counting that."

"Yeah, sure you were."

He kissed her, "Get up, please."

She did.

They drank the last of the water by the time they arrived at the end of the creek. It wasn't so much an active creek, more a rainy runoff sort of thing. A ditch, cut by occasional rapid flows, ended at this damp dip. Wet and muddy, it was an easy, but messy, dig down of about a foot. Every twenty minutes or so it seeped full of reddish water, unfit to drink.

It would take more than boiling to make this palatable, but boiling was a good place to start. He started on the fire.

Dana twisted one of the arrow tips into the center of their smallest wooden bowl, drilling a trickle-sized hole. When big embers glowed almost white, she tonged them out, drizzled them until cool, then crushed them into the bottom inch of the bowl, topped with a torn square of cloth, sand, and pebbles.

They took turns scooping water from the hole, dropping heated stones into it until it had boiled long and hard, then pouring it into the makeshift filtering bowl. The first few cups got filtered again and again until no black flakes floated in them.

A slow process reaching well into that night, but at its end they had refilled all the water-bags. When it cooled, it tasted pretty good. A little crisp actually, pity it would take on the flavor of the bags, which was like drinking from a glove.

By the end of the week, they had followed the ditch through dense undergrowth to his promised pond, hidden on the side of a mountain. It was beautiful, complete with a little island big enough for three trees and a mossy carpet. The ditch seemed to only handle the overflow from the pond, just a trickle right now.

Dana appeared pleased, "I think I saw some fish."

He touched her hand, "Plenty. Turtles too, and even some crawfish."

Overgrown by the centuries, they started taking down the choke of saplings up hill from the pond, opening it up some. Before night, they made a good survey of the land with a slow lap around the water's edge. It was big, several acres in size, and more than one point for runoffs. Had they missed the first, they might have seen this second or third. The pond was fed from further up the mountain. It looked to be a constant source, but only ankle deep and a casual step across, on average. Just a trickle. It would have to be explored some other day, right now, the pond was their source of ready food.

He never minded killing and cleaning a fish. Without hands and feet, it didn't seem like a real animal to him, sort-of like it was never really alive. It could never be a pet, maybe that was it.

With what remained of this day, they gathered wood. They stacked kindling at the base of the first big tree, then packed a ring of wet mud about three feet up on its trunk. The small, controlled fire stopped at the mud, but it burned the trunk enough that he could whack the charred chunks out with a club until it eventually fell. It took much longer than chopping with a hatchet, but it was far easier to do. Besides, his brick on a stick would never make it through the first tree this size, some were several feet thick. They kept a wet blanket handy, just in case.

It took days, and the trees were too heavy to move after they fell, so they had to be dropped in a specific order. The stumps had to be burned into the ground, and never too many fires going at one time. Even this way it was quite a chore, but the constant fires were sure to keep any undesirables away. Fortunately, fishing was so very easy with her arrow shaped design of sticks driven an easy wading distance out. It made a fish maze of sorts that almost always managed to trap one or two a day. It didn't trap so much as confuse and confine, making them easy to spear.

As the trees cleared, they were able to rake enough rich soil from around the trees to plant a nursery in. They had to get the seeds sprouting before they even got the land cleared, but they had to keep them safe from squirrels and curious raccoons too. With luck, they could start transplanting their first official garden before the nursery started getting overcrowded. They had a lot of work to do.

Dana may not have been much help with all this action intensive stuff, but she had an inspirational mind that saved him all sorts of time. While he had been clearing the trees ever further from the pond, she had fashioned a stove from red clay and straw. She even kept a low fire burning in it for days. Now that it was dry, she inched the heat up, stoking it ever hotter until it glowed red, almost uniform orange all night, then let it cool the next day.

It wasn't perfect, he could see a few cracked flaws, but it would do.

She reached inside with his scarf and pulled out a hot, pie-slice shaped brick, then another. Twenty-four, all count.

"What are they for?" It was killing him to know.

She just smiled, cleaning the ashes out of the hole in the thickest end. "How about now?"

"Hatchets?"

She cleaned out another one. "They're still hot, but I thought we could give it a try. It won't hurt anything if it doesn't work. Got a mountain of this clay."

It had to work at least as well as what he had been using. He searched for some handles.

She had put right much thought into them. They felt like super solid bricks. The blade had obviously been sharpened between dried and fired, nearly skinning sharp already. The hole was slightly tapered with some rather aggressive grooves inside to bite into the handle. For him, all he had to do was slide it down the stick until it stopped, tamp it a couple of times to make sure it was snug, then trim the ends to size.

He broke the first two just getting the hang of it. There was an art to using one. Swinging it too hard, forcing or twisting it would crack it. But, if he let it do all the work, almost letting go the moment before it hit the wood, then it worked just as good as the finest hatchet he had ever seen, and she could make dozens like baking a cake.

Well, maybe not that easy, but the stove did conveniently double as a kiln.

Pots, pans, bowls, plates, and mugs were next, even reaching temperatures hot enough to glaze. They weren't perfectly round, more rounded off squares, but they opened a whole new realm of cooking, and a simple, all-in-one charcoal water-filter for their drinking needs. It dripped painfully slow, but that still added up to several crisp gallons a day, a must for a pond this murky.

The next morning started with building a bonfire, big enough to burn all day. At its peak, the flames reached twenty feet high. Sun-dried bricks spaced and staggered throughout her best guesses for hotspots. It would be a few days before it cooled enough to even see if it worked.

But the more they did, the more work it seemed they had left to do, backbreaking already.

Lazy days no more.

They stared up at the light blue night sky, the end of another difficult few weeks. Most of their seeds had sprouted, several acres had been cleared of weeds, moss, and stumps burnt down. They had accomplished so much doing just a little bit every day.

"Is it pretty enough for you?" He said, waist down inside the tent.

"It's pretty."

"Marry me."

She suppressed a laugh, "I think I was promised a little more than a tent. A tub comes to mind."

"I never promised you that."

She looked his way. "I never said yes."

He kissed her as if she had, holding hands, staring at their sky.

She touched his chin with her lips, "It's a fine beginning."

He was careful when he squeezed her hand, more of just a firmer hold.

"Not in a tent," she quietly said.

It was his turn to hold back a laugh.

The cold mornings were gone for good now, cool would be the worst of it. As big a day as they just had, tomorrow promised more. He kissed the back of her hand as he stared up at the sky. He looked forward to it, with her.

The trees were far too heavy to use for a log cabin; besides, any and all the lifting, he would have to do, and he couldn't budge half of them. That limited their options. A house like the Findick's was out, but they would have to build some sort of shelter to survive winter, and hadn't even started on it yet. They had several months, but weeks seemed to be going by fast, consumed entirely with the garden. And they would need clothes too. The more he thought, the bigger his list of wants and needs grew. Sure, they had the makings of a fledgling garden, but they had no place to keep any produce. After lots of painful labor, it was looking like they hadn't gotten anything done.

Soon, he was too tired to worry any more. He simply followed her plan and hoped it would somehow work out.

The trees had fallen in a splendid pattern. They spent the next few days trimming limbs and burning the trunks into ten-foot logs. They were still too heavy to lift, but not too heavy to roll when pried with poles. Quite a workout, but the field was finally cleared and ready for the remaining transplants, perimeter lined with the logs. Rabbits and squirrels, among others, could still get in, but the obstacles tended to herd them into special openings with easily made deadfalls. No arrows, no misses, and what promised to be a pleasant change from a diet of fish.

Almost everything they transplanted seemed to thrive.

With the last transplant taking, they decided to set this day aside, resting for much of it. But idle seemed to suit neither. By noon just looking at the pond wasn't enough, they had to at least walk around. It was slow with her knee braced and her foot a little sore, but they nonetheless explored. Wild blackberries were choking under some trees. They clipped most of the thorny vines and dragged them back to the garden. He was about to learn that not all plants need come from seeds. She showed him how to chop small segments that were easily pushed into the dirt along the lines of logs.

He watched as she sat straddled on one of the logs with a twisted pile of vines that she slowly trimmed to size. He did all the walking, knee bending, and planting while she did the easier cutting and prepping. The little stuff added up and made his planting go much faster. Every ten cuts or so, she would put the hatchet down, rest and rub her hand, then pick it up again.

Easy was a relative term.

By that evening she wanted one more walk around. They ended up at a milkweed patch. It was small, twenty or thirty shoots at most, but they dug them all up. Back at the camp she worked with firelight, rinsing dirt from each root, then plucked and planted each hair in her nursery of starter soil. It was killing him not to ask, why such trouble over a weed.

With hatchets still in mind, he didn't ask.

So much for the planned day off. They did more transplanting today than any other. And today was all weeds.

Maybe tomorrow.

He checked the deadfalls every morning. Nothing, every time. But nothing nibbled from the garden either. Then again, most weren't even ankle high yet. He woke early to do all the weeding as well, trying to finish before the sun rose above the trees. He had literally been burned by that mistake once before.

Still no real shelter yet, but they were making steady progress. The trunks he could handle were, at most, a foot wide. He had collected right many, but it was becoming clear that they would never have enough this year to make a real home. They decided on a compromise, a mini log house, about twelve by twelve. It was reminiscent of the room they once shared as children. That small he could handle lifting and setting the pieces by himself. Additionally, it would require a fraction of the wood, achievable within a season. They may even have enough for a raised floor.

Dana proved quite skilled at making tools from red clay, hard as bricks, sharp as blades. He would thin the woods, wrestling five to ten trimmed trees downhill a day, to find her carving away on another log. Each she finished was perfectly matched, each he laid and locked into place with a thin layer of moss mortaring them together. They were still weeks away from a roof and a floor, but a steady step each day.

Wompf!

He grabbed the bow and ran to the garden. A rabbit was crushed, half out the opening. It could have jumped over, easily perhaps, but it didn't know any better. At last something other than fish. He stoked an ember, middle of the night.

The advantage to deadfalls and snares was the pelt remained perfect. This one had lost all of its winter hair and had grown new spring colors. With no awkward holes where the arrow struck, it could be carved solely and only as he chose. Perfect. He had his old winter coveralls but lacked winter shoes and not a thing for her. He regretted discarding the raccoon's.

As it fried in the pan, he couldn't believe how much he actually missed vegetables; this strictly meat and fish diet wasn't what he had in mind as variety. A garden would take months and its first yield wouldn't be great; plus, a large portion would have to go to seed for next year.

Still, he was starved for veggies.

As morning rose above the trees, he was better able to see into the garden. Several leaves had been sampled, one root had been dug, half eaten. It was nothing serious, but day after day of this kind of damage could quickly add up. He inspected the traps, testing each by setting them off. One in the back, near the middle, closest to the trees, was a little stiff. He whittled on it. Better, but he suspected a squirrel coming over the logs.

He carried a hatchet into the woods and chopped armfuls of three-foot branches. He figured that he could arrange them loosely on the logs in such a way so that any critter leaping onto or trying to travel on the top of the log would slip, trip, or fall and get discouraged. It was a simple solution. He hoped it would work. It was a convenient place to keep kindling, if nothing else.

By the time he was done, Dana was up. He liked to let her sleep late.

"It'll help," she said.

"Couldn't hurt."

"I swept the floor yesterday. The crack is getting worse."

"It's, uh... Ok, I'm not sure what you mean."

"I guess the bonfire wasn't hot enough, or the clay didn't heat evenly—"

They walked over to take a look. The log house was built on the hardened ground under the daylong bonfire. The pile of fired bricks and garden stones made the first row under the walls to keep the bottom logs from touching the ground. The sides were stacked to about four feet with openings for a door and two windows. An earth fireplace was opposite the door.

"See here," she pointed to the crack with her toes. "It could be nothing, just normal settling, but it could also mean it's too much weight."

He knew nothing about building anything, it didn't seem like there was anything that could be done about it. She was clearly upset, but, "I uh... " He was lost, what did she expect him to say? He was following her on all this, it was doubtful he could design a lean-to that could slow a drizzle. The tent was proof enough of that.

She grabbed his hand, short-cutting the conversation when he was flooded with her future.

"It'll be fine, just another inch or two, then it stops. Just settling, I guess."

"Thank you." She swept the base with leafy branches again, checking for new cracks.

She wouldn't find any, but she often did that sort of thing. She never trusted his visions but so much. She was not Ellie. But she valued it enough to ask.

By the time the garden was knee high, they had a quasi-roof and most of a door. The traps slowly built to snagging something every night. On rare nights, it would hit two or three, even cracked open a turtle. It averaged far more than they could eat. Dehydrating rabbit-sized jerky was somewhat a pain, it hardly seemed worth it, but waste wasn't their style. They each had new moccasins, winter hats, and a stitched fur blanket.

Milkweeds had sprouted all over outside the garden. They shot up fast, some hip-high right now. It was getting harder and harder to find a path through them, but he stubbornly refused to ask her why. Just walk around, check the traps, his new morning chores.

"Breakfast," he said, handing her the plate.

She rested it on her lap, "Rabbit?"

He sat on the bench with her, outside their closet-sized cabin. A table was still in the works. "I've already had some."

She nibbled at it. She never had a big appetite in the morning. She usually limped for the first hour too. He ran his hand across her back and shoulders; she would tough it out, as usual. He felt bad for her. He would have problems eating too, if he woke with as many aches as she did. But she never complained, just nibbled along.

As bad as he felt for her, he couldn't help think of all the things needing to get done today. Chairs, bed, table, weeding, a few— He was making a list! That was so inappropriate right now. He ran his hand across her back again. "You eat it all, you'll feel better, I promise." He moved his hand so she could lean back against the house. "I'm going to go ahead and get started, ok?"

He picked up a hatchet and headed into the woods.

First on his list were pine trees. This he understood a little better. Large sections of bark had been ripped from the trunks of every nearby pine in three to four-foot bands, all the way around. Every day, or every other for some, he scraped the sap like shaving syrupy sweat, all wiped into a big ball. Collecting sap. When production seemed low, he made sure to shave a little deeper. The hatchet wasn't ideal, but it worked well enough. Sometimes, he would overlook one for days and its sap would turn whitish. It took four times as long to chisel, often flaked with splinters of wood. She wanted lots of sap, gallons. As much as he could get.

He had harvested so much that the needles on lower branches were turning brown.

She seemed indifferent to the news, sap was all that mattered to her. Pines were the weeds of the woods to her. But that still didn't explain the milkweeds.

By lunch, she looked better.

She had kept busy for the last few days on what now looked like a clothes wringer, and she insisted on finishing it before taking a break to eat. It didn't make sense; they didn't have buckets of clothes, just the dress and what they had on. It seemed hardly worth three days of her effort to him.

They ate a light salad of spinach, baby wild onions, some of a head of lettuce, a few diced radishes with chunked rabbit and crumbled jerky sprinkled like bacon. It was a delicious change of pace. By the end of the meal, the day had already turned hot. Sticky was in store for mid afternoon.

He started clipping milkweed, ripping armfuls of them out of the ground. He cleared nearly half, stacked in piles near her. She wouldn't let him clear them all, insisting on leaving those closest to the garden and those that were out of the way. But just clearing this many helped open up the field; they had gotten so thick so fast that they looked to choke the ground.

She had been processing the pile, but it was clear her hand was giving her problems again, when he offered to take over.

The crank didn't easily turn as it sucked a dozen stems, root first, through the wringer. Squished milk dripped across the rollers and collected in a pan. The green stalks broke into feet-long strands that she rinsed by the pond between pruning leaves and the mini branches.

Ripping up the weeds was easy, this was the all day part of the chore. His arm quickly tired working the crank. It was especially hard on his wrist. When they had a big enough of a pile, she clamped the ends of some staggered strands, then started weaving it into rope.

He never would have guessed that.

He grew a little more in awe of her each day.

Pottery, hatchets, filters, the cabin.

He took a break from wringing just to watch her in silence. He tried to look busy plucking idle leaves as he stared. Her clothes were just as torn and worn as his, sleeves ripped and restored, gaps knotted back, glimpses of lightly freckled skin when she moved. Just rags, but on her they looked good. She only slept in the dress.

He pondered the distinction in her well-reasoning mind. Like the milkweeds at his fingertips, she had a deeper purpose in nearly everything, just waiting to be found.

And he could easily find out, she would answer if he asked. He could read her future at the slightest touch, he could know without the embarrassment of the question, but it was best not to find out that way. 'Cheating' was how she often referred to it. He rested his wrist, rubbing it a little when his laziness might have been caught in the corner of her eye. He wondered how much vision had returned to that side.

He filled some time trimming stems before he returned to the harder work. The sun was getting hot, even in the shade, made worse by the cool water he used to wash the sticky off his hands.

He would wait to find out what the milk was being saved for. He didn't want to ruin the surprise.

The sun was high overhead and had been for hours now, with no shade to be found outside of the woods. He had run his last batch of stems through, as well as all the branches and leaves separately to get every last ounce of juice. Leaves and branches, however, left no strands of useful length.

She kept his stack of strands damp along with her woven rope, but he could tell the heat had gotten to her too. Her fingers were having trouble keeping the tucks and weaves tight; the quality of the rope was starting to suffer. Wider was looser. It could be tightened later by rolling it under a foot on the floor and tugging on one end, but the highest strength would be obtained in the original weave. It was best she stopped now. Too hot anyway.

A wade in the pond was an obvious next.

He could swim, but it wasn't deep enough to need to. In its middle it hardly covered his shoulders. Cool. Too tired to continue working, yet energized for a swim. Go figure.

His was a steady romp with a vigorous splashing about, while she just floated, relaxed on her back, drifting to the shallow shade under the island trees. He found the water coolest when he joined her there.

Her ears were under the waterline, eyes closed, she well could have been asleep. He tried to do the same, but the second his hands stopped treading water, his face submerged.

He lay out on its mossy shore, looking at all their accomplishments. From the island he could truly take in all that they had done. Standing next to the garden, it looked so small, but from here it looked plenty big. Same with the house, modest, but not tiny. It filled him with the sense of optimism he lacked before, while she slowly drifted by.

How little they said to each other.

How little they had to.

That night she turned her back to him as he buttoned up her dress. When done she unbuttoned his shirt.

Their bed was just a blanket spread over cedar leaves, but this was their first night inside the cabin. He had thought something else, as she picked two ticks from his back, then one from his arm.

A pleasant breeze drifted across the room through the empty windows facing up and down the mountain and the unfinished open door. She lay on her side, pulling him down behind her. His arm around her waist, the buttons of her dress pressed against his chest as she held his other hand, and promptly fell asleep.

Quite the girl. Such a pretty dress.
**B5.C10**

By the time the garden had grown enough to start to produce, the milkweed had started to bloom. With it, the pond was dusted with constant butterflies, key to pollination. They loved milkweed, no less than three in the house, trying to find the always-open windows.

They had a bed, raised off the floor, a corner table, two chairs, and a dozen interesting, unfinished projects. One of which they started on now.

They had a surplus of massive logs, burned into ten-foot rollable lengths. His end of her invention had fitted pieces of wood formed by interlocking triangular shapes with a mounted sharpened plate. Her end was similar, minus the plate. An array of carved, wooden pulleys roped each triangle together, spanning the length of the log. As he walked out the two rope ends, the pulleys inched the wedged plate through the wood. It was tough at first, but after it took that first bite into the log, it slowly split off perfectly straight planks for such things as picnic tables and a better, more waterproof roof. Shingles came to mind.

It was hard, like walking uphill, but with it they could rip a log into dozens of planks of any size in under an hour. The rope was the key, hundreds of feet long and very strong. Milkweed, who knew?

Woven another way it made chair seats and backs that were far more comfortable than hardwood would have been, and that nice, hammock feel when it was strung for a bed, cool and off the ground.

The garden was having problems with bugs; they had smoked it three times this week, driving the insects out, but now they needed to leave it alone or risk nothing getting pollinated. It was frustrating finding so many savaged leaves.

Dana followed a bee back to its nest, a hollow on a dead tree hundreds of steps away. How she had the nerve to reach in and pull out a slab of honey without getting stung, he would never know, but it made for weeks of the sweetest of all desserts.

Carrots, potatoes, onions, oh how that made a meal seem real. Life had finally gotten better than it had been in the barn. He licked his plate and leaned back from the outside picnic table.

"I wonder if Ellie's had her kid yet?" he said.

"Not until fall, at the earliest."

"Oh, that's right." He wished he could have taken that moment back.

"She's probably having trouble getting around, she's lost her slender figure for sure."

He looked at her and detected a hint of something. "Jealous?"

She left the table.

It was sometimes much better when he kept thoughts to himself. He was really missing that damn snake. It kept such foolishness from slipping past his tongue and out into the world where it could do him harm.

"This is... I'm sorry," he said, buttoning her dress for bed, "I was— I was just thinking about children, that's all. We've never really said much on the subject." That was the last button.

She slid to the spot just under the window, her back to him.

She might not have been mad, but she wasn't in the mood. "I just... I know how you were with Dawn and Guar. Look, I miss them too."

She didn't move.

He unbuttoned the top three, his hand rubbed across her back, shoulder to shoulder. "It's this silence that doesn't get said between us." He kissed the little dimple below her left shoulder blade, the scar easiest to see. His cheek pressed to her spine. Too quiet to hear silent crying.

Everything was tongue and grooved together, either free floating or glued with hot pinesap. The sap also made a shiny shellac for the tabletops and outside benches, but that first week or two it was mighty tacky and freckled with stuck bugs.

They kept busy, always something to do.

Except when it rained.

This was the third straight day of it. They had this nice chair made with a hole in it for going in the woods, but with this much rain, it was tempting to bring it inside too. They refrained, holding for when it let up some.

The first two days had passed in almost total silence. The only good side was she had no reason to change out of the dress, though she now wore more under it. Something he found a little disappointing when she darted back inside, slightly damp.

They kept a constant fire going for the ready embers and to keep the chimney dry. But it became more of something distracting to do, besides watching the ripples on the pond.

They finished another silent meal at the chairs and tiny table.

"It's not this broken body, that I'm waiting for to mend," she said. "We're not turning the same pages yet. You want children, I want to be a mother. There is a difference in that."

He fought the urge to open his mouth.

"I like what we do, it's enough right now." She looked around the cabin. "You're not a father yet."

He held his tongue.

"I wouldn't expect to be sleeping next to a naked me, anytime soon. That doesn't mean you'll be waking up alone. We... There is a definite we. There wasn't always. I think we have a beginning here we didn't get before. One we couldn't have, with a teenage boy and that girl he bartered for." She reached across to his hand, his forearm, "It's always been nice, waking up to you."

She had a lovely smile.

The chairs were very comfortable. They just sat for a while, nothing else much to do. They had long since woven all the rope and fashioned a few huge nets; new shingles stopped even this driving rain.

It was simply, nice.

The logs around the garden had an unexpected side effect. The uphill row had diverted the heavy runoff from washing the garden into the pond. A few rows were ruined, those in line with one of the traps, but the plants themselves were caught along the lower row of logs. Half that washed away would transplant just fine. None of the milkweed washed away, it was impressively tough and had regrown enough for a second harvest this year. He well knew what to do. He pulled up on the first few, and roots and all came out of the damp soil.

Running the knot of a root through the wringer was hard, one at a time at most, but it oozed a half-tablespoon of milk.

This time he helped weave rope too. It was boring and tedious and hard on fingers and his left shoulder for some reason, but it was nice doing something together instead of the each-to-his-own that had been theirs of the first few months. He wanted to live with her, not simply sleep beside her.

Most of the closest pines were sapped nearly to death, which was just fine with her.

The garden was coming in fine now. Corn ears were budding, and they had lettuce and spinach with every meal. Squirrels and rabbits were having a hard time with his loose sticks and were hammered by the deadfalls. All was looking good.

They took a day to explore, mostly uphill. She wanted to give him a better picture of what she had in mind.

They followed the stream first. She pointed out places where it would have been better to build the garden. The quality of the soil was superior, and the natural lay of the land was more beneficial, taking runoff into account. They scouted and found the perfect location for a bigger house; she pointed out the local trees ideal for construction and those to be left for summer shade.

They found a cluster of white oaks that would be his next big project, hopefully this year. She wanted to clear out all trees within twenty feet of any white oak, the maximum jumping distance for a squirrel. They discussed the rings she would make to go around its trunk that would prevent them from simply climbing it. These oaks were what the nets had been for, catching acorns for winter. Same for the three walnut trees they also found. All in all, it was a productive day, not that a lot got done.

A plan. Goals. This kind of stuff was surprisingly important to him. Confidence. He didn't like just going, silent day by silent day. He craved the structure of regular chores. She even laid out an area where he could simply take down any tree he liked, and paths she thought would be ideal. It was a lot to remember. It was a lot she trusted him with.

That was a good feeling.

The tree dropped into the clearing with a crash. He had become nearly expert— no, he was kidding himself, but he was proficient with that hatchet. He had gone through a few that first day, then one every other day. Nearly half she had made were now destroyed. But this one he managed to keep for a week. That must have been an easy fifty— no, sixty trees, and it was still knocking out thumb-sized splinters. The thickest he had dropped to date was two-foot, though he swore never to try that again; it took all morning and slam wore him out for the rest of the day. No, hatcheting was strictly for those small enough to be drug through the woods, like this one. Fire was still best for any of real size.

The edge had three chips in it, one near the center, but it was still swinging good. It was a little depressing actually, there was nothing like starting with a fresh blade in the morning. He never watched her make one, so he wasn't sure how much trouble went into them. He should ask. If it was easy, then why not start every day with— no, that was wasteful. He continued limbing the fallen tree.

That was the last from around the oaks.

He kinda wanted to drag her up there, just to show it off.

Nah, it was best left as a surprise.

He was done for the day. He could sit back and enjoy, if he wished.

He liked that. No timetable to work at, no must-be-done-by's, just, when you can. He stood back and looked around. This was some pretty land. He had grown up in a village with everything developed, surrounded by houses, walls, and busy moving, constantly talking people. This was nice, quiet.

He grabbed a good-sized piece and started dragging it home.

He wasn't one for too much being alone.

It was always fun to try to figure out what she had been working on. He was usually at least a day or two behind. She never discussed it with him; she just did it, put it in place, or started using it. Today it was obvious. She had made dozens of glass jars. From half to a full gallon or two, mostly clear with splotches of green, yellow, and red. Imperfections in the sand no doubt, but nice and round, perfect flat bottoms, nice flat, open tops. Functional.

Canning wouldn't be long away. When the garden came in, they would need a good way of— it only made sense. Their kind of luck would have everything ripen at once, probably within a day of a thunderstorm.

The two stoves made sense now too. Making glass or pots would have run them out of that small house; it was bad enough in the middle of a field. It took just a little extra effort to make two, and they were more than a little different in design. Inside was aimed at heat and food, outside was made to operate at much higher temperatures, and leaned toward a kiln.

She smiled at the first sight of him, stood, then hobbled a step before giving him a hug. She looked done for the day too. Her brown eyes were a little red, probably from the smoke.

She handed him a fresh bar of soap.

He thought that hug smelled better than usual, cedar scented.

He obediently went for a swim, followed with appropriate lather.

She was face down on the bed when he came inside. It was hours until dusk, she must not be feeling too good. Two covered plates were on the table, one still warm, the other was a salad. Both were clearly for him. He recovered them.

He sat on the bed, his hand across her buttoned back, "You all right?"

She took a deep breath.

He lay beside her, hand on her shoulder, "Want me to get something for ya?"

"I'm not hungry, it's yours."

He worked the buttons, his hand ran across freckles and skin. He slid closer, but at best he could only see the back of her head, facing the window. He covered one of her arms with his, briefly holding her hand before returning to a light rub of her shoulder, the back of her neck and upper arm.

"It's getting cold, Derik."

He kissed echoes of a faded bite on her neck, then got up to eat.

The salad was good, as usual, but it was sprinkled with chicken flavored white nuts. He had never had that before. And fresh snaps mixed throughout. The meal itself was good, particularly the cooked carrots. They were a little small, but as soft as they could be made without needing a spoon. The mashed potato brought it all home, covered in a light gravy he dipped with each forkful. It wasn't until he finished that he realized it was mashed cauliflower.

Wow, she was good.

He looked at her, stretched out on the bed. His eyes drifted across the room. Every fitted joint, every detailed cut was carved by her hand. The tapers, the simple, yet rugged design, all hers. The table with its woven top of cedar-strips were packed so tight it could hold a water spill long enough to find a towel.

He sniffed his skin. The soap he had used was of her hand as well, cedar scented too. A pleasant odor that covered a less pleasant one of his, but it proved distasteful to most ticks and bugs. Very thoughtful of her, they were eating him alive in the woods.

She cared. Little things.

These heavy logs he had lifted into place had been slowly shaped, one sliver at a time. It took time to shave a fit that snug. He felt ever so safe inside these walls.

He fished two stones from the ashes of the smoldering fire and dripped water on them until they stopped sizzling. He drew small, damp little circles where her neck sloped to shoulders and spine. Palm-sized rock, he smoothed an ever-wider circular design. She let out a sigh like so many he had heard from animals stuck in traps, relief that an end was in sight.

He lay beside her but didn't stop, one thigh rested across her bottom. The top of his shoeless foot smoothed from the back of her knee to ankle over her tired, recovering calf. He wished with each moment that passed, that she would simply turn her tired head, so he could look upon that face he cherished so, asleep for some time now. Her dreamy expression, this night, she kept to herself.

Morning light and howling dogs woke him. The pack would have to be dealt with before winter. He looked for his bow when he spotted something new, a crossbow unlike any he had seen. This had three stocky, thick bows; a hand crank at one end, and what had to be some very funny-looking bolts.

He picked one off the stack. It was as wide as his wrist, paper thin at the ends, smooth on the bottom, and diagonally checkered across the top— It looked like a stretched out fish that had been scaled on one side, too small to keep. Black, pottery like, with bright yellow painted inside a recess around the notched tail. They looked finished. It also looked a good deal more complex than any he had seen before. He dare not try to cock it.

The dogs howled again. They were getting worse than any morning rooster. They were hungry, but had yet to work up the courage to press their way into the open yard.

If only dogs tasted as good as rabbits.

He had secrets of his own. He steeped his hard-found collection of sun-dried dandelion roots in a boiling cup of water. He spooned out the grounds after it turned a pleasant brown, then stirred in a drizzle of honey.

The smell alone was enough to roll her out of bed and over to the chair opposite him, but it was those long, smiling sips that were her first waking moments. It wasn't coffee, but it was close. The open windows let in the foggy breeze to mix with that drifting off her cup. He enjoyed her savor of every little drop. He wished he could start all her mornings with such. Maybe they would cultivate dandelions next year.

"You'll have to show me how to use that thing," he said after breakfast.

She talked him through it, totally hands on for him. A dowel that was stored in the stock slid down the center, catching all three bows. Two loops from the crank drew the dowel back until all three had caught. It was hard to wind, but not impossible. It did take well over a minute. The scariest part was loading it; he had to slide the shots from the dangerous end, trusting it was safe. Three buttons on the stock, one for each string, could be pressed with his thumb after a safety pin was pulled.

It was a pound or two heavier than a regular bow, and even at his fastest cranking and loading, it was at best just three shots every minute, a bow was a dozen. They took a pouch full of her fishy bolts outside.

He lined up the top notches on the sights with the trunk of a tree, removed the safety, then pressed the first one.

Thwonk!

A yellow streak thudded with a solid shaking of leaves. He handed it to her before sprinting to inspect the tree, clear on the other side of the garden. The bark was gashed in chunks, covered with shards and pieces. He had aimed high like with an arrow, this had flown straight, hitting within inches of the aligned marks. Clearly superior at a distance through woods, and perhaps in lethality as well. It shattered, but then, it had hit a healthy tree. He wanted to find some dogs.

"How hard is it to make these?" he asked holding a fishy bolt.

"Well, I started with fifty, but it's a mold like the hatchets. Three or four days per batch, but not that hard. Slightly different recipe. Hand paint the yellow."

"It was easy to see."

"Only for the shooter, from the side it looks like a shadow crossing the ground."

"You mind if I use up the other two?"

She smiled, handed him the pouch, then headed inside.

That was clear enough, he took it into the woods.

The howling led him to one. It was very distant, only blurry glimpses through dense underbrush.

At this range he could take his aim, steady and calm. Thwap!

Leaves and twigs spun in the air, too high.

He need only slide his thumb half an inch. Thwap!

The dog spun like a child punts a ball. No whimper, no twitching, no final gasps. Just dead. Just like that.

That never happened with an arrow.

He reloaded then walked down to pick it up, just in case.

Its coat was missing large splotches of fur, naked pink skin with little red scabs. The bolt had sliced it open, ripped across six ribs, then exited the other side, leaving two black shards behind. The yellow made them easy to see. Not bad. No point in dragging it home, he was suspicious of any meat it offered. It was clearly diseased with something, probably why it was outcast from the rest. All the same, it seemed a waste to just leave it.

He doubted Dana would let him use this creation to hunt dogs, no matter how easy the shots were to mold. It looked more for deer, or unfriendly people. Overkill for creatures this small. Deadfalls would rid them of the dogs; he just needed to think bigger. He had plenty of bait in daily entrails. Bigger traps would be his next pressing project. But he scanned the woods, carefully, in case the others were lurking around. Three shots at the ready was very tempting.

Dana had taught him several general designs, now much easier to make thanks to all her precision carving tools. It was kinda amazing really, they were made of fragile clay, the same basic stuff in thousands of easily broken plates. Yet, certain shapes multiplied their strength and a few added ingredients increased that even more. He could hammer it with a wooden mallet all day, yet drop it wrong on a rock and it would shatter.

With her tools, it was crafted before noon, when a hatchet would have taken the rest of the day.

A muffled whimper woke him early in the morning. Too early, yet not enough time to fall back to sleep. She was sleeping on her side, as well as on his arm. The most he could do was roll to his back and stare at the ceiling.

He wanted to check the kill before the bugs had a chance with it, or its feral friends for that matter. He rested his hand on her sleeping shoulder, contemplating pulling free. No— It— That would have been close. Had he gone, it was just dark enough for him to get into serious trouble. He usually didn't read her, had made an effort to refrain from such invasions of her privacy, but this was such a strong vision. He simply couldn't keep it out of his head. In the absence of light, the canines find their greatest courage. Going this early was ill advised, badly bitten at best, not to return at worst.

She slept on his arm, while he couldn't sleep, waiting for morning to come. The ceiling. Had it been left to his design, it would have been turned the other way, sloping up from the side with the door. She turned it instead, which allowed for a few feet of overhang above the door and windows, though the design was mostly dictated by the chimney. From the inside she had already added an attic of sorts with leftover planks spanning the rafters. It doubled the storage without consuming precious floor space. They had nothing to keep up there yet, but one good harvest could fill it fast.

He closed his eyes.

Out of sight didn't help the lingering thoughts of his arm and leg torn up by vicious, angry dogs.

He opened them, looking at her back.

Less than three years had passed since they ran away toge— No, it hadn't been together. She left a life with him she couldn't bear, he just ran after her.

He turned his head away.

He knew he was to be with her. He knew. The day he first touched her hand, the day he talked his village into taking in her lost tribe. He knew. But it wasn't the same for her.

He ran his fingers across the back of her dress.

She didn't choose him. She had never claimed to love him. Never.

She kissed out of appreciation, he kissed out of affection. He thought about the past few years, he had given her little to be affectionate about. It hadn't been his wish or by his hand, but all the violence that befell her, he held some measure of blame, and rightfully so.

By this time next year, she wouldn't need him at all. If ever he was to change the nature of a kiss, it had to be now. But how, with cheating glimpses into her future? With lies and tricks like those that led to her bruised and broken form? No. His greatest talent had led to no good, much like with the Findicks.

And how was he spending his time? Precious little with her.

He stared at mismatched buttons on a back turned to him.

He did love her. He did. He was in total awe of her, an enormous respect. Should she say those words, there would be no doubt about their truth, should he ever hear those words come from her.

She rolled onto his chest, her thigh across his lap.

His arm needled with pain as the blood rushed to fingertips. He rested his tingling hand on her back until the feeling returned. She adjusted slightly, her hand rested near his ear. She would lay this way until the sun woke her, perfectly still.

He closed his eyes, the smell of her hair in his every breath. Her stomach touched his side with each breath of hers.

He did so love this girl.

He couldn't help but look, if only for the guilty privilege of living it twice.

One dog tonight, two more by the end of the week. Last three by the end of the month. None of which looked healthy enough to eat. Such a waste to kill something just to be rid of it. Tomatoes would be the first to get canned. Mustard greens, spinach, celery, carrots, and excess roasted rabbit in gallons-sized jars of soup. Glass for the windows would be made the same as the jars except the ends get cut off then slit down the side and rolled out flat.

He looked harder, reading for the finer details, searching for that secret to her morning smiles and those faint little lines that marked the change of entire days. He pushed projects and interesting crafts to the side, trying for the mornings instead. But the harder he tried, the less he foresaw. Whatever he had done was before she woke. Useless.

She was dealing with something she wasn't willing to talk about.

But he wasn't about to give up. He did stop reading her though. Howls broke the silence again.

He had a few hours. He closed his eyes and listened to the crickets outside the window and the occasional splash at the pond. Fish gobbling bugs sounded different than the slip of a turtle or the flop of a frog. Frogs were some noisy little bastards outside the water as well. He was starting to think he would never get used to these kinds of background sounds.

The feeling returned to his hand, he scratched her shoulder before holding it firm. Backs had always been the less interesting side of a woman's front. That had changed over his time with her. It had a magic access to a calming relief, a lesson in the art of empathy. A trusting blind side. A way to connect with her.

He wondered if that would still be the case, had she given in to his persuasive words of their past.

He thought of Ellie and George. It had taken few kind words to get all George wanted from her, yet there was so much more in her to be found. He simply stopped looking, stopped listening.

He ran his hand across her back, his other rested on her thigh. He had complimented Ellie's cooking perhaps a hundred times; he had savored every bite of almost all of Dana's meals, and had yet to say one word. How had he let this silence happen? This silence he had dared blame on her.

He could do better. He would do more. This silly notion of his that all that was required was the simple spending of time was clearly wrong. He had always rejected the idea that he had purchased her, yet despite what words he labeled his deeds, he had treated her— No, it wasn't ownership he was so stuck on. It was this feeling, this overwhelming belief that they were always to be... without earning it. His talent had betrayed him again, even if it betrayed him with the truth.

As the sky started to grow brighter blue in those minutes of warming sunrise, he made a silent promise to her— To himself, on her behalf. A smile of hers, one every day, that he could lay claim to. He wanted this for himself, and he owed at least as much to her.

He also owed her a tub.
**B5.C11**

He had watched one cantaloupe grow bigger and riper as the summer heat rolled in. He had drooled over the dream of sinking his teeth into it one sweltering lazy day. Horrified to see it gone, he ran back to the cabin and was brought nearly to his knees in tears with the madness that surely had led to its juicy slices being fried on a pan.

She shoved a fork into his gaping mouth. Like some chilled apple dipped in caramel, honey was never so sweet. "Wow!" followed by "oh," and "my," and any other single syllable word too small to interfere with eating.

She returned to her salad, mixed with bite-sized cuts of this amazing fried dessert.

When he polished off the last, succulent piece, he sat, staring at his empty plate. "You know, I would still love you, even if you couldn't cook."

She smiled too wide to take another bite, "How could you not?"

He kissed her once broken jaw, "How indeed."

She scooped more spinach on her fork, speared to a sliced tomato.

"You know, I uh, that leaky tent would still be me right now. You've always made my life better, and I'm never really sure what I've made of yours."

She chewed slower.

"No, don't say. Just promise you'll give me one more year to change your mind."

She didn't say.

"I, uh, I was going to try to surprise you but, it keeps turning out wrong. Wait here." He got up. "Keep in mind, it's the thought that counts." He ran up the path to the oaks.

He dragged it down between the trees, burnt, singed, and oddly shaped. He had tried to burn out a log into a tub, but it was clear he had just wasted a week. It was quite sad really, she suppressed a laugh very well.

She looked it over. It was long and narrow and had no chance of fitting indoors. The odd knots had left deformed bumps inside. Effort it wasn't lacking, "It'll work as a boat, I think?" she said.

He suddenly didn't feel so bad.

She dropped her other projects to join him on saving this one. By the end of the day, they were brushing on the last coat of waterproofing, made mostly from pinesap.

It was a nice change, working together for most of the day.

She was so much smarter about these things, but she never rubbed his nose in it. The day could have been filled with 'moron' this and 'why' that. Instead, she spent the time showing him how to plug the little burned through holes, the way to read the grain, and hundreds of other tips that turned his failure into her success.

Her way with things was what he loved best.

They had a surplus of firewood; he had gotten very good at gauging that from their winter in the barn. It wasn't all cut fireplace-size, but that plank-maker of hers could cut them ten at a time; he just stacked logs near it whenever he returned from the woods. He dropped another beside it as they started back up the path to the oaks.

It looked like a beaded necklace for a tree, three laps on each oak's trunk as high up as they could reach. Like a formal party or an exclusive club dance. They sat and waited for the invited squirrels. It took an hour but one finally came to investigate. It ran up the tree, sniffed the beads, then tried to jump over it. The melon-sized wooden beads were not only hard to grip, they spun. Even the best attempt left the smartest squirrel flipping backwards toward the ground. It tried under, over, chewing and sniffing. It tried back and sides then a desperate full speed sprint. It was quite squirrel proof.

It was also mighty entertaining!

They just had to keep it to muffled snickers or their entertainment would run away.

Maybe they could make a few for trees in view of the windows, just for fun.

On the way back, they stopped in the field of milkweeds near the garden. The weeds they hadn't ever harvested had these thin little bean-like pods hanging from them. Those were not to be touched as they worked one last harvest this year.

Rope rope and more rope.

That week they worked together slowly making a tub custom cut to her shape. Smoothed, sanded, sealed. A light dusting of sand at the foot end before the sealant hardened made it slip-proof without being too abrasive. And toothbrushes! It was a stunning, yet simple process. The bristles were made from a heated drop of dried milk stretched to a hair's width over six feet long, cooled, cut, then packed into a molded head. It was clearish yellow, had a slight bitter taste at first, but was so much softer than chewed wooden sticks. Nice.

It was these little things that made life so much better, like long hot baths.

He leaned his back against the outside of the tub and looked at their empty bed on the opposite side of the room. "... So, heat it then mix it with a sprinkle of that yellow stuff and it cools hard. What else is it good for, I mean the— Why is this the first I'm hearing about this stuff."

"Latex isn't a secret," she said. "I'm a little rusty on all the additives for plastics, but when we get enough to play with, it'll all start coming back."

He listened to the water drip off her arm as she continued to wash.

"Milkweed's a little odd to work with, but it's by far the easiest to grow."

"That's for sure."

Water filled his ears as her soapy hands turned his head away from the tub.

He had gotten too into the conversation again. "Sorry." He dried his ears on his sleeves, "I didn't mean, I was just—"

"I didn't slap you, did I?"

She knew him a little too well.

In his periphery, he could see her feet dangling off the sides of the tub, calf resting on the extra wide rim as she slipped a little lower in the water. It was nice talking to her, much better than being kept outside, but it was its own torture too.

"Isn't milkweed supposed to be poisonous?" he said.

"This breed probably isn't, but you should stop eating toothbrushes all the same."

Damp lips kissed his cheek when his laughs subsided.

Bath time was well spent, even with his limited view. They went over the plans for the next day and those of the coming week. She filled him in on the pending projects she had once kept to herself, and some plan he didn't quite follow on how to make clothes. He had worked it back into the conversation three times and was now confident that the problem was not in her explanation; it was in his inability to follow it. Looms, spindles, spinners, shuttles, and twisting threads, he just couldn't visualize any of it. When she was in her late teens, the elders had moved her from working the fields into the loom room. She was still using a vocabulary he was completely unfamiliar with.

The hot bath was wonderful therapy for both foot and knee, though he didn't expect her to be kneeling in the garden with him any time soon. That was ok with him; they did much better when they relied on his back and her mind. The water drained out the bottom and through a hole in the wall. He closed his eyes to the sounds of her slipping into a dress.

She stood in front of him, waiting for him to button the back.

Odd how honored this little gesture made him feel. He could spread the straps inches further apart and the dress would fall to her elbows, perhaps even to the floor. It was far easier than buttoning was, yet buttons was all he ever did.

Tomatoes ripened gallons at once. Some got made into soup, some sun dried, the rest she slow cooked with carrots, spinach, and some others including a few hot peppers to be canned as a drink. It was stiff, thick, and brisk, a harsh eye-opener that had the nutrition of a big breakfast meal. Kinda perfect for a non-morning-person like her.

He got better at canning, only after some extensive hands-on practice. The lids were little glazed bowls with handles molded on the bottoms and were used with her homemade rubber rings. The key was to bring it to a boil, set the ring and the lid, then cover the whole top of the jar with what was best described as an extra long upside-down mug filled with steam. It would hiss a little, the mug would wobble and give an occasional burp, but as it cooled it would make this creaking, stiffening sound.

When it had cooled to the touch, he could lift it by the mug. That was the first test. If it made a whoosh when the mug was pried off, yet the contents of the jar didn't move, he had it perfect. The last test was to lift the jar by the lid. If it didn't come off, it should keep for years.

As the crops started coming in, they did a lot of canning and some sun drying of the corn, beans, and peas. They kept a few pots constantly going. Canned best kept the flavor, but it was heavier and harder to store. Dried was easiest, but it could be gotten into by pests, mold, or bugs. Neither was perfect, so they got a good mix of both, keeping the best for next year's seeds.

Potatoes were a constant with every meal. They may well have planted too many, and every time one broke the soil they would dig a dozen from the mound under it. He loved potatoes, but he had eaten so many his joints started to creak like over starched clothes. But oh my, did she know how to fix those red skinned potatoes. Diced, sliced, fried, baked ever so crisp, always with that sweet skin. The garden simply was making too many of them. They gave up one day and boiled a pot of them to be later mashed then dried in the kiln. What was left was crumbled easily into a clumpy powder they kept in a sealed jar. Four pots of mashed potatoes reduced to one, light jar of flakes.

It was always a treat to watch. He would add that day's powdered potatoes, place the dampened ring and lid, then, when the kettle had steamed the long upside-down mug, he would place it over the smaller mouth of the jar. A few wisps of steam would leak around its kiss on the glass, but as it cooled he would watch it draw lines in the powder, like crushing crackers under an invisible palm. It would slowly sink within the jar as the steam condensed back to water in the mug, sucking all the air out. With each sip, another level would collapse and another line would form as it compacted down. When the mug was cool enough to hold, a simple twist from the end would whoosh it free, and about a spoon of water would drip down the outside of the sealed jar. Tight, very tight lid. It boggled his mind how she could come up with such, and yet it seemed so obvious.

Those hotter days of summer were not all filled with nonstop work, they often found time to float about in his boat, and swims became a regular part of the afternoon. They ate most meals outside. Nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

The attic of planks was filling with jars and jars of winter food. He was almost relieved when the garden's production started to wane. Only to be replaced with the building chores of the white oaks.

The oversized beaded necklaces kept the squirrels out of the oaks, but it didn't stop the acorns from hitting the ground. That was where the nets came in. They were massive and even so, it required three to cover everything under each tree. The ends were tied to the tips of lower branches and made to funnel towards the trunk, but acorns never rolled very well. He checked them every three or four days, untying it at the trunk and often picking them out by hand. A good week's collection of the dozen or so trees required the stretcher to drag it all home, fortunately downhill.

He had tasted acorns before and was very apprehensive about these. When blanched in boiling water, most were immediately edible with about the flavor of a boiled peanut. Rather a bland nut, but not bad, a little sweeter from tree to tree.

She had made a scissor-looking thing that cut a handful of nuts in half at a time, boiling them shells and all. It seemed silly at first, why boil the shells, but after only a few seconds, the nut shrunk slightly and the shell fell off. No effort required.

Most got rinsed, parched, then dried in the kiln within days of harvesting. About every tenth or twelfth had been ruined by bugs and got fed to the fish. The taste was growing on him when she ground the excess into easily stored powder that baked into an awesome, nutty flat bread. If only they had some jam or butter. Just as well, a drizzle of honey made it nearly addictive anyway.

They had enough net left over to catch under two other, average oaks. These were in the midst of her cherished white oaks and had thus been spared. They were the bitter, nasty tasting ones he had always known. Normal acorns. There was no rush on collecting them from the net, they would keep as-is for almost a year. Being fewer trees and a much lower priority, it took longer to accumulate enough to do anything with. These got crushed through a hardwood screw and yielded an oily liquid and lots of useless pulp. The screw was harder to crank than putting milkweed through the wringer, but he knew she had a good reason for doing it.

It turned out it was partly for the rope. Tannin was in the oil. It soaked into the fibers of the rope, the nets, and protected them from drying out. Treated, it would supposedly last for years. Flexibility wasn't a big issue for the net like it was for rope being pulled around pulleys.

It also turned out that the acorn oil mixed with other greases and burned in easily-made lamps with a pleasant nightlight, without the killer heat of a fireplace burning in summer.

Summer. When its time was done, the whole mountain seemed to celebrate their minor victory of survival with a festival of stunning leaf colors, just before floating free from the trees.

The garden was just as quickly gone.

He looked around, patting his arms. Rows and rows of seasoned wood were cut and stacked as close as possible to the little house. Removable glass windows, wooden storm-shutters, an attic full of food, they were ready for winter's worst.

The milkweed had turned a wooden gray, leafless with hardened thin pods dangling in clusters from branches. This was its last harvest, and he ripped them from the ground, armfuls at a time. Brought inside, the stems were chopped up and added to a pot to soak and steep for days, their usefulness for rope or drops of milk dried up months ago.

The pods, well, that was another story. Inside were the long, spidery white strands attached to hundreds of flea-sized seeds. He spent all of that morning breaking these pods open underwater in the tub, the cottony mess floated in seed-peppered blobs. Whenever he accumulated enough, he shoved it by the fistful into a glass jar, added half water, then vacuumed on a lid. It would have been a nightmare to pick hundreds of thousands of flea-like specs from a pillow-sized knot by hand, but add water and shake violently overhead and the seeds broke free, then sank, leaving nothing but soft strands floating on top. Easy, when he didn't have to figure it out on his own.

He had seen spindles before, but had never used one. Now was no exception. His day was filled with the unskilled hauling, washing, and separating, but his interest was held by her delicate twisting of these strands, the cotton-like ball bathed in a gentle steam, twilled to a fine thread wrapped on a wheel, its bottom kept damp with water.

Eventually, he had to ask.

"Cotton's a kinkier fiber, that makes it grab easy. The trickle of steam brings out that little bit of sticky that lets it bind as thread," she answered, getting it set for another of his freshly dried wads. "Keeping the wheel wet cools the thread and gives it nothing else to stick to. By the time it's done a few laps, well, you get the idea, it can be treated just like cotton."

As troublesome as the thread was, she would have that ball spun soon. He hurried his pace to keep up. She had all the bugs out of it now and knew the right mix of steam and heat, the fastest rate of spin and draw. She was turning it into thread faster than he could break the pods and wash it.

He saved the rest of his questions for later.

As his fingers recovered from being pruned by the tub, he watched her dry fingers fly. He had never used a loom before, it had always been woman's work. Hers was not the mass-production unit with fancy foot pedals capable of turning out three or four blankets a day. This was a much smaller, simpler version that worked best with two people. His job was operating the two comb-like pieces at the top, while she slid the shuttle from side to side, packing it tight and inspecting the cloth.

Two days of that was dry, but mind numbingly boring. How in the world she stood weeks of it when she was younger, he would never know.

...

His shoulders were stiff from reaching overhead with the loom, but it only served to remind him how happy he was to be completely out of thread, except that tiny spool saved for stitches.

The fire lit the room late into the night, her back leaned against interior log wall as she sewed in bed. Her knees were bent high over his lap, his back against the window. Fishbone needles held it together while she labored her way to completion. He had offered to help, but his stitches were too sloppy and he broke too many needles. He filled his time on those lovely arches of her feet instead.

This whole day had felt unfair. She measured, cut, and sewed while he tested her patience trying to lend a hand, only to destroy her hard crafted tools. She never said a word, more patience than he deserved. He found they fell into these well-defined roles; his, best exemplified by a proven talent for toting firewood.

He loved her ankles for some reason, the bone that bumped out each side, that strong, slender tendon that tied shapely calf to heel. He tried not to dwell too long as he moved his rub up the back of her leg toward the knee.

He had thought they would be far closer by now; he had let so much time slip by, poorly used. They didn't talk about— They just discussed what needed getting done, little else. He had hoped for much more. He hugged her knees to his chest as her bunched-up dress slid closer to her hips. Winter promised to be long and awkward if he let it simply continue from fall.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

Without looking he pulled off his shirt and tossed it across the room, "Finally, something I want to do." He gripped her hips and slid her away from the wall to the center of the bed while leaning in several kisses.

She hugged with a wad she pressed into his back. "Put this on," she said.

Long-sleeve shirt, extra thick pants, underwear too. "Ok," he tried them on. Soft? Silky? No, that wasn't it. Warm, yet it breathed. Like cotton only lighter, except the pants that were a purposely thicker weave. It moved so free, a whitish yellow gray. It felt like wearing smoke.

"Turn," she said, inspecting the fit. She walked over and tugged on sleeves and cuffs, her hands tucked his shirt in while checking snugness about his waist.

"It's a good fit."

She ran her hands across his chest, "It should feel a little loose, in case you find even bigger muscles."

Muscles? He pulled it tight in the back, then flexed. Muscles. For the first time in his life, he had what could be called muscles.

She smiled, then sat back on the bed. She gestured a circle with her finger.

He happily complied. It truly was a great fit. His only complaint was the drab gray color. A change of clothes, it had been such a longed for luxury.

She yawned before lying down and closing her eyes.

He was too excited to sleep so easily. He stepped outside to measure his clothes against the cool of night. He walked to the edge of the pond, then once around. His face and cheeks were cold, the start of sniffles, but the rest of him was reasonably warm. No more, but no less warm than he expected from cotton. Warm was warm. He was curious about how well it would wear, if it would last years or just a season. It was nothing fancy, simple wooden buttons, useful pockets. Functional. He pondered how well the pants would resist thorns. Something this comfortable was bound to have a downside.

He grabbed a load of wood before returning, choosing to sleep in his new clothes.

It wasn't until he woke the next morning that it sank in, she had made his first.

The next few days were spent much as the last, with her sewing and trimming in bed. Three pairs of pants and shirts for each, and an abundance of socks and underwear. It wasn't the fortune of wardrobe he had grown up with, but it was ample enough to make laundry day come every other week, now that the labors of gardening were over.

Her weeklong soaking, seeping stems were filtered through a framed cloth screen and dried into sheets of gray paper. Just in time, they had run out of suitable leaves when he took the chair for trips into the woods.

Soft, yet strong sheets, not quite right for writing on, this first batch had been mixed with the cotton like fibers that were too short for spinning into threads. Nothing wasted.

He was looking forward to winter.
**B5.C12**

The morning sun woke him as it warmed his shoulder and lit the room. The glass helped keep out the cold, but he still fell victim to its draft. Pretty white frost had formed along the bottom panes. He looked above and out at the pond. Wisps of fog lifted in tethered strands like a hundred fish out for an underwater smoke. Her glass was less than perfect, like the jars stored on the boards above his head. Spots of fading colors, ripples, and bends lent to the distorted shapes outside the window, like he was looking from under the water.

He sat between the draft and her, careful to let her sleep. Her dress had drifted over the night to expose an entire thigh. He smoothed it back before making his way to the floor. He had to laugh, bunny slippers, but oh my, how warm those soft hares were, on a cold cold floor.

Quickly dressed, he slipped outside to take care of morning affairs. On his way back, he brought in some wood to stoke the fire and knock the chill out of the air.

She would sleep for another hour, the sun seldom disturbed her. He looked through the attic of jars, unsure what he was in the mood for, finally basing his decision on which was the easiest to reach. He could look all he wanted, but they were all soup or soup like, or mixed vegetables. He was hungry for anything else.

He placed it before the fire, inches closer than he could comfortably hold his hand. By the time she would wake, it should be hot and the top easily pried off. She seldom ate much in the mornings anyway.

He moved a chair beside her.

She had worked the loom, had sewn every stitch of clothes. He made all but the first few batches of paper. He lacked her skills, but had gotten good at paper. Most were for use in the woods, but some he perfected for drawing. These were thicker, almost stiff, ideal for quiet sketches.

Blackened fingers first thing in the morning, he rubbed the charcoal stick around. It made for a soothing sound, not to mention a soft capture of her every restful detail.

The page was only big enough to capture her life-size hands and most of her chin, outline of mended bones, faint hints of freckles, portion of one earlobe.

He added it to the growing stack in the attic, high above her sleeping head, before adding another stick to the fire.

He pulled that hand from under her chin, fresh with its every studied detail, and held it while he waited for her to wake.

"We know what I want," he said to her open eyes, "what you're hoping for is still a bit of a mystery."

She closed her eyes and pretended he would go away.

"I want to be here with you. I want to think we're not back to just sharing a room again."

She returned her hand to under her chin.

"I don't— Existing is not enough. I've even tried complimenting your cooking, nothing ever draws you ou—"

"Is that the only reason you'd comp—"

"God Dana. I," he leaned back in the chair and stared at that hidden stack of smudgy paper lines, "I want in, this life of yours. I'm not here for the assorted veggies, to learn to be a farmer, roughing it in the woods. You're— How do I fix this? How do I change the past for you?"

She turned to the window.

"You were sewing clothes that night, just before you ran away."

"I was sewing a tent, so I could."

He stood, turned toward the door, then stopped. He sat again. "Were you running away, from me?"

She fixed the blanket by her shoulder.

"Were you?"

She pressed a finger to the glass; its warmth melted a halo of light around her touch.

"Don't you know how this eats at me. The guilt, of all that's unforgiven."

"I don't blame— We've—" She scraped a line in the frost with her fingernail, flakes falling to the bed, back to him. "I wear the dress at night, for you."

He felt such a fool.

They played cards at the little table with the deck Ellie had given them. It passed the time nicely until noon. They would have their first snow by the end of the day, not that it changed anything, their world was inside this one room.

Acorn bread didn't rise much. Flat like a pancake, it was hard like all crust. Dana promised she could make it rise next summer, but it required yeast and something called keeping a Herman, whatever that was. Flat was fine. It was different. It dipped well in soup and worked as a dessert when baked and drizzled with honey.

Fish was a nice change too, once a week if they could. Today's was fried, with a side of some of her potato-flakes mixed with water. It wasn't the same as fresh mashed, but it was powerful close.

They finished the day playing cards until bed. She never changed out of the dress.

The windows frosted over while she washed in the tub, his back pressed to its outside.

"... so now, you're saying you want to try for a deer this year?" he said.

"Yeah, I think we should. I mean, look, it's past mating season so they're now competing for food. We're not looking for something so big we can't drag home, but sure, we should."

He was silent.

Water softly dripping, she rubbed her bad knee. "Something too big for you to drag home, I should say."

"Well, it's just, I thought you were more into veggies?"

She suppressed a snicker, "What gave you that idea?"

He looked at all the sweating jars dripping rings from the rafters, mostly vegetables in every one.

"Look, I like something you can chew too. Plus, every buck we take down leaves more food for does to find. It's not like they stick around to help with the kids or anything."

He folded his arms and looked down at the floor. "So, that's where all the anger comes from."

She splashed the back of his head.

He rolled toward the bed, well out of range for another. In reflex, he faced the tub. He saw nothing, she was hidden behind bubbles and wooden sides, just her head, and a hand gesturing him back. He complied.

"I'm not angry, 'deer' Derik," she said, her feet and hands out for the remainder of her soak. "And I certainly have no plans to do away with you, when I'm done, with you."

"What are your plans, then?"

"I figure you for the kind of deer that wants the raising almost as much as the making. That's clearly more, endearing."

"Doe." He looked at his shirt. The water she splashed should have soaked in by now, instead it had mostly run off. Interesting.

With a towel wrapped around her hair and the top of her head, they sat on the bed, knee to knee, hand to hand. Tracking a deer was hard work, but his talent made it easy, when he could use it openly. Had they left on any of the next four days, they would have found a buck each time, but it would be too big or too far away to reasonably manage. But, if they left on the morning of the fifth, they could surprise one of average size, close to home.

While he was snooping, he couldn't help but look elsewhere, to try to foresee fights and the words to steer clear or change them into winning conversations, but to no avail. Reading her was fickle some times.

Perhaps that was for the best. Readings like that had led to his worst missteps so far. But it was simply too tempting not to try.

The 'fifth' was very cold, but all those summer rabbits and squirrels stitched into decent coats, hats, gloves, and general winter wear. Dressed the part, they headed out, bow and crossbow.

They hiked over a mile through shin-deep snow, but it was worth it. He pointed it out, far in the distance, scratching its antlers against a tree. She steadied her shot by leaning against a strong trunk while waiting patiently for it to wander into the perfect shot.

Thwank Thwank!

The second wasn't needed; it dropped, muffled in snow, over a hundred steps away.

They waited long enough to cock the crossbow, but it was more to make sure it was dead while they remained at a safe distance. An angry buck was not something either wanted to sneak up on. If it was dead, it wasn't going anywhere; if it wasn't dead, then this was the best spot to finish it from.

They walked up on it. One hit center, just behind the front shoulders, the other was clean through its neck.

If it suffered, it was very little.

With rope and pulleys strung onto the nearest tree, they drained and dressed it on the spot, then drug the useful parts home. Deer steaks ruled, but like the Findicks, they froze the rest in shoveled snow, boxed on the shadiest side of the house.

She had washed the first few loads of clothes, now it was his turn. Milkweed cloth tended to float. It had to be forced under the water and wrung by hand, and even then it always popped back to the surface. She found his struggles amusing, eventually sharing her secret of using bricks to weigh them down long enough to soak.

It wasn't cotton.

As he hung them, it became apparent she may have just hurried him along to free up her tub for the afternoon. She did so enjoy a good, long soak, once a week at least. She washed more often than that, as did he, but not in the luxury of a hot bath, just a shower from a leaky wooden bucket hung over the tub.

He pried off the top of a vegetable jar, but wasn't sure of the smell. He fished out the test leaf of lettuce wedged in the top. It looked ok, so he sampled a corner. The seal had worked. He fried up the steaks and added the mixed veggies, sampling them again. The lack of tomatoes had thrown the smell off.

After a mostly silent dinner, he started fetching water for the tub, for the second time today. He had learned the perfect level for her was two palms shy of the top, that was still eight or so trips. Boiling water, even with their biggest bowl, would have taken forever. Instead, when the level was right, he used a wet stick to hook out the row of extra blocks inside the stove, then sunk them into the tub. They made a steamy hiss as they bubbled to the bottom. A dozen of them was all it took to make the jars in the attic sweat.

She kissed him this time, before sliding in.

The perfect end to a grand meal.

Most of her washing conversation was spent on the hunt, some improvements she wanted to make to the bow, and a discussion on how much meat to dry for posterity. He mostly just listened, watching the windows fog over, then fade into frost.

George had enjoyed the hunt a little too much, the brutality of the kill even more. Dana's feel had hints of sadness that she tried not to show. Deer were beautiful creatures, graceful in their gait, proud like horses in their stance. Nothing was more stunning than that jump over brush without so much as a rustling from the landed on leaves. Magical in a way. As hard as bunnies and squirrels were to a garden, their playful, inquisitive ways made it a shame to feed on them as well. It was simply a necessity, something they had resigned themselves to. Such was the fate of even the most caring piglet.

He hadn't thought about that in a while.

She was silent too.

Perhaps they had turned the same page this day?

He listened as she washed her hair.

They played wordless games of cards before bed.

Some mornings like this, when he woke at a most unreasonable predawn, he was left with little to do but practice sketches. He seldom posed her, except today, when he had worked her dress off one shoulder. His page so far was half her back to the corner of a closed eye, but he was plagued with trying to fake her smile.

He kissed her until she drew the lines for him to capture.

Perhaps his best yet, he held it before the fire. He had pictured this a hundred times in his mind, like he had said something funny, touching, or cute, and she would turn with this exact look, just before a big warm hug.

He had yet to see it for real, at least, not this easily.

He lightened a smudge with a rub on drawn chin. He found hope in these visions of his, added to the hidden pile.

He coaxed another smile, just to keep in practice.

After a week of deer steaks, he was weary of them as well. The pond had long since frozen over so, unless they hatcheted for an hour, the once weekly fish were out.

But that didn't mean they were locked into another tedious day. The pond had frozen and thawed often enough that it was now a smooth, hard surface, perfect for a day of running, slipping, and sliding around. A quick run from the garden then a spinning slide to the island. My, oh my, how much spontaneous fun it was, and the perfect foreplay to an evening of soup.

She was getting around much better. They had even raced for a while before turning into some sort of skating dance. But she wasn't perfect yet. She tired faster than she should. When she ran away from home, so many years ago, he lived in a constant short-of-breath trying to keep up with her. Today, he could have gone until dusk; instead, he watched the sun hide behind the trees as she snuggled under a blanket in bed, exhausted.

He had another bowl. He remembered canning this jar mid summer, yet it tasted as fresh as yesterday. She was a great cook with simple ingredients. No fancy herbs or spices and all her recipes were taken to huge portions. He fished for beans, corn, spinach strands, and a potato chunk complete with skin. Any combination was good. Even okra and halved brussels-sprouts had somehow made it that much better.

He quietly brought in a last load of wood before playing some solitaire at the table.

He had no regrets about running after her, even if he played most hands alone.

He was unsure how this argument even started, beyond a room this small was bound to lead them there. She had him retreated to the middle of the floor.

"... If I started sleeping without clothes, do you think that would leave nothing between us?" She said, standing at the edge of the bed. "Would feeling me up, give you a better feel of me?" She fixed the dress's fallen sleeve before backing him to the tub. "Would being under you, lead to a greater understanding of me?" Most of her anger had turned calm.

He stared at the floor, wishing he remembered how all of this had begun.

"You claim to know what you want of me." She slid her hand down the front of his pants.

He fell into the tub, stunned by actions outside her character.

"I'm not the only one, not ready." She returned to the head of the bed and patted the middle for him to sit.

He struggled out of the tub.

"If I had a daughter, who met a boy as we first met," she rested a hand on his leg, "I would tell her to run far away from him."

He looked at the back of her hand.

"Had he then told guards how best to torture her—"

"It saved you from worse."

"Did it?"

He wouldn't interrupt again.

She removed her hand. "Had I a daughter, who was only treated as you have me over this last year, had she told me stories of you and pigs, Ellie and George, I might be tempted to advise her to give him a chance. To see who he is over the coming years."

He looked her in the eyes.

"But I'd never tell her to live with him first. Never. It's no way to know the heart of a man. You've asked me to marry you every year since we met. How would my saying yes have changed this day? Do you think it would suddenly fill all these idle moments with sex? Why would I want someone who was boring beyond that one event?

I don't want what the Findick's have, and I'm not talking about the house. I've changed my mind several times over you."

He caught her smile.

She lay on her side, feet tucked behind where he sat. "This has less to do with our past, than it does about our future," she yawned, "future boy."

He climbed over her, closest to the window.

She leaned back into him. "I like holding hands. I like most of the things we do. You're much improved at kissing." She made sure he was listening. "That's important, to me."

He worked the blanket with his foot.

She yawned, then adjusted herself, one last time. "You keep knocking louder at that same closed door." She rubbed his stomach with her elbow, "Try a serenade at the open window."

He remembered how it had started, by kisses he pressed too far. She went to bed early, often sleeping late. He had gotten too free with his filling of those hours he had all to himself. He wasn't the least bit tired, but he lay as still as possible. Overwhelmed by the need to apologize, but he had kept her up far too late as it was. Words made weak remedies for deeds, he could do better.

He was never sure when she fell asleep. What was that fine line, where rest ended and dreams began? She slept totally still, often in such a position that prevented him from getting more comfortable. When they slept in separate beds, he must have tossed and turned half the night away. He couldn't do any of that now. Not with her. Maybe she wasn't sleeping more, maybe he was sleeping less? No, he was never tired. Stop— He needed to stop this 'blame her' train of thought.

The fire flooded the room with plenty of light, too much for sleep to find him. Bright enough to read by, but, if the morning rays weren't enough to wake her, then this lesser light wasn't enough to keep her up. Like it did him.

He looked around, bored. He looked at her, but turned away before those so wrong thoughts filled his head again. Part of him had expected a yes from her to fill his idle time. It sounded silly turned to words, said by her.

He moved her hair to better stare at the back of her head. Daughter.

Daughter.

She had phrased it that way for a reason. Something to ponder, while waiting for the room to dim to dreams.

In the morning, it was like last night hadn't happened. She held some grudges for years, but this wouldn't be one of them. He spent most of the morning still pondering her choice of words, advice for a daughter.

He wanted to play on the pond again, but her morning limp counted that out.

"Can I see them?" she asked, sitting on the chair.

He was confused until she pointed above the bed. "Sure."

She looked through them, a studied minute on each in the stack. She was careful to hold them individually by the edges, minimizing the shuffle to keep smears down.

It was hard to read her expression. He was half nervous, half expecting a grade or critique with every silent page.

"You've gotten better, since you used to draw me in your room. We can make some inks, colors and such next spring if you want," she said, neatly stacking them on her lap.

"I'm kinda liking the dirty fingers thing right now. It's got," he rubbed his fingers together, "grit."

She smiled, then handed them back. "It's a fine paper too."

He stood on the bed to put them back, then looked around the room. A tub was most of the far wall, fireplace centered, opposite the door, and she was sitting on one of only two chairs beside the inside table, just big enough for a pair of plates. From atop the bed, he could jump to any corner without his feet touching the floor; instead, he sat in the corner where bed met window and shared adjacent walls. Small. Full. Still looking at her.

She crossed her legs. Very lady-like.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

She smoothed her fingers through her hair.

He had never tried one while she was awake.

It proved much harder. Not that she moved, but he found that staring at her while she was awake, took on a different feel. Asleep, he could imagine she had left her body behind to visit a dream. Asleep, she was just shapes. Now, studying her form felt like going through someone's house while they were home.

He got over it though.

She hung it beside the stove. It kinda looked like it had always belonged. He would have spent more time on it, had he known where it was going. It was just her, sitting at the table by half of an empty chair.

The snow came down for the next four days, an unsettling creak-test of the roof. It held. The snow tapered down to ankle deep by the door, then nearly to his waist within the next step out. It was another good reason for the overhang design. It was impossible to find flowing water and impractical to hatchet through that much ice, so they simply melted snow for water.

Because it took enormous effort to get firewood, he always brought in a full day's worth. Had he been reading her as much as he used to, he would have restacked as much wood as could fit next to the front door. As it was now, he had to pry loose the frozen logs, or whale on them until they broke free in clusters, then thaw them next to the fire which left puddles of water on the floor. Live and learn.

He thought about the last few months, comparing it to when they were young. Her tribe were refugees, brutally driven from their homes. His village was to be yet another in a long list to turn them away at the door. Hers were mostly the very young or the very old, mixed with many wounded or sick. Nobody wanted them in their midst. He changed his elders' minds as easily as cheating at cards, shuffling decks of words stacked with the most persuasive speeches he could glimpse in their futures. It was deceitful, but decisively effective, and just as easily, he talked them into putting her in his room.

He had foreseen her getting abused when roomed with the others and had always believed that he had saved her with his nobility. He hadn't. He had other reasons. He could have brought about the same outcome a dozen other ways without bartering for her. He was a child, as she was, but he knew better, even then.

Her tribe was looked down on, made to earn their keep by doing chores others had distaste in doing. Hauling firewood, weeding, gardening, slopping after the animals. She did them for years, from her first days, well into late teens. Calluses had long been a part of her life, just a recent part of his.

She sprawled him to the ground with a single punch to his jaw when he snuck that first kiss of her lips, barely into puberty. It took two grown men to keep her from beating the rest of that fist lesson in. She had always been more than a match for him. That had tragically changed. Hard work had grown him. Those well-defined legs of hers still held their shapely form, just that cut of definition was starting to show on him.

For the first time in their lives, he actually had a chance of taking her, should he be that kind of a man. The thought crossed his mind more often than it should. George was crude in a lot of ways, but some things he bluntly understood.

Derik forced the thought from his head.

A bath was out, sort of. She had now gone longer than two weeks with just enough water for a few showers and a lot of washing up. It took a full day with the tub mounded in snow to melt enough water for her, the floor was kept in a constant drafty cold. She had been feeling crummy for nearly a week, and he was desperate to lift that depressing mood.

He closed his eyes, shoulders even with its rim. Sounds of water dripped to either side of his ears. He had heard it often enough, this was the part where the washing was about to end. First one leg, then the other. Then that sigh of full relaxation as she reclined.

His mind kept drawing the picture of how she must have looked from the rafters, foot to either side, inviting pillows of drifting bubbles slowly breaking away. He opened his eyes, but the image remained. All he had to do was turn his— her knuckles rapped the back of his head; a gentle fist of his hair turned his stare back to the bed before she let go. Damp fingers through his hair combed out the mess her grip had made. She even dampened the cowlick down.

He suddenly realized it wasn't for honor, polite conversation, or too rude to ask him to wait in the cold outside, it was more the knowledge of the ever-present window and that day he'd eventually look in. The urge to turn voyeur would surely have been too strong for him. Here, even though he was within inches, she could keep an eye on him. She made so much sense some times, if only he was better at listening.

Way smarter than he gave her credit for.
**B5.C13**

He loved her acorn bread when she baked it with chunked walnuts and a dab of honey. It made the perfect breakfast food and about the only thing he never tired of eating. Simply amazing, and so easy to make that even he eventually mastered it.

He had baked it most of the morning in the hopes that that fresh out-of-the-oven taste and smell would change her mood. His best crust yet, but even he could only eat half a slice, sitting alone in his underwear. He had been holding the remaining piece next to his lips in a foolish idea that its tempting odor would awaken his appetite, if only one nibble at a time.

It didn't. He returned it to the table in defeat, and her still empty chair.

The sun was up, not quite above the trees, but the reflection off the glassy, white snow outside flooded the room with light. Rows of laundered clothes hung from every available spot above and around the end by the tub. Some were still damp to the touch, not that he was in any rush to hurry them back on. Milkweed was harder than cotton to wash, and it took longer to dry. But what was time, they had too much it seemed.

She hadn't limped for a while now, no noticeable morning pains, but her mood of late had not been a happy one. Mopey. With little else in the room of interest, he looked back at her. Still in bed. The covers were kicked to a pile by her feet shortly after he stoked the fire. It got hot fast in a room this small. Simple bra and panties, she was curled on her side.

She had an old bra of Ellie's, but she tended toward the scarf like ones. She adjusted them often. He had taken that as a sign of discomfort, but over the months of close confinement, it became clear that was not the case. She had a lot of them, mostly leftover cuts from other clothes, but it was obvious she could sew a better design if she wished. No, the constant adjusting was because she could always make it more comfortable, tighter when she needed more support, looser when she was less active, or now, peacefully asleep.

He stared at what he could see that wasn't hidden behind her arms and those hands tucked under her chin. No matter how hard he studied, it remained a mystery how she tied it, and he was unlikely to ever get the opportunity to watch her while she put one on.

He suddenly realized his stare had lasted entirely too long and was now wholly inappropriate.

Her panties were much like his, made to be easily mistaken for shorts, but he didn't linger there either.

She stretched her legs as she rolled to her back, wad of blanket falling to the floor.

He hadn't had a good look at her scar since the barn. Left side of her bellybutton, it stretched from below panties' edge to bottom of her ribs. It rode up and down with each slow breath, changing lines and shadows. She should be so very not alive right now. It simply wasn't possible to survive what she had.

He moved the chair closer, careful not to make any sliding sounds.

He rested a hand on it. His fingers traced every torn line, some still slightly raised may never feel normal again. No matter how he positioned his palm and fingers, he couldn't cover it all. It was all too easily forgotten when concealed by clothes. This wasn't something she could simply take off. Forever was a long time.

Her hand slid to his wrist and took his fingertips an inch below her waistband to the very edge of her scar. Her eyes opened only a sliver to filter out the offending light before she slid his fingers to the other side, then pressed them down, harder than he ever would.

He felt the little lump, missing from her left. "I was, going to tell you, somehow," he said.

She frowned slightly before rolling toward the window where shade could still be found.

He looked at her back, the line of her spine, just out of his reach.

She was the prettiest thing his eyes had ever seen, yet he looked away.

He thought over his efforts of the last few days. He had tried a hot bath, tightening the strands under the bed, baking, cooking, and a dozen other little things but had simply run out of ideas. Her mood was hers to change. There was nothing he could do but suffer through it.

He waited for his clothes to dry so he could go outside, not that there was any reason to. He stared at the stack of wood at the foot of the tub, leftover from the night before. He put the chair back, then stepped outside in nothing more than shorts and slippers to lower the shutter outside her window.

She lay like that the rest of the day.

He spent as much of it as he could outside, fully clothed and then some. He took her crossbow, just in case, but he made too much noise wandering around. He could have gotten lost a couple times had it not been for the chimney smoke and ample tracks in the snow.

It was simply unbearable to see her like this.

He tucked the blanket around her, back still toward the room, while he spent the night in the chair.

The chair proved less than an ideal place to fall asleep, but he couldn't take another night when she was like that. Distant, yet under the same sheets. His legs felt odd, like he had been standing all day, head a little blurry, and the start of a nasty ache. All those minor faults fell away when she woke with a smile at the first morning's ray.

It changed everything.

They were still cabin bound, middle of the winter, but it was suddenly warmer than any wood could fuel a fire. "Well, good morning." He handed her a warmed slice of yesterday's bread.

"Don't we have some blackberries—"

"Wait," he jumped up, "I remember where!" He found the jar over the tub. Why in the world didn't he think about them sooner? It wasn't much, they had eaten most of them fresh off the thorny stalks, but they tested canning with about an inch or so in the bottom of a quart jar. Spread on bread it would go a long way, yet, it fell too thin for fixings in a pie.

Now that was a breakfast worth smiling about.

She was a little cabin-crazy too. After lunch, they walked a lot of stress out. This time he remembered the silly-looking eye-masks she had made especially for noon walks in bright snow. They walked around the pond first, then the garden, finally winding down the path to the massive oaks. He had left the nets up, and they had snapped to the ground quite some time ago, overfilled with snow. Rotted and ruined, broken lower branches, he felt horrible about it.

To her it was, amusing. "I didn't expect to get but a few seasons out of them anyway," she said, comforting him with a hug. "I think this opening would be perfect for a big field of milkweed. Not enough direct sunlight here for a garden, but moving them here could free up enough room to double the size by the pond."

"Double? You got some buyers in mind for the surplus?"

"Triple, eventually, and yes. One good year doesn't ensure another."

There were tracks everywhere as he inspected the nets. They weren't just jammed full of snow, but leaves and nibbled acorn shells as well. They had gotten around a hundred pounds of flour from these trees, and it looked like after they had appeared to peter out, they suddenly dropped another mother-load. Even had it not rotted, the chew-holes made it a repair nightmare.

He tested one of the beads. Frozen solid. Winter rendered them easily defeated.

"It doesn't matter that much, Derik. We got enough from them this year, and we'll know to get even more next fall."

He dropped his investigation, finding more ways those little rats made it onto his trees.

"We could probably live fine off of just these few alone, if I wasn't so sure it would drive you squirrelly."

He started walking away.

"Oh, come on," she added a mini-pout. "They can't all be gems!"

She sprinted to catch up.

"I know what you can find me for my birthday," she said.

"I think you missed that a while back."

"I'd like to find an apple tree, or pears, or even some cherry."

"Yeah, ok, but... " He stopped walking and stared at his snow clad feet. "Look, I don't know what any of that looks like."

She smiled, "An apple is this red fruit—"

"I get that."

She pressed her forehead to his temple; her hat fell onto the snow as he could feel her smiling, inches from his red cheek.

He stepped away from her. "Look, I get that I'm not as bright as you. Of the many things in life, that one's been apparent for some years now."

She picked up her hat.

"I know what apples look like, I'm not that stupid."

Her face matched his seriousness, "I'm sorry, of course I know you do." She brushed the snow off her hat before stuffing her long hair under it. "That was wrong of me to say." She pretended to scold herself.

They walked in silence to the site she had picked as ideal for a house. She broke off several branches and drove them into the ground to mark the edges of certain shadows.

She had driven the last one a few minutes ago; he was still holding the stick. "I wasn't trying to be mean," she said. "I suppose I've been in a bad mood for no good reason. I was trying to say thank you for all you've done. It came out wrong, huh? I can be stupid sometimes too. As long as it's not at the same time, it'll all work out fine."

He let go of the stick.

"You're right, you know. We don't need anything extra. We can just plant enough to get by next year. I'm not trying to work you into an early grave. I want you around for a long while, we don't need a bigger house. We lived just fine for years in your room. We can take it easy for a few years, if you want. That's fine by me.

What we have, what you've gotten us is plenty. It's just not big enough, if you wanted more."

He looked up. That funny raccoon-looking mask made her eyes impossible to read.

"Two plus three."

"Triples the garden."

Math that simple even he understood. They headed home.

It took very little wood to keep that tiny house toasty. Two logs in the morning, one or two during the day, then two or three just before bed. It was nothing in comparison to what the barn or the Findick's took. A modest stack of wood should last a month. His early estimations were way off. It had a low ceiling like the barn, solid wood sides, thick, heat-holding blocks in the stove. It was well made with tight fitting windows and door. Most of the roof was several inches thick with dried cedar needles as batting along the arch. Every little bit helped. He carried in five logs for the rest of the day and something to start tomorrow with.

Inside, it was a race to strip off all but that last layer of clothes.

It was plenty warm, but he added the littlest log anyway.

She poured a mug of her chilled vegetable juice to go with the rest of that morning's bread, then sat on the chair closest to the fireplace. "You know, we haven't had as many fights as we used to," she said. "I kinda miss that."

He adjusted the logs in the fire with a damp hardwood stick.

"It's easy to fall into those old roles."

He sat on the chair beside hers.

"I may have made all the jars, but they'd look very empty, without you. Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do, that's not the kind of life I want. And I'm certainly not saying you do XY&Z and I'll suddenly start putting out. You know me better than that. My chances of having a child are half what they were, while the risk of leaving her motherless has doubled.

If we had the Findick's house, that wouldn't change. It'll be years yet. You know that. I'm not going anywhere. This doesn't compare to their home, George doesn't compare to you."

He almost blushed.

"I'm not going to win any beauty contests with Ellie either." She washed down the last of her slice, "You better hope her little girl, doesn't look anything like you."

On that they both laughed.

George would not have found it funny.

As winter slowly melted away, they cooked up the last of her milkweed juice. They poured it hot onto the outside picnic table then smoothed and rolled the puddle out as thin and wide as possible before it cooled. It hardened to a clearish yellow cloth-like sheet, worthless as a window but perfect for a mini greenhouse. A kinda starter kit for the garden. As explained, they could improve production by getting a two-month head start on the growing season. They would at least double the size of the garden by the pond by moving all the milkweeds to around the oaks. Hardly anything bothered to eat milkweed, every rodent wanted into the garden.

Not quite triple, but a step in the right direction.

Steamed branches helped shape a decent skeleton to stretch the plastic over, about twice the size of a tent and just two-foot high. Scrap planks of wood mounded with a mix of compost, soil, and dark ash from the fireplace would reach early springtime temperatures under its translucent arch. Their first batch of seeds were planted just as close as possible and still get them to sprout. If it didn't work, they hadn't wasted but a small handful of seeds and a few hours of time. If it worked, they could transplant this mini garden and be eating fresh vegetables months ahead of time. Blackened rocks around the edges and a few scattered down the middle helped hold the heat on overcast days and through the chill of nights.

He checked the traps and rearranged the tripping sticks; it was in the garden but a little less than protected, since none of the windows faced that way. She wasn't perfect after all.

It looked strong enough to take a hard snow, but he hoped they wouldn't find out.

They had nothing to lose. And it was something new to fill the day.

Distractions, they needed all the distractions they could get.

When he went to bed that night, she let him play in her head. It had been months, maybe since they went for the deer, and this was done the same way. Relaxed, face to face, sitting in bed.

When she wanted to be read, it made a difference. He took another breath, timed with one of hers. Four days from now, a raccoon would get too curious, climb past the traps, and shred its way through the plastic covers. He would have to wait up for it, too clever to be fooled by deadfalls. It was probably the little thieving bandit he never caught last year. Sneaking ears, tomatoes, taking bites out of dozens of green peppers, leaving the rest to rot.

He pushed further.

A hard freeze, several frosts, a light dusting of snow, and some strong winds that would toss it into the woods if they didn't tie it down better. Simple fixes. A hot brick to warm it overnight a week from now, then again one night near the end of the month. Nothing serious.

He pressed further, but he saw little more than the weather.

The rest could wait.

A pleasant night in bed.

He tried to read her again after she fell asleep. His curiosity extended beyond the weather and little gardening projects, but nothing else would come.

He hugged her from behind, like so many nights before, his back under a drafty window. He felt guilty for trying to read too far, worse for thinking of asking her to take a turn under its cold trickle; he adjusted the blanket instead.

He hid his eyes in strands of her hair, now dark enough to sleep.

He had gotten good at sneaking out of bed to stoke the fire, then climbing back in without waking her. This morning was no exception. The room warmed quickly; it was the sun that was taking its time rising, just an orange haze through the tree line.

She would wake soon, had he not been so practiced at keeping her asleep. Face down, her head on the pillow faced into the room. He started at her neck, slowly progressing lower. She had gained a little weight over winter, no one place, just a softer feel and a harder press to hint at bones. Her spine had once been easily visible, now it was this soft recess between shoulder blades.

He inched the blanket down, no lower than needed.

He worked his hand under the straps Xed across her back. Each pass from side to side loosened it ever more. Freckles. What was it about her freckles that captivated him so? He had known others covered in them, mostly redheads it seemed, but was never so lost, so mesmerized as by her few. Each of prominence was surrounded by a fainter one or two, all counted less than a dozen, imperceptible to the touch. Touch. There was such a contrast to when she had gotten so thin, eating with a painful jaw.

He closed his eyes, lying on his side, pressed to her. Her back fascinated him. This place her eyes would never see, he had all to himself. These perfected circles could undo hours of tedious labor, muscles and nerves, a total array of nearly all her motions, passed and pulled, referenced beneath his fingertips.

She was utterly vulnerable to any action he did, impossible to see, harder to defend.

Always welcoming, to him. It proved the easiest way, to sooth her hardest day.

He opened his eyes. The straps of her bra were completely loose. He had no way to retie it, and only knew they went around the front. He briefly read her. He had time still.

He slid closer.

Three little dimples, two near her spine, one below her left shoulder blade, he remembered them well. Like freckles now, they added to the spell. When they were children, he could never have touched someone like this without being drowned in visions. Elders and teachers, the brightest of his village spent hours mentoring him, but it was she who taught him self-control. Something still being taught.

She knew him far better than he knew her back.

Waking couldn't be stopped now. He rested his arm down the center of her back, hand on her bare shoulder.

She started to sit, but he held her down. "Your thingy, came undone," he whispered.

She made a fist of her closest hand, knuckles pressed to his chin as she turned his head away, to the window. Had it not been so slow, it could have easily passed for a replay of their first kiss.

He faced that way until he was sure she was dressed.

Dark and cold outside, he lay insulated in layers of dried milkweed straw, a waterproof blanket, then topped with a layer of snow. Rabbit fur hat, crossbow cocked and aimed as he lay in wait for an overdo mischievous raccoon. The hot brick by his feet helped, but this in no way compared to what awaited inside as soon as he could scratch this uninvited guest off the list.

A week had passed since he foolishly undid her bra. She didn't get mad, but she hadn't worn only undies to bed either, covered in long-sleeve shirts that buttoned down the front.

He tried to hold still, but the urge to sneeze— he wanted to run back inside, let it eat whatever it wanted— He didn't care anymore! This waiting, hour after hour without moving or scratching any of a thousand new— This was insane!

Calm down... Calm... Just, be still.

Relax.

But not so relaxed as to fall asleep. The only thing worse than spending the night outside in the cold, covered in snow, would be to have done it for nothing. Just wait, it'll come. His visions were never wrong.

Well, mostly.

How was it he ended up out here anyway? She was a much better shot, tons more patience, how was it— They never even discussed it!

Inside and warm, she was probably asleep already. He scratched his nose with a wipe on his sleeve.

She was inside because it was her bed. It was hers because they could have a fight of any vigor he could imagine, and he could be totally in the right, but it would still be him, sleeping outside or in the chair. It was her house, for the same reason.

Her life. Hers. Never his.

They were vastly different people.

He was best suited for living in a village. His talent could be turned into currency as easily as Icyal's fraud was. It was a talent lost on Dana, wasted, mostly unused. Dana was the one for isolation, not him. Yet alone in the snow he was.

Healing. She was powerful indeed, but at the highest of price. No marketable value. That wasn't to say she had no value. Teacher, craftsman... Dearest friend. Brilliant in her own right, she just wasn't one for crowds.

He had a choice at the top of that mountain. He could have made it to town by himself. He could have lived a grander life than this, never soiling his hands with gardens and firewood, weeds and seeds. He just couldn't have the village, and her too.

He liked to think it was his care that saved her. He was doubting that more of late. She was not easily killed. Wild dogs never messed with her before, a serpent like his was put on her, but couldn't bring itself to do her harm. His breaking point had been easily found, shamefully quick, hers... He wiped his eye on his sleeve; he had never asked if she had been raped. The thought of that unknown was burden enough, drifting across his mind from time to time, but the truth could easily break him, when it hadn't broken her.

It was her bed, her house. And as warm and comfortable as it was, he couldn't have slept a moment's peace, if she was the one out here.

Thwack!

About time.

He kicked snow on it, grabbed the blanket, then ran inside.

It would keep until tomorrow, but it could rot for all he cared.

**B5.C14**

Expanding the garden was hard work, whittling deadfall traps, rearranging heavy logs. Digging, spreading, picking, weeding, it was a nightmare amount of work, but by the time they were finished, the garden covered most of the clearing before the pond. All the land worth covering, including every inch surrounding the house, was now garden, with the exception of that too close to the trees and too shady to grow much of anything.

Prep around the oaks was easy, a quick burning of leaves, raking of ash, followed by generous spritzing of seeds, a nice mix of milkweed and wild grass, clover and other easily collected wild varieties. They had plenty of blackberry seeds, but he planted them in rows along the sunniest side of the clearing as well as closer to home along the line where garden met woods.

Planting milkweed was easy; it was their legacy of determined remainders from last year that was the nightmare. Their persistence taught him the true meaning of weed. He learned something else about them, they were best pulled only after several consecutive days of hard rain; otherwise, three would sprout from the thread-like roots that remained.

Her greenhouse trick had worked splendidly, and they all took to being transplanted, thriving while the rest of the garden was only starting to sprout.

The discarded pulp from the crushed acorns decomposed into a black mulch, as did the raked leaves from under nearby trees. Fine, rich, dark soil. This had the makings of a great crop, but it consumed most of their time.

Spring had fully come.

At first it was a little irritating, not only had she been denying him the privilege of her sleeping in undies, she covered them with one of his shirts. She had a nasty habit of picking a clean one from his pile and wearing it to bed for weeks at a time. Then, usually only when he had nothing else to wear, she would give it back, all dented out, smelling of her.

He had been so angry about it at first. But now, it was kinda all right. Whenever he weeded the garden, hands and knees for minutes, then sat up to fix the crick in his back, it was almost like he could feel her there, still inside the same shirt. Her arms in his sleeves, warmer than a hug. Kinda nice to never be alone. So what if she stretched it a little, it was in the nicest of places.

The ice-packed deer wouldn't last many more of these hot days. They thawed then jerked all that was left, minus the steaks grilling for dinner, and celebrated the end of spring's hard labor. They deserved it. This year she had pitched in, kneeling and weeding the row beside him. He had forgotten how hard a worker she was.

They picnicked outside. The pond was a beautiful thing to look at, calming just to have it so near. There was just something about that body of water, the sound of the creek that fed it, those trickling away. Crickets and frogs. The only thing it was missing was fried cantaloupe.

Twelve baby ears of corn on the cob, soaked in water then grilled in their husks, nearly made up for it. They were so tender and sweet that even the cobs were edible, nearly sugary sweet.

The new clothes didn't take kindly to stains, ground in dirt rinsed off, no scrubbing required. Grass didn't leave a hint of green, and thorns were no harder on these than normal jeans. And no one was more surprised than he when they took that first after-supper swim, fully clothed.

His shirt tucked in, he floated for the first time in his life without treading water. His legs drifted near the surface, arms buoyant by his sides. This was simply amazing cloth!

He drifted around, effortlessly. The front of his shirt hugged the surface like an enormous air-bubble was caught beneath it.

He had to swim over and share his discovery, "Why would anyone make clothes out of anything else!"

"Cotton's easier."

He could almost hear the 'you idiot!' part she kindly left off. "I mean, it's not me, is it? If everybody made clothes out of this, nobody would ever drown again."

"It loses about half its buoyancy after six or eight hours, to almost none at the end of a day."

"At least it's not like a cotton anchor. I mean, it's keeping me up."

"You're cute when you're all, overexcited. They used to use it for the stuffing in life-preservers, probably still do somewhere." She leaned in to kiss him, "I'm going in before I start to prune." She gave him a friendly brush before swimming to shore.

He floated closer, but didn't get out quite yet. Thankfully, it was just as see-through as cotton when wet. Just as clingy too.

She was a beautiful woman, long hair with graceful, subtle curls that drained in little trickles just below her shoulder blades. He thought of rushing after, but there was no point. She wasn't about to let him watch as she changed into something dry. He might as well float around a while more. It really was a treat to float without any effort at all. Relaxed, he took it all in.

So focused on the garden, he had forsaken all other projects. Nearly double in size, it now surrounded the house in rows of little sprouts. He didn't feel much like clearing any lands, chopping wood and what not. He had his fill of that last year. He should, but, just wasn't much motivated for it.

And she didn't push.

He had gotten rather lazy of late. Worse, she seemed ok with it.

Snap!

He grabbed the bow and sprinted into the woods. It sounded like one of the deadfalls he had reset for the dogs, just in case there were one or two more. It was so deep back that he had forgotten all about it, now hard to find with all the new green growth.

A fawn had stuck its face in one, slammed down on its neck. It was struggling, suffocating under the weight of the log; the shape of its head prevented it from pulling free. Coughing, panting, and wheezing louder the closer he came.

It seemed like torture to let it suffer so. Lining up the arrow, he pulled back the bow, best to put it out of its misery. This angle wasn't good, so he stepped to the side and aimed again. Something was coming up behind him.

Dana waved his bow down as she continued to approach. "Help me free it," she said, passing him.

It panicked as they walked closer.

She rested her hand on its kicking hind end, "Calm down, Honey." It calmed with each pet as she put her arms around its strangled neck while he lifted the log.

It collapsed to the ground, free but exhausted, wet with sweat.

"Catch your breath, Honey." She held its head as she stroked its heaving side, "You see its mom yet?"

Derik picked up the bow.

"Don't kill it, just look for it."

He looked, "I don't— I see her."

"She got another fawn around her? Sometimes it's twins."

"... I don't see one."

It hacked twice then licked its wet nose before panting more.

"She's pacing a— You worried she might attack or something?"

"She might." It had calmed enough for Dana to survey the gashes on its neck, one ear, and the side of its face. They didn't seem deep enough to be fatal. An ankle was mangled in the frantic struggle. "You think you can make it to the house?"

"Sure, what do you want me to bring back?"

She was amused. "He always thinks he's the subject of every conversation," she said near the fawn's ear. She helped it stand then limped it to the first path leading home.

It had big brown eyes like a mini-horse, clearly terrified with the full knowledge it couldn't get away.

The mother paced at the edge of the garden, refusing to venture out of the concealment of leaves and trees. They had left the garden open to such creatures on the theory that they didn't need a fence, they wanted to encourage them to some degree for hunting purposes, almost like bait.

Bandaged in scraps, Dana dabbed it with sap to stop the bleeding.

"With the risk of sounding stupid," he handed her the requested length of rope, "what are you doing?"

"I want the mother."

"What on Earth for?"

"She's nursing; eventually, she'll have to come over."

"I don't—"

"Milk... Cheese, yogurt, cream, butter—"

"I knew it had to be a good reason to risk them fouling the garden." He worked on the branches for the fawn's brace. He was a little upset he hadn't foreseen any of this.

They tied the fawn to a tree at the edge of the garden, so the deer had a chance to nurse it while they watched from a distance. They ate lunch while the doe worked up the courage to approach the little one.

It worked. Like with most of life, it just took patience.

"We need to make a fence," she said. "What do you think about hobbling together something with what's left of those ruined nets? They're no good for acorns—"

"But they'll work for keeping them in."

She grabbed him by the elbow, "Thought it might."

They had a project for the rest of the day. With hastily cut patches and knotted chunks, they strung a fence of a net around the oaks, fawn roped inside. A nonlethal trip-line would close the gate behind the mother when she came up with the courage later that night.

They spent most of the next few days, morning until dark, working to fence in the clearing, bringing the doe plenty of leaves, and keeping his boat filled with water like a trough. It was confined to a small area, they only had enough net to lap three of the closest trees. It paced constantly, clearly not a fan of small places. Like spending winter in a tiny room, he easily related.

Dana seemed to despise pines, even so, they singled them out for use in fencing with her usual twist. Most unusual, actually.

They worked together dropping pines, some at two foot, some as high as four feet off the ground. It was almost an art. It started with debarking a foot above and below where she planned to make the cut, then a careful peeling back of that living layer of inner bark. Half the times she could chop it just so, leaving one side attached when it fell, then she'd graft back the underside, wrapping and coating the whole thing in sap. Those that fell with the topside intact would continue to live no matter what; those that were grafted had a rather good chance as well.

Fallen like this, they could put up a couple hundred feet of living fence a day. The branches acted like a densely packed row of trees and shrubs. Once he was taught how, they doubled that daily footage. It was a lot of work, but the theory was sound. As long as it lived it would keep them in, and most others out; would be strong and grow stronger; and, if it died, it would still linger longer than a regular fence.

They gave it a try. She hadn't steered him wrong yet.

The field had been well seeded with wild grasses, potato, and blackberry sprouts before they turned the two free to roam under the oaks. The fawn would approach Dana on call, the doe less so. In the weeks it took the fawn to fully heal, Dana could handle either one. Fast tamed for wild creatures.

As the greenhoused corn started to get harvested, they fed the cobs and stalks to the deer. It liked bug ruined vegetables, tomatoes most of all, but would eat almost anything they brought it. Some, even out of his hand.

They had kept a row of blackberries by the edge of the garden, but those sprouted from seeds along the deer-fence seemed voracious with their speed and reach and had formed an almost impenetrable mass of thorns that wove themselves over horizontal, living trees. It was kinda neat, the deer, by sheer preference, weeded the grass and clover from the crop of milkweed. Whenever they got more than three feet tall, they harvested them to make more nets and rope.

Domesticated in less than a month. So long as the fawn was kept in the yard, the mother wouldn't run away. Not quite as strong as a horse, but stronger than the two of them, it was easily harnessed into dragging logs through the woods, once fitted with wheels of course. And as they went into the heat of summer, and the fawn was starting to wean, it was already accustomed to wearing something similar to saddlebags.

She had explained it a couple of times, but he was never sure how it worked. All he knew was he filled one jar with water, then opened a little valve that glugged a splash of water onto the ground every so many seconds. When it did, it sucked on this little cup attached to the deer, just like a fawn. It filled a jug on the other side with milk, just much less than the water it lost. Somehow it worked, that was all he really needed to know.

The first few times he put it on her, she really didn't like it. She would walk away, turn abruptly, or sidestep too often to count. But soon it became like today, where she would run to the gate at the sight of him and that funny-looking saddlebag. She stood perfectly still until it was attached, then just walked off grazing until the glugging stopped or the little cup popped off. It yielded around a quart of milk in under an hour, often getting another just before dark.

He added it to a jug kept in the stream. There was nothing finer than a cool glass of milk after a big meal. Oh, unless it was a slice of aged cheese they made with the excess. Extra sharp.

He had taken deer for granted, thinking them too stupid to avoid getting killed by people or wolves. But that wasn't the case at all. As they worked on clearing more land, the doe would stand patiently, waiting to be hooked up before she'd drag the log away. It was only when he tried to get her to do something new that there was ever any problem.

With fresh rope came yet another contraption. This one had little wheels, like a cart. It rolled to the base of a tree where an array of pulleys was assembled on the other side of it, then, as the harnessed doe walked away, it squeezed a sharpened wedge flush with the ground. Pinched over in under five minutes, it could cut all but the thickest trees that still got removed with fire.

With the doe to help and one short month, they had all the land they wanted cleared.

As strong as the doe was, it couldn't help picking the harvest. Deer were utterly useless with the canning, now that they had twice as much to do. And now that the fawn was weaned, it was producing well over a half-gallon of milk a day.

Dana had a way of canning milk too; she would let him watch, but refused for now to let him do it. Quality sand was harder to find, so canning had shifted to glazed pottery to keep up.

She made dozens, enough to fill every inch of space in the rafters, under the bed, and stacked along the walls. The tiny room had actually gotten smaller, but she was determined not to waste anything this year. They let a lot of the garden go to seed, enough to plant dozens of gardens this size for years to come.

She was right in a way. Had the greenhouse trick not worked, they would have gone three months without food. Well, more like limited to fish and foraging, or a strictly bread diet. Now they had a chance to get ahead and she intended to.

Canning milk in pottery involved more than just boiling, then sealing. Too much heat would give it a burnt taste, too little would spoil it. She also vacuumed it once, then heated it, then vacuumed it again. He remembered the pattern, but didn't really understand it much.

Without the aid of seeing what was happening inside, like he could with a glass jar, it required an expertise he lacked.

The milkweed had come in strong this year. On those that were being raised for clothes, she had showed him how and when to pinch off the buds, something she had done previously to increase the yield. For every newly formed bud pinched off, it pushed the plant to sprout four more, but understanding how and where to pinch was key. Too low and it would give up on that branch all together, too high and it would simply regrow that one bud. There was also a limit to how many times this trick could be used. Once per plant, twice in special cases. Fewer plants, highest yields, little stringy bean-looking pods were everywhere.

He was learning a lot about nature and its drive to survive, and reproduce.

With more rope and netting than they needed, those strong stem fibers were shifted to weaving sacks for storing seeds. Lots and lots of sacks. When they had enough juice to make a batch of plastic, the first things that got coated were those sacks. Easily big enough to hold ten gallons each, they were now very waterproof. It seemed an unneeded step, until he remembered the foggy, frosty windows right after a bath. Humidity.

There was enough left over for twenty extra canning rings and four more toothbrushes. And not a minute too soon, his bristles were looking a little sad after a year.

They had weaned the doe to time with fall, planning on turning the two loose for winter. The grass was gone around the oaks, the garden was nothing but dried stalks and rotting leaves. It was the same problem as keeping Smudges.

They just left the gate open until, one day, like today, they were just, gone.

It was kinda sad. They intentionally hadn't named them in an attempt not to miss them. It helped, just not as much as he hoped.

He stood at the opening of that empty, fenced in field. He had come for the acorns, sack in hand, but he couldn't go in. Not yet.

The doe used to greet him at this very spot.

Whenever he had that milking thing slung across his shoulder, she'd run over, pacing if he took too long opening the gate.

He had stopped milking her weeks ago, but she continued to come over, pacing if he took too long. He thought about how wrong all of this might have been. They didn't kill them as he thought they might, the other reason to leave them nameless. But, hadn't they given them the wrong idea about people? Had they not confused them by showing some kindness? It felt a little cruel. Cruel kindness. Was it selfish to want them back?

He walked in, acorns to collect.

The new nets were great. It seemed obvious, but he hadn't done it last year. He left a little hand-sized hole that could be tied closed near where they naturally collected. A few whacks with a stick would bounce all in the area to the hole. A quick untie and it was funneled into the bag. Simple. But it took him a year of cussing to come up with it.

He finished his rounds then headed home after closing the gate behind him. He hoped the two never stumble across George.

The pods had dried out, the stalks had taken on that twig-like stiffness. It would be time to collect them soon. It hurt nothing to let them sit though. When they had time, they would get around to it. Sure would be nice to have a few more changes of clothes. Three pairs had seemed like a fortune only last year.

They weren't worn out, nothing fraying, no tears. Few if any blemishes at all. He just wanted something new, how wrong was that? To want something just because he was tired of the old.

This year had one last trick. She had been using a nice watering pot with the garden. It seemed overly elaborate for simply watering the plants. It was glazed pottery with a long spout, its opening precisely pot-like. That had always seemed too uniform, until now.

With the seeds sufficiently dried, sorted, and ready to be bagged, came the part that was all her. She half filled the pot with water, a lid and ring like she was canning anything else, except she sealed the open end of the sack of seeds with a grip that went half down the spout. As the mug cooled, it couldn't suck much with it half filled with water, so it sucked all the air out of that waterproof sack. It sucked so hard that he could see every seed pressing their little signatures on the inside. With a firm grip where the spout was jerked out and a couple quick twists with a tight wrap of rope, it would last for years.

It even felt like a solid block inside that sack. Nothing moved, nothing shifted. Tight. It was probably overkill, but then again, why not. The better it was stored, the longer it would last. They had been lucky last year.

It just would have been nice to store some of it outside.

Before it got too cold, they reorganized the attic, adding shelves, adjusting planks, and squeezing every last inch out of the space they had. It helped. They managed to clear the cluttered floor, except for a shelf of jars in the corner by the tub and all the tools shoved under the bed.

They had officially run out of space.

They hadn't even brought in that last of all harvests, those soft fibers from the weed of all weeds. He so wasn't looking forward to standing all day with his arms over his head working like he did last year, but those extra changes of clothes would be so worth the strain.

They took all day toting those dried-up weeds back home. They weren't heavy, just awkward and now much further away. Blankets made excellent temporary bags.

That night she started hanging the loom and setting up the spindle while he got a jumpstart at the tub, breaking loose those floating balls.

A horrible chill ran down him. He broke a fistful of them underwater and shook out those buoyant strands, then madly checked their length against his thumb.

No— Oh no. This wasn't good. They were all way too short.

Hands out of the tub, dripping on the floor, he sat back and stared, sick to his stomach. He had planted the wrong seeds. He had painstakingly sorted the long from the short the year before. Two inches was about from the tip of his thumbnail to the second joint, all of these stopped at the first. He had thrown away the wrong ones. If any were here to be found, it would be by accident.

He looked over at her, still setting things up. He had to tell her, she was going to find out anyway.

"Dana... I, I screwed up."

He had her attention.

"I think, I, planted the short ones."

That sat her down too.

"I uh, I— What do you want to do, here?"

She was too quiet.

"I'm... I, I'm sorry."

He couldn't face her disappointed look anymore. A year's effort, crop, gone. He grabbed another fistful, breaking and shaking them underwater. His sloshing was the only noise in the room for quite a while as he verified the error.

"Cross-pollination," she said. "Some, by blind luck, will have to be long. Probably not enough to do much with, but it'll be enough seeds for next year. Hopefully."

That helped, but he still couldn't look at her.

"It won't go to waste, it'll make good padding for coats and pillows."

"We'll have plenty of it. Acres." He snapped off some more. He hadn't run across a single pod of useable length yet. "There were thirty or forty pods on every plant."

She went outside.

He didn't blame her a bit.

He kept washing and breaking, hoping he would find just a few long ones. He had given up on new clothes for this year, and would settle for a small handful of good seeds to replace those he had thrown away. All of this was... Just a horrible waste.

Dusk had turned to dark by the time he had broken his last pod. She had been right, of course. Out of a pile of fibers that could fill a bathtub, there were enough long ones to make a shirt. If that. The seeds were so few they could barely darken the bottom of a mug. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

She had yet to return.

Had their roles been reversed, it's hard to believe he wouldn't have yelled. But that said more about him, than it did about her.

She brought in an armful of wood for the fire.

"I, didn't want to suggest this, but," she said, looking at the disparity between the piles, "there is another way to get long fibers from milkweed. You're just not going to like it."
**B5.C15**

It was madness. Sheer madness. It involved soaking the dried stalks in warm water, sometimes for days, until the outer skin was soft enough to peel, but he had to be careful. Beneath it were long, white strands that must have been the veins and the strength behind the rope. Loose like this they were pure white, but flaked with hundreds of paper-like pieces. It couldn't be combed out, nor did it float while the other sank. There was no way other than to pick it out by hand, like peeling sunburnt skin. A long, tedious process. The stacks of this fiber grew slowly. They potentially had hundreds of times more stalk fibers than they ever could get of the other. But after spending the last few weeks of literally picking it out, strand by strand, he understood why she was so reluctant to suggest it before.

Madness.

It twilled easily and made extremely strong threads. Its strands could be several feet long and kinky throughout. It was far more cotton-like in a lot of ways, even soaked up water like a thirsty horse. It was easy to work with, just miserable to get at.

On the loom, she packed filler of the short fibers between each threaded pass to try to build it out to a thicker texture and give it some winter insulation. It also softened the cloth to a pleasant, bunny-hair feel. Not quite fuzzy, but close.

They managed a few pants, shirts, coats, and new sheets for the bed. It was ideal for two new towels and a quilt fluffed with their surplus of too-short fibers. Soft, and very warm, perfect for stuffing in pillows.

Thread was a hard thing to gauge. They ended up with far more than needed of stalk fibers. Enough that they made dozens of socks, undies, and an additional run of pants and shirts.

With his first step outside in a drizzle, he learned the difference. This year's clothes got damp, fast. Damp led straight to cold. Indoor wear, summer gardening, and in the very dry outside, they wore like regular cotton, but nothing matched that first year's batch that water tended to roll right off of. Two drastically different fibers, from the same plant, one was clearly ideal. He would not make this mistake again.

That first snow refilled the icebox around back, reminder of what else it lacked. Snow. That time had come again. But it didn't feel the same.

He spooned out the steeped dandelion roots, then added two shots of deer milk. It had this dreamy, swirly cloud that always tried to draw him down into the cup. It was a wonderful smell. He sipped it.

It still tasted like boiled roots, but then, so did coffee.

She liked it. That was the point of growing, drying, and collecting a whole jar of them. He handed it to her after she sat up in bed.

That smile was always worth it.

And she did not disappoint.

He looked out the window as the flakes drifted down, third straight day of snow. It seemed to come early this year.

He liked the way she held the mug, both hands, brought to her lips like she was drinking it through her thumbs. Just sips at first. A deep whiff before each taste. She sat in bed, pillows stacked to round out her lean against the wall. The cup was small. Had she chose, she could finish it within four quick gulps, but these she savored for nearly half an hour, reheating it by the fire from time to time to extend the savor.

He looked above her, and everything stuffed into the rafters. They had never had this much food before. Seeds enough for years of gardens to come. They didn't need to go for a deer. Rabbits were easy to bait, same as squirrels. They need not hunt this year, but they would.

They would leave next morning. Heavy clothes were already laid out, kept warm by the fire. Soup simmered for breakfast. Everything was ready.

It would be hard to fall asleep that night.

He woke, morning was still hours away.

His hand had cupped one of her— This was wrong, yet he hadn't let go. Was it wrong? Clearly she didn't mind— He would never do such a thing while she was awake, that made it wrong. Yet, he didn't remove his hand. It had been innocently placed while they were sleeping, if he moved it now, it would get cold— He was trying to justify an obvious groping!

He closed his eyes to better try and think. Just let go. Simple. It was even the right thing to do.

Like a harvest of ripe blackberries, moved from basket to jars a handful at a time, his was just such a delicate touch needed to keep from bruising or dropping a single one. This was so wrong, he felt so guilty.

Guilty, for what? If she woke now, she wouldn't yell. At worst he would get that silent look of disappointment. Not a single harsh word. Why so guilty then?

She wasn't going to wake. She was warm, pressing closer to him with every caress. He leaned over her and kissed her chin as he worked his way to the corner of her lips. Asleep, she could be extremely affectionate, adding to his every action. It was a sharp contradiction to her waking reserve.

She turned to face him.

He had let go in much the way he had found himself there. Impulse. His hand now on that ever so warm cheek, his wrist resting on the hot side of her neck. Odd how hot simply resting on a pillow would make her skin. He slowed the pace as she relaxed to her back, still very much asleep. He fought the urge to re-offend; instead, he rested his fingers on the palm of her hand. It tried to twist to hold his fingers, but with very little pressure, he pinned her hand to the bed.

Her fingers stretched in the most awkward way, just so the tips could touch his. This, was the sleeping her. Craving contact. Affectionate. When he released, she instantly held hands.

He could have had sex with her. That world lived in his head with every event he read, it just never was. He had forced an unwanted kiss on her, their first when they were oh so young. It had been a disaster that nearly ended any chance of the meaningful life he now had. This, should he push, would not end so badly. He was in no danger of receiving a busted lip. It was hard to imagine anything that could bring about that side of her, yet... he kissed her. She was there, inside, kissing him back.

Sex, she would just, be there.

He let go of her hand to better lie on his back, facing the rafters like her. He wanted her kissing back. He had been but a few deeds away for months now. It was twisting him up inside, knowing he could, seeing opportunities slipping by as— This was far worse than not knowing. He deserved this torture. He had brought it upon himself.

Her head rolled toward him.

He stared at her sleeping face through those long strands of hair.

Only their shoulders touched for now, the side of one hip, part of an arm. She would roll atop him soon. So little contact was simply not enough; yet, sex was just short of shoving her away.

She rolled.

Her hand rested exactly where his had, yet she would have no guilt over it. Nor for where her thigh rubbed, or how her nose felt so near his neck.

It was different. It was. Not because of the differences of men and women, but that of wanted, and unwanted love.

He had never French-kissed her, never fondled or groped her before. Never watched her bathe from outside. There were moments in her sleep where she remained perfectly still, paralyzed for minutes at a time. So long as he was gentle, he could do anything, yet he always followed the rules.

Rules.

He put his hand on the back of her shoulder, restoring the blanket. Rules. It wasn't a list, nor anything they had ever discussed. But just like a conversation never used certain topics or words, this was governed by rules. Manners.

They cooked for each other, yet neither took turns. If she was having a hard day, he cooked. If his had been especially difficult, there always seemed to be a fine meal waiting for him at home. He did breakfast the most, simply because he woke starved long before her, and it was impolite to eat without offering her something too. He had always made her coffee that he never drank. Dishes got washed every day, but again, it belonged to neither. Same with laundry. She had done his clothes, perhaps not as often as he, but it wasn't something anyone kept track of. He fixed her collar, it had tucked inside her shirt.

Life was a cooperation, not a competition. They fit together as well as any. He rested his other hand on her knee across his lap.

She pressed a little closer.

He would take any affection he could.

She was hard to wake that morning, but they left on time. She hesitated, as he would have, making extra sure it wasn't a deer either knew, even though it clearly wasn't a doe.

Her bath that night was totally silent. A little sad.

He turned to her, neither splashed nor turned away, just a very wet hug.

...

They weren't into winter yet, technically it was early fall. She had made a sundial, not for the hours or minutes, but to chart the seasons. Each was clearly marked. She hadn't broken it down into months or days, they didn't seem to apply anymore, but the seasons mattered to farmers, more so to seeds.

Freeze-drying now was easier than smoking in the summer, and it was a plenty cold, dry wind outside. They cooked the major portion of meat, to lock in the flavor, sliced and sized then hung it outside until dry. Sealed in a single vacuumed bag on the following days.

This left the icebox mostly empty, his vision foresaw two others, soon.

Neither were in the mood for hunting. It wasn't the same as small game. Vermin that ruined the garden deserved it, in a way. Self-defense, he rationalized. Deer were no threat to next year's garden. There was no need to keep deer populations down. But there was a truth to every buck they killed left more food for does, and no rabbit could compete with the sheer quantity or taste of deer meat.

Clothes and tools were already gathered, piled by the fireplace.

They would go, when the time came, later this evening.

It was disconcerting when its ear pricked toward them, torn like their friendly fawn. It gave both pause.

But it wasn't.

Thwomp.

Two more in the following weeks and they were thankfully done with killing for the year.

They played cards some, but mostly he played solitaire. She had taught him the basics to a few new variations, without giving away the key strategies. She might have been feeling guilty for not playing with him more.

He turned the next card as he pondered.

It was just as likely to be due to her normal good nature. He had a habit of reading too much into things. It was nice of her, whatever the reason.

She tended to spend her time looking out the window, taking walks outside. She was much better at being alone than he was, and that too was starting to show.

She brought in a load of wood, stacked by the fire. She stood in front of the shelf of jars by the end of the tub. Leftovers and extras, they were the easily gotten meals without climbing on a chair to reach the attic. Her finger touched each one, a kinda bored wandering with touch instead of sight. She sat on the edge of the tub and stared.

If summer was too much time apart, winter was too much together.

She wandered her touch across each again.

She eventually sat on the chair by him.

He turned another card.

She rested a hand on her stomach, "I could eat, but I'm not hungry." She loosened her shirt so it better hid her hips, "I think I've been eating, just to have something to do."

"Yeah." He moved a few cards.

"This is it, you know," she said. "This is why it's not such a good idea for two people to live together first. There's not enough difference to talk about. We live the same experience."

He looked over the cards.

She moved closer.

"You want to play?" he said.

"No thankyou."

Clothes, deer, they both made excellent distractions. Now it was just the two of them.

She folded her hands on his shoulder and rested her head there with a yawn, "Look what our life has become, without the hardship of struggle. The good times, the bad times, the most gets spent in the middle."

"Marry me."

She moved a little closer. "Maybe."

He turned another card.

The middle bits were harder. Neither good nor bad, they were simply uneventful.

He hadn't drawn her lately.

She hadn't started any new projects.

They stayed inside a lot. It was kind of a dare to see who could take the most normalcy without cracking. Anymore than five or ten minutes outside was an admittance of failure, like folding in poker. And he was not to be outdone by her.

She cheated though, she started carving a chess board, whittling all those tiny, intricate pieces. He could draw, only after years of practice, but it was nothing to the talent captured in those little figures, carved from wood.

Unlike the table or chairs or even the fit of this log house, each sliver removed served no function but to make what remained look better. This, like nothing else, showed off her talent for detail. Art wasn't his alone.

He looked at the picture of her on the wall, the one drawn without him.

She had a week's worth of carving ahead of her, maybe more. She was going to win unless he could come up with something too.

Writing a book. It had started as just notes he wrote in the margins of drawings, just references to events. But it reminded him of when he was young and had been plagued by nightmares. Drawing them, capturing it on paper seemed to keep them from dwelling in his head. That's where it had started, but it had led him elsewhere. He thought about his life with this girl. He was losing some of that magic, to no fault of hers. The magic was in those memories, that journey here he started writing down. He started with the nightmare that introduced him, to her.

He had something worth writing, worth remembering. Reviving, reliving it if he could.

"Come to bed," she said.

He looked up from the page; it was late and very dark. The pieces for her board were aligned like armies readied for the march, grouped in perfect battle lines. Horses looked so real he could hear them neigh, a king whose bold courage looked strangely familiar. Each pawn had a unique, nervous pose, reverent bishops. Half were stained dark brown, polished nearly to a shiny black; the others were clear-coated pale, same as every other square. He capped the tiny bottle of ink then wiped his wooden pen with a ready scrap of cloth.

"Come to bed," she said again, but her outstretched arm spoke those words with far more force.

He changed, then climbed between the window and her.

She hugged him close, "I think I'll make a blackberry pie tomorrow, if you want."

This was who she was. Hugs, kisses, being close. Calm, comfortable. Decent. This was who he had agreed to spend the rest of his life with. It wasn't until he started writing it down, did he realize just how honest she had been about this from the very beginning. "Sounds good to me."

Since she had been keeping a Herman early this fall, the bread was soft and moist, and rose like regular loafs. Pies were about the only thing that had that thick crust he had just a year ago become accustomed to. Real bread, baked at the same time with her pie, both were done in time for dinner.

They wouldn't have enough blackberries for another pie, this would be the last until next summer. The vast majority of blackberries had grown near the oaks, easy pickings for deer. They didn't stand a chance. No biggy, always next year, they still had those around the garden. Some got eaten fresh, some made into a jar of jam for bread, and the rest made a pie for then, and this pie now.

Somehow, it tasted sweeter.

He tried to fork small nibbles to extend the enjoyment. It was hard, it was so good. The crisp crust flaked just so, creamy hints of butter clung flake to flake. She had hers between sips of coffee. Tonight would be one of those rarest of nights, when she would stay up as late as he. Something to savor indeed.

The pond had frozen over, but she was by no means out of tricks. One of her last, summer projects had involved what amounted to a mini-pier that ended in a half-submerged wooden box of sorts. When he walked out, removed the top, and looked inside, it had refrozen. A loop of rope was caught inside the layer of ice inside the box. With one pull, he lifted the square out. Simple really, the sides were tapered, leaving even the thickest cube to look like an upside-down pyramid, but inside the box it seldom froze more than an inch or two. Filling buckets was easy now.

She never lugged water, not that he was keeping score.

"You know, if we build that house any higher up hill, I'll be spending all day just hauling water," he said, his back against the full tub, exhausted, "I think you'll be fetching your own bath water there for sure."

She rinsed the soap from her face, "You would do that to me?"

"Absolutely."

She started lathering her hair, "Even if I let you face the other way?"

His absolution was gone.

"Don't fret, I wouldn't make you. It's only a few hundred feet or so from the creek; with any luck, we'll be able to do indoor plumbing fairly easy. It just takes a lot of work."

He heard her slip underwater.

"Besides, I would never subject you to my nakedness." She kissed him on the cheek, her hair draining to a puddle beside him. "Or, reward you with it." She wiped the wet from the side of his face, "Dear Derik."

By the sounds, she had started on a leg.

"Those logs should be dry by spring, much lighter and easier to handle. A garden and getting that started, it's a lot to do for next year."

He leaned forward, "Plenty of distractions."

"It'll take a bigger place. This is nice, it was all we could do." She started on the other leg. "All you could do, as little help as I was. This isn't hardly big enough for one person to spend all winter in, without going a little mad. We spend most of summer outside, picnics, swimming, the garden, we just went to bed in here." She stopped, "You don't feel up to a project that big, do you?" She looked at how far he had leaned away, "We don't have to—"

"No, I will." He sighed. "I'm just not looking forward to it."

Damp hand on his back, her gentle rub invited him back to the tub. "We've got the rest of my life, to make it." She reached a hug around from behind him, "But that's probably only ten, maybe twenty years. It'll go faster than you think."

His hands on her forearms held them to his chest.

"I'm on borrowed time, you know."

He kissed the back of her hand, before letting go.

Snowflakes the size of snowballs were falling outside by the time he was suitably clean. She could have been watching him the whole time, but probably not. It didn't sound like her. It wouldn't have mattered much if she had.

It didn't... It wasn't modesty she was teaching at the edge of the tub, it was respect.

She was sitting in bed, one leg outstretched, sheets still pulled back for him. The thuds of snow that size mixed with the start of hail and occasional snapping limbs outside. The noise made any conversation unheard. She pulled off his shirt and tapped the bed beside her. He lay on his stomach as she straddled his rear. Her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs pushed his tension out with ease. It was rare of her, and it never lasted long; she couldn't take this position on her knee.

So relaxing, he closed his eyes. It didn't matter that she couldn't sit like this for long. More would soon be wasted on dreams.

It felt good, but disquieting too. On his stomach like this, he could do, nothing. He couldn't touch her, couldn't look at her— He had put her in this very position, often. He couldn't help but sigh deeply, she was way too good.

He tried to focus on her every touch, the way, the pressure, the pattern, to learn as much as he could before her knee gave out. He tried to touch it, but it was simply too awkward to, like reaching that elusive itch on the back. The one she scratched so well. Sounds of hail plinked at the roof, muffled slams into the snow. He tried to read her through her fingers on his back. Blank, he let go.

A clap of thunder rattled the glass while jars chimed each other above their heads. She must have closed the shutters to protect the windows from hail while he had been asleep; the fire was the only source of light. He could hear them take the occasional hit, like a rock across a washboard. He was very warm for someone only in his shorts. She had covered him like a blanket in the night.

He closed his eyes again.

He could feel her on his back. Her right leg stretched next to his, her left between his two. Holding his right hand, her left rested on his wrist. When the thunder struck louder, she tensed a touch tighter.

His eyes opened wide when he realized her shirt was folded, neatly by his head. She had never done this before!

A flicker of blue filled between the cracks of the shutters a blink before the loudest bolt yet. She squeezed his hand until it passed, rumbling the valley below. His only view was of the tub and the window, calm down... Calm.

It was doubtful she meant it the way he was taking it. Calm down.

Sleeping on his belly, it was impossible to do, anything. Childish excitement still filled him, worthless as it was. It faded, eventually, allowing him to enjoy the moment for what it was.

He was safe inside from this raging frozen thunderstorm, warm under a blanket, warmer still under her, this woman he loved, wearing no clothes.

Morning was silent, and totally dark. The fire had gone out, windows still shuttered against a storm that had floated by. Full daylight could only send hints of light into their room-sized home. She put on her shirt, slippers, then went outside to let the day begin.

He kindled the fire and selected a jar from the shelf.

She returned with a frozen chunk of wood to be thawed before his fledgling fire. She gave him a pleasant smile while she snuggled in blankets, sitting in bed.

He wanted to say something about— but all that came out was, "Leftovers ok for breakfast?" It was so silly to ask. She seldom wanted more that coffee, but he always felt obligated to ask. He should stop, it was probably annoying by now.

She nodded a no-thank-you.

He drew her like she sat, while his mind tried to imagine how she was last night. Shaded lines, waiting for leftovers to warm.

He wanted to say, something, but he didn't. He just sat in the chair, sketching her. Mesmerized by symmetry. The last joint of each finger was nearly identical in length, added to the next and he had the length of the third. Thirds. Or, perhaps better said, one and a half. Forearms were one and a half hands long, eyes were in the middle of the head, the line of the jaw and how it smoothly transitioned to ear and neck. Symmetry governed it all.

Her hands were only slightly smaller than his, deceptive in a way. Thinner was probably a more accurate word. Hers were less puffy around the thumb and the muscle on her palm, just under her little finger. That little bump of a wrist-bone was there, just much less pronounced on her.

He adored her rounded little toes, and the higher arch of her foot. She could wear his shoes, and sometimes would, if she didn't have far to go. He could squeeze into hers, but it wasn't worth the effort just to say he could.

From chin to top of her head was about the length of her hand. These proportions, this symmetry of his studies of her, did these ratios dictate his heart so?

She was sitting in bed, mending clothes. Just those few little strands that had frayed last year. A snag or two could unravel more, were care not given now. He wanted to be over there, but he'd just slow her down. Distract her, annoy her. He fiddled instead with the shading between already completed lines.

But finished was finished.

More would ruin what was. He was stalling before declaring it done. She was now adding cushioned patches to the heels and toes of their most worn socks when he crossed to sit by her feet.

He pulled them on his lap.

She stopped stitching.

"I like your feet," he said, still holding one. "It's like this, elegant arch, then it rounds in just this, easy way."

She pulled the other one off his lap and started on a snag tugged in the back of one of his shirts.

"I didn't mean it like— It's just, I'm noticing these patterns with— When I draw, that's all."

She pulled her other foot away, soon as he let go.

"I'm in love with you. I am." He crawled across the bed to sit where her feet now were. "I sit over there, trying to think of stuff to do, to keep from bugging you."

She looked up from her work.

"I just get the feeling that— I can go play solitaire if you want. It's just, not what I want."

She stretched one leg to each side of him, her ankles hugged behind him.

He held the cumbersome slack of the shirt while she continued with the needle and thread.

He woke that night with the urgent need for a trip outside. Her arms were still around him; he was being hugged from behind. She had this grip of his shoulder that took some coaxing before she let go. He tucked the blanket back— he pulled it back down, then quickly covered her shoulders. This was the second night.

In a row.

He stood at the foot of the bed, slippers on. He had to go outside, he had to. There was no choice at all in that matter. Yet, he couldn't take his eyes off that covered shape he knew so well. He couldn't leave.

This was stupid, he had put his slippers on before his pants again. He had to get dressed before he exploded!

She wasn't going anywhere. Get dressed, go outside, take care of things, then come back in as quick as possible.

That's what he did.

He sat on the edge of the chair by the bed. He had gotten undressed, most of the way. He was a little afraid to get back in bed. He had stoked the fire, but the brighter light only made things more difficult.

This was his fourth attempt at touching the blanket on her shoulder. He pulled it down — not enough to see — but just enough to confirm. He put it back, then returned to the chair.

He sat and stared. It was probably the most erotic— Stop thinking those thoughts! He couldn't go to bed like this. Not now.

He couldn't spend the night in the chair either.

She didn't mean for him to take it this way. She wasn't one to be— If she had wanted what was dominant in his mind, she never would have let him fall asleep. She was doing this for some other reason.

He leaned forward in the chair.

He had stood at the foot of the bed a dozen times now, and had yet to sit on it once. She wasn't mad at him, she wouldn't bite. No violence was in store. Yet, he was terrified. Why?

Why.

This should be no different than when she took a bath. He was used to that; he didn't even have the urge to try for reflective glimpses off the windows or jars anymore. Why was this so difficult?

He could so easily screw this up.

He crawled across the bed, and, as terrified of temptation as he was, he turned his back to her, reached behind, then slid under the sheets.

She embraced him immediately. This would be harder than falling asleep in the face of broad daylight. Probably the most difficult night of his life. Worst of all, there was absolutely no reason for it to be.
**B5.C16**

His world had changed, and yet, it was exactly the same. More than a week had passed since the last time she had slept without clothes. No reason, no explanation. It had stopped as mysteriously as it started. Yet, even though nothing happened, something had.

She hadn't changed.

This was her.

The snow was deep outside, crossed and carved by wandering paths deep enough to keep all but the most needed distraction inside. Beyond that, it was bitter cold. The sun of the day only melted the top enough to refreeze into a thick crust by night. Shiny, glass-like cover.

He was easily a year's journey from where they had grown up, winters seemed much harsher here. Clouds got caught in this mountain range, unable to climb over, smaller collided, corralled, and merged into mammoth storms unable to find escape outside of exhaustion. People were held in by those same mountains. Only the strongest, most dedicated could pass through its grasp unscathed.

They had run here seeking those same forces of nature that kept them in, to keep others out. What better place to hide? He just hadn't known the price, until now. Isolation. He wanted to go to town, but had no reason to justify the journey.

Trade what, for what?

They had nothing extra.

Milkweed cloth. It had been such a treasure, but it lacked all the flair of colored cloth available in town. It couldn't compare, besides, it was the crowd of people he craved. He had his talent to trade, should he choose that path.

He looked out the window. Nothing had changed, nothing had melted. Same as inside.

He drew his spoon through the soupy bowl, corn and beans twisted in its wake, strands of meat matted to the sides. Were these picked by her hand, or his? He made another pass with the spoon. Was she feeling the same way too? Was that what sleeping without clothes was about?

Seeds.

Most of the garden had been allowed to go to seed. Most of what they stored were seeds. She had been playing with a few spoonfuls of them, lightly watered in a small pot and covered with a dark cloth. She would fill it with water, two or three times a day, swish it, then drain it back out again. Kept warm and dark by the stove.

She had been playing with seeds for days.

It was something to do.

He dragged his spoon again.

That night they had fresh bread, fried deer steak, mashed potatoes, and, for a special surprise, a fresh salad of sprouts. He picked out a few by finger. Only an inch long with the tiniest round leaves, he popped it in. Soft, crisp, a crunch almost lettuce like. The taste was a strong radish. He tried another. Lettuce, carrot, radish again, onion, and what he guessed was broccoli. It was juicy, tasty, and an entirely unexpected treat. Salad, fresh salad, and in the middle of winter. If he closed his eyes, it was too easy to forget they were just sprouts.

He was in awe of her once again.

Sprouts soon became a mainstay of weekly meals. They had bags and bags of them, but it only took a few tablespoons of seeds to make a quart of sprouts with all the concentrated flavor of the full-grown plant. Just add water and a little distraction worth of time.

It turned out that all seeds were not created the same. Some, these — she was very specific when he offered to help — were from a special batch, those most likely to have cross-pollinated. They should never be confused with the others she had let go to seed for next year's crops. Not wanting a repeat of the milkweed incident, he paid strict attention this time, even though those stalk strands made the most absorbent towels ever, far better than those of the previous year that seemed to just push the water off.

No, he would live by one general rule where this was concerned; she would be the only one to open bags of seed.

As the weeks moved on, he was starting to gain an appreciation for seeds.

They were quite a little miracle in their own right. To think, this rapid burst of growth from a speck to over an inch in three to five days was accomplished with nothing more than warmth and water. It was, humbling. Such a concentration of energy, of life, will, independence, was condensed into such a compact form. Inspiring.

He tended them often, after her usual pointers to get him started. He needed the distraction more than she did, it seemed.

It never ceased to amaze, not even enough seeds to cover the palms of his hands, could fill a quart jar with sprouts. Wow.

It was also teaching him patience. It took time to sprout seeds, and, the worst of it was that they were good eating from day two, just after breaking the shell and that little tail came out. Those next few days were the most difficult; to rinse, dry, and watch, knowing that they were the nearly perfect snack food. But, if he could just wait another few days, they would double or triple in size. And taste. It was hard not to make a pig of himself. Nearly impossible not to nibble them to death. He had one more before he covered it with a towel. He couldn't help himself, most of the time.

They had plenty of seeds. Cross-pollinated, he kept telling himself. She had planned on using them for this purpose only, nothing else. They were never going to get planted anyway. Yet, pigging out still felt wrong.

He snuck another one. Radishes were his favorite.

One of the rules was to never mix different seeds in the same bowl. It seemed they produce something like a chemical war for dominance from the very beginning, then fight each other for the advantage of height. Gardening suddenly made more sense. Rows, spacing, segregation, weeding, plants were like people who could never get along. Somehow, he had expected better from the peaceful world of plants.

She had come up with a better design, evidence she was not perfect after all. The art of sprouting was new to her as well, even if she had made it seem old hat. One of their first square pans, seldom used anymore, now made use of this segregation technique. Strings stretched rows of lines across it with just enough space between them to allow a fold of cloth to droop a pocket of seeds into each row. Separated, but all watered the same. Like this, more air circulated around the seeds, yet the fold kept them moist and dark. It was a masterpiece of easy care, variety, and faster sprouts that required only a light spritzing two or three times a day with any accidental excess dripping harmlessly into the pan. He selected one, ripe for tasting, its leaves poking above the fold.

She slapped a gentle warning on the back of his hand.

He put the little sprout back, that purply root would have tasted so good. But she was right, he had gotten so far out of his own control that only half of them made it to the end of the week. It couldn't be called snacking anymore.

Farming was hard in more ways than one.

She sat on the edge of the bed that night, her back turned to him, stoked stove flooding her front with light. An orangey halo glowed around her as she faced into the room.

They had had a long day of pulling logs through the woods. With the snow at the perfect depth, it made lugging firewood uphill easiest. Too deep and it was too much a struggle to find their footing; too little and the log bit and rubbed against the ground too much to be moved. They had cut these in early spring, but had done nothing with them beyond the simplest stacking so they could dry. Today, they had both worked hard from morning until just a few hours ago, when the light finally gave out. It was done, all moved. But he was tired too.

She just sat there, on the edge of the bed, facing into the room. Her back made this slouching arch, propped by elbows resting on knees. She was exhausted, maybe even a little hurt. She pushed herself too hard sometimes, just to get the project done.

He sat up behind her, moved her long, wet hair to over one shoulder, and rested both hands on her back. Her head slumped down, hair twisting across the back of her head, evenly obscuring her face while he continued.

He had been too tired to tote water for a bath, not that she had asked him to. Just a light washing with what was left of the daily bucket was all either had water enough to do. She so could have used that hot bath today. His thumbs pressed harder than usual this time.

She didn't complain.

She had been his equal out there today. He had hauled a few more by lunch, but as the day went on, he lacked the stamina to keep up. He ran his hands down her arms to the elbows, still warm to the touch. Far stronger than they looked for such slender things.

The fire popped embers in the background.

He stopped, then slid back into the bed; his spot had gotten cold under the window. Had he continued any longer, he would have put her to sleep; and that would have been far too cruel, sitting like she was.

The halo so suited her, the way that flickering light curved across her skin, filtered by that thin nightshirt.

She eventually straightened, combed her hair to her back by a pass of the hand, shirt folded by the pillow as she slid under the blanket, her back to him.

It had been weeks since— This wasn't a reward for anything, he reminded himself as he inched closer. Her back was just as warm as her tired arms had been, pressed to his skin. He put his arm around her, quickly finding her hand.

She adjusted her position one final time, his hand held tight just under her chin. She would be asleep soon.

And just as soon, he would be unable to sleep.

He thought about a hundred things. Everything. Whatever thought roamed in and out of his mind, none ever answered why now, or why then? How had he expected this to happen? How— This wasn't an offer, beyond what it was.

She was fast asleep now. Her hair had dried between them, a tickle whenever he breathed. Some clung in lines across his skin. His thumb rested where her neck and the center of her collar met. The beat of her pulse, the press of her hand, it was such a moment of her that he was drinking in. When she lay behind him, nothing could happen. That was no longer the case, but just as doubtful to change.

He tried to move away from the thoughts dominating his mind. He tried. He wanted his hand free to roam; if guided by his head, it may be best held where it was. Calm, he reminded himself. He focused on breathing in a futile attempt to match his with hers. She was totally calm, very relaxed, in sharp contrast to him. She squeezed his hand, his arm embraced across her front. For her, it was only clothes.

He had calmed quite a bit in the minutes that passed. As she fell deeper and deeper to peaceful slumber, her grip of his hand relaxed as well. Until now, when his was free to move. He held his eyes closed, resisting the worst of his urges. Freed, he rolled to his back.

Temptation was proving to be too much, for someone such as him. He hadn't mastered waiting the few days it took for sprouts to reach their prime, surely she was worth far more time. If she wanted more, she would tell him. She would. Without a doubt. He stared at the rafters above the bed. She was leading him to something better; she would make a farmer out of him yet. These last few years, he had simply followed her lead; but she had chosen what went next to what, how many in each row, when to plant and which to let go to seed. All her, but it was starting to sink in. It was starting to sprout in his mind.

He looked at that bare back of hers. Strong enough to handle an equal workload, strong enough to bear the worst of his mistakes, strong enough to be so beautiful, even in the shadows of dark. She could handle more missteps of his, she was strong enough to. Would he be so forgiving, if he, were her?

He rested his hand on that healed dimple, just below her left shoulder blade. A hole, straight to her heart, a hole his misstep had given her. He should be happy with all she offered, happy with whatever this was. He should be content with all of this; there was no reason why what she gave shouldn't be enough. But...

He looked back to the rafters again. He knew what he was doing. He knew how wrong it was. Put his arm back around her, accept what she had offered. Don't push her to more. He wiped the start of a tear from his eye; he wasn't as strong as she.

She rolled to her back, her sleeping face turned to him.

It was too late now. He had forced more from her, those reactions he knew so well. She turned the rest of the way. She was atop him now, the contact he wanted, the way he wanted, far more than she had intended.

As her nose nuzzled his neck, he wiped another tear by his eye. He couldn't have felt worse had he raped her.

He hadn't slept at all, he couldn't trust himself to. As much as he thought he wanted— was ready for this, he clearly wasn't. Worse, it couldn't be undone. She innocently adjusted her hips, moved one leg. It was almost more than he could take. But, he had to.

Every time she took a deep breath or made the slightest stir, it tugged at his urge. He held her shoulder, his other hand safely rested near the small of her back. He had to fight them both until she woke, too many hours from now.

He wanted to be better than this.

What if this, was who he was?

If he had a daughter, what advice— He tried to think of Dana as his daughter, she was someone's. It helped. He had never met her parents, but it felt like he had. He had a feel for them. He closed his eyes and could still feel the love they bestowed upon this daughter of theirs. Daughter. Was he ready to invest such affection on a child who only her mother he knew? What advice would he give to a daughter in this situation? What would Dana's advice be?

It had taken the entire night for his thoughts to drift beyond himself. His urges. She had wanted to be closer; she had wanted to feel safe in that subtle change. She wanted it not to make the difference it had. He could understand that now. Daughter. He had another hour before morning, perhaps two before she would wake. He finally trusted himself enough to sleep.

He was safe with her, after all.

The shutters were down when he woke, she had closed them to let him sleep. He hadn't folded his clothes by the pillow, he had just hastily kicked them off by his feet. His toes fished for them now.

She was soaking in the bath, and must have toted the water herself. She was quiet, her feet and hands rested on its rim, hair drying, dangled off the end. He pulled his clothes on.

He was too starved to wait for something hot to eat, so he grabbed a few sticks of jerky and a chunk of yesterday's bread. Her bread was filling enough to be a meal anyway. Nutrition wise, acorns, potatoes, walnuts, it probably could pass quite well for a meal in itself. He had been used to wheat all of his life, now he couldn't remember what it tasted like. He was forgetting a lot of things of late. Taking a massive bite, he smiled. He really liked this bread. She had added something else to it, but, he couldn't remember what. He took another bite, trying to sort it with his tongue.

Chewing, he looked at the tub. It was good, that was enough.

He looked at her feet, still shiny and soft; this moment had nothing to do with him. The thought of her in a tub was something he did to himself, like what happened that night. To her it was relaxing, the reward for getting clean. The only dirt was what he supplied. She gestured him over with her hand.

He knelt by the tub, facing in.

Hints of disappointment were in her eyes, even with a cloud of foamy bubbles obscuring her. "Could you get me another brick from the fire?"

"Sure." He hooked one in the back, slid it forward, then wrapped it in scrap cloth. "Where do you, uh," he lowered it between her knees, where she had pointed, then sat back by her feet.

He stirred the water with a reached over hand. Almost too hot right above the brick, but it quickly dispersed so long as he continued his idle swirl.

She preferred a temperature nearly unbearable to him, but then, he wasn't the one in the tub. When that rising from the brick was near enough to the heat of the swirl, he withdrew his hand.

He had never really taken the time to study her legs. He had never seen her shave them, yet his foamy caress was hair free. No, that wasn't entirely true. She had hairs, they simply were so fine, so small, like those on the inside of her wrist, or those of her cheek. She didn't need to shave. He wondered whether she would for him; he wondered whether he would have asked her to. Arch of her foot, that strained muscle balanced in there, he did his best to relax it as well, and was soon presented with her other. He shaved his face every week or two, mostly because he wasn't man enough to grow anything that could be considered a beard. At best, random patches was all his manhood could muster. He was nearing his twenties, perhaps twenty already; he had lost track it seemed.

"How old am I?" he asked.

"Within a year of me."

He knew better, "How old are you?"

"Twenty... Twenty one, maybe." She rubbed the back of his hand with her toes, "You thinking I'm getting too old for you?"

He smiled.

"Time for something new? We still on your schedule?"

He tried not to laugh.

"Afraid you won't make back your investment in me?"

He kissed the top of her foot.

She touched the bottom of her foot to his forehead, "My poor, cabin-fevered, future boy."

She was calm. She had always been calm, even when he was looking for fevered passion from her. He knew her. He knew not to look for that from her. Yet he continued to look.

She lifted his chin with the top of her foot, guiding his gaze to her face, "To love me, but not trust me."

Her feet were as soft as her hands. "I can do both," he said.

She smiled, sinking back into the tub. "Dear Derik, living with me is proving to be, more difficult than you bargained for."

He moved to the head of the tub.

Her hand slid across the back of his neck, "I'm most fond of you, 'deer' Derik." She pulled him in for a kiss.

He could learn to love the calm, that is her.

A few nights later, she slept the same; this time, he only took what was offered.

Guilt was harder than regret to live with.

A mix of sprouts baked in the bread gave it these wonderful pockets of flavor. He had assumed, foolishly, that she had done all that could be done with bread by adding crushed walnuts. Done indeed.

He savored another bite.

Whenever two or more people get together, someone always ends up in charge. Telling futures had put that leadership into his lap; if nothing else, his advice was usually consulted. Since they ran away, she had included him in the decision making process, always to her peril. It had been his advice that got them captured, his words that nearly got her killed. His advice had cost her a lot, but she still included him. He had been struggling for control, for leadership in this relationship. How fortunate she had never ceded that to him. He had loved her, without trusting her, when it was he that was proven untrustworthy.

He chewed on another bite.

She leaned in an unforeseen kiss, lifting him up before he had gotten too down.

"I'm quite fond of you, too," he said.

Winter seemed a world away, its harsh wind stopped cold at the door. He knew the basics of chess, but it was a planning, thinking game; that ran totally contrary to his nature. It took serious concentration, imagination, and forced him to try to think from within the opponent's head. Opponent. No, that wasn't the right word to describe her.

What bothered him the most was how impossible it was to cheat. A hand of cards only lasted a minute or two with few possible combinations; a game of chess could last most of the day with nearly infinite unique moves. Plus, over the past week that they had been playing, well, he had improved enough that he could tell that she was toying with him. She had been putting intentional holes out there, to see if he could recognize them. Testing his level, handicapping hers.

"I want your best game," he said.

She stopped setting up her side of the board, missing a queen, two rooks, and a bishop. "Ok."

He had finished setting up his side, waiting; it was clear she intended— "Aren't you going to put the rest of them on?"

"First move is yours."

After an hour of intense effort on his part, it was clear she probably could have crushed him with even fewer pieces. She had not meant to insult him, she had just wanted it to be fair, and it was. She was simply much better at getting inside his head. That was no insult. It had taken until now to have a parody in pieces, in the next dozen or so moves, she would probably win. He certainly couldn't stop her. She was smarter than him. When the game wasn't governed by luck, it showed. It made him mad. More, the more irrational he knew his anger was.

She made the last move of the game. "You're a much stronger player than even a few days ago," she said. "You've impressed me with how fast you've picked this up."

Somehow, she had said that without being patronizing. Still, "Let's play something else, for a while."

"Sure."

He felt bad about not wanting to play chess. She played cards almost every time he asked, mostly the game he chose. He felt bad about that, just not enough to change. He should be more, entertaining, to her. He did other things.

Cards fed into his ego, it was something he had a chance to win.

Perhaps she let him win at cards too?

No, he didn't want to know if she did. He might not be able to handle that.

He liked playing cards with her, more than he thought he would. Her calm, good nature really proved itself there. Never gloating, never a tell, as good a winner as a loser. Always pleasant to look at. The friendly in friendly game.

He wondered if he offered the same.

This was the first year for sweet potato. They had made a gallon or two of pie filling last year, but it had never really taken off like it did this year. They had plenty, too much really to waste it all on pies, not that her pies could ever be considered a waste. It was just, even something good got old after a while.

She had been snacking on these dried cracker-looking things. They were made much like potato flakes, so much so that he had never really thought about trying one for fear it might taste like a spoonful of flour. But, he had watched her snacking on them too often of late. They had to taste decent. Their tastes in food didn't differ that much, and she had made two huge sacks of them.

He picked one from her plate.

Damn! It was good, sweet. Crunchy. A hint of mint. How she could show so much restraint by only eating one or two every now and then he would never know. Damn this was good! Pie filling wasn't this tasty.

He started laughing for some strange reason, and couldn't stop.

She just kept looking at him with this, puzzled, silent why. He didn't know why, but he couldn't stop. Perhaps that was making it funnier? He tried to stop, but the best he could do was look away, trying to hide his head below the table.

"I'll get you two more if it'll make you stop," she said.

He couldn't. It only made him laugh harder.

"Ok, three then. But you have to keep it going for the next hour."

That made it worse, but he couldn't go for an hour. After another few minutes, he had it back under control, still not knowing what had struck him so funny. Cheeks and ribs hurting, she gave him three anyway. Without a clue what was so funny, he silently giggled between nibbles as this sweet-potato cracker treat quickly climbed higher on his favorites list. He finished that first piece, letting it moisten in his mouth, turning to filling without crust or the effort of chewing. Just add drool.

Ellie. What made him think of her just now?

He looked at Dana as if she would know. Ellie was quite a bit more attractive than Dana. But the comparison wasn't fair. Ellie always dressed her best, combed, groomed, makeup perhaps. Dana did none of that, not that she was a slob by any stretch. Why was he all of a sudden judging her?

Yet, he never was attracted to Ellie. He liked her fine, and, perhaps if he had known her as long— How could his head keep comparing the two?

He watched Dana silently chew. The crumb in the corner of her mouth was brought in by the tip of her tongue, same clothes as the night before. Quiet. Understated. Hair with a casual flow. He had seen Ellie only at her best, with Dana he had seen it all. Things he once thought nothing of, had real value. He adored this understated girl. He would never have been mistaken for handsome anyway. Kinda amazing she hadn't— He could never hope to impress her with a new recipe, had no chance of giving her a game worthy of her effort, yet, she seemed happy. She looked happy. Oddest of all, it was with him.

Why had he laughed? Why did Ellie wander through his mind? Why had Dana settled for him? He watched her take another nibble. One bed, one tub, one table, one room. One life. She got up to get another cup of water, taking his cup as well. She did that quite often. Why had he not noticed before now? What else was he missing?

He stared at the cracker as she poured. Flat, thin, but thick enough to break only with pressure, it took about the same effort to chew as jerky. It made it easy to savor, a corner was a mouthful of flavor from this palm-sized treat. He could greedily pop the whole thing in his mouth, but nibbling was best. Had it been thinner, it would have taken a whole square to— He had pigged his way through the first two already, he was going to make this one last.

She returned with water just in time.

They had taken a long walk to expand their knowledge of the terrain. The trees were much easier to survey in winter with all but the pines, cedars, and firs stripped naked of leaves. Well, there were a few others, but he didn't know their names so— He could ask. She surely knew, but, he didn't care. He was walking because she was. And because it was so pretty, alone, in their woods. Quiet. Peaceful. Still.

Quiet was a lovely sound.

She had found some maples within a reasonable walking distance. Syrup came to mind. Future uses, they did nothing but look today.

These trips were making more sense. Trees could be farmed too. True, neither were likely to live long enough to see anything productive come from a planted acorn, but by thinning around those they found, they encouraged greater and bigger yields. Maximizing what they had. There were far more white-oaks surrounding them than he first thought. Those they fenced in weren't the biggest, or even the closest, but they were the best grouped cluster. He was starting to get inside her head.

Maples were next on her farming list.

Tracks were also easiest to find in fresh snow. A general wandering around gave them great insight into their animal neighbors. Well, her mostly. Tracks were tracks to him. Even so, he recognized several squirrel families that needed to be put in check, possums, raccoons, and even rabbits, the four devils to any garden. Traps would work fine, but with the added knowledge from these tracks, they could put a real hurting on them before spring. Animals tended to follow patterns. She was on the lookout for turkey tracks, ideally to find a nest. No luck this year. He was sure that if they simply expanded the search to a few miles... But she wasn't willing to travel that far for birds.

He thought about Ellie again. Turkey eggs were good, ooh, even better with bacon, or even sausage— He was drooling again.

They spent most of the day surveying. When it started getting dark, they headed back.

Life with her was— it wasn't anything near what he had planned. His ideas about marriage, about living with someone was closer to, well, the Findick's— without the violence of course. There wasn't going to be much violence with her. He may be stronger, even that was arguable, but she was by far the most lethal person he had ever met. She didn't look it. It was a foreign idea to him anyway, what could she possibly do to make him angry enough to want to harm her? It flew in the face of his nature, not to mention hers.

This wasn't the life he had chosen. It wasn't the life he had imagined. It was going to a place he couldn't have predicted.

Farming... He had been raised to think it beneath him. It was his life now, and for the rest of his days. In a village, he could easily surround himself with the things he wanted by simply telling people what they most wanted to hear. That didn't work with her. This was far from anything he had imagined.

Over the years he had been, conforming, to her. Losing parts of himself. He barely missed what was lost.

But he didn't want to become this person for her. Nothing in him wanted to be a farmer or live like this. But he couldn't resist it either. She didn't fit in a village. She would simply fall apart there. If he wanted her, it had to be here. To be here, he had to become. The choice forced the change.

George had, more or less, exactly what he had planned. Ellie, on the other hand, had gotten something far short. He liked Ellie, they related well. Had he fallen for someone like her, his life would have worked out far more simply. Better in many ways.

He looked across the tiny table to Dana.

Had he actually been thinking about leaving? Was that a serious thought?

He watched her sip from the cup.

She had a quality he couldn't resist. They were an odd fit, that worked well together. He had never wanted to be a farmer, but it was growing on him. Perhaps he was growing up, away from his childish ideas of what he thought marriage would be. Time to be responsible. Dependable came with others depending on you.

He finished his slice of pie.

Excellent, as always.

He woke from a dream that was extremely passionate. They weren't new, just, this was most vivid. This one was in summer, after a flirty swim. Instead of watching her walk to the house, he pulled her down on the first patch of grass by the edge of the shore. Kisses, drenched in wet, and transparent clothes, quickly being removed.

He awoke at that very moment to a dimly lit room of very nearly the same thing.

She was asleep, but responding the same. He continued the kiss, drawing more from the dream of her every time he closed his eyes.

Her folded shirt rested on the pillow by her head. Why should it be strange to find someone so attractive, that he was so attracted to? She had rolled, facing him, slightly under him. If only she responded this way while awake.

She was waking.

She started to blink, but little else changed.

Her hand on the back of his shoulder pulled him in closer. The warmth of her smile encouraged his intentions. This was more what he had envisioned.

She turned away, her hands held his hips at bay.

He kissed her turned cheek but stopped, when she stopped responding.

She let go of his hips, "I won't stop you." Her arms lay by her sides.

Her cheek was still unresponsive to his kiss.

"Tomorrow should be my heaviest day."

That pulled him away, but he slid to where she was looking.

"That's the part of my life, you just asked to enter." She hooked his ankle with hers, a holding of hands, of sorts. "I'm least likely to get pregnant right now, starting a few days ago. It was every twenty-six days, same time of day. But now, it's hard to predict. From as short as eighteen days to as far apart as over two months. For a long time I went without. It's back to something almost predictable. Could you predict what would happen to me, if I got pregnant right now?"

The dream in his head was quickly forgotten.

"It's not as simple as marks on a calendar, counting back fourteen days." She touched her hand to his stomach, "What would happen, to a woman, a fraction of her former self, who could lay a hand on a friend to help conceive a child, should such a woman, want one of her own? How would that change those not so easily figured days?"

He had no answer.

"When a baby is in a woman, unable to take it to term, nature miscarries, to save the mother." She ran her hand up his back, her palm warmed his left shoulder blade, "Could a child die inside me, without killing me too?"

She turned to her side to face him, paused, then slid closer.

"I like being with you, Derik. I do." She pressed against him. "I like being close. I picked the days that I did, in the event things went, beyond events I wanted." Closer still, "I'm not trying to torture you with this. No punishment, nor reward." She pressed her smile to his chin, "Just the selfish side of me, coming through."

He couldn't now. Ankles held together. The mood was entirely gone. Her words swam vicious questions in his head. "Did, they rape you?"

She pulled away. No contact, at all.

The chill was more than the morning air in the room, far more than that offered by a drafty window. "Did they?" It was still out there. He had wished to take it back, had hoped not to know, but had somehow asked it twice now.

She held his hand. "I could feel the shovel's splinters. I still remember how it felt, tearing through the skin of your hand, just like it was my own. I wasn't, and that spared me nothing."

He wanted to hug her, but she pulled further away.

His ankle rested across one of hers.

"Do you want children?"

"A little girl," she said.

He found her hand under the sheets. "With me?"

She smiled at the rafters. "With no one else."

He got closer this time. "Do you dream of me?"

"I dream," she pressed her smile to him, "with you."
**B5.C17**

He sat in the chair, looking outside. Spring was heading their way, fast.

She knelt in front of him, squinted, then turned his head to each side by the chin. She ran her hands through his hair once more, fussing on one side. After taking a few more snips at the hair over his ear, she pronounced it done.

He stood, adding to the pile of hair surrounding the chair by dusting his shoulders and his shirt. A haircut it was. His head felt cold. Judging by the pile, he expected to be bald. He went to the glass to inspect his reflection. It was short, but handsome. She had a taste for style, when she wanted. Not everything was function before form. This, as winter faded into spring, would do both.

Sprouts for the mini greenhouse, they had plenty to do. Lots and lots of distractions. Oddest of all, he had been missing gardening.

He gave her a kiss, and a "Thank you."

The hummingbirds were back. By the sundial, it wasn't spring yet. But that didn't deter that tiny bird from bashing frantically at the glass. It never stayed around after he went out. It seemed angry that they hadn't fed it yet. Perhaps the smorgasbord at the Findicks had run out. What was it they ate? Insects, that's right.

"Sorry, fella, insects won't be available for a few months yet." He couldn't see the little thing, less sure it would understand. He looked around, confident it heard him.

Dana, on the other hand, hung a little flower-shaped bowl from a string outside the window. He had thought it just a fancy vase, possibly for a fancy flower arrangement for dining or something. She had filled it with diluted molasses.

That was exactly what the hummingbird had been demanding. Soon, where there had been only one, there were two.

Except for feeding, he had no idea where they went. He couldn't see them unless they held still, and that seemed foreign to their fast-paced nature.

It didn't matter, he had work to do. He started with checking the traps.

Most were empty, only one had a rabbit. The eight of them had worked like a charm over the last few months, pounding out a fresh catch every other day. With luck, that would give their garden the best chance this year.

The greenhouse was next on his list. This year's was much fancier and within sight of the house. Instead of one, there were four wooden boxes, held several feet off the ground on pedestals. They reminded him of fancy, turkey-size birdcages covered in plastic, perched high above the snow. The clear covering was thicker and double layered with surplus milkweed strands sprinkled into the mix, adding to its strength. Raccoon proof, if there was such a thing.

He untied the rope holding the plastic to the post. They were all sprouting beautifully, but he resisted the urge to taste.

The rich, black soil was nice and warm, blackened bricks made sure of that. They soaked in all the needed warmth, even on these brisk, bright days. Warmth, water, and sun, it had all three. He recovered it. No need to uncover the others, he would water them all another day.

That night they had fresh rabbit stew. As much as he loved these sweet-potato chips, he craved something new.

She spit into the bowl, swished, then spit again. It was just part of her nightly ritual after a vigorous teeth brushing. They were both creatures of habit, more complex than those snared in traps, but habits all the same. She looked nice in his long-sleeve shirt, brushing her dried hair, slippers on bare feet. Rituals. She crawled across the bed and took his spot by the window. He slid over as she hugged him from behind.

Since that night, she was careful not to tempt him again.

The fire had only been kept alive for the past week, stoked just long enough for cooking, then allowed to turn to embers overnight. It simply wasn't cold enough for more. The wood stacked near the house would just have to wait until next year.

It did, however, lead to colder nights and cooler mornings. With a double blanket, there was no chance of less than underwear.

He made her coffee that morning, her mug served in bed. He closed her hand around it, but she just held it until it turned too cool to fog the air, not even a sip or a sniff. She never tried to sit until he took it from her hand and returned with a fresher one. He wasn't offended at all.

She set it on the sill while she pulled the blankets to a huddled mound around her. This one she sipped until gone.

He sketched the well-bundled her.

He warmed the nectar before hanging it outside, buzzed by two impatient birds.

They made an odd pair. Late sleeper, early riser, crowds and isolation. Odd how well they fit together. He gathered a bundle of kindling, then headed inside.

Spreading compost wasn't the most entertaining thing he'd ever done. It was rather boring, stupefyingly so. He shoveled a fresh load onto the stretcher-like skid leaned against a tree, then drug it to the garden and mixed it with shoveled soil. Tedious. Unless she was there.

Working together. Taking turns. She never asked for help, neither did he, just, she was there whenever he needed her. This was a well-choreographed dance they, practiced, rehearsed, and refined every year. By the time he was tired of twisting the soil, she had taken it from his hands. Was it her, seeing his next move? Or him, reading a silent tell from a knee in need of relief from kneeling?

Chess had always been her game. He should offer to play her again, this evening after supper. A struggle of the mind to balance these toils of bodies.

He setup the board while she wrapped her knee in one of her many scarves. She rested her foot on his lap as they started the game. He took full advantage by supplementing his movements on the board with soothing distractions on her foot. She hadn't intended to fend attacks on two fronts, but she held up well. Not that either were serious challenges.

She succumbed to the foot first, perhaps his only achievable victory. Too sleepy to continue to play, she went to bed.

He stayed up for another hour or two just staring at the board. He studied the captured pieces. Some even had hints of eyelashes, prominent veins on the face of the horse. So many options, so many open moves. Never really his to win, always hers to lose.

Fortunately, he looked outside and remembered to bring the feeder in before turning to bed. It had been a long day, even for thirsty little birds. Another day or two and they would have the first field ready for seeds, with bugs just around the corner.

"I, have to go into town," he said.

"Why?"

"We, uh, I have to file a claim on this place. Pay taxes and such." He looked across the table at her, picked up the plates, and prepared the wash bucket.

She followed him over to the tub.

"I should have done it last year, but, it was just such a struggle," he said.

She looked around. "How much?"

"I, I don't know."

She touched his hand, "How much?"

Readable, when she was willing to go. "They ask a deer, every other year."

They had about twenty pounds of jerky left. Three flavors. That wasn't going to be enough.

"I'll take it in, now that the garden's manageable." He scrubbed a plate, "No need for you to go, unless you want to. They've already seen me. They'll auction it off, so, we just have to come up with a deer's equivalent."

She rinsed the plate over the tub, looked around, then dried the plate before returning it to the stack. "A bag of potato chips? Acorn flour? Dried potatoes? Some soaps? You should have mentioned this be—"

"I know, I, I don't know why— I don't know how I forgot."

She sat on the edge of the tub, drying the next one.

The soups were out. They were way too heavy for one, even for two to tote the miles into town. Same with the milk. They had six, three-gallon jars of it left. Nearly a year's supply for two. Very valuable, condensed like it was, perfect for making butter and cheese, or add three parts water and it was regular milk again. Even this compact, one would be all he could carry. Dry goods only, that was the only rational approach.

"Last fall would have been the time to tell me." She mixed up some potato-bread acorn-flour and sprinkled in all that was left of the walnuts. With one loaf started, she bagged up the ingredients for another two. She packed up the chips, the jerky, the surplus soaps, their best wheel of cheese, and a carefully packaged chessboard. It was already all that one man could carry.

He would leave next morning with a fresh loaf of bread and all they really had, that one man could carry.

The bread was excellent, as usual. He had walked most of the morning, stopping only for lunch. He ripped another chunk. Moist. The crust had just the right mix of chewy and crunchy. She had packed him very well. He was making great time and would be at the bottom of the mountain by the end of the day. A sip of water, then he packed the rest away.

Walking again.

By night he was just short of the valley. He leaned the stretcher against the tree. No, that wasn't the right— What was it she called it? Travois, that was it. But, even that was sort of wrong. He flipped it backwards and climbed the notches on its underside like a ladder. He secured the top to the trunk and climbed as high as he could reach, then tied a tight, yet simple loop. Two ropes attached to the poles' ground-dragging ends were pulled through the loop, drawn, then tightened repeatedly until the whole travois was lifted parallel with the ground. It made a tree-stand of sorts, a good eight-feet off the ground. Two more ropes to nearby branches stabilized the whole thing.

He rolled out the blanket and made for bed, fastening a belt around his waist just to make sure he couldn't roll off. Not that years in Dana's bed hadn't trained him to sleep perfectly still.

He missed her a lot. Even more, right now.

He was surrounded by a symphony of sounds, none of them her.

Another four days and he was starting to run into people. Town. He remembered this place, the buildings, streets. The people. The peaceful noise of hundreds of conversations.

He knew where to go, even had he not read it off the first handshake. It was obvious, the big, grand building near the center. It was clearly the center of town. Four white pillars held up an impressive porch before ample windows, perfect upkeep, and a tightly trimmed ornamental bush. It spoke of the spending of other peoples' money. Government, even in this dispersed little town, always acted the same. He waited patiently outside until the man arrived.

Dressed in a dark blue, custom-fitted vested suit, this man was impressive and looked nothing like any other Derik had passed on the streets. He was quite a striking man, even if most of Derik's impressions were formed based on the clothes. It screamed authority, wealth, position, regal in stature, even if this man was only an inch taller.

Derik stood and offered his hand. "Sir, my name is Derik."

The mayor opened the double doors as they walked inside. "You new to my town?"

"Yes sir, but, uh, I've been here before."

"Oh now, which is it?"

"Sorry sir, I helped Mr. Findick bring in a run of pigs some time back."

"You didn't see the need to formally meet my fair town then?" The mayor made his way behind a shiny, large, deep-stained oak desk with neatly organized stacks of paper.

Portraits adorned the walls, mostly larger, more youthful versions of the lightly grayed man seated before him. "George, uh, Mr. Findick wasn't in the mood to give me a tour. Sir, I managed to make out a modest living, peacefully, not too far from the Findicks, higher on the mountain than most would care for. It was a hard first year, but I've come by to make things right. To make a proper claim, law abiding and all."

The man pulled out a book, flipped through the pages, then scratched some figures onto a scrap sheet. "Did George tell you how things are around here?" The man never looked up from the page.

"Yes sir, sort of. I trust he said it all, but, well—"

"One deer, or equivalent, every other year. Whatever you bring will be—"

Derik gestured to the bags. "I've got some soaps and—"

"Yes yes, fine, it doesn't matter." He looked up, irritated. "I won't be buying them, I don't appraise them. We hold auctions. A deer is a deer, not a sickly scrawny thing. Butchered, by weight and cut. Look," frustrated, he wadded the sheet into the trash, "it's taxes. It's too high a walking burden to make it due yearly, and it's not high enough a burden to send the sheriff out to collect, unless a lot is owed. Most everyone handles the honor system very well here." The man pulled the open book closer and sat straighter in the chair, "We're like a big family here, about ten thousand in this valley. Just a handful of troublemakers, and we mostly know who they are. The deer, the tax, pays for the peace. Too high, and I lose my next election, too low, people get tempted to take things into their own hands." The man folded his, center of the book before him.

"Yes sir, we'll cause no problems."

"We?"

He probably shouldn't have mentioned that. "I just need to file the claim."

"You and who? Or should I send the sheriff to ask?"

With no snake to prevent a lie, he said, "My wife." It felt good.

The man sat back in his leather chair and smiled as he looked at the ceiling. "I see." He spun the book, then pushed it closer to Derik with a finger on a circle labeled Findick as he leaned in, "Where?"

Derik studied, then pointed.

"Nobody for miles." He checked in another book. "Nobody for years. Maybe even ever." He waved Derik in closer. "You know how this works, right? You have a tax account with this office, any excess we keep in your account, good with any merchant here. Same as any debts, with any merchant, is a debt here. Disputes get handled, here. You'll find our sheriff very fair, but very firm." He leaned in closer, as if to whisper but his voice never lowered. "We have the best entertainment in town. It never gets entered into any ledger, handled straight off your account."

He paused, "Sounds like an easy place for fraud—"

The man sat back, offended, even louder, "No mayor would ever get re-elected, let alone thrive here as long as I have, had—"

"I apologize, sir."

"That's right you do. Finest damn girls you've ever laid eye upon—"

"That's all right, sir. Married."

"Most are, son. Long way in town, long way from home." He leaned back, smoothed the wrinkles on his jacket, and adjusted his bright yellow tie, "Got the finest tailors, cleanest cuts of cloth too." He took in Derik's attire. "Finest used stuff too."

"The next auction's when?"

"Tomorrow."

"If I can sell it to one of the merchants before then?"

"That would be fine, but mightily unlikely. Right now, none of them know you. Think of it as a town meeting, the welcoming party. Publics' got a right to see who's living in their midst."

"Yes sir, suppose they do."

He thanked the man who once more offered the hospitality of the warmest night's stay, but Derik spent the night on the bench outside the auction house instead.

He set them up on the table, unpacked and readied. He sliced the bread into sample sizes, only a few days old. Same with the three flavors of jerky. Two bags of sugar, a taste was sprinkled before each. The last of the honey. All under watchful, weary eyes. The chess set spoke for itself.

It was disappointing. Few showed up. Those that did were skeptical. Soap that repelled insects? Scented sure, but it sold as soap. The jerky did better, the chips were an instant hit. Nobody could peg what they were, but everybody loved them. The honey did better than he could have expected. Still, all added together, it was just enough to cover the taxes on the land.

The chess set did the best, the mayor ended up with the highest bid. It spoke to him as sophisticated art. Derik doubted the man ever played, but an unfinished, fake game would look perfect on such a desk.

Credits, points, they were just marks kept in the mayor's book. Nothing real ever changed hands. Well, he got nothing more than the marks, they got a load of goods. Trust. Faith. He was buying an argument, hopefully a winning one, that the land that nobody wanted was his now. The mayor had defined a man's claim for land as no more than an hour to walk it all the way around. If he wanted more, the tax would be more. That would be a waste if it was more than they planned to use. Besides, an hour seemed right. The mayor had assured him that it was seldom cause for problems when buildings, gardens, and other improvements usually spoke for themselves.

They were legal now. Hopefully, that bought them the right to argue their side. It didn't seem like it would ever be an issue.

She had written him a note. Odd, he had read it three times now for sure, but kept forgetting what it said. Good thing he kept it in his pocket, every time he shoved his hand in there he pulled it out, and re-read it.

A note to come back soon, and a word, peanuts? Oh, she must mean peanut seeds. He might have enough left over. He checked the account at the mayor's office and purchased ten on his way out of town. Ten, it was all he could afford. At least he was leaving with something.

The trip back took a few days less, but the climb up the mountain was pure punishment.

Tired, but he couldn't stop so close to home. He should show up a few hours after dark, probably while she was asleep. As he plowed on up the hill, he tormented over being quiet so as not to wake her, or loud and sure not to startle.

It was answered soon enough. He couldn't be that close and not yell out her name.

Dark, and a little cold, it was already way past her normal bedtime. His last yell seemed to merge with pond-haze. She was up, half dressed, and ran out to greet him, barefoot on the backside of the pond.

He was out of breath when she put an arm around him and walked by his side, silent steps all the way home. Inside he propped the travois by the door while she worked off his clothes and handed him something clean before he was completely bare. She washed her feet while he sat on the bed and buttoned his shirt.

Within the next few seconds, he was flat on his back with her nose near his neck, her leg across his lap, all without a single word, except his yells of her name. His eyes were almost instantly too heavy to keep open. So tired, all his energy had been spent on the hill.

This was probably the nicest thing she could ever have done. She made no attempt at all to keep him separated from sleep for a moment longer than needed, even though she had obviously been waiting up for him, at least for the last few nights, the smell of coffee still in the air.

He wanted to talk to her, to have something incredible to say, but sleep washed over him like water in a tub. Who knew paying taxes could be so exhausting.

That morning they worked on the new house, further up the mountain-side. It was nothing but logs right now. Chopping, shaping, shaving, notching, all measured by simple knots in string, it was quite a system. Shavings and scraps went into an earthen kiln to fuel the drying and baking of bricks. Red clay would be hard to dig with the ground still so cold, but the logs could be prepped, land groomed.

The markers they drove last year were near where she wanted to build. Once explained, it made perfect sense. She wanted it close to the trees so it would fall under the shade every summer. She wanted the woods in front of the house cleared of all evergreens, so when the leaves fell during winter, the house would bask in the sun. Close, in this case, meant trees thick enough to be fatal if they fell on the building. A tricky mix to manage, but with some easy math and a pole the height of the building, the layout quickly fell into place.

This would be a more permanent structure. Not that what they lived in was temporary, this was just constructed to a higher code. Hardwood trunks were shaped and set aside for the bottom rows with three-day baked bricks planned for the foundation. Cedar chips were saved to scatter under a raised wooden floor with an eye to plumbing, drainage, and such. This one had all the complications they were far too rushed to heed, living in a tent, racing to winter.

With packed lunches, a jar of her vegetable juice, and slices of bread, they stopped for lunch, like they had every day this week.

Having been briefly tempted, he had been feeling guilty about the mayor's offer. He felt like he should tell her. Confession. Instead, he just ate his bread and sat on the same log like every day this week.

His eyes focused on the earthen mound for firing bricks near the back of the clearing. With only two small stacks of wood by its side, he knew it would require much more. They had a lot of wood left over from winter, cut to the perfect size. The only problem was, it was all downhill. Each took a load every day, but it was building up slowly. They would need rows and rows of wood to fire the number of bricks she wanted. The kiln near the pond could only cook a few dozen a week. Her hardened earth approach had been more to kill weeds and bugs. Besides, a blazing fire was difficult and dangerous to work, the heat unwieldy to focus. The raised wooden floor solved that problem, but a layer of bricks would yield the permanence this construction demanded, even if it too was to be topped with a wooden floor. It would take a lot of wood to bake that many bricks.

It was surprising the range of items she could craft, out of heat and dirt.

He took a drink of her juice. It was warm, tomato soup like, thick, and a little spicy hot, just enough to give it a kick. The taste was growing on him, packed with nutrition for sure. He couldn't drink it straight like she could, but it went well with bread.

"I... "

She looked up.

He had her attention, as silent as that was. He hadn't meant to say anything, "Never mind."

She didn't look away.

"I— The mayor... " It had been a week since he returned, yet she had never asked anything about town. Not a single word about his trip. "He uh, we get to vote, well, I do, since I signed the book, in twelve years."

She gave him her attention, though she obviously didn't care about the politics of life in town.

"He— I'll have to pay every other year, allowing for weather and seasons."

She had stopped eating, but wasn't finished.

"They— The soap didn't do as well as it should have. Maybe next year they'll believe it's more than scented. Jerky and chips did great. Flour did ok. Your chess set did great. Sorry."

She took a drink, but didn't eat. The slice, still in her hand, rested on her lap.

"He, uh, offered— I slept outside the auction house, but, he," he looked at her shoes, those tied laces, round little loops, "He offered a warmer night, that would suit even George."

She paused, then, finished the piece of bread.

He watched her chew. Swallow, then sip.

"You can, if you choose to. You don't have to stay here. You don't," she said before sealing the lid. She stood up, infinitely calmer than he expected. "I do." She picked up her tools. "I'm happy with my choice. It's not every desire answered, or every wish fulfilled, but I'm happy with here. We don't get every wish, lucky to get even a few of the realistic ones. I know this isn't what you had in mind." She hung the leftovers in a tied sack from a branch in the shade. "We can have a life here, I can't exist there." She stood a mere step away. "Whatever obligation you think you have to me, I release you. I'll be fine, if you choose to leave. I'll even understand if you do." She shrugged when he looked up, "I can't offer you that kind of life. Wouldn't, even if I still could. I won't decide this for you." She went back to work.

He finished his bread, then followed.

He rested his back against the tub, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, sleeping on the travois worked out fine. An easy eight feet off the ground, not a lot of swaying. I never had a need to try enclosing it, you know, tent style like you said, but, no reason to think that wouldn't have worked out just like you thought."

She washed the other foot, "Well good. I was a little worried about it twisting—"

"Nope, it did fine. Stiffened right up when referenced to branches, just like you said it would." He briefly turned his head toward her feet, "You— Does this stuff just come to you, or, have you seen it done like that before?" He looked at the fireplace, the kettle that vacuumed the bags. She was so good, at so many things. Depth. Breadth. Without the trappings of either.

She started on an arm. "A little of both. Something I saw, something remembered, a touch of inspiration." She sank back in the tub, arms and legs resting on its generous lip. "Desperation. Necessity." She ran her fingers through his hair, "Good fortune."

"You'd be fine if I left?"

Her fingers stopped above his ear, "I'd be very sad. But, I'd survive."

"Sad?"

She cupped his ear. "Very."

"Marry me."

She ran her hand across the top of his short hair, "Stay."

Light frost still formed some mornings. The sundial predicted another week or two and his last reading of her agreed. The greenhouses were doing fine anyway. One had been scratched at, the plastic torn in spots, but otherwise unharmed. More importantly, the plants thrived inside, and it was easily repaired.

Most of the surplus firewood had been hauled to the site of the new home; they even had enough warm days to start baking bricks. This had been his first night minding the fire. Cold, but acceptable. He managed to stay up most of the night, only to fall asleep on his travois perch just before morning.

When he woke, Dana had already arrived with hot soup. Half a pot full, if he wanted it, was in the basket at the end of the rope, easily pulled up for breakfast. A generous chunk of fresh bread, too.

He knew nothing about baking bricks, but he did know how to keep a fire going. The earthen kiln looked like a small, round mound, big enough to crawl inside like a tent, but not high enough to stand. Three fires built within its edges, each needing checking, balanced the heat inside. She had somehow come up with this method that added water to the chimney so the expanding steam stoked the flames even higher.

That was the part he didn't get. How in the world could steam in the chimney make for a hotter fire? He couldn't figure it, but, it worked. That delicate super-heated part had thankfully been finished before he took over. His job had simply been to keep it going to prevent it from cooling too quickly or unevenly, which could easily crack bricks. That had been his task.

He had peeked in on the bricks over the night. While the last of the steam clouded out of the top, they continued to glow within. Pretty, almost hypnotic, they shined like colored glass. He hurried to finish the soup so he could climb down.

She checked the fires and replaced the peering blocks. "They look perfect," she said at the base of his tree. "I think we can let the fire die out now. It'll take until tonight to cool enough to pull them out." She blocked the rising sun from her eyes with her hand as she stared up the tree, "You all right up there last night?"

"Just fine." He sipped what was left in the bowl before coming down. "You're up awful early."

"I find, I, I don't sleep as well alone, as I used to." She took the lowered basket from him and rinsed his bowl with a sprinkle of water. "Just another way you've ruined me, I suppose."

"Ruined?"

She put her cold fingers between his scarf and neck, about where her nose usually breathed. "Spoiled."

"As long as the bricks aren't ruined."

"Another three or four batches should get us started proper."

He laughed a little, "Proper?"

"I figure about a dozen or more before we're done. You can go sleep in the bed if you want, I'll take over for a while."

He took her hand and led her down the hill.

The darkened room was warm, but empty when he woke, middle of the afternoon. It hadn't been so lonely when he fell asleep. Sleeping in the woods, no matter how nice, was not sleeping in a bed. Her pillow was still in his arms. Naturally, she was working outside. Why wouldn't she on such a nice sunny day? He pulled the pillow tighter, it smelled so her.

It wasn't.

She had offered him a similar choice, several times now. He was still tempted by a life in town, released from obligations, with a readily marketable talent. When he first ran after her, she begged him to leave her and go home. He stayed instead. Running away, itself, was in part an attempt to free him. She demanded to be free from his room and his teenage attentions before he was hopelessly hooked on her. She had given him several outs over the years. He had passed on them all. He was tempted, he had always been tempted by the easier path.

Life with her promised to be anything but easy.

He thought of Smudges, a most noble horse. The two deer of last year. They had reached higher, had become more, in the presence of her. He wanted to be more than nature would have him be. Adulthood, obligations. He wanted to be that better person, resisting temptation. He had the words to bed— The words came easily, the too easy path. Still tempted to watch her bathe, he was tempted less of late. There was a measure of pride in that. Measure of respect. He strived to be a better person.

She was sitting on the bed, facing the tub when he woke again. She had slipped in quietly. The remains of a meal sat at the table, her hair still damp. He sat up beside her. Bricks still had them on opposing sleep schedules.

"Three, maybe four more batches of bricks will do it," she said as she rested her bad knee across his. "You've asked me to marry you." The top of her dangling foot rubbed the back of his calf. "I don't doubt your sincerity. I know you mean it, more, each time you ask. Husband isn't defined by words some stranger says, it's defined by how you treat me. How you look at me. How you hold someone in your heart. By that measure, we've been married for some time now, without a yes from me.

Of all the people I've met, you would make the best father. That doesn't mean today. It's going to be hard enough, with as much work as we've got ahead of us. Mostly you."

"Look, you've said that a lot now. Undervaluing yourself. I'm— Please stop it."

She leaned into him. "We've never really talked about it. I would, if it would keep you, even knowing it was a horribly bad mistake for me to make. We sleep together, a third of our lives. That together is important to me. That girl you've been chasing since childhood, you've kissed your way into her heart. Bad kisses would be worse than bad sex, for me." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Not that I'd accept bad from either.

If we had sex two, three times a day, everyday, it would still last shorter than most meals. A small fraction of the day, even smaller fraction of love." She squeezed his shoulder. "Not that that was ever going to happen.

It's a low priority for me, the last thing I base the rest of my life on. All this other stuff is where I find the living of life. All of this is where I choose you. This is the life I'm most happy with."

She yawned. She was tired, and he was just getting up. "I, uh," he moved her leg off his, "I have to go." He kissed her on the forehead, then rushed outside with the box of paper.

"Sorry," he said, sitting down again.

She covered her yawn behind her hand, "Are we— is this enough for you, if this is all there is?"

"Well, I would like a little less rabbit for dinner."

She poked one of his ribs with her elbow, "I'm serious. If this isn't— You're a good person, but you tend to sidestep when you don't want to say what you think I don't want to hear. I can't promise more. I can't. But if I did, and everything else didn't make you happy, I'd still lose you.

I know of your want to marry me, but that yes from me won't get you more of me. We bring children into this, it'll probably be even less." She yawned again.

"I told you about in town, because, I felt so guilty. I was tempted, for a second or two. The thought would wander back at the oddest times, but, I never would. They'd— It would probably scare the crap out of me if I had. I couldn't live with the guilt of the thought, I can't imagine living with the memory.

Stuff sticks in my head, it won't leave sometimes. Stupid stuff, sticks the most."

She leaned into him, then rubbed the side of her head. "Did you sell all the aspirin you took with you?"

"I don't think so?" He got up and looked, "That's funny, I don't remember selling any." He checked again before climbing into the attic. "I could have sworn I had some extra up there. You made that big batch when we first got here." He sat back down by her, "I remember taking it with me, I guess I must have sold them." He kissed her on the forehead, "Sorry. I didn't think you got headaches?"

"I do, sometimes." She climbed into bed and patted the empty spot beside her.

"I just got up."

She patted it again, "Just 'til I fall asleep."

He knew it wouldn't be that simple. As soon as she fell asleep, chances were she'd have him pinned. But what else was he going to do? After being up for only a few minutes, he went back to bed.
**B5.C18**

She didn't tempt him like before, much to his disappointment. She did, however, work him hard. They dug a large hole near the creek, a few hundred feet uphill. It had taken days of digging and hauling batches of bricks to line the hole. They had only two years worth of study, but the creek slowed to a trickle during winter. Freezing over completely wasn't unthinkable. To compensate, they dug what was basically a tank of several hundred gallons. Their last step would be to divert the creek to it, then allow its overflow to feed back into the creek, constantly turning the water, so long as it continued to flow. It had to be uphill enough so that the bottom of the pit would be above the floor of what would become their new house. That was what demanded it be so far away. They also had to dig an almost equal-sized one downhill from the house. Only, this one didn't need to be even a little watertight.

Pipe was another educational experience. Hardwood trees were split down the middle the same way they made planks, only these had thumb-sized grooves gouged down the center. The ends were fitted so that one could snuggly slide into the other, then painted and glued back together with the several gallons she had made from distilled pinesap. Each joint between pipes was reinforced with a wooden sleeve. As many days as it had taken to cut, fit, snake, and glue a few hundred feet of this pipe through the woods, it took much longer to bury it underground. Any path dug through the woods was webbed with roots, some thicker than branches. And as nice as her hatchets were, the ground had too many stones to make use of them. She had wanted it buried several feet deep, she was lucky to get a single foot. Instead, he tended to compensate by building a mound over it with the dirt hauled from the pits. To his mind, it was the same thing.

It amounted to a mind-numbing workload before spring even began. But they got lucky with the return of a familiar doe and her new fawn with perfectly shaped ears. It was sad not to see the too curious one, hopefully it had gone on to a life of its own, but he feared it met a hapless fate. Milk and hard work in return for cabbage, potatoes, and scraps from the garden and a fenced in home for its newest fawn wasn't a bad deal at all. Pity she only showed up after all the wood and bricks had been hauled.

By mid spring, they had finished enough of the building to spend their first night. With no walls inside, it was just one big open room. He looked up at the naked rafters and the gaping holes for a door and windows. It was a roof over their heads, a floor beneath their feet. But it was more than that, it was big, if only relative to what had, until now, served them well as home.

He put the last bundle of dried milkweed straw on the ground in a corner, smoothing out the bumps before covering it with a blanket. Dana set her bag of food beside him, then headed to the far side of the room.

Strictly by the numbers, it was only a little more than twice the size, double the length that faced the sun, but only a few feet deeper. The door she just stepped past was center that side, facing the sun downhill and opposite the fireplace. This left the shortest, straightest path for bringing in firewood. She paused before each of six windows. The first was just the other side of the door. The next was in the end, followed by smaller ones on each side of the chimney, then back to the ones to each side of his strawed corner. He watched as she started her circle again.

It was a brilliant design. Trees over twenty feet weren't rare, but they were harder to manage and compensate for the taper. By breaking up the longest sides with a door and chimney, it saved on wrestling these mammoth pieces into place.

Again, the tub, when they brought it up, would be to one side of the fire, close to the source of heat. Their bed was to be to the left of the door, kitchen to the right. Any additional beds would be across from theirs and closer to the fire. The grandest thing of all still had him in awe, the reason they were spending the night on the floor.

As the unseen tank uphill slowly filled, at the house they watched its progress. She paused beside the stove where a hollowed-out log stood. Its open end stuck above the rafters while its bottom was just below the floor where it connected to the end of the pipe that wove through the woods. Even over this great a distance, water, seeking its own level, was mirrored inside this log. A float, tied to a string, ran through a few pulleys in the rafters to a dangling weight, slowly lowering to the floor. The nearer to the rafters it dangled, the emptier it was. Close to the floor was full. It was nothing fancy right now, just a simple tap above a bucket, but it was all indoors.

Probably, if he had to add all his efforts up, he might have been better off toting the water from the pond than all that digging that consumed solid back-aching months. But oh boy, was it ever such a satisfying triumph to watch that tiny weight crawl lower to the ground. Man over world!

She tugged on the string as she walked past. The float made a muffled slosh as they both looked up. The attic at the fireplace wall was tall enough that he could stand upright, if they had planks enough for an attic floor. By winter it would have ample shelves for every pot they owned, times four. As the roof reached the door, it tapered to only a few inches, perfect for stacked bags of drygoods. Everything was so well thought out.

The chimney itself was a masterstroke. It was actually three chimneys rolled into one, almost literally. Its center followed a conventional straight up, but could be blocked by a plate that would force the smoke to take two spiraling paths around it. The spirals were squared off which made them look from the front like diagonal stripes. It was deceptive, for only every other course was for smoke, the other, while identical molds, had holes knocked out the ends for venting hot air. This had several advantages, according to her. By essentially making the hot smoke travel further before leaving the house, it kept more heat inside while heat rising in the diagonals actually helped circulate air out into the room. Plus, more bricks meant more mass holding heat. If it worked, and he had his doubts, it would keep a house twice as large just as warm on even less wood.

She ran her hand across the air holes. Some on the sides, some on the front in this oddly symmetrical pattern. It looked... Different. That was where all his doubt came from. He had no reason to doubt the hand that touched those holes.

He sat on the covered straw, their bed for the night, as she walked another lap around the spacious room. She was wonderful to watch with her arms stretched out to her sides as she did these little spinning circles, drifting barefoot across the room, lingering by each wide-open window, stopping before the door. The pulleys squeaked as the weight dropped another inch toward the floor.

She smiled, turning to him, "We can walk around without having to go outside."

She pulled him off the floor.

"We can walk around, without going outside!"

For her, that was more impressive than plumbing.

They had spent the night to watch for leaks, but he knew there would be none. It stopped a foot off the floor by first morning light, as designed. He woke, but not to the kind of light he had been used to by the pond. Here they were heavily shaded and extremely diffuse, just hints of the spectacular sunrise he was missing. It was an ideal location for someone who prefers to sleep late, like her.

They visited the tank first thing after breakfast. The creek trickled in past her sandwich of gravel, sand, and charcoal. Looking inside the still open tank, it was clearly full with the planned gentle swirl. The overflow drained back out the other side in a trickle through the gravel that denied entry to anything bigger than a fly, while the bulk of the excess simply flowed over. Inside, opposite the pipe, was a dip, the lowest part of the tank. It had seemed to him that the pipe should have been at the lowest point of the slope, but again, this showed why this was so much her world. Even at this early stage, little pieces of dirt, dust, and pebble-sized debris were spiraling their way into the mini pit, furthest from the pipe leading home.

They finished the pit with a knee-high mini roof, small enough for two to lift and move, but big enough to cover the hole and protect it from critters and bugs. They would have to enter it every so often to clean the pit and replace the filtering coal. Perhaps every three or four years, but it wasn't often enough to justify a complicated door.

The transplanted garden was just beginning to produce. Those planted as seeds were merely tall sprouts. Gardening was growing on him, especially since this garden, much like the one by the pond, was within view of the house. They hadn't fenced this one in, but tempting deadfalls were plentiful near its edges. Besides, this winter they had hammered the little villains harder than most. Losses to nibbling would be rare.

Construction, farming, and hundreds of little projects consumed all of the next few months. It was difficult, to say the least, but this year they both kept a long distance focus. They had the help of the deer, and well beyond milk alone, they used her to the fullest. Neither tried to befriend this fawn in the hopes of saving it any confusion about people. This fawn was a boy.

By the time summer started, they had the windows glassed in, rafters floored, a counter and shelves in the kitchen, the tub moved and plumbed, and even had a toilet sitting in the far corner. A hardwood pipe, starting behind the stove, ran waist high across the rear wall a few feet above the tub, turned around the toilet corner, and ended at the sink with a tap at each. The two gallons or so bowl above the toilet had a simple flap sealing its bottom attached to a string for flushing. The tap to refill it was manual as well, but took only a few extra seconds and eliminated any need to listen to nightly dripping. Vastly superior to a chair with a hole and random spots in the woods, it still took a lot to get used to going in front of her.

He never knew he could be so self-conscious about such a thing. He had grown up going in front of other boys without a problem, but making, well, sounds he didn't want her to hear, made him very uncomfortable. It was seated to face into the room without a single obstruction for privacy, with none to be added in the near future.

He tried hard to go, as politely as possible. Something seldom possible all the time.

As uncomfortable as the toilet sometimes made him, he still rejoiced in that it marked the last time he would carry a bucket inside. The countertop high pipe was a compromise. It wouldn't allow them to drain the tank fully; to do that would have required the tank to be twice as far from the house and would also have made the low pressure, open-top style unusable. It also would have ruled out the easy meter. Low pressure, slower fills, low leaks. A compromise. Their original tap could still fill buckets when the level fell below pipe height in cases of drought, and even then, water need only be carried within the house.

By the burning heat of summer, she had put the finishing touches on yet another powerful creation. It resembled a loom of sorts, permanently attached near the wall on the kitchen side of the door. Four feet wide, but it only extended into the room less than half a foot. On the underside of the rafters were seventy small pulleys, laced loom-like to the top of a wooden shuttle-like box filled with hundreds of pounds of stones. An extra pulley ran the string straight from the rafters to its mirrored pulleys that wove the floor to the bottom of the box. Two gearing wheels turned the slower moving twist of string passing ceiling to floor into a streaking blur across the bottom of the rafters, powering two ceiling fans. Two minutes of 'stepping' at a leveraged foot-pedal made it easy to lift the heavy box the full seven feet off the floor while its slower descent provided a cool breeze from both fans for almost a third of the day.

The first time it was used, it had made this horrible squeaking until the troublesome pulleys were found and oiled. Now it was as quiet as the wind. The angle on the fan blades could be easily adjusted to change the speed and strength of the breeze, or even invert its output so it blew into the rafters and down the walls.

Neat.

Within a week she had made something similar near the toilet that soon turned washing clothes into little more than hoisting a tub three times. It easily emptied into the toilet and stored high in the attic when not in use. It may have used more water, he wasn't entirely sure, but it was clearly gentler on the fabric while doing a superior job of cleaning. And it cleaned for a full twenty minutes or so for every minute and a half of effort. Impressive timesavings.

Time had flown by. The fruits of the first harvest had already been dried and canned. Tomatoes were coming in at a constant bushel every third day, same with cucumbers, peppers, spinach, mustard greens, and lettuce. They had bread and salads with every meal, and a pie every week. The traps had caught little, and the last of the ice had melted.

Their icebox was primitive. It would have kept much better underground, but he had already learned the penalties associated with that much digging and had no desire to take up any more shoveling this year. No more shoveling for the rest of his life, if it could be helped.

She had showered about an hour ago and was now flat on her back in bed with the fan stirring the air above her. Relaxation. It was nice when it could be gotten, and well deserved. It was his turn to wash clothes tonight. He had already filled its tub and finished hoisting it into the hiding spot in the ceiling, where it started on its nearly twenty minute descent to the floor. He watched as the two-foot wide tub twisted right then left with loud sloshing sounds for every fraction of an inch it descended. It was rather compelling to watch. The two, fixed ends of the rope were furthest from the corner, motionless in time. For every pulley it raced around, it seemed to pick up speed. By the time it reached the corner by the toilet, it was whipping three feet of rope through the wheel that drove the agitator for every inch it rolled down the wall.

Elegant. The array of pulleys underneath the tub mirrored those above, like a spool of excess string. It was a rather brilliant combination of gearing without gears, while spooling without the complexity of winding or springs and the impressive move of using the weight of water and clothes to store the power. It was the same basic design as the fans, only a much smaller and shorter rope.

Charging the fan looked simple, just repeated stands on a foot-pedal, but it was a serious physical workout much like a five-minute hike uphill. The washing-machine was identical, just had much fewer steps.

There was no hiding it. That girl napping on the bed was... she was holding back a lot of intellect. He had never seen, nor even heard of this kind of thing before. Never. Yet, watching it work, it looked so obvious. Graceful.

Hypnotic.

He knew it took a long time to wiggle and jiggle its way to the bottom. Yet, there it was already. He walked over to it and scooped out the bar of soap floating on the top. With a twist of the valve, it whooshed the wastewater into the toilet. Twist another valve and it started to fill again. He had forgotten to pay attention and not only opened the valve too wide in the filling, but, when it threatened to overflow, he had slapped it closed in a panic.

That compounded the mistake.

The water-level marker slammed into the floor seconds before the float popped out the top and traded places with the marker on the ground. Fortunately, the top had been fitted with a gutter of sorts that let it spill harmlessly across the attic and emptied in the middle of the tub with a not so harmless splash. He was soaked, but it was of his own doing.

It seemed counter-intuitive. Water seeks its own level, right?

Well, sort of. In principle. But there is this thing called momentum too. The pipe's inside was little bigger than a finger and a thumb, but it was so very long. This gave it the equivalent of several buckets worth of flowing water. He couldn't open it all the way, then suddenly stop it without those buckets already in motion trying to find another place to go. Starting to close the valve a few gallons early was taking some getting used to.

He wasn't there yet.

The washtub raised several inches every time he stood on the pedal. When it reached the top, he flipped a lever that returned the tension to the rope, and he was done for another dozen minutes or more. It really was neat to watch. The tensioner was even located on the bottom for ease.

This was the rinse stage. When it reached the bottom again, he flushed the water, removed the little agitator arm, pushed in a peg, then tensioned it again. This time it would spin faster and faster all the way down in a trip that took little more than a minute. Pull'em out and hang'em up and he was done, except for the long wait for them to dry that would take the rest of the day.

It was all just too easy, thanks to that silent sleeping girl.

He was learning the blessings of following.

He tried not to disturb her when he climbed into bed, his last chore of the day, now done.

The deer from last year had left some unexpected surprises. Cloudberries were popping up everywhere under the oaks. It was a tough fight getting to its leaves first, they even had to transplant some to the garden just to see the first berry. The leaves, he was soon to learn, made the most incredible green tea he had ever tasted. Amazing. It even made for a nice summer break from the dandelion-root coffee for her.

They never had enough berries to make gallons of juice like tomatoes did. One squeezed over a glass of water didn't cut it either. Yet, the mild taste of tea made from just a few leaves was rendered the perfect sweetness with the addition of a single crushed cloudberry. The dark, black tea he had grown up with had never set right with his stomach. No matter how much sugar he added, it never became sweet enough to drink all day.

This, however, sat a very calming well with him.

It was simple to make too. A quick washing of the picked leaves, a light steaming, then a gentle squashing with a slight twist between two pieces of wood was all it needed before being set out to dry in the sun. It required very little effort, just enough to burst open the cells without totally destroying the leaf. Once dry, usually by the end of the day, they mixed in some made from her struggling mint leaves and the dried pulp from cloudberry juice, about one portion for every twenty, then sealed it all in a waterproof bag for later.

Cloudberries were about as sweet as the blackberries, and nowhere near as seedy. But, he found they weren't growing the blackberries for the food but the thorns it added to the fencing. The berries were just a bonus to her.

With enough weedmilk she made more toothbrushes and waterproof bags, plus one other item that was new. Judging by socks, and socks alone, the cloth made from the stalks seemed to last substantially longer. Rope had long proved it was a far stronger fiber, just much harder to get at.

Until now.

It looked like most of her creations, so simple anyone should have been able to come up with it. It cranked like the weedmilker, and, essentially, it rubbed the stalks between two belts that moved at slightly different speeds. The belts, having gripping grooves that worked to pull the flakes and stiffer chunks out of the dried stalks, left only the clingy strands remaining.

It was still a pain. The cotton-like ball retained flakes and a few stubborn wooden chunks, just far fewer than doing it all by hand. It was a vast improvement, that was all anyone could really ask. Stalks could be harvested half a dozen times a year, adding up to a considerable mountain of fiber stronger than cotton. And gallons of the ever useful weedmilk.

It just wasn't as soft as wearing smoke.

The cabin by the pond was unbearably hot. He had just stopped in to gather the last of their canned food. The cabin was a safe place to keep bags of dried goods, but pots filled with freezable liquids needed to be taken uphill before winter. He happened to be nearby so he didn't waste the trip. Leaving them in that kind of heat couldn't be good either.

Unloading the jars, he marveled at the difference between the two buildings with equally open windows on the same day. It was impressive. The fan accounted for some, but even in the areas the breeze didn't touch, it remained ten degrees cooler. It was a nearly perfect placement in the woods to take full advantage of shade.

He joined her in the garden, bringing her lunch.

He had eaten just bread with a light salad and tea for the last month now. He wasn't dieting, it just, well, it was strange, but it was all he felt like eating for now. Nothing wrong with it. The bread was as good as always.

He sat quietly beside her, sipping his tea. If he was stuck in a rut, he certainly didn't mind it. He started on the last corner of the bread.

"I think this might be the first season for rice," she said.

"Rice?"

"Yeah. Wild rice. You remember, that clumpy grass like stuff by the overflow of the pond. Nothing more than a handful of seeds last year, this year it's looking very productive. It's just in an unprotected place, wide open to hungry critters."

"I can get working on some traps if—"

"It's ok, it's not like I put a lot of effort into it. It'll just be nice if it works out for us, that's all."

He watched her drink the rest of her tomato juice. She had ruts too, not that he minded.

He enjoyed this cool, well-lit night. The open windows were just, perfect, the fan turned as slow as it could go. Unclothed beneath the sheet, they lay on their sides, facing each other. Minutes had passed since the last kiss, word, or movement bigger than a breath. It was all, just, nice.

With but a subtle difference, it suddenly changed.

Her eyes had stayed closed until now when they looked, straight into his. Her faint little smile was just the edges of her lips as if it was something she tried to hide.

Her hand on his hip held them still, pausing him in confused silence.

"I'm not sure, but, for this to work, I think one of us has to move," he said.

Her hand didn't move from his hip, nor did another word pass from his lips; that faint, barely hidden smile, and blinks that lasted too long was as close as this night would come.

Somehow, it was still, perfect.
**B5.C19**

He stood at the toilet, early in the morning. He flushed, then waited for the bowl to refill. This valve didn't open as wide as the bath or the washtub, hardly enough to disturb the float at all. He grabbed the bar of soap and washed his hands while it filled. Yet again, another perfect design, his hands were clean and dried in easy time to close the valve. What would have been wastewater from washing his hands was captured to flush the next bowl. Brilliant. Only, it had taken him months to get the hang of it. Sadly, he hadn't been in the habit of washing his hands before. Or rather, immediately after.

He wet a washcloth and wiped his thigh. They had been having sex for the last month or so now, off and on. Whenever they did, just before bed, she would always sleep half atop him; and over the course of the night, this would naturally happen.

He opened the toilet valve again to rinse off the cloth. It did, after all, double for the bathroom sink. Any excess simply drained away.

Still several hours before she would wake, he went to the kitchen to put together a quick snack. Wow, leftover sweet potato pie. Perfect.

That first night still stuck in his head, how mad he was when what he had put into her, dripped back onto him. Such an absurd reaction, to expect her to handle something he was unwilling to. He had grown quite a bit since then. He took another bite, then washed it down with milk.

Still, that wasn't their first night.

He never remembered the first time they kissed out of affection. The one that always stuck in his mind was that first unwanted one he forced on her. Their first time, the one that clung in his mind, was that silent, motionless night with her. The one that never should have counted because of the way it didn't end.

He ate without a plate, setting his glass down on a towel, silent as he could. Silent.

She was very quiet in sex. It was hard to tell if, well, anything was happening for her. She had seemed to enjoy the one time she was on top, until her bad knee ruined it for her. He felt like he was failing her too, just at her moment of fun. If she was unhappy, she never said anything, not that night nor any other. She was as quiet as he was with breakfast.

It made him feel, guilty.

He wanted to find something that worked for her. He had given into his urges too easily, too often of late, without her protest to hamper him. She had been perhaps too obliging. She seldom argued when he wanted to play cards. He looked at her newly made chess set, yet to be used.

He put the rest of the slice down.

He refused to continue down this path with her. He needed to get back to where he had taken the wrong turn. He needed her to have fun too.

He got dressed and recharged the fan before pulling a chair next to the bed. He had covered her in the sheet right after getting up that morning. It didn't seem to matter anymore, yet he did it anyway. Like watching her bathe, it just seemed impolite. He liked this side of himself. There was pride in what he didn't do, in the moments like this when he could never be caught. Like a child walking past a bowl of candy, never sneaking one. The mark of a good child. The mark of a good mother too.

He took a stroll outside to visit the last of this year's garden and get an early start on chores.

The cabin by the pond had been turned into dry storage, tools, and the permanent home to the loom. Crafts. Part of this morning's walk had taken him here with the last three sacks of dried seeds and sweet-potato chips to be added to its rafters.

He looked at that lonely picture of her, hanging on the wall, then leafed through his journal before returning it to the shelf. He had already started another, kept at his new home. Larger sheets, slightly thicker paper. He had really mastered the art of paper, made of milkweed too. Was there anything this weed couldn't do?

It was probably the wrong question. The right question might better have been was there anything she couldn't do with it.

He closed the door behind him, as quiet as he could. She had turned face down with a pillow partially over her head. Something about it just seemed adorable.

"You're dressed early," she said, muffled by pillow.

"Sleep in, the garden will wait a few more days. I've got fresh milk."

"Wow."

He sat on the bed by her waist while he fixed the sheet higher on her back. "She gets upset when I'm late, what with the twins already weaned."

When she stretched her arms out across the bed above her head he couldn't help but grab her wrists and add a little pull to her morning ritual.

He ended it with a kiss to the back of her neck when she relaxed, "Want me to run you a bath?"

"No thanks."

"Breakfast?"

She pulled the pillow harder over her head.

"A little silence," he said louder than needed.

She mumbled what he could only take as a yes.

He wandered over to her projects corner to study her new chessboard. It had the same number of squares, just, they weren't squares, they were longer, rectangles if he remembered the right word, like it had been stretched to put more distance between the players. The pieces were flat, smaller rectangles. He picked one up. It wasn't a rectangle. One of the narrow sides was rounded to give it a sense of direction, the hints of a triangle. Odd symbols were carved into the face, a different one carved into the other side. This wasn't chess.

He had thought she had just gotten lazy after putting so much time into the other one, only to have it sold out from under her. From an angle, the board had looked normal, it was only up close that it looked so wrong.

He wanted to ask her, but he sat down and continued to study the game.

She woke just in time for lunch, pulled on a shirt, and met him at the table. Salad, bread, milk and tea. Potato crisps on the side.

"Do you like playing cards?" he asked.

"Can it wait until after I'm done eating?"

"I didn't mean now, just, I get the sense you don't." He cut another slice, smeared a spoonful of blackberry jam on it, then placed it on the edge of her plate.

"Thank you." She took a big bite.

"You just don't seem to like it as much as I do."

"Well, I probably don't." She raked the last of her salad into a pile, "But that's ok. I doubt there's anything two people like the same, let alone at the same time." She worked the pile onto her fork with the help of the bread. "Don't worry. If I didn't want to play, I wouldn't."

He watched her take smaller bites of the bread, an attempt to savor it more than the salad she had hungrily put away.

She leaned back in the chair and finished the last of her glass.

"I'm... not that good, am I?"

"I'd say we were evenly matched. You beat me better than half the time."

"Last night you, and I— you just don't seem to be— I just get that same feeling. Like we're playing cards and you'd rather be, doing something else."

"We didn't play anything last night." She looked at him like she was trying to find where the branch hit him in the head. "We haven't played in days, Derik."

"... I mean in, uh, I don't mean cards, really."

She straightened the fork on her plate. "I don't know how much experience you think I've had in my life," she leaned in closer to the table between them, "but it's not been enough for me to figure out what I like, and what I don't." She slid her plate out of the way. "Maybe I'm not having as much fun as you right now, but I don't know what to say or do to change that any more than you. It's really a part of adulthood my parents didn't prepare me for. And I'm not so sure they could have. Knowing the way my parents did it probably wouldn't help you and me a bit. I'm not my mom, you're not my dad. It's something we find," she was reaching out to him, but he didn't move. "Because cards aren't as fun as chess for me, doesn't mean I don't like playing."

He put the lid on the jam.

That night they turned back to the page where this had begun.

Quiet.

Calm.

Almost motionless. It had seemed like torture that first night, a month or more ago. The urge to be in motion was overwhelming, but tonight it was something he controlled. Endured.

She really was a beautiful girl. Her face was so close it blurred, even hurt his eyes to try to focus on. Soft and blurry suited her. Her hand no longer rested on his hip, his urge to move lifted as well. This was so very much like holding hands could be. It seemed a shame he had missed this until now.

He was learning more about himself, by learning more about her.

But that had always been the case.

Last harvest this year, just before the fall of acorns. His favorite deer had already left the field, weaned just a few weeks ago. They were done with the field by the pond, but he found himself there rather often, that abandoned one-room home. The rice had been a bumper crop, for something that had the least tending. It had taken half the day to beat the husks off to free the tiny food portion of the plant, but that seemed the way with most foods. Husks littered the ground like a swarm of ants fighting over withered corn shuckings and matted stalks. It represented so much work, yet the days had flown by so fast.

Handfuls of leaves started their turn to a pretty yellow, dotted in random trees extending as far as he could see.

They had spent the last few days down by the pond, working at the loom. The room seemed so much bigger without the bed and bath. They had a fortune in cloth, rolled up in sheets for now; what hadn't been turned into fresh socks and undies, that is.

Truth be told they had enough clothes. This was mostly about perfecting changes in the loom as well as tinkering with a few other clothing related inventions. The loom had a permanent home now and didn't need to be stored when not in use. No longer needing to be so compact, she had added foot pedals and another yard of width so two could work twice as fast as one, on the same machine. Bags and bags of stuffed stalk cotton seemed such an incomplete task. Besides, the weather had been perfect all this week. Bitter cold and frost had been the norm the week before, this was as warm as summer. And oh, so breathtakingly beautiful by the pond, its tranquil reflection filled with colors. Truly perfect way to pass the time.

Freshly fallen leaves cushioned them under a simple tossed sheet as they lay in the woods. It remained unseasonably warm, yet every season seemed to have at least a few, ideal days like today. Late in the evening, far past the demands of any chores, they lay, far from the house, staring up at the leafless trees. He had thought... other thoughts. It was so, perfectly romantic. Yet, any romance right now would spoil the spell. The squirrels were in full chase, disturbing distant leaves with their bursts of frantic energy. The critters had forgotten the two of them already.

He sat up and looked around. It was breathtaking, the bright yellows and reds carpeting between naked trees. Oaks, pines, firs, still clinging to theirs, were rare and few between. Saplings were cherishing their one chance to be out from the shadows in the dusk of their first few years. Fallen trees boxed in lines around their silent standing friends.

She rested her hand on his shoulder and laid him down again.

The sun was perfectly warm, like a blanket of light. He stared at the nearest, tallest tree. Only the top ten, maybe twenty feet had any living branches. Those closest to him were dry and dead, withered knots on the trunk marked the decades where the oldest had fallen. No branches remained on the ground under the tree. Like each season's leaves, they just lay still, until time let them disappear.

Distant squirrels took another fevered romp, forest of trees.

He closed his eyes amidst a soft drizzle of falling leaves. Her knee crossed his, her toes tickled under his ankle. Both were in simple shorts.

Peaceful, quiet. Calm.

It was nice being on the right path again.

She opened his notebook to a page at the dinner table. She turned it to another, then a few more. "Very realistic," she said, "but I have a question. What would you tell our daughter if she found this page, instead of me?"

He hadn't thought of that. He hadn't been thinking like that. She was simply beautiful and he had wanted to capture it. Clearly he had. "I—"

"I'm not angry with you, Derik. If it was just going to be the two of us, then this would be perfectly fine. You could cover the walls with naked pictures of me. I'm not sure why you would want to, but you could."

"I just—" but tearing them from the book said it best. She was right, they were more sexual than permissible. Somewhere he had crossed the line. Suggestion was one thing, this— he ripped another, and still more. Then he checked each page for words.

"You're very good at capturing me," she said. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."

Her kiss on his cheek and her fingers through his hair seemed to make it all better. She wasn't mad, not even a little. He looked at the last page he had ripped. She was beautiful in shades of charcoal gray, but it couldn't compare to what happened right now.

She had put him back on the right page.
**B5.C20**

She was waking up, her head resting on his shoulder. He smoothed the hair from her face. Long, delicate strands, he ran his fingers through them again. So soft, calming, she was so peaceful when she slept. He twisted her dark strands in his hand. A braid would have been better, but she never wore one, and he dare not tangle them in a knot. Just light, easy twists would last long enough. A few seconds now, a minute at most, her hand had started to move.

He patted a gentle rub, small circles between her shoulder blades, as he held the ends of her hair in his hand. It was warm, thick, and a little sticky; he held his arm tight to his side to prevent it from dripping to the mattress while she heaved twice more. When she sat, he could finally let go of her hair, reach his shirt from last night, and wipe the corners of her mouth before mopping the mess on his chest.

"Don't get up, I'll get you some water." He handed her the empty washbowl from the floor by the bed, just in case.

Washcloth in one hand, he offered her the cup in his other.

"Swish and spit," he said, dabbing the damp cloth across her forehead. "Feel a little better?"

She just breathed heavily over the bowl.

"It's ok, Honey." He wiped her face some more. "I'll fix you some fruit, it'll help. I think we still have some honeymelon."

He wiped his chest on the way back to the kitchen, sticky would start to burn in a little while.

She heaved six more times before he could return.

When he had cleaned himself, she was sitting upright. Her long hair had untwisted but was still nicely held behind her back. Some fork-sized melon chunks, a slice of bread, and a cold glass of milk wasn't a fair trade for what he returned to the kitchen with. He washed and rinsed her unfinished dinner down the sink.

She watched between forks as he walked back to the bed, her half-eaten plate on the nightstand. "I had forgotten how handsome you are," she said.

He realized just how naked he was, "Sorry, I'll put something on."

She smoothed his spot on the bed.

He sat, his lap covered with the corner of the sheets.

She pressed her forehead to the side of his. "It's not what you try so hard to hide, that I find so handsome," she said in little more than a whisper next to his ear. "My husband, wanta be." She kissed him on the cheek.

"I, uh, I still ought to get dressed."

She didn't let go, not for another few minutes. But, eventually she shifted her lean to the headboard while he got dressed.

She had been pregnant for some time now. Physically, she looked no different. It was subtle, but her sleep pattern had shifted more toward his. She woke starving for breakfast in the morning. Unfortunately, she seldom kept it down. Morning sickness hit her hard. It left her so dizzy and queasy she normally stayed in bed until lunch. No matter. He stood in the kitchen, eating the leftovers from her plate. He had even gotten used to being vomited on, somehow. He rinsed the plate before returning to bed.

She leaned into him when he sat beside her. He wanted to learn her new chessboard, but it proved beyond him. What was it she called it? Shogi. It was a much older Japanese version of chess. Where it lost him was the whole idea of promotions; once a piece passed a point, it got flipped over (promoted) and the entire way it moved, changed. Beyond that, any piece that was captured could then be returned to the board like it had been bribed or recruited instead of killed. It was much harder and far too confusing to him. Worse, he was even less capable of challenging her there. The board and its pieces could still be used for conventional chess, she just hadn't made new pawns and such. Besides, she seldom was in the mood for games in the morning. He just sat quietly with her. His mind raced to do, anything, he simply held her quietly instead.

She was holding up better than most mornings, she might even keep this meal down, for once.

He tossed two more logs on the fire. It was odd looking, but it worked far better than even she suggested it might. His first cold night's fire had nearly forced them to open all the windows. Closing off the spiraling chimneys and returning it to the conventional central one dropped the heat way down. The spirals increased the heat exponentially. It easily heated a much larger room with even less wood.

By the time lunch rolled around, her stomach had settled enough to eat. Toasted bread with thinly sliced, grilled rabbit, thick tomato paste, and onions with a side of chips and green tea.

Dana traded her half-eaten sandwich for some chips. "We should think about getting this year's deers while I'm not showing," she said. "Well, between barfing bouts."

He touched her hand when she returned for more chips, "Three days from now, in the afternoon." He let go.

"Ok."

They went for a walk outside after lunch. The fresh air usually did her a world of good, even as cold as it was. Possibly it was the exercise that picked her up? Maybe both, but it hardly mattered which. They tended to end up at the pond on their little walks. Out of habit perhaps. The blown leaves and dried grass behind the tiny cabin remained white with frost. He missed seeing the pond every morning. There was something about that body of water that just added such an intangible quality.

They spent the next three days making pregnancy-sized clothes for her, some infant-sized one-pieces too. After making two pants and shirts for each, they still had dozens of sheets worth of fabric leftover and two of the thicker denim weave. It had been a bumper crop of stalk cotton this year. They could dedicate those fields to food next year, should they wish. It represented several years' worth of clothes, depending on how much might be needed for diapers.

Diapers!

It suddenly didn't look like enough.

It was strange, the more he thought about it. Knowing she was pregnant made her more desirable, yet he felt very odd whenever they got anywhere near having sex. The thought of a child, his child, just inches from where— it kept blurring his thoughts, washing away his desire. She couldn't get more pregnant, he should want to more. But he didn't.

He needed more practice at something more important anyway.

It was a productive hunt, just as he predicted. Two huge, healthy bucks were caught fighting each other. They were so distracted by their rutting, that they were able to get them both. Had it not been for the rapid-fire nature of her crossbow, it would not have been possible. Well, that and her impressive dexterity. It was more of a workout dragging them home than he had envisioned, both in weight and distance.

Deboned, gutted, and skinned reduced the mass considerably while making for a better fit onto improvised travoises. But it was still hundreds of heavy pounds of meat and no snow to slide across.

The sun had sunken to treetop level, and they were at least a half an hour from the house.

He was struggling already. They had crudely made the travoises in the woods; he had failed to inspect his as much as he should have. Its irregular knots made it impossible to find a comfortable way to shoulder it, and the ends seemed to snag on everything.

He could only imagine she was as tired and frustrated as he was when he asked her to "Stop. I, I have to... Just for a minute... Or ten."

She leaned hers against the nearest tree, "Ok."

He plopped on the ground, "You've got to be tired too."

"... Ok." She sat down beside him.

He looked at his blood-sticky hands, wishing he hadn't spilled most of his water trying to rinse them. His thirst was paying the price for that accident. He had been trying to make it home, but it was clear he wasn't going to now. Not without stopping. If only they had packed separate water. Under her discipline, she would have had some left for him to borrow.

She put her hand on his knee, "You going to make it?"

"... Yeah, sure." But he seemed to be breathing harder. Thirst plus frustrated exertion was quickly adding up to moron.

She moved to sit, facing him, knees touching his. She held his sticky hands, "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath, deeper, hold it. Hold it. Now, let it out. Slower. Slower. Hold that. Now, again. Easy. Good... " They continued for the next few minutes.

It helped, with everything but his thirst. He would make it now.

"Help me up, please," she said when he stood.

They walked slower now, but still made it before darkness fell.

He guzzled two glasses in the first few minutes inside.

Smoking and drying meat was an all night cutting task. The strips had to be pinky thick, which was nowhere near as easy as the butchering he did in the field. Working from both sides of the table and easy access to a sink with running water made it go by much faster. At least in comparison to the walk. He had badly misjudged both.

They hung the strips around her fancy chimney with string, tied from the rafters, doing the same in the hot attic. Two suitably cut deer made a dense meat curtain. They would see how much drying it would do by morning. They were both a savagely-beaten level of tired.

The smell they woke to was heavenly. If you loved smoked meat. They hadn't filled the house with smoke, rather, she had marinated in the flavor. It was the first time they had used this method of flavoring. It seemed logical.

She had essentially cooked the same smoking wood in an airtight pot, much like evaporating milk, except that the condensation was this dark, liquid smoke instead of the excess water in milk. Concentrated flavor.

He rotated the curtain of strings to bring those in back closer to the front. A few in the attic and those between the chimney and the back wall were probably dry enough already. But there was no harm in drying them more, he simply shifted the dampest ones into these ideal spots. Those anywhere near the vents were perfect. So perfect that he tasted one right away.

Damn! The liquid smoke was superior to actual smoke. It had a richness fumes couldn't match.

He had rekindled the fire, eaten breakfast, and inspected and rearranged all the meat before he realized she was still asleep in bed. For the last few weeks, she had woken within minutes of him, with differing degrees of vomiting.

Today she peacefully slept like all those years before. Hopefully this marked an end for her suffering. He felt awful for her. He could only imagine what waking to five or six hours of nausea was like, and pitied her for it. A small puddle of vomit on his chest could be easily fixed in minutes, she continued to suffer for hours. It teared him up inside. There was absolutely nothing he could do to relieve her suffering.

He brewed a pitcher of minty hot green tea, then added several tablespoons of molasses for good measure. Tea seemed to sooth her nausea the best, tea and chips, bread and jam. He would have it ready when she woke.

Frost covered the windows, most likely the moisture dried from the meat.

He added an extra log, trying to reach a shorts-wearing toasty.

He pulled a chair near her. Thoughts were strange things. He wondered if his mind was really his own, or if it belonged to someone else. It was rare, but it wasn't the first time he had thought of butchering her. He never would and had no desire to taste or marinate her, but after half of yesterday was spent cutting meat, it seemed to take longer than it should to get the ideas of cutting flesh out of his head. The habit of carving, of looking at legs and judging meat content and tone— it never left soon enough for him.

But how had the idea gotten in his head to begin with?

It wasn't him, he hoped.

He never looked at their on-again off-again captive doe that way. Why were the thoughts there when he looked at Dana?

Troubling.

He closed the blinds to her window.

She woke queasy, but it lasted less than an hour.

Steaks were ready by lunch. Marinated in onions and garlic, it was his best yet. Pure carnivore meal, bread and chips were the only distraction. She ate a full plate and then some.

"I can feel her, you know," she said.

He rinsed the plate before setting it in the drying rack.

"She's tiny, smaller that an insect." She handed him another washed plate, "But it isn't her size. She's still, unmoving, it's— I feel her. This, person. Spirit. Not you. Not me." She started scrubbing her favorite mug, laughing, "It's probably all in my head. I'll be quite mad by the time she's born."

He rinsed the mug.

"I, I can't stop smiling," she said, "nauseous in the morning, blissful by night. It's very strange." She couldn't help but laugh, rather contagiously.

In fact, it was so contagious they stopped washing dishes altogether, until her laughs turned to tears in an entirely surreal way. He just held her while she cried, not that it seemed to help. It just seemed to be the right thing to do.

"Your feet ever hurt when you have to go?" she asked, sitting on the toilet.

More than the question, it was that she could carry on a conversation while she was— It was hard enough for him to go silently, it made the question all the more odd. But his answer only made it worse, "Yes, sometimes."

She wiggled her toes. "I mean, they really hurt right now. Like spending the day walking on those thin rafters when we put in the attic, right in the most sensitive part of my arch. And it's more the right one than the left. Why is that? And, how can it be?"

He laughed, "I don't have a clue."

"You ever have strange thoughts, stuff that you can't imagine comes from you?"

"Like nightmares—"

"That come in the day. No subconscious excuses." She flushed, then washed her hands. "It's weird, I have to go, but I can't seem to. Like thoughts of cutting off your fingers while chopping carrots for salad."

"Sometimes." He turned his back to her again when she dropped her pants and returned to sitting.

"My feet hurt because I have to go, and I can't go because my feet hurt. This is so bizarre."

He had been walking back to her, thinking she was done, now he found himself in the kitchen with— Dishes, he distracted himself by finishing the dishes. This was actually a topic he wanted to talk about, not hurt feet but the topic before. But instead of going back to it, he washed dishes. "Dana..."

"What?"

"... Nothing."

"Say it."

"Look." He let the clean dish submerge beneath the bubbles. "I uh, I thought I could—" he faced her, but looked well above where she sat, "I can't do this, it's too weird for me."

"Do what? It's too late to—"

"This, going to the—" he gestured between them, "I thought I could— I would get— I've got to have bathroom walls, this is just too odd." He turned back to the safety of dishes. "Especially if, we fill this home with kids."

"I make you uncomfortable—"

"Yes, yes yes. Yes yes yes. Yes."

"You do it, we both do it. What is so odd—"

"It just is."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I thought I'd get over it by now." He rinsed, reluctant to start on the last cup.

"Is there anything else I'm doing that offends you? Like breathing too often or something?"

"I'm not trying for a fight, Dana, I was just saying—"

"That I sicken you. You watch me eat, where did you think that was—"

"This is totally different."

Silent in bed, silent most of the time, now was when she decided to make the most over-exaggerated display of noises and sounds he could ever conceive of coming from her. Grunts and pretend strains made him laugh so hard he eventually had to leave the room for the very cold outside.

Within the next few days she curtained in the bathroom. It wasn't a wall, at best it was a silhouetted illusion of privacy that extended from the wall to the foot of the tub.

Privacy didn't come without a penalty.

"You know, this isn't helping," he said, standing in front of the toilet, facing out the window.

She was standing right beside him in the narrow space between the head of the tub and him. "You want me to hold it for y—"

"No thank you. That, that wouldn't— No."

"You sure? I mean, it doesn't look like you exactly know what you are—"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Ok, because usually, and correct me if I'm wrong, but usually something other than standing happens right now. Right?"

"Look, I thought the curtain—"

"That doesn't get you past this, that just covers it up."

"Yes, covering it up, that was what I wanted. Can we just give that a try, because I really am sure that will actually work."

She didn't leave, instead, she moved to between him and the window. He almost had no choice but to stare at her.

"Please."

No.

It took much longer than needed.

They dropped two more deer in the following month.

She also dropped helping him go. Mostly because she had gotten him beyond it.

Why it was so important to her remained a mystery.

**B5.C21**

Swollen ankles limited her movements. On the other hand, she seemed to have to pee two or three times every hour, multiplying her movements. Her wrist had swollen so bad that she lived like she was left-handed for a week. But her morning sickness had faded.

She cried sometimes for hours for no reason, same with laughter, except less often. Her sleep was a jumbled mess, out for a few hours, then up to the bathroom. Up for another hour or two, then back to sleep, she had completely abandoned anything that resembled day and night.

This was the first year for sauerkraut. They had gallons of the stuff. He hadn't cared for it himself, but she always stirred a spoonful of it into, well, almost anything, just before serving. It added a kick, especially to any bland rice and vegetable meal. Better than that, it made for some of the best vinegar that could easily be mixed with herbs and spices to make a perfect dressing for salads or marinating.

Left to ferment too long and it made a very strong alcohol. In the past, she had used this process with the excess potatoes to increase sugar extraction from the beets. Sugar had done well in town, as had sweet-potato chips, so they had tripled both this year. Several small bags of sugar and stacks of chips drizzled in the leftover molasses filled one corner of the attic.

Leftover molasses was an understatement. It seemed like the most wasteful product they had. A mound of beets as heavy as him only made a small bag of sugar, perhaps six pounds or so. What it seemed better at was making three times that much in worthless molasses. Its value in town was directly related to the massive amount of effort involved in straining out those pretty, white grains from its worthless pulp.

But the pulp wasn't entirely worthless, it garnered a great deal of affection from the deer whenever he delivered a bucket of this boiled, chewed muck to them. Which, in turn, seemed to improve the milk. Jerky, sugar, chips. They already set aside what they estimated was a year's taxes.

He sat at the table while she slept, middle of the day.

This was also the first year for wine. He sipped the glass again.

It wasn't wine, not that he was an authority on such. But it wasn't beer, or whisky, or harsh like the mash moonshine of his youth. It was a little sweet and as gentle as tea, with just a teasing hint of alcohol as it glided past the tongue.

He had sipped just a splash, hardly enough to keep the bottom of a mug wet, yet it was strong enough to give his head a pleasant hum.

She had mixed six flavors for him to test while she had gone back to bed.

One was minty, another had hints of lemon, berry, and a mix he was clueless about. And one tasted as close to water as he feared anything could get, and still leave a man drunk on the ground in a single gulp.

They were all strong, crisp, and good.

He was supposed to pick one, but he couldn't. She had made them but wouldn't do more than touch it to her tongue, drinking she left strictly to him.

He was stupid drunk right now.

First time ever with her.

Cabbage. She made it from cabbage! Spoiled— No, fermented cabbage, and some other ingredients. But mostly cabbage.

He slid the empty cup away, almost knocking it from the table.

They tasted so subtle, so clean and smooth that he didn't have a clue how strong it was, until now. Less than ten minutes had passed since he began his little taste test, and his lips were numb. He was worthless for any comparison now. He stayed seated for fear he couldn't make it to the bed without crashing to the ground.

He was drunk. And drunk alone.

He had been just a kid the last time the bottle had been passed to him. He remembered very little of that day. What he did remember was waking up and hoping the vomit in his shorts was his. Not that someone else's vomit would— He had to get to bed. He was losing it fast.

He didn't even try to walk. Crawling was a perfectly respectable method of motion right now.

He woke with no vomit in his shorts, but his pillow was soaked in his own drool. And surprisingly, he had very little hangover. Not bad.

The bad part was his taste-testing mission was a complete failure. He was supposed to pick the best one or two and she would make up several gallons of it to age for taxes. With as uneducated a pallet as his, any of them would do. The problem was she wasn't willing to dedicate that many of her jars to an array of flavors. She wanted one or two flavors, one or two big jars.

Without a doubt it would fetch a very high price per pound carried. It was definitely the right path. More fragile, but a town that offered the mayor's brand of hospitality would be open to this kind of liquid warmth as well.

He stumbled out of bed long enough to add a log, pee, and quickly return to bed.

This pregnancy thing had really changed her in many small ways. At most she had gained only a few pounds, but it had been in all the right places. But the least of these changes were physical. He wanted her to be a mom. He wanted that for her. He lay down behind her, held her, and closed his eyes. He thought of their little girl.

A part of her.

They had boring days, weeks, and sometimes months like now. But it wasn't boring. He had once defined boring as doing the same thing every day, lacking any change. Ok, it was, but all that socializing, eating out, plays, news, gossip, was simply distracting. And in so much as distraction wasn't boring, maybe. But she wasn't boring. Shogi wasn't boring, it was incredibly complex, too complex for him it seemed. These little projects she started were seldom boring, just hard to follow.

Boring, had changed.

He pressed his ear to her back and held her hand a little tighter as his thumb rubbed her fingers.

Boring had been repeating big events. His interest was now held in these tiny differences. Cards was always the same, the hands made each game different. Every hand was new. She was new every day. It was a world of little things, a universe of tiny degrees. Love was such an interesting color, the way it shaded ordinary things.

"You're up early this morning," he said.

"Couldn't sleep." She sipped some tea at the table. "Her heart is racing. If I try real hard, I can calm her down, but that seems to panic her too."

"You're barely showing, how big can she be?"

"This is very different than I thought it would be, Derik. It's like how a warm rock can touch muscle through shirt and skin. She's touching me, constantly. These warm little fingers. She has fingers," she touched hers to her eye then tickled her way to her lips, "She's touching her face now."

"You can't possibly feel—"

"Come here."

He did.

She placed his hand on her left side, near the small of her back. "Shh..." She said. "Close your eyes."

It was a tiny spot, like catching a drop of warm rain in the palm of his hand. Then another, and another, each was warmer than the one before. It was hard to describe, harder to understand. Suddenly cool again.

"She turned," Dana said, moving his hand to her front by the scar.

He felt it grow warm again. Fingers, tiny fingers. It felt like—

"She's tracing the scar again. She's curious. She can feel the sadness trapped in those lines, and she doesn't know what to do. She feels me, feeling her."

"You can't be—"

"Shh... " She let go of his hand.

His hand cooled as he removed it from her skin.

Shogi had grown on him, the more he understood how perfect it was for them. After a piece had been captured, it could be returned to the board by its captor. This built into the game enormous forgiveness. It also allowed for handicapping. She could start with as few as six pieces and still win. It was this added dimension that adapted it so well to their great inequalities in skills.

Their last game sat on the table, unfinished as yet. Two days, and still undone. She had started with only four pieces this time, but through the capture of his had built a nearly equal army. He had outnumbered her 5 to 1 in the beginning; it should have been a slaughter. It would end tomorrow for sure.

She had been asleep for a few hours, while the child inside her slept. Awoken whenever it awoke. The size of a grasshopper, and it had already taken control of her mother's sleep. A different kind of Shogi was playing out inside of her.

He rested his hand on her stomach, still asleep, both of them.

They hadn't— He felt bad about not touching her like he used to. They kissed, but seldom more. The child wouldn't synchronize with her, so she synchronized with the child, sleeping and waking together. The thought of pregnant sex had been bad enough, but feeling tiny fingers... Dana was like a glass lens; a touch from the child was magnified through her. He could only imagine the reverse must also be true. The experience stuck in his head. It hammered home the idea that she was alive, an individual already. Withholding affection was neglecting them both.

She was sleeping on her back, something she rarely did before. Probably preferred by the child inside. He kissed her on the belly, tracing the lines of the scar. Like peeing in front of her, it was time for him to get over it.

The home was bigger, but it still offered no place to hide from each other during long snowbound months. Dana had taken to humming over the last few weeks. It was the oddest thing to watch sometimes. She would hum a lullaby for a few minutes, then fall over. Asleep. Surreal.

It was also adorable. She snored. It wasn't loud, kinda quiet like a whisper. But it was snoring, nonetheless. It only happened when she slept on her back, facing the rafters. She would stop the second he coaxed her head to face the window.

That meant staying in bed with her was the only way to keep her from snoring, and snoring, even as quiet as she was, was loud enough to eventually wake her. And so he found himself today, knee-deep snow outside the window, shades drawn so she could sleep, middle of the day.

The baby had changed his sleeping habits too. She had captured his board's most powerful piece, then turned it against him.

Mint tea was her wake-up drink of choice. She could nibble buttered toast between sips for an hour, until her appetite kicked in. She had turned carnivore on him. Already they had eaten all of the fresh deer and were quickly going through all the rabbit stews made last summer.

He had tried to read her for the where and when of another deer or two, but without her coming along for the hunt, his talent was useless. Even reading to see if he would return with a happy hunting story turned out iffy.

He had a chance this afternoon.

Tracking a deer was no easy thing, even in snow. Cheating with his talent had spoiled him. George would typically spend days, sometimes weeks hunting. That was the way it had always been done. Derik wasn't about to spend days away from Dana, no matter how boring he may think she was. Just being away for a few hours gave him pangs of abandonment.

Tracks. He found tracks.

This way.

Big, heavy by looking at the dents in the snow. It scraped bark from a pine— three pines in a row. Antlers meant a buck. Large gaps in its gait meant powerful, strong legs.

It also meant he had to be quiet. Big plus strong plus antlers meant lethal. He had only three shots and no time for reloads. He could do this. His shower this morning had used her pine soap. He should be ok as long as he kept his noise down. Just follow the snow.

It was tough not knowing how far away it was. The tracks were made today. If it was far away, he should— Running made too much noise, but he had to run some of the time, otherwise he could never hope to catch up to it. He ran when its tracks were furthest apart.

Faster.

Faster.

Wait. The tracks suggested it slowed to a walk. He scanned the distance.

Nothing.

That didn't mean it wasn't around, just that he couldn't spot it yet. Quiet. Keep the crossbow ready. Take it easy, follow the tracks, but don't look at them, look at the horizon.

Ok, it's not here. Pick up the pace.

Faster.

Wait. It circled these trees then dug the ground with its nose. Fresh scratchings were at the base of the tree. It was close. Get ready.

He scanned the horizon again.

Nothing.

Easy. Quiet. Slow steps. It might still be around.

There. It just stood up on its hind legs to get a higher nibble of branch bark.

Ok. He aimed. He was too far away. Dana could make this shot, he couldn't. He had to risk getting closer.

Quiet. One slow step at a time. Keep the crossbow trained on it in case it bolts. Easy, just a few more steps.

He had to chance it, its tail just flipped up, ears perked.

The first missed, but the last two were solid hits.

It jumped off into the distance, staggered, then collapsed into the snow.

He reloaded while it twitched and tried to stand, then slammed back to snow. Slide, stagger, fall.

He steadied himself against the trunk of a tree, held a deep breath, and fired again. Neck, head, then neck again.

It was over.

He reloaded again, then waited, just to be sure.

Wait.

He walked up. It was over. He put the safety on the bow, keeping it close in case of wolves and wild dogs. He fashioned a quick travois, then got started on the butchering.

Where was the house?

That new chimney burned wood more efficiently. More efficient meant less smoke. He looked around again. This was not good.

Don't panic. He could always retrace his steps. It was longer, but he packed plenty of water and several sticks of jerky. He could stay out as late as it takes. Even taking it the long way with a breather every five minutes, he should still make it back before dark. He could shave an hour or more by going directly. Backtrack. Dana had an excellent sense of direction, something he had yet to develop. He was extraordinarily lucky going and coming back from town. He cheated there too, following the ruts cut from the runoff from the pond and the valley like a road. He was nowhere near that now.

Backtrack.

His ability to estimate was almost as poor as his sense of direction. In the next twenty minutes or so, he was going to lose the sun, and he was still an hour out. Two hours, factoring in his now proven inability to estimate.

Wait. That was smoke. Dark, thick, black smoke.

That had to be home.

He headed straight for it.

He opened the door to a hug and an immediate kiss. She was burning green wood in the fire, it popped and crackled and sizzled like bacon. "We were worried about you," she said, then kissed him again.

By the time winter set in, she was big. Sometimes she didn't walk so much as shift from foot to foot, usually with a hand under her belly like the child might fall out if she wasn't careful. The scar looked like a map of the mountains they lived on, blue veins were the trickles he followed to the valley. With his hand on her belly, he could feel a real hand, and foot, pressing him back.

She lay flat on her back, his hand on her belly, fingers stretched out. Dana outlined his hand with her finger, and he could swear the baby mirrored from the other side.

He stared at his hand as these two girls continued to trace. It was hard to say who was compelling who. Dana couldn't take crowds, she explained it once as feeling like everyone was staring and shouting obscenities, even when no one was around. She was probably compelled to trace his hand by the child's curiosity.

He, on the other hand, had no excuse. Other than it was the most amazing, most bizarre thing he had ever experienced. He was mesmerized by this tiny little hint of movement underneath his palm.

They had done this exact thing twenty or thirty times already. Two or three times today alone. It was still fascinating. How could this, be fascinating?

But it was.

She handed him the clean glass in the kitchen, then waited for him to rinse and dry. She pushed her belly into his side. "Tell me," she asked.

"I love you," he said.

"Tell me." She let the plate sink back to the bottom.

He squared his belly with hers, "I love you."

"Tell me."

He kissed her.

The baby had gotten big enough that Dana couldn't sleep on her back anymore. They would lay in bed for hours and talk, belly to belly. It was mostly reminiscing or planning for next year's crops. Most of their conversations were like this, her bare belly pressed to his, so the baby could get used to his voice.

It went counter to his thinking. If he wanted to talk to the baby, he should talk as close to the baby as possible. But the voice the baby heard best was Dana's, and she heard it by the way sound vibrated through Dana's body. This was as close as he could come.

He wasn't sure a baby could hear anyway, but Dana was positive and that was good enough.

He dropped another brick into the water. She didn't make it as hot as she usually did, nor stay in it as long. But she enjoyed it all the same.

"Have you thought of a name yet?" he asked, washing her feet.

"Yes, I have."

"And?" He worked his fingers between her toes.

"It's a pretty name."

"And?" He lathered her arches, then ankles.

"It's a girl's name."

"And?" He rinsed.

"It's a fitting name."

"Oh, that name." He hadn't a clue.

"Were you named after anyone?" she asked, rubbing her foot against his hand.

"For all I know, they pulled my name from a hat." He started on her other knee, "No, that's not true. I was so sick when I was born, they didn't name me for months. Then, I guess, I just started looking like a Derik."

"My mother's best friend was named Dana." She rested her foot on the rim. "I never met her, though. Neither had my dad. She died before I was born."

He rinsed the washcloth, smiled, then moved to the head of the tub. "It is a beautiful name," he kissed her before walking to the kitchen. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Are the sprouts ready?"

"... Sure."

"How about pizza, I made a lot of sauce two years ago with big chunks of pepper and tomatoes and onions and—"

"I remember bringing it up, but I don't remember where I put it." He checked the attic.

It wasn't pizza, not exactly. Only summer pizza was pizza, with fresh sliced vegetables and all. But this was as close as winter could come. Roll the dough, open the jar, smear the chunky paste and sprinkle with curds, it really was a simple, yet tasty meal. And quick. It would be ready by the time she toweled off and got dressed.

Pregnancy was an odd thing. She wanted pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next two weeks. Not even different toppings. The exact same pizza, every time.

"I can't get more pregnant," she whispered in bed.

He kissed her, but nothing more.

"Raising a daughter doesn't wait until spring. My nausea has passed," she moved closer, "I promise not to throw up on you."

He rested his hand on her shoulder. "It's, just... "

"We don't have to," she pressed closer, "just because I want to."

"Yeah, uh... "

"There are other ways, if, you can't. It's your affection I miss, most of all. I still need that in my life."

He rolled onto his back. "I'm sorry," he hid his face behind his hands, "I'm sorry."

She was silent.

He got out of bed and paced in front of the fireplace.

She faced the window.

Hot, damp stones pressed on her bare back. It was much harder because she couldn't lie on her stomach, but he did his best until his arms hurt from the awkward pose. It wasn't what she asked for, not exactly. But it was what he could do.

He would get over this.

Before it started hurting her.
**B5.C22**

She smiled. He had missed that smile. It had taken most of winter to win that smile back. His fingers rubbed her calf, cradled in his lap, blanket covering her in bed. Her feet were hurting again. It seemed to get worse about the same time every day, a little after noon.

He hadn't done anything special to earn that smile, at least not today. Sex was an odd thing, it changed the context of innocent actions like this. They were innocent again. It kept their life in context.

He returned his rub to the arch of her foot.

Snow tended to stay for weeks, melt for a few days, then fall in inches and feet again. Mountains. The view outside the windows was nice, but it paled next to the view of the pond. Here it looked like woods. He missed the little pond. Everything was better here, except for the view.

The water pit hovered a few feet above empty. The last snow hadn't melted for a month. Baths were out, for now. Showers were restricted to every third or fourth day. This had been their first attempts at rationing. It was hard to tell what were the worst offenders. Baths were an obvious, but clearly not the end of the steady drip. The pipe hadn't frozen, that was a plus and the one thing he was most worried about. They could always melt snow, if needed. Indoor plumbing was spoiling him.

She stayed in bed, most of the time. Walking was hard on her, sitting was too. She spent most of her time on her side, but never really got comfortable. Playing cards in bed was a nice way to pass most of this time.

It must have looked odd, had anyone watched the two of them from the window. Belly to belly, his arm rested on her with his hand just behind her ear. She did the same to him. All either would have to do was a quick turn of the head and they'd see the other's cards. It simply must look bizarre, but it felt perfectly natural. Perhaps even comfortable, for her.

They stood in the kitchen, mixing ingredients for a cake.

She had been humming for minutes when she brushed her hip against his as she stirred the bowl.

_"What if love is all there is?"_ she started singing, _"What if the dreams we pretend to live, only serve to give, shape to the love that is?"_

She pushed his hips to the rhythm of her words while she hummed, working the crust.

"What if the sky is only blue, for me, and different for you? Such sad sounds funny, hardly a reason for tears, when love colors all it hears. What if love is all there is?

What if love is all there is?"

She added the thickened mix, brushing against him as she hummed.

" _Time flies by, when it lacks that one ingredient,_

Without shape, sound, or form,

Precious memories fade to the forgotten,

Of moments without you.

_Love lasts longer than life, love lasts longer than life._ "

She hummed again, smoothing the top, her last ingredient added.

Strawberry cheesecake. She was having an extraordinarily good day today. She woke to her own uncontrollable laughter this morning, then sang three songs, which completely flipped him out. He had no idea she could sing this well, a full display of range and tone. She had never sung for him before, and he had no delusions about who she was singing for now. They had been in the kitchen most of the day, making strawberry cheesecake.

Cheesecake!

He had never had it before. Ever.

If there was any justice in the world, it should be criminal not to tell every stranger on the street just how good cheesecake was. And strawberries on top of that!

She was in one spectacularly good mood. He made a special note to write down this recipe.

He threw the door open and ran outside, barefoot in the shin-deep snow.

"She has the patience of a saint!" he screamed at the top of his lungs in just his underwear. "She's far kinder than I deserve! Her beauty is matched only by her wisdom!"

"Come back in before you catch a cold," she said, hardly able not to laugh.

"All I need is her love to keep me warm!"

"What are you doing?" She struggled to sit up in bed.

He faced inside, "I'm shouting your praises from the nearest mountaintop."

"You're at least a mile from the top of this mountain, 'deer' Derik."

He grabbed an armful of wood, then came inside to rekindle the fire.

She struggled her way out of bed to stand by the fireplace.

He stoked in the first log, warming himself by her feet.

She hugged his head against her belly. "An A for effort," she said, running her fingers through his hair, "F, if you get sick because of it. I can't do this without you."

He could feel a tiny knee brush his ear. "I'm just saying, that cheesecake was good. That's all."

He could hear her laugh through her belly as she ran her fingers through his hair again.

"And, I, ate the last, three slices last night, while you were asleep."

She held his head next to little kicking feet, "Get back outside."

She didn't let go.

The nursery was sprouting perfectly. The roots and stems were coming in strong, nearly 60% of the seeds were popping up. Transplantation would be only a few weeks away. It was hard to believe winter was ready to yield to spring, yet here it was. The sundial never lied.

Dana stayed in bed most days. Today she wanted to see his progress with the garden. After a lunch of pizza and chips, they walked out to the backyard garden where she put labeled sticks marking this year's rows. It seemed overly simplified for him, like he was a child, but it was extremely important to her. Each row shouldn't have the same as the year before. Each plant tended to deplete something different from the soil. And, according to her, this soil was not that rich to begin with. Rotation was critical.

Farming was a science beyond sticking seeds in the ground.

He wasn't a child though. Sure, he didn't know, and he couldn't have mapped it out on his own, but still. A simple map could have sufficed. She provided him with a few of those too. Mostly for the field by the pond, too far for her to walk.

"Onions here, and sweet potatoes over there. Red skins stop here, next to the hot peppers," she said.

He drove the appropriate stakes, each one painted with not only the plant but the spacings, depth, and special care. It was a little too much info. He knew most of this stuff, but it made her happy. He drove the next one.

Milkweed and blackberries needed nothing, thank God.

They had six sundials, one in each garden or clearing. It had taken until now for her to properly calibrate them with markings for months, weeks, days and seasons. Hours too.

The one closest to the house was in the backyard and was readable from the kitchen if looking out over the tub. Essentially, it was a stained and sealed log that stood five feet tall with whitened marker stones on the ground. It was very simple, yet, efficient gardening would be nearly impossible without it.

Gardening was requiring him to divide his time.

Transplantation gave them an additional harvest almost every year. That could amount to a huge crop of food, but they already had a full year's worth stored in the rafters. She had made the nursery as simple as possible. Even though all the seeds were planted in the same dirt, each one was in its own paper pocket, making it easier to move.

In the middle of chores, he sniffed the air. What was that smell?

The greenhouse was more or less a picnic table with a dirt tabletop and a plastic roof. Its legs were vertical posts with these perforated plates at their tops. Anything that touched the plate would trip it, and at over two feet in diameter, it was almost impossible for whatever tripped it to jump free before its falling weight left it dead on the ground.

He should have noticed before now. Damn raccoons.

She peed in bed that morning.

One misplaced, tiny foot could trigger that whenever it wanted. They seemed to have reached an agreement several months ago, but conditions had become far more crowded since. It wasn't the baby's fault, any more than it was Dana's.

Why was he washing the sheet again?

They were down to the last two feet of water, they really needed to conserve, yet, what else could he do.

Laundry dropped it three inches. They needed rain, unlike the garden by the pond, this was too far to tote water to.

April 4th, by the sundial at the pond, something past 10 in the morning. Almost 11. He had come down to fetch some sheets for making into diapers, get another stack of bathroom paper, a sack of flour, and something else. The travois was loaded, he just had to remember, something.

He stepped outside, then walked over to the pond, nothing in the fish trap. It wasn't fish. It wasn't really a trap either, they could come and go as they pleased; it was more of a maze that allowed more time to catch 'em.

What was it?

All the weeding was done already, the sandwich he had packed was eaten, all his tea was gone. What.

He looked at the cabin. It was a fine cabin. Check something? Was that it? He walked over to the trickle of a creek that fed the pond. It wasn't much, but it was still refilling the tank uphill. 3/4 full, last he looked. Was that what he— no, it was something else.

He checked the sundial again. He had been down here since before sun up. How could he have forgotten? It just wasn't coming, but he didn't want to leave without it, whatever that was. It was too far to walk for something small.

Screw it! He lugged the travois back to the house.

There was a big spill of water just inside the door, foot of the bed. Dana was panting, cradling her belly on the floor.

He dropped the travois and ran over.

"No, it's all right," she said, "go ahead and put the stuff away. It'll be hours at least."

He helped her on the bed, then fussed over the pillows he piled behind her.

"At least close the door."

"I will." But he didn't.

"I'm fine, really." She panted while he held her hand. Her face shined with sweat. "Really."

"Ok."

She tried to pretend nothing was happening, her breathing leveled off, "Did you find everything? I think I could use some aspirin."

"Damn. I knew I forgot—"

"It's ok, Honey. I shouldn't have one now anyway. Not while I'm—" she winced, "still pregnant."

"I'm sorry, I'll go get—"

"Don't worry about it now, just close the door."

He did. It was difficult to put things away while acting like he couldn't hear her labored struggles.

"Go ahead and get some bread started, if you would."

She was obviously trying to take his mind off it. How she could— He mixed the flour into the Herman, added a splash of molasses, then stirred in a cup of water. He made her lunch, pizza again.

She really had a thing for pizza lately, couldn't remember a day without it.

It was very surreal. She carried on with a somewhat normal conversation, while clearly under distress. She ate between panting spells and frequent timed trips to the bathroom.

By nighttime he had cleaned, sorted, stacked, and inventoried his way through a thorough spring-cleaning worth of distractions. He simply had nothing else to do except sit in bed and hold her hand. It was night, and she was no closer. She was coming up on half a day spent in labor. Half a day panting and sweating. Her face was red, hair stringy. About as pitiful as she could look, and she wasn't done. Every touch of her hand said it would be like this well into tomorrow. Panting alone was exhausting him just to listen to.

He had breathed that hard only once in his life, when he was breathing for her. He lasted about ten minutes, half an hour at the most before he passed out. He had no idea how she managed, other than she simply had to.

He felt helpless. Worrying wasn't any help to her. Fretting and smothering her in attention annoyed her, and it didn't help anyway. If she wanted something, she would ask for it.

She had told him to go to sleep. Begged him to. It made sense, she would need him fresh and at his best tomorrow. But, there was simply no way he could.

Her rubbed her feet for the fifth time today. He couldn't even do that all day, with as little effort as it involved.

He woke in the morning to her panting. He felt horrible about being tired enough to sleep. She hadn't caught a minute yet. Worse yet, she needed a bath, bad. How wrong was it of him to even think that?

He brought a washbowl and a clean cloth, then started washing her face.

Her bloodshot eyes told more of her night than he wanted to know. He had seen that look before, on the face of a deer, taken down and stripped of hope, but not yet ready to let go. He lied, "You're going to be fine. Just a few more hours."

She shook her head, no.

"Tonight. Just before dark."

She drank from his offered cup.

"You'll make it. There's no way I could, but you will." He wiped her chin, "You will."

He adjusted the pillows behind her back.

Chips and bread with jam was all she could keep down.

It was something.

When the sun peaked from behind the clouds, he went into the backyard and drove a marker at the tip of the shadow before coming back inside. It wouldn't mark the second, but it would record the day. That would have to be enough.

As the sun fell behind the distant mountains, he said, "I see the top of her head."

Dana hadn't spoken since that morning. The best she could do was point and gesture. When she glanced at the nightstand, he handed her the cup, but most of her frantic gulps ran down her shirt.

Her eyes pinched shut as she pushed again.

Frazzled, exhausted, she had no choice but to continue. She rested up for her next exertion, panting. Panting, that was exhausting for him. He held her hand. "You're doing fine, just a little longer."

When she pushed, he screamed in pain. Anguish like he had never experienced washed over him and flung him to the foot of the bed. Her little head was out.

He returned to Dana's side. Her head was slumped, she might not have another push left. He took her hand again. "Just one more, Honey. You can do it."

The pain flattened him. His tongue bled keeping his cry from coming out. His hand quivered uncontrollably, but he didn't let go as she pushed again.

He gathered himself and cradled his daughter's head while he helped first one shoulder, then the other. Four more pushes and Dana's knees fell flat on the bed. It was everything she had, nothing more was left.

The tiniest life he had ever held, easily fit in two hands. Tiny little girl, covered in blood and a thin film of skin. Her little hands and feet slowly moving, trying to feel her way in this new, massive room. Eyes closed, yet to learn about this seeing thing.

No crying. Just total calm, about what he should have expected, knowing her mom.

"Oh, she's adorable, Dana," he said.

The little girl seemed to wave at him.

"Dana."

She didn't move.

He struggled with the cord. The sooner he could finish with the baby, the sooner he could focus on Dana. The second that connection was severed was the first time the child cried, and she wouldn't stop until he rested the girl on Dana's motionless arm. There was a lot of bleeding he had to focus on.

He paced in front of the fireplace, from the kitchen to the head of the bed, then back again. The cabin had been too small for pacing, this house was plenty big enough for it. Not that it helped at all. He looked at his daughter. Her eyes were so big and blue. Dana remained motionless.

He had no idea what to do.

He had this beautiful, precious little girl, and no way to wake her mom.

He paced again. It didn't help at all.

The morning light filtered between the leaves and into the room.

He stared at the little girl, content to nap on Dana's arm. Her hand was so tiny she could barely wrap her fingers around his pinky, yet they easily held his complete attention.

"Shela's a beautiful name, for a beautiful little girl," he said between kisses on those tiny fingers.

She blew a little bubble with a soft, little 'cuff'.

"Don't worry about your mom. She's tougher than she looks."

Shela shoved her entire hand into his nose.

He pulled his face away, "I deserved that, I suppose."

She squeezed his pinky. Her little mouth opened and closed.

"You're probably hungry, aren't you?" Her grip was so strong. "I'm not sure how we're going to do that, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need my pinky to do it." He was afraid to use any force to get his finger back.

She let go to put her fingers in her mouth.

He safely put Shela off to the side while he propped Dana with pillows like she was the night before. He unbuttoned her shirt then loosened her bra. He did his best but Shela seemed unable to get comfortable enough— Frustrated, Shela started to cry.

"It's ok, Honey." He cradled the little girl, "Shh... It's all right. She said we could use deer milk if it came to it. You won't go hungry."

He would have to figure out a way to feed Dana too.

He tried reading Shela. He would be successful eventually, but reading a baby was dizzy, unfocused, and very confusing. He would have to think it through.

Not one of his strong suits.

He checked Dana's wound. The bleeding had slowed, but she had wet herself again. It was a little concerning. Labor had clearly injured her. He wasn't worried about the sheets. When the problem first showed itself, he put down one of their rainproof layers to protect the mattress, they had plenty of water in the tank, and the washing-machine worked magic on clothes.

She needed a bath, but he was reluctant to do that with her injured, a warm washcloth would have to do.

Warm washcloth.

After cleaning her up, he tried something. With an almost hot washcloth, he placed it over her breast. It took a few seconds, but that was it. The leaking had started. He tried it with Shela again.

As the child nursed, tears ran down Dana's left cheek.

Shela must be biting. He snuck the tip of his pinky into the corner of the infant's mouth. The tears slowed, but it didn't stop.

Shela was very hungry.

There was no easy way to hold the little girl on someone else. It was just plain awkward. And the little girl was serious about it, unlike holding onto some silly pinky.

He was stuck for the length of an average adult meal.

Adult meals. Her tomato-juice drink was almost liquid soup. It served as her breakfast for many years, and she had gallons and gallons of it. It would do for a week or two, hopefully she'd come around by then.

Where did he leave the aspirin? He searched the kitchen again. It wasn't here. Maybe there was some in the cabin by the pond. It should just take a few minutes.

What was he looking for down here again? He walked into the cabin. Something. He had to get rid of this headache, maybe then he could remember. There should be some aspirin here. Ah, there it is. He took the jar with him.

He read Dana. Nothing for the next few days.

That wasn't good.

He looked at the nightstand. A map of the garden. He should check the traps, get a little work done. He read Shela just to be sure. It wasn't useful, except that it was proof enough for him that she would be fine while he was gone.

Two traps had been tripped without catching anything. He checked the garden. No damage that he could tell. Sometimes they tripped off of wind or something. He watered one section, it looked like it needed it. He stared at the little markers. That's right, markers. He remembered she had written on them. He read them to make sure he wasn't leaving anything out.

Nope, that was it.

Every time Shela nursed, Dana cried. Every time, no matter what he did. He tried left, then right. Then left again, only because it made it easier to cradle Shela on that side. He tried leaving the hot washcloth on Dana longer, to further reduce the pressure. He tried tiring out little Shela on his pinky. It helped, just not enough.

It seemed way out of balance. Shela would nurse for ten minutes, eight to a dozen times a day; but he could only get Dana to drink three or four glasses of juice a day. Five minutes total. It didn't seem like Dana was drinking anywhere near enough to, replenish. But she seemed to.

He fixed Dana's top, then wiped her face. "It's been a week, Honey," he said. "Your little girl would very much like to meet you. She's the cutest thing. She smiled this morning." He twisted her hair off to the side. "I should wash your hair soon. I'd run you a bath but, you're not quite healed. I... You told me I might have to cut you to prevent you from— but I couldn't. I should have. And I'm sorry."

He looked at their little girl.

"She's got your smile. She's quiet like you too. A mark of intelligence. I can't do this alone." He held out his pinky for Shela to grab. "It's like this amazing little moment doesn't really exist, if I can't share it with you."

He cradled the little girl close to him.

"How can I describe this moment, to someone who hasn't looked into those open eyes that just beam."

Shela promptly vomited on his shirt.

"How well prepared you made me for this."

Shela splashed in the washbowl with a giggle. It must tickle when he washed her feet, but he was terrified to press any harder. She was such a delicate little thing. He had long given up on the idea of getting between fingers and toes for fear of breaking them. Now he mostly played with her, in hopes that her wiggles and squirms would do the work for him.

She splashed with a two-handed giggle. Water was all over the kitchen, much to this little one's delight.

He punished her with a kiss on her head.

Her eyes had darkened from this bright blue to almost a brown like her mom's. Baby soap didn't clean as well, but she didn't cry when it got in her eyes. He looked into the attic where Dana had moved all the old soap.

He would have forgotten.

He lowered Dana into the tub. "You'd be so proud of her, Dana," he said, unafraid to get between her fingers, "She giggles whenever you kiss her on her little belly. Her little arms and feet just a wiggling."

He started on her other arm.

"She's just the sweetest little thing. She hardly ever cries." Like he was now. "Thank you, for her."

He had hoped a bath would help her. Maybe it had. But it was hard to say he had even gotten her clean. He drained the water, then rinsed her again, just to remove the film of leaked milk.

He sat Dana on the toilet. The last few weeks with Shela had taught him how to recognize those subtle signs. Moving her was much easier than cleaning up after the fact.

He held little Shela in his arms, wiping her tiny lips. She looked so tired after nursing. Sometimes she fell asleep right there, still clinging on. He made sure she was napping comfortably before tending her mom.

He fixed Dana's shirt, then cleaned the salty streaks from her face. Her eyes would sometimes open about half way. Usually it was around now, just after putting Shela down, or after drinking some juice. "Your little girl is doing just fine," he said, holding Dana's hand. "I think she's gaining weight, but it's hard to tell." He wiped her cheek again. "She's strong too. She's got quite a grip."

Nothing.

Her half open eyes were just open. Seeing nothing. "I'm gonna lay you on your left side now. Ok?"

He arranged the pillows to make it as comfortable as possible for her.

"Shela's going to be right here when you—" it was his cheek he wiped this time, "when you wake up. I've got to go see about the garden."

He charged the fan before stepping outside.

He stopped on the path. Was he supposed to— Did he need something from the cabin? He headed for the pond.

What was he supposed to get again? He looked around, hoping it would jog his memory. Aspirin... That was it.

The nights were still cool, but the days were way too hot for a fire. Cooking was a neat trick. It was like an insert, like a mini fireplace that sat inside the real fireplace. With just a few sticks, nothing bigger that kindling, he could cook any meal without adding much heat to the room. He fried the last of the deer steak.

He ate dinner at the table alone, while two pots of fresh picked tomatoes stewed. Canning was almost second nature. Making more of her breakfast juice was not. She slow cooked them with a perfect mix of carrots and greens and who knew what else. He didn't know. What he did know was he had a bushel and a half of fresh tomatoes that would go bad unless he canned them. Cook, then can. Vacuum seal. If it wasn't right, and it wouldn't be, it was still preserved. He wouldn't even try to mix 'em. Just cook and can. Can't go wrong that way.

He woke with a headache and checked the kitchen. Three bottles of aspirin. All three open. He should seal two of them. He took two first.

He checked the sundial. He missed lunch somehow. He was done here anyway, so he headed back to the house.

He looked at Dana. Shela was playing with Dana's thumb. He ran over. Dana had moved! He jumped across the bed, but her eyes were closed. "Dana?"

Nothing.

He had missed it, whatever it was. He read her. Tomorrow morning she would see him. It was just a brief little window, a moment, but he would gladly take it. Tonight, he went to bed early.

Shela lay between them on the bed as morning light filled the room. Every morning he played with Shela, almost the same way. She was so content just to grab his finger. She was getting good at it. A day or two after she was born, she would move in random jerks until she hit a finger, now she aimed. Sometimes she missed, but most of the time she got it, even when he moved his finger.

Her little giggle was a powerful reward.

Dana twitched.

Her eyes opened to squinty little slits. It would be soon. He just had to wait.

There, just a little more. He stopped playing with Shela.

Dana's eyes drifted across the room. Her hand moved the few inches to touch the little girl between them.

"Shela, meet Dana, the most important person in my life," he said when Shela grabbed at Dana's thumb. "Dana, meet Shela, the most important person in my life."

Dana sighed then closed her eyes. A few seconds was better than nothing. He stayed in bed, just in case there was more.

There wasn't.

When Shela fell asleep, he started his chores.

**B5.C23**

"I'm gonna kiss you on your belly," he said.

The little girl's feet and fingers flailed when he kissed her belly. Little bubbles giggled from her lips.

"I'm gonna get your little foot."

Her arms flailed as she kicked his chin.

"I'm gonna kiss your little fingers."

She grabbed his lip with her tiny grip. One hand went up his nose with a bubbly giggle.

He had played this little kissing game only twice before. He checked again.

"I'm gonna kiss those cute little toes."

She shoved one in his nose.

She knew what he was saying.

He was stunned.

"I'm gonna kiss that cute little head of yours."

He adored that little girl.

Dana hadn't improved much. She hadn't worsened either. He got ten, sometimes twenty minutes with her, two or three times a day. He spent most of it telling her about little Shela, reading her for the mundane things like gardening tips and stuff.

Today he would have a minute or two. She was propped up in bed, nursing, while he was holding Shela on her. He dabbed her face before the tear could fall from her chin.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked.

"Some tears are sorrow, some are joy. It feels like crying," she said. She stroked the little girl's thin hair. "It doesn't hurt at all."

She faded on him, Shela continued without concern. He wiped her cheek again, then dabbed the little dribble of milk on the back of Shela's neck.

It was the first time Dana had been awake during nursing. It had so terrified him that— it was just such a relief that it wasn't hurting her. He had tried everything, including the deer-milker, but nothing kept her from tears. Now he knew why.

"Now I'm gonna wash your adorable little hand," he said, little Shela in the washbowl by the kitchen sink.

She presented her hand with a sweet smile, then splashed it forcefully into the water with a little giggle before he could touch it. He heard the water dripping off the counter onto the floor.

She was such a tiny thing, it was impossible to be mad at her. "I'm gonna bite you on your little ear." He kissed it instead, treated her biggest splash yet.

She loved water. More importantly, she loved splashing water.

Her first few baths, she tried to pick it up the same way she picked at clothes. Now she scooped it in cupped hands and watched it filter through her fingers as it trickled down her arms.

The bath had been over for several minutes. She was just enjoying the play. He was too. It was hard to believe that she was real. That she was his. The part he had no problem with was how much she was Dana's. Cute, smart, playful. Almost never cried.

He set her on the towel. She couldn't sit on her own yet, but she could roll over, accidentally most of the time. Crawling she could do a little of, but not with purpose. She mostly looked like a shell-less turtle on her back.

He kissed her damp little belly again, before making up the diaper.

He lay in bed that night, little Shela asleep on his chest. A puddle of drool extended from her little cheek to the tip of her outstretched hand. It was sticky, a little anyway. Her tiny fingers seemed to play in it while she napped. She would need to be changed in a dozen minutes or so, no need for him to even try for sleep himself. Her entire head so easily disappeared in his hand, her warm little body pressed to his skin.

Dana had this, every minute of every day for most of a year. Such a tiny, trusting, open, adorable little her. Her little lips moved like she was dreaming of nursing, adding to the puddle of sticky drool. He ran his finger down her tiny back, tracing a pattern most effective for her mom. She responded about the same.

He had thought about children. He hadn't thought he would be so intimately involved with one. It had been a distant thing, like a pet perhaps. It had been much cleaner in his imagination too. No diapers, no vomit, no drool. Yet, she wasn't real without those other things. His fingers were on the tiniest shoulder he would ever rub, she was his. Theirs. And, she wasn't theirs. She would leave, one day. A day that would easily shatter his heart.

Her fingers moved back to her lips where they pulled another string of drool. She slept very soundly like this.

He felt like he should be singing to her, or talking to her more. Dana had, and would. He looked over to Dana. If only she were here. But, if she was, would he ever have really noticed his daughter, like he did now?

His whole life had been this way. Steeped in Dana's suffering. His greatest lessons had always seemed to come at a cost to her. He could not have been the man she would have children with, had he not grown to be the man that was shaped by his experience at the Findicks. It was equally likely he could not be the father Shela deserved, had he not had these moments with her.

She needed to be changed.

He made pizza for lunch. He had thought he would have been driven sick of it after Dana's month-long craving, but he wasn't. Today's was freshly made, with diced, cool cucumbers sprinkled on top in little cheese like chunks. He laughed a little as he devoured the remains of his fourth slice. Cucumbers, raw, cool, uncooked cucumbers, it sounded insane when she made it the first time. Now, it wasn't pizza without it. Unfortunately, when she craved it the most, raw cucumber just couldn't be had. He started his fifth.

"Can I have some?" she said.

He dropped the slice on his lap, almost falling to the floor. He flopped it onto a plate then quickly got a slice for her.

She ate it slow. He wanted to talk to her, to anybody really, but she was hungry and, well, this came first.

She fell back to sleep before she got to the crust. It was a shame, he had gotten pretty good at crust with all the practice he had lately. Thin enough to flake, yet strong enough to hold the shape. Sprinkled with garlic, onion, and a touch of cheese.

It wouldn't go to waste.

He checked her pillows. Sitting would be best to let her digest. It was only a slice, but there was no reason she couldn't keep it down. An hour or two should do. Much longer and she may roll out and fall to the floor.

He played with Shela.

He stared at the washing-machine. The fan moved imperceptibly slow, well, the weight part of it anyway. The washing-machine moved fast enough to watch. It just blew him away the more he thought about it. Simplicity. Pure simplicity could accomplish truly great things.

He looked at Dana.

He would have her back. It just took time. He got a little more of her every week. He would have conversations and meals within a month, but he should plan on no help at all with the garden, or Shela, beyond milk.

If the garden failed, it wouldn't really matter, they had a year's worth in the attic already, more if it was rationed. But fresh food was important. No year was guaranteed. In fact, the only guarantee was that they would have a bad year every decade or so. They did at home, it should be true everywhere. It was the main reason for storing food.

She finished her drink. "They are delicate little things, aren't they?" she said.

"Extremely helpless." He took her empty glass to the kitchen and returned with a wet cloth.

He took little sleeping Shela, she had fallen asleep nursing again, while Dana cleaned herself.

"You're looking much better," he said while she buttoned her top.

"I don't feel it," she noticed. "I doubt they'll stay this big."

"I didn't mean— That's not—" He handed Shela back. "I just, it's nice to see more of—" he sat down, "I can't win this."

She cradled the little girl, amused to no end by his fidgeting.

"I like having someone to talk to, that's all." He pulled her feet onto his lap. "I love you, Dana."

"I love you," she said.

Shocked, he checked. She had said it to Shela, but he could still pretend she said it to him. "The um, I, tomatoes."

?

"I, we've got way too many tomatoes and, I have no idea how to make that drink of yours. If I still had the snake I could just—" he read her foot instead, "Never-mind." He jotted it down in his notebook.

"How's the garden coming?"

"Oh, yeah, uh, bugs are bad."

"Did you—"

He cheated again, "I forgot to add a little chunk of soap to the— I'll do it today."

"How's the milkweed coming? We're going to need more for diapers, if nothing else."

"Yeah, there's only so much washing you can do with them." He wiggled Shela's foot, "Little stinker. Are you going to be up for dinner?"

"I don't know."

He cheated again, "I, what would you like?"

"Salad, squeezed tomato for dressing— You know how I like it."

"That it?"

She looked up from Shela for the first time in their conversation, "Bread. I'd love some of your walnut bread, if you have some nuts left."

He jotted it down, "I'll check. I think— at the cabin."

"Anything non-jerky?"

He jotted that down too. "Rabbit."

"Grilled."

"Got it. Anything for Shela?" He started rubbing Dana's feet. He had a lot of things to do today. Quite a list.

"She really a month old?"

He checked his notes. "About, yeah."

"I missed so much." She stroked the little hairs on Shela's head. "I'll miss even more today."

"Take your time. Don't push it. I can handle it, not as good as you, but I can. Just, don't push yourself, ok? There is so much more left to see."

She looked out the window. "The hummingbird feeder is empty."

He added it to the list.

Dinner was as good as he could make it. And now that he had a recipe, he was using far fewer jars for that life-saving breakfast drink of hers. She was, for the most part, bedridden. But he could handle that. It was no worse than at the Findicks. Actually, she wasn't in anywhere near the kind of pain as then. She just had nothing left. Giving birth had taken so much out of her. Rest seemed the only answer.

Healers, he had been told, often need large amounts of rest. She wasn't exactly a healer, but something similar. Nyin, a name he would never bring up with her, was as close as any to understanding exactly what she was. He was extremely knowledgeable about such things, almost everything. He was dead, of course, and of no use now, but rest seemed to be all that was required for healers. Rest, he could give her.

She went to the bathroom a lot. Her body didn't seem to be designed for bringing children into the world. She would make a great mother, she just wasn't built for making children. He made a note not to put her in this position again. He could handle Shela for hours, days, even months by himself, but years would be much too much.

Dinner was very nice. They didn't eat at the table, served dinner in bed, but it was very nice anyway. In bed she could be propped up with pillows, she got dizzy when she stood and sitting in a chair just wasn't realistic right now. But she finished it all, and even had enough energy left for a short conversation.

Since adding the bird feeder to his list nearly a month ago, they hadn't gone a morning without seeing two loitering outside the bedside window. They tended to avoid noon or the heat of the day, but mornings and just before night, they were a constant.

Keeping notes had become very important. He kept a list of questions for Dana on him at all times. When he thought of something, he added it to the list so that the next time she was coming around he could read her. That way he'd have all the answers to the questions that made him look, well, totally incompetent, jotted down before she'd even wake. He needed her to believe he had everything under control, mostly so she wouldn't push herself. He jotted down milkweed juice. He had two fresh gallons and needed to know how to prepare them for storage. He had done it five times or so, but had been cheating every time. The juice was very valuable, toothbrushes alone, and he didn't want to take the chance of ruining it.

The last time he read Dana for the embarrassing questions, she came up with an unrelated interesting idea. It was a way of making piles of disposable diapers with a method very similar to paper. It really saved the day. Washing and reusing cloth diapers was a very dirty job, and it was getting worse. Disposables required soaking the stalks much longer, in almost hot water; and, after some fine-tuning, it yielded a thick, absorbent, soft cloth-like paper triangle at a rate of dozens in an hour or two. They also made for some very absorbent wipes in the hundreds of spills he was in store for. It wasn't strong enough to make clothes from, but Shela wasn't active enough that it would matter. Diapers only had to be strong enough to last a few hours, at most a day, not years.

They were Perfect.

And he looked very responsible coming up with it himself.

He carried the last batch of triangles back to the house.
**B5.C24**

Fall had come entirely too fast. Without her, hunting deer was out, but taxes would still have to be paid. Wine, that's right. He had had too much on his mind with the last harvest of the garden. It had been a miserable struggle to get it all in by himself. Not that Dana didn't do her best, she did. But she hadn't left the house by herself since the baby. She was just up to making it across the floor on her own. She could do some things, but she refused to carry Shela anywhere for fear she might fall on her.

It wasn't paranoia. She had fallen as recently as four days ago. The garden was an incredible amount of work for one person. And taxes too. He couldn't leave until she could make it on her own. He simply couldn't.

With the travois full, he started lugging today's harvest back to the house. Taxes would have to wait. The penalty for late— when was late? He should remember, the mayor explained it in great detail. It was a financial penalty, that much he remembered, but how much he hadn't a clue. Early this spring, he should just take what he could.

Sweet-potato chips, this was the fourth sack he made this season. Sack, not bag. Unlike his first few attempts, these were nearly as good as Dana's. And they should be, it was the same recipe; the only difference must have been in the crop. They were a big hit in town, he made sure to write "for taxes" on the best tasting batch. He had a bad history with opening the wrong bag.

"Hisses knife a right toe, eye lie cape laying width it." Shela said, offering him her toy rabbit.

"Thank you, Sweetheart," he said, then took the toy into a big hug and a kiss on its floppy ears.

"Its note 4 root up lay width, sill le, plea sand it bake owl." She held her arms out.

He picked her up and gave her a big hug too, then returned them both to the floor to continue play. "I got a lot of work to do, sweetie." He walked to the kitchen.

She dragged the bunny by an ear across the floor and into the kitchen. "Mow mices add, can eyewash water due wing?" She tugged on his pantleg.

"Honey, I'm—" he picked her up and sat her on the counter, "How about we go play with Mommy, ok?"

"Eye dent 1 2, sill le, iron toupee width hue, date tea." She shoved the bunny at him.

He scooped her up in a hug and carried her over to the bed and Dana. "Can you play with her for a while?" He set Shela down in the center of the bed before nudging Dana awake and asking again.

He returned to the kitchen.

"Is deer ick'm add hat mirror psalm thing?" Shela hugged the upside down bunny, "Is hem add atchoo two, beak awes he dozen tent-seam two lie keep laying wither of fuss."

Derik returned to the middle of the last batch he had to can tonight.

Shela aimed the bunny toward Dana, "Ream bur, mist urban knee, day de essays mow me bets tie read ease sea, sew know bone sea bone sea bone sea, oh key? Go odd." She moved each foot of the bunny as they both crawled across the bed toward their mom.

It was the middle of the night and Shela was still up. She wasn't crying, but talking. She talked constantly. Every minute she was up, she talked. She talked to the chairs, she talked to the table, she talked to the window, she talked to his shoes, and, right now, she was talking to his pillow.

"Yum ache day D2 seep toupee width me, joust lie kudos two mow me. Pleas stow pour miss turbine knee will half toe this ape line ewe," Shela said while constantly poking his pillow with her bunny.

"Honey, please, I'm— I've had a very long day," he said.

"Oven key ewe, mist ear pill owl, four f ring'em eye day deaf rum yours peal. " Shela hugged the pillow by his head then kissed him on the nose.

How could he possibly be mad at her? "Mr. Bunny would like you to get some sleep." He tickled her tummy with the rabbit's face.

She laughed and hugged the bunny away from him, "Sill lee day de, the at's deep ill out all king aging."

He played with her for a few minutes before she left him alone enough to get back to sleep.

They had to keep pillows beside the bed just in case little Shela explored too close to the edge. The workings of the fan also had given him some concern, there was a lot of childproofing he could get paranoid about, but it was much easier to simply read the child every day, now that her sight had improved.

He was halfway through concealing the workings of the fan behind boring boxes and jars before he realized he didn't need to. It was mid fall after all. He hadn't used it in weeks— What was he thinking?

Something slammed into the back of his leg.

Shela was gripping his pants with one hand, her ever-present bunny in the other. "Wood anti-bee morph un toupee wit'm e?" she said.

She let go and promptly fell on her bottom.

Last time he had looked, she was playing by the fireplace. He was paranoid about the wrong thing. He picked her up.

"Eye done tea lie keyed I pears, day de, the a fee Lewy are the," she said, then shoved her bunny into his neck.

"Yes, your bunny is very cute, just like you, Honey," he said.

She whopped him on the nose with it, "Air ewe eave enlist a entomb e?"

He set her down on the pillows on the floor around the bed, "I've got to make lunch, Honey."

She placed the bunny beside her while they faced the kitchen, then pointed to Derik, "Ewe teal hem, he dozen list entomb e."

She seemed to have skipped standing and walking, and went straight for running. She'd lean a sit forward, bolt up in a full run, then slam full speed into something at the other end, usually his leg, and about half the time she would stand only so long as her grip held.

It was the oddest thing. She couldn't stand, or walk, but she could run.

She had spent two days talking to everything, every minute of the day. As fall turned into winter and she watched her first snowfall, she was totally silent. Nothing. For the last two weeks, nothing. No cry, no whispers, not a single word, not even to her beloved toy bunny.

She slammed into the back of his knee. Walking and standing were still beyond her, but she had perfected running and leaning. She tugged on his pantleg and pointed to the bathroom.

"Thank you, but I don't have to go."

She tugged, pointed, then fiddled with her diaper.

He checked, "You're fine, Honey."

Tug, point, then she threw Mr. Bunny on the ground with an angry huff.

"Oh."

He steadied her sit on the toilet's edge.

This was much better than diapers.

He was stunned.

Nights were still a challenge for her, but during the day she came to him, usually with a silent thud on the back of his knee. She was very much taking after her mom.

He served dinner to Dana in bed.

Shela crawled over and sat by him. She grabbed some mashed potato off his plate, squished it between her fingers, then put a taste of pulp into her mouth.

"I think she wants to try food," Dana said.

"Thank you, I think I got that."

Her fingers seemed to have two modes. The first was all fingers moving as one, which led to the squishing, while the second was what she used on his corn. It started like a pinch, just finger and thumb, then, one by one going to the pinky, each finger joined in. It seemed so overly deliberate, like she was focusing on each joint.

She liked corn.

A strand of sauerkraut made her little face pucker. She carefully pulled apart a green bean for its tiny seed, then continued to make an absolute mess of his plate, but he was unable to even tell her no. She was just so cute, even with gravy dripping down her elbow onto this morning's clean sheets. She tried sauerkraut again, without the face.

When she tried for his glass, he took it from her hand. That was too big of a mess for the bed. She pouted, but didn't try again.

She was a very polite child.

"What's wrong, little one?" Dana said.

Shela refused to nurse, just sitting in a mini pout.

"You have to be hungry, little one, you haven't eaten since yesterday."

Derik sat on the foot of the bed, resting his hand on Dana's foot. "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know." She kissed her little frowned forehead. "She feels fine."

Reading Dana answered nothing, reading Shela answered it all. He went to the kitchen and poured milk into the smallest measuring cup they had. This Shela took. She drank it slowly, and rather inaccurately, but she had made it in her mind that people drink with cups, and she was determined to do so too. Nursing ended, abruptly, just as diapers had.

Forks and spoons would be next.

It turned out he was wrong again. Forks and spoons were not next. Instead, she kept wiggling out of her one-piece, taking off her diapers, and tossing it all to a pile on the floor. He'd go over to his naked little girl, and she'd tug on his pantleg before he'd set her back on the bed and dress her.

She wouldn't struggle. She completely submitted to it all; just, as soon as he left, it came off again. Period. No fight at all.

This was the tenth frustrating time today.

He couldn't scold her, as much as he wanted to.

"Honey." He sat on the floor with his naked little girl. "What is it now?"

She walked the bunny over to his knee. She tugged on his pants then the tail of his shirt.

"Ok, Honey. Ok. Can you wear them until I make you something."

She shook her head no; instead, she just hopped the bunny to his other knee.

"Ok," he sighed, "ok." He didn't need this right now. Most of the extra cloth was at the cabin, and the snow was shin deep. He didn't want to— She bounced it to his other knee. He knew he would. There really was no point in delaying. He couldn't say no to her, he just couldn't. He looked over to Dana, asleep on the bed. She was up to an hour or two per day, but would be of little help, mostly just a sitter.

He put on his coat, boots, and gloves, before a thud on the back of his knee.

"There is no way I'm taking you outside naked, Honey," he said to her sad little tugs. He shook his head with a sigh, "Get your blankey."

She thudded into the foot of the bed, then leaned her way around to her blanket. She put it on like a cape then returned with a thud. He wrapped and tucked the little girl, then buttoned her up inside his coat with her little arms hugged around his neck.

It was overcast enough to not worry about snow blindness, but that did little to protect them from the cold. He stopped outside the door and read the little girl just to be absolutely sure nothing could happen to her. Ok then.

He started walking.

It was the first time he had taken her to the cabin. It wasn't the first time she had been outside, but it was the first time she had left the sight of the house.

He hadn't thought it out enough. She was a little, tiny girl, but in the middle of the walk, it was apparent he should have made a sling or something to keep her situated. He had to constantly adjust her to keep her from falling down the front of his coat. A sling, or even one of Dana's old bras would have worked fine.

He paused long enough to silently curse himself for forgetting to bring his list.

At least he remembered to bring an ember to light the fire.

The cabin was freezing cold. Shela wouldn't leave his coat, which made everything more difficult, but he managed to get a fire kindled and started. He forgot how fast that little cabin could heat up. He pulled down the reams of cloth. She ran her hand across each, then happily picked one.

"You know, I'm not terribly good at making clothes. Your mother made all of these, the most I ever did was watch."

She just smiled, content to explore this new room in her flowing cape.

His first attempt at pants were too tight on her, and one of the legs ended up wider than the other. He didn't even attempt pockets. He wadded it up and tossed it into the corner. Try again.

Shela found his pile of disposable diapers and brought him one. Now she would wear one? He did his best not to laugh.

His second attempt was much better. It wasn't fashionable, nowhere near as nice as what Dana could have done, but Shela was happy with it.

He used an old scrap bra as a sling. It made a huge difference on the trip back, uphill, leaving the fire in the cabin to die out on its own.

Shela reached out to touch a pine needle, bringing him to a complete stop.

But just one wasn't enough, she had to touch them all now.

Going back was taking forever.

Shoes! He needed lists, he was almost worthless without them. He was at the cabin and he forgot to gather enough rabbit pelts for little slippers. At least he made her socks, perhaps she wouldn't notice the difference.

Breakfast. Both girls were sound asleep while he made and ate breakfast in silence. He adored them both, watching the motionless two from the kitchen counter. He sipped from his glass. Something was funny about this milk.

He checked the icebox. Dana milk. He drank Dana milk. He poured his glass back. It tasted fine, actually, it was a little richer, but he felt wrong drinking it. It was Shela's, like stealing candy from his little girl.

He stood over them at the bed. She was so cute. Mr. Bunny was tucked, upside down with his tail under her chin. She was sleeping on Dana, much the way Dana used to sleep on him. It was very adorable. Lists. He checked the list. Shoes. He stoked the fire, dressed, then slipped out for the cabin, list in hand.

He brought back all the stuff on the list, everything needed for Dana to make pairs of fashionable clothes at a pace that could easily take a week. Shela slammed into the back of his knee with a giant hug. "Well, I missed you too," he said, then scooped the girl up. "What's it been, twenty minutes or so?"

She kissed him on the cheek.

"You hungry, little one."

That was a yes.

He set her down at the counter and made her a small glass of special milk. "Here," he handed her a sweet-potato chip.

She lit up like a bonfire.

He outlined her feet while she ate. Unlike clothes, moccasins he could make.

He watched the little girl through the window. The snow drizzled around her, a light dusting on the ground. Warm in her fur coat, hat, and boots, she randomly gripped at the falling flakes. He finished the sketch then checked his notes. She hadn't made a single sound for the last three months. Not a sound. Not a whimper or a cry.

Nothing.

He went outside in his shirt and pants, just enough to bring in some wood and a little girl with a drip on her nose. She protested, but not very hard. Especially while they warmed by the fire.

He leaned over Dana and kissed her cheek. "I love you." He kissed her lips this time.

Shela pushed her face in too.

"Didn't I make you a bed of your own?" He kissed the little girl.

She played the mom card perfectly by hugging Dana's neck.

"How did you get out of your bed again, little girl?" He couldn't keep the mad sound long. Kissing was about all Dana and he had done since this little girl. He really did love them both, it hurt almost as much to kick Shela out of his bed as it would to do the same to Dana. But he needed Dana time too. Nearly weaned, Dana was just now getting to the point where she could stand being hugged.

He kissed the little girl's tummy then pried her off of Dana and carried her back to bed.

He loved and adored, well, both of them.

"I have to pay taxes soon," he said when he returned to bed.

"I hope that wasn't supposed to turn me on?"

He sat. "It wasn't. I, don't want to leave you two. I, just thought— It has to be done before spring."

"Ok."

"Shela's such a little handful."

"I can handle her for a week."

"No offense but, when was the last time you ate at the table? Or even got into the kitchen? Or firewood?"

"I can handle it. I can. Not a month, but a week I can handle." She watched the flakes grow in size outside the window. "I'm not a 'psychotic', but I believe you're snowed in, future boy." She winked at him.

He snuggled closer.

They talked about what items would work best. His 'psychotic' readings lately only extended about a week, that wasn't quite enough for him to cheat on the items. It also gave him some measure of how healed she was. He normally could see a month with her, fuzzy at the edge of two. A week suggested she had a long way yet to go.

Wine would work the best, most likely. They had a sack of jerky too, and some prime chips. Soap should do better this year, but wasn't ideal per pound. About the same stuff as the year before. His goal, however, was to leap ahead. It was an account after all, overpaying may get it up to three or four years. That was a fine goal to have. The trip was a pain, more so now because of all he was leaving behind.

Trade was a difficult thing to calculate without cheating. Weight was a factor, but a good part of the trip was downhill. Wine was easily broken, but it was so potent that it would never freeze and was most likely to have the highest value per pound. Weight and weather really limited things.

The bed jarred with a thud.

"Derik, help your daughter up," Dana said.

Neither had seen how she escaped her crib.

He had been through this with diapers. Shela could pout quite effectively, but rarely did. She could struggle and make fighting her wishes a royal pain, but seldom followed that path either. She tended for the path that was easiest all the way around. She submitted, defiantly. He could have taken her back to the crib without even a pout, but she would just thud the bed again the second she wasn't observed.

She made it most impossible to be angry with her. She won almost every time. More importantly, he was resisting her less. Every bit Dana's little girl.

Shela crawled her way back between them. If there was affection to be had, she was going to be in the center of it. They kissed the little girl all over until she giggled uncontrollably. At least Dana wasn't immune to her charms either.

Shela had been sleeping for some time. She was fine in the crib by herself, so long as nothing more interesting was going on in the house. Adults picked up where they left off. Shela giggled herself into a full-blown laugh. They stopped, and Shela went back to quiet sleep.

He started kindling the morning fire, then checked on the crib. Shela's face was pressed into Mr. Bunny's hind feet. She was so adorable, he wanted to wake her up and start playing with her, but she slept so peacefully. He checked her diaper. It had been weeks since her last nighttime accident. She was a very good girl.

He went to the bathroom himself.

He had modified the seat to accommodate her smaller sit without falling in, a box by his feet helped her with the climb. He flipped the lid back down, then flushed. While he washed his hands at the sink, all he could think about was that little girl standing on the lid on her tiptoes to reach into the sink too. More water ran down her arms and onto the floor than ever got on her hands, but the effort was so adorable. He smiled as he turned off the valve.

He sat at the foot of the bed, getting dressed enough to bring in some wood.

Shela slammed into his leg. She plopped down at his feet and stared up at him.

He put on his shirt.

She put on her shirt.

He pulled on his pants.

She pulled on hers, backwards at first.

He put on his socks.

She put on her socks.

He put on his shoes.

She put on hers.

She followed him outside.

She wasn't much help, in fact, he'd have to make two trips because he couldn't overload like he usually did for fear of dropping something on her or blocking his view of her enough to accidentally step on her. He had to walk with a slow shuffle so she could hold onto his leg.

When he set the bundle down beside the fire, she added her little stick.

Effort.

It didn't matter that it was the same stick she had carried out.

He just knew she was going to do something spectacular when he went into town.

She sat beside him as he worked the fire. She leaned into his side, reducing him to working with one arm. She was going to turn one soon. He rubbed her little back while they stared into the building flames.

"You know not to play with fire, right?"

She nodded.

She was wearing the clothes he had made her. All her others fit better, looked better, but she tended to wear these maybe a little more than the others. He had no notes on that. Maybe he just remembered these days better. He didn't want to know, preferring his delusion that she preferred the ones he made for her. "You hungry?" he asked.

That was a no.

She yawned, then climbed onto his lap.

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb until she fell asleep, then put her back to bed.

They had several travoises for different uses. The one he would take to town was special. He checked his list. He had to make sure it didn't have anything inappropriate. He packed it with his oldest clothes and those made with skins. They had mastered milkweed cloth but cotton was king in town, a lot of power and prestige went with the rare nature of that fiber. He didn't want to look wealthy, just normal, and if it was known that the power of the cotton monopoly was threatened— Well, that was an enemy he didn't want to make. He checked every item to make sure it was all fabric free.

Her crossbow would stay, the old bow would go. Brick hatchets stayed— What was this? It looked like a little teakettle, sort of. Dana had stuffed a note into it. It was some sort of mini-stove. He looked into the bag, rice, dried peas, corn and other veggies with jerky chunks sprinkled in. It was a few weeks worth of meals, just add water and heat.

Everything was packed, the checklist was complete. He kissed that sleeping little girl, put on his coat, then headed for town.

The travois was heavier than he remembered, but manageable. The inch of snow didn't hinder walking, but it really aided with the added weight. He made incredible progress for his first day.

Too tired to walk anymore, he flipped the travois and leaned it against a tree, then climbed the back like a ladder. Lashing then working the ropes, the block and pulley winched it up with ease. Level, he set up the tent. He followed her notes with the mini stove. In a matter of minutes, he had peeled off most of his clothes while rice simmered in its cup, all the smoke was piped out by what had looked like the spout. He grabbed it with his bare hand. The rice bubbled but the outside remained, warm, but not hot. The same with the smoke-spout. Smart. Small. And it ran on kindling-sized sticks.

It was the size of a small clay pot. It seemed to have little vents. He could actually feel warm air blowing from them. It wasn't much, about the force of a Shela sigh, but it was constant. Dana could probably make a fortune selling such crafts, but it was best to let everyone think it was just the slightly odd kettle he had taken it for.

The hot soup was perfect. He slept comfortably in his underwear.

It was still warm in the morning, with the blanket. He checked the little stove. Just ashes. It was perhaps the nicest stay he had ever had in the woods. He dressed then opened the flap. Two dogs were circling the tree, probably attracted by the smell of his goods. He strung the bow. Regrettably, he would leave these to be eaten by their woodland friends.

He read the list. Aspirin. It was morning, he had a headache, so he opened the aspirin envelope labeled morning. He looked at the envelopes again. Why wasn't it a jar? He checked the list, read the notes. Perhaps it was to make sure he rationed them properly. He waited to see if there were more dogs around before he let down the rig and returned to his march toward town.
**B5.C25**

Dana was in the kitchen when he opened the door. A little girl slammed into his leg. He scooped her up into his arms with a kiss, "Well, I missed you too, Honey."

Dana spread jam on the bread. "How'd it go?" she said, before slicing another.

"Fine, three years worth. I was hoping for—"

"How'd the little stove do?"

He carried the little girl to the kitchen, "Perfect," he said, setting her down on the counter.

"Where is it?" She kissed him on the cheek.

"On the cheek? I've been gone over a week, and all I—"

She did better.

"I dropped all that stuff at the cabin. I'll get it the next time we need something from down there. The tea did surprisingly well for something nearly weightless. Just not as good as the wine. The soap did better this year too. One guy made me an offer for the recipe. I didn't, but I thought about— oh, they flipped over the waterproof bags of all things. Bags! That was the thing they wanted the secret to the most. I didn't tell 'em."

She gave Shela the crust-less slice, at which point the two of them completely disappeared to the little girl, totally focused on the treat.

"You look, you're— It's such a treat to see you up and about." He hugged her.

"I'm faking it," she whispered in the hug, "I would love to fall over right about now."

He walked her over to the chair, then moved her dinner and the sticky Shela to the table.

Sprout salad, with dressing. It looked delicious, too bad there wasn't enough sprouts for two.

That didn't stop Shela from crawling over and eating off of Dana's plate.

When Dana went to bed early, Shela was more than willing to make up for it. She stayed glued to him until morning, not that the walk to and from town hadn't worn him out already. But playing with his little girl was something he had come to miss, and he always seemed to have time for her.

"Morning, sunshine," he kissed Dana awake. "She just went to bed."

"She cried for two days. That little girl is so in love with you."

"How do you tell a—"

"You should have tried. She's crazy about you."

"She's going to break my heart one day, entirely too soon."

Dana smiled, blinking her eyes. "Yes, she will." She stared him in the eyes, "But I won't."

He could think of hundreds of things he would rather have done while Shela was sound asleep and Dana was wide-awake. But the one he couldn't imagine was the one he did.

He fell asleep.

The bed shook with a thud.

"Derik, help Shela on the bed," Shela said.

Shela said!

Months of total silence, from crawling to running she had skipped walking entirely, now she skipped first words for complete sentences.

He helped her up.

"Tell me she hasn't been talking while I was gone," he said.

"Why you ask Mommy?" Shela crawled between them.

"No, she hasn't," Dana answered anyway, hugging the girl down into a snuggle.

"What's for breakfast?" Shela inserted herself between them again.

It was way past noon. "Lunch, Honey," he said.

"Sprouts?"

"They take a week to, sprout, Honey."

She pouted, briefly, "Sticky, messy bread?"

That broke both of them up, "Sure, messy bread." He kissed the little girl.

Shela ran off the edge of the bed, slammed with a thud to the pillows kept there, then ran to the kitchen.

"Molasses and crust-less bread," Dana said as he followed the little girl.

She was the cutest thing eating bread. It was a fingerfest, drippings everywhere, dropped on the table, set sticky side down on her lap, crumbs glued all over her face, and she ripped chunks with her fingers and all the added mess that that implied. It was every conceivable definition of messy bread.

Dessert was a bath.

It was somehow different washing a naked little girl who could talk. Not that she said anything. She held out her other hand for him, much like what Dana had done. The sticky between the fingers made her giggle getting it out. Dana rinsed the little girl's hair before leaving Shela in her father's hands and turning her attention to the mess on the table.

The washing-machine mesmerized Shela more than sticky bread ever could. It reversed all the labor it saved by constantly having to race over to keep her from touching it. Because so much of it moved, there was no way to shield the parts from curious fingers. There was also no way to distract her either, not even her beloved Mr. Bunny held such pull. He checked his notes. There was already an entry about this. He must have forgotten. It suggested waiting until she fell asleep before doing wash. He circled it, then drew a big arrows to it from the margins, before scooping her up again as she ran toward the toilet, where the washer was.

He relented, sitting on the toilet with her as it wiggled and shook and slowly crawled down the wall. It was interesting to watch and had fascinated him when he first saw it. Why wouldn't a little girl be captivated by it?

Strictly supervised, he let her touch the strings moving by at different speeds. "Your mommy is very smart," he said. "She made this."

She touched the next string.

That seemed to make her content for a while.

She stood on his foot while he worked the pedal that lifted it back into the ceiling for the rinse cycle. She clearly understood that more weight helped push it down, what she missed was the added difficulty of lifting her.

She was trying to help.

She always tried.

He couldn't complain.

With Dana's and, to a lesser but cuter extent, Shela's help, they worked on a common project. A real bed for Shela. She was small enough to fit in a shelf right now, but she was growing fast. They went for a full-sized frame, bunk bed style, with drawers for her quickly-outgrown clothes under the mattress.

All this he had done before, mostly. Yet, today Dana added something new, now that they had gallons of milkweed juice. Foam. It was essentially made the same way as toothbrushes but with a slight change in the additives and the blowing of tiny bubbles in it just before it cooled. Like a bed of millions of little balloons. They practiced by making pillows first, but eventually poured a form the size of a single bed. Then, with enough left over, they poured one the size of theirs.

That first night on foam was sleepless, not that it was uncomfortable, it was dreamy, but it was totally silent. They had spent years on what was essentially bales of straw, comfortable, but noisy, in a soft way. He missed that. He missed the noise of every move.

Milkweed juice, was there anything it couldn't do? They had less than a half-gallon leftover. Waterproof bags, toothbrushes, greenhouse, and now a pillow-soft bed.

He knew it was important, he just didn't know how much.

Silent as he could, he made his way to the bathroom, middle of the night. He sat down, not that he had to, but because, well, it was quieter and he didn't want to wake anyone.

After drying his hands, he checked on little Shela. Her arm was around Mr. Bunny's head, a grip on his floppy ear, center of an enormous bed. He added a log to the fire while he was up, adding a little light to the room. He sketched the little girl, and most of Mr. Bunny.

The edge of her bed was lined with practice pillows. He sat on one, his hand on her back, those little shoulders. He could feel her mother all over this sleeping girl. Brilliant, full sentences. Smart questions, amazing observations. He was a little intimidated by her. He looked at the sketch. He remembered his life before her, but it was as hard to imagine as those lonely years before he met Dana. It was going to shred him to see her leave to a life of her own. And he hardly knew her yet.

He climbed in bed with her mother.

He loved her too.

Shela sat on the table while he played solitaire. He turned over the next card. She put the bunny's face on one of the stacks. She had watched only three games.

"What's this card?" he asked.

"Four spade."

"Where's it go?"

She pointed with the bunny's nose.

He touched her little knee, and was a little scared. "What's this card?" he asked.

"King club."

It was face down. He turned it over. King of clubs. "How'd you know?"

She pointed with the bunny.

That wasn't what he asked, but it was where it belonged. Perhaps there was some of him in her after all. His guesses came when he was six. "And this one?"

She didn't say, but she pointed with the bunny.

"Queen of hearts." She was right.

It was kinda scary to have Shela sitting on the counter while he made dinner. He trimmed the rabbit but put the blade on the opposite side as her. She could fall, or cut herself, or a thousand other frightening things; he always read her thoroughly before lifting her up. She was in just as much danger being underfoot; on the counter, she was calm at least.

He pried off the top of the jar with a pop. Shela inspected the lid while he cracked open the rabbit bones for the gravy, then selected some sprouts for salad.

"Where do sprouts come from?" she asked.

"Well, they're seeds," he showed her some. "See how hard these are?"

She pinched them between her fingers, then moved one to her mouth.

"You can't eat them like thi—"

She spit it into her hand. "Where do seeds come from?"

This was not going to be easy. "Sprouts."

"Sprouts come from seeds, that come from sprouts?"

Dana stopped kneading the bread long enough to rescue him. "A seed is a sleeping baby plant," she said, opening the seed's shell with her thumbnail. "See how these look like tiny little leaves, like on the sprout? Well, a sprout is a plant in its first week or two after it wakes. These plants can't live in winter so we eat them as sprouts, but come summer they can continue to grow, and just before they die of old age, they make hundreds of seeds."

Shela looked at her, the seed, Mr. Bunny, then "I don't want you to die, Mommy."

Dana kissed the sad little girl on the forehead, "I'm not going to, Honey, that's just plants, not people. Would you like to help me knead the bread?" She moved her to the other side of the sink.

It was a big kitchen.

Kneading bread was actually very fun, for little girls. This loaf was shaped like a bunny.

Deer hunting was very different when it was just him. They could have left Shela by herself, and Dana was well enough that she could have gone with him, so he was able to read her usefully enough to have the when and where of the ideal kill. It was just, very lonely. Extremely lonely. He fired the third shot, then reloaded the crossbow.

Butchering took longer than he planned, but he had it rigged up in plenty of time to get home before dark.

He smiled within sight of the home, smokeless heat rippling the air above the chimney. He had a family. He was the richest man he had ever known.

He braced for the thud when he opened the door.

He had always loved kissing Dana, the way her hand drifted to the back of his neck while he lingered longer on her bottom lip. That smile, faint little lines growing more defined at the corners of her lips. She was never more beautiful.

Her arms tightened around him as her face turned toward the window before she let go, relaxed to the bed. Shela woke, screaming at the top of her tiny lungs.

He sat in horror when he realized, she hadn't embraced, she had winced. Now it was an unblinking distant stare to the pain-free outside. Shela's screams grew louder, if that was possible; she didn't even pause between breaths.

He wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but Shela was getting worse.

"It's ok, Honey," he held his daughter, soothing strokes down her back while she screamed directly into his ear. He bounced her just a little, but it didn't help, nothing seemed to. He knew what was wrong, Dana and her motionless stare.

He just held her, "I'm sorry, Honey, it'll be ok." He kissed her teary cheek between screams. He held her until screams exhausted her back to sleep.

Returned to her bed and bunny, he sat between the window and Dana's stare, counting blinks. He had hurt Dana, and worse, he hadn't noticed nearly fast enough. He noticed now, way too late. Her hurt had filled the room, the way her joy once had. He rested his hand near hers, careful not to touch. She would, if she wanted to.

Counting blinks, hundreds by now, but her stare never ventured inside.

He didn't mean— it, he said nothing to her. It was nearing a year since the last time they had ventured past kisses. He hadn't intended — it just — He felt horribly low right now. She moved the inches to touch his hand.

Baby, weaning, stretched and torn, she had been through a lot. She hadn't returned to full days yet, he was pushing it to ask for more right now. It only made him feel worse.

He fixed a snack. Dana stood in the kitchen beside him while he made a plate for her.

They ate at the table in silence.

"I feel like this discarded, empty shell, without her," she whispered. "Jagged cracks everywhere, waiting to fall apart." She held his hand across the table, "I would have crumbled, were it not for you."

"I, I'm sorry. I didn't mean— I forgot how well you fake being fine, for her."

"I can endure a little pain, for you."

"I won't ask you to. I don't want— That's really the exact opposite of what I was trying for." He looked over to the stirring in Shela's bed. She had just rolled over. He paused long enough to be sure she was still asleep. "I never really— We skipped dating like Shela skipped walking. I think, it's something I'd have liked, with you."

He had fallen in love with many girls in his life. The first was this mean little girl who had flattened him with a single punch. The second was this calmer girl who shared his cramped little room and used to argue over the littlest things. Then there was the girl he ran away to be with, who shared her tent and her only blanket. She changed into the woman who opened their tent to two lost children in the middle of the woods, who turned their few spares into child-sized clothes. She changed after being captured, and again after the Findicks. He had fallen in love many times in his life, but it had always been with her. Now, he was falling for Shela's mom.

She leaned across to kiss him.

At least that was something he couldn't hurt her with.
**B5.C26**

He lifted Shela to the center of his bed, right by the strawberry cheesecake with a single burning candle. He put his finger to his lips, Shh.

She pulled Mr. Bunny onto her lap to help contain her excitement.

He woke her early that morning, unintentionally, while he was making Dana's favorite cake. And coffee with cream, no sugar. They were very quiet, nothing but whispers and slippers. Shela understood surprise, she just wasn't good with patience, bouncing more than a real rabbit might.

"Happy birthday Mommy!" They screamed the second Dana opened her eyes.

Shela hit her mother with a big hug and a kiss.

It was a birthday, just not Dana's.

He bowed before Dana after the cheesecake breakfast, "Would the lovely Shela's mom care to go for a walk on such a nice spring day?"

She wiped the crumbs from the corner of Shela's face. "That sounds, lovely?"

Shela hurried on her shoes; her name was clearly misused in that sentence.

Fresh air and exercise tended to do Dana some good, and it was nice to get out of the house, now that winter was done. Shela loved going for walks. She seemed compelled to touch everything, but she wasn't able to go the distance without being carried home.

Shela stood on his bed and looked out the window. She loved watching the hummingbirds after breakfast. She understood glass, but always seemed to forget whenever one would hover outside, fingers stopped mid-grab. She desperately wanted to go outside but she understood her short height too. Without the bed, she wouldn't have her perfect view.

They seemed to like her too, lingering much longer than feeding alone required.

Dana pulled the little girl onto her lap. "Did I ever tell you the story of hummingbirds?"

Shela loved stories.

"There once was a race of great warriors that lived near here, thousands of years ago. They held these birds in the greatest of reverence. The most agile, brightest colored, unique birds in the world. When one of their bravest warriors would fall in battle, they believed that was only the beginning of his journey. With the tests of body proven for the world to see, his next tests were of spirit, heart, and mind. Nobody knows for sure what these tests were, but those that passed and found their way to true harmony were born again, as hummingbirds, their debt to violence, fulfilled."

She grabbed at the window again. "Great warrior of long ago."

"That's why they're so fast and agile, and fearless."

Shela pressed her palm to the glass. "What happens when humming-birds die?"

Dana tried not to laugh as she rubbed her little back, "They're born again as little girls, of course."

Derik rinsed the last breakfast plate, set out to dry.

Shela was a great help in the garden. She was full of endless "what's this" and "why that". She pulled the seed out of the ground and ran it to Derik, "Daddy, is this the top, or is this the top?"

"Honey, it doesn't matter that much for—"

"I wouldn't want to grow upside down— How will it find its way through the dirt if it's upside down?"

"Close your eyes." He picked her up in the air, then spun her over his head to her delightful screams, "Which way is up?"

She pointed, while upside down.

He kissed her on the belly then put her straw hat back on. "They know up."

She ran back to her own little section of the garden. Her little mini-garden.

He looked beyond the little girl. Dana was struggling, but hid it well. He knelt beside her. "Why don't you go home and get lunch ready? Shela and I can handle this."

She looked relieved.

He helped her stand, "I left some sandwiches in the box, if you're hungry."

"Daddy, what kind of bug is this?" Shela held it by the wing.

"I'm not sure. It's not one of the good kinds though."

"Bad bug!" She dropped it in the nearest plastic dish by the plants. It swam briefly before it sank. "Why does soap make them sink, Daddy?"

"It has something to do with the surface of the water. Could you help Daddy change the water in all of these? It'll be a great help if you do."

She lit up, "Can I? What do I do with the buggy water that's in them now?"

"Just dump them back near the plants, it's good for them."

She giggled. "They eat plants, then plants eat them, that's funny. What eats people?"

"Around here, dogs and mountain lions mostly, but that's rare."

"What do they look like?"

"Remind me when we get home, and I'll draw you one."

She ran off to do her chore. She wasn't strong enough to tote gallons of water, so she filled them one glass at a time, usually spilling most of it down her front as she ran from dish to dish. Her little struggles to dump the plates were equally cute.

He held her on his hip for the walk back to the house. She was tired, she had a very long day. He looked in the window, Dana was asleep on the bed. "Let's be quiet, Honey, your mom had a rough night last night."

"Ok Daddy." She got excited, "Draw for me."

He set her down at the table, then got sandwiches from the box and some chips from the cabinets. "What was I supposed to draw?" He whispered.

"Dog and mountain lion."

She watched him like it was a magic trick. She hadn't seen drawing before. She grabbed one of his sheets and a stick of his sharpened coal, "Can I play too?"

"Sure Honey."

He hung hers by the fireplace. It was, if he looked at it just right with enough imagination, a wingless hummingbird. Perhaps she hadn't seen the wings yet. She captured the feeder rather well.

He woke to the sounds of paper. It wasn't morning yet as he looked around. Shela was sitting in front of the fire, reading his notebook pulled off the nightstand. He crawled out of bed. Lying on his belly by the fire, he asked, "What are you doing, Honey?"

"Why aren't there any pictures of you in here?" she said. "See, here's Mommy, and me, and Mr. Bunny—"

"It's hard for me to draw, me," he whispered, but it confused her. He handed her a piece of coal, "Try to draw your shiny little face."

She pressed the coal to a piece of— "Oh," she said. "What are these little things?" She pointed to the letters.

"Words. A way you draw what you're saying."

"What does it say?"

She had picked a particularly odd place to start reading. It was the last picture of Dana before the first picture of Shela.

He read her the story of how she was born.

"Why would Mommy do that?" she asked.

"It was the only way she could meet you." He put a piece of paper in front of her. "Can you help me draw a tree?"

She worked hard on the trunk while he worked on the leaves.

When finished with their third picture, she asked, "Can I have some mommy juice?"

"Your mom hasn't made juice in months, Honey."

"The red juice she drank yesterday?"

"Oh, we have that." He poured her a little cup.

She made a sauerkraut face, but tried it again. She shook her head, shivered, then gulped the last bit. "I don't think I like it, but I'm not sure."

"It took me a long time to get used to it. It'll grow on you." He guzzled an equal sized shot and tried to shiver like she did. "It's very good for you."

She handed him her empty glass, "More?"

He refilled both glasses, then got out some chips. "It's better with chips."

She smiled as she broke off a crumb and let it melt in her mouth. "Everything is."

He kissed her on the cheek. He loved this little girl.

Dana had pushed herself too hard these past few weeks. It was the most important time for the garden and he well understood her desire to help. He understood, but begged her not to, for this very reason. She would sleep well past noon. He rested his hand on her back, rubbing small circles before the sun came up enough to start this day.

Shela slid her feet into her fur-lined slippers before crossing the floor and thudding into the bed.

He sat her by her mother's sleeping head.

"What's wrong with mom?" she whispered.

"Well, that's a much larger story than it seems." He continued the circles on Dana's back. "You have known her only as your mother, I have known her as much more. She saved my life when I was years older than you. It cost her, easily cut her life in half. To look at her you would not think her capable, but she survived a beating that would kill the strongest man. Now, she sleeps late, sometimes all day. You notice, when the morning is cold, I get the side by the window; when it's warm, she gets the breeze. I wouldn't have it any other way, even if I could. She has the strongest magic I've ever known, and I can prove it." He held Dana's hand, "See that smile?" Shela had one of her own. "She managed to share that with you."

"Tell me more, Daddy." She had an adorable smile.

"She loves playing with you. I've never seen her smile as much as when she's playing with you."

"Do I have dimples on my back too?"

He looked at Dana's back. "No. And, she doesn't really either."

Shela touched the dimple by Dana's shoulder blade, "It's real, Daddy, just like yours."

He lay down, "It's, it's mine. She just wears it for me."

Shela touched it again. Puzzled.

He kissed the little dimple. "If she didn't, you would never have met me."

Shela kissed it too.

"Put your ear right here."

She hugged to Dana's back.

"Just listen to the symphony of life, that song only sung by her."

Soon, he was the only one awake in the room.

She ran into the house, thumped then climbed onto the bed and onto Dana's lap with a fistful of flowers, a portion of them upside-down. "Daddy and I saw a turtle and three littler turtles and they made this kerplunk when they jumped off the log in the pond and then there was this dragonfly that landed on the pond by this frog and the frog jumped for it but it didn't get there because the dragonfly was too fast for the frog and it just zoomed away as fast as a hummingbird and it even moved backward, I think, but I'm not sure because we were a long way away from the pond, a lot closer to where the turtles live by the log, and then Daddy showed me how he makes milk from milkweed, only it isn't milk and you shouldn't drink it because it tastes bad and it's not good for you and it might make you sick but probably won't kill you, but some can but not these but it doesn't taste good so you shouldn't anyway. But then I helped him run some of the dried stalks through the belt thingy and it made this crunching sound like your bed used to make and these little paper flakes kept falling from it but we weren't making paper, we were making the long fibers that get made into clothes and he showed me how the loom works, sort of, and it looks like the fan thing except it doesn't have the little pulleys but it really couldn't have pulleys because it doesn't work that way," she said, then grabbed the brush off the nightstand and started brushing Dana's hair. Standing on Dana's lap, she continued her brief story while Derik made lunch for this overly excited little girl.

Shela hugged her mother when Derik stepped out, "Thank you for Daddy," she said.

They ate lunch at the table when he got back.

Shela was done with diapers. Done with nursing, and now she was done with baths in a washbowl on the counter. She wanted to use the tub like everyone else, even if she wasn't big enough to climb in and out of it yet. It was perhaps the most beautiful scene he had ever sketched, mother and daughter in the tub.

"I really enjoyed myself today, Ms. Shela's mom." He kissed her that night after Shela had gone to sleep. They had played at dating most nights when adults were all that was up. "You have a lovely daughter." He kissed the knuckles of her hand.

"She has a wonderful father."

"I would love to be her father."

"I think she'd like that." Dana played along.

They hadn't had sex for well over a year, well, not exactly. It was still painful for her, but he used his power of cheating for good. He now had very clear lines for where pleasure ended and pain began and had found he was quite capable of taking her to a happier place than sex had. Shela usually giggled in her sleep whenever they did. It was a little spooky, the connection the two women still had.

Tonight, Shela giggled in her sleep again.
**B5.C27**

"Honey, I want you to know I'm going into town," he said to the little girl.

"I'll get my boots," she said, but he kept her on his lap.

"No, Honey, I can't take you with me, you have to stay with your mom."

She made the saddest little pout.

"Your mom needs your help, you know. If I took you with me, she would get very lonely and heartbroken here all by herself."

"She can come too!"

Arguing with a smart child wasn't easy. "We can't leave the house alone, someone has to feed the fire to keep the jars of food from freezing and breaking. I'll be back, just like last year, remember?"

"But I don't want you to go, Daddy." She hugged him adorably.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

She didn't let go. And he very much didn't want to leave.

"I'm not going today, Honey, it'll be later this week."

She loosened.

"It'll be fun, Shela," Dana said sitting next to them. "Every year or two, your dad has to go in town. That's all. It's part of the price of living here."

"I don't like it," Shela said.

"Nobody does. I don't," Dana said.

"I would stay if I could," he said, "but if I go soon, I'll be back before all the bad weather hits. We're paid up but we had a very good year, and we need to get rid of our extra stuff while it still has value. It's worthless to us and it'll be worthless to everyone in town if I wait until next year. Like when you picked those pretty flowers for your mom, if you had waited a few days, they would have wilted. This stuff will wilt if we wait too long."

That she understood.

"You want to play cards, Honey?" Dana said.

Shela looked very sad with her Daddy gone. She got the cards.

They played several different games, ending with the one her Daddy taught her, Poker.

"Fold." The little girl said.

"Honey, you have a pair showing."

Shela climbed across the table, then turned the next two face up from the deck. "That makes your flush."

"Your Daddy cheats, too."

"I'm not cheating," she said with a pout.

"If you did that in town, they would call it cheating. This is probably boring for you, then," Dana said, putting them away. They played checkers next. It was harder to cheat and a little more fun for both.

"When's Daddy coming home?"

"A few more days, Honey. If we're lucky, he won't have to do this again next year."

That brightened the little frown.

"You and Daddy used to live here?" Shela asked in the cabin.

"For a year or more." Dana started the fire then prepared the spindle.

"Where did you sleep?"

"We removed the bed when we moved, to make more room here. Tub too."

"What happened to the toilet? Sink? Kitchen?" She wiped the dust off the items she could reach, then watched it cloud and float to the floor. "Where does dust come from?" She looked up at the rafters, "Is the attic made of dust? Can dust pass through the roof? Why isn't there dust at home? Where does it go outside?"

Dana kissed the little girl on her forehead. "Which one do you want me to answer first?"

She prioritized, "Where do you go to the bathroom?"

"We used that chair with a hole cut in the seat."

She stared at it, befuddled. She climbed onto it, then started working her pants.

"Whoah!" Dana rushed over. "We took it out into the woods. Do you have to go now?"

That was a yes.

They carried it outside.

Shela was actually a great assistant. She picked up on things very quickly, even if she wasn't able to handle heavy work. She didn't have the greatest dexterity either, but she was well beyond her age. She really liked combing the strands. It was an important part before spinning. And she was very good at spotting and removing the little flakes of paper.

"How come Daddy wears special clothes to go in town?" Shela asked.

"Well, politics, really."

"Politics?"

Dana put the newly filled spool onto the shelf, then prepared the spindle for more. "Politics. It's kinda when you do things, or don't do things, not because they're right or wrong, but because of how they'll affect people in power now."

"Why not just—" she dropped the comb. "Why?"

"Well, clothes are made of cotton."

She held up a fistful of fluff. "I thought this was called milkweed?"

Dana sat back at the spindle and started the pedals, "It is, but everything in town is made from cotton, and one person controls all the cotton grown. With one person controlling all the cotton, he became very rich and powerful. Milkweed makes clothes that are a little stronger, last a little longer, and milkweed grows everywhere. It would make cotton worthless. Politics. The polite and least troublesome thing to do is not fight that fight, and recognize what kind of fight it would be."

"But, doesn't that— Wouldn't everyone be better off with—" Shela stared at the comb, unable to continue with this conflict unresolved.

"Yes, they would, Honey. But that would bring a lot of attention onto you, and me, and your daddy. We just want to be left alone out here, that's more important to us."

Shela moved what she had finished to the pile by the spindle. "Where does dust come from?"

She kissed the little girl on the forehead.

Shela slammed into his knee when he opened the door.

"My favorite girls," he said, then kissed them both, littlest first.

"You're just in time for dinner, I'll fix you a plate," Dana said.

"Look Daddy look!" Shela did a little twirl, "See Daddy see!"

Tired as he was, he knelt before the little girl, "You look beautiful."

"I helped Mommy make them, see!"

"You did a fine job, I couldn't have done better myself." He rubbed the little girl's head.

She pushed her sleeve into his face, "I did the butt inns."

He picked up the little girl with six extra buttons running down one sleeve and carried her to the dinner table.

Shela spent the next few exhaustive hours filling him in on every detail, including pooping outside, which, she informed him, she didn't like the most of everything she had ever done in her entire life, and explained why.

After putting Shela to bed, they stayed up at the table. This was Dana's third cup of coffee, her second slice of pumpkin pie. "She'll turn seven before I have to do that again," he said.

"She'll be happy to hear that. But, I wouldn't tell her. If we get another good year, we may want to get further ahead again."

"Wine did incredibly well this year. So did the soap, the insect-repellant nature was well talked about, they almost sold themselves."

She rested her hand on his temple, "How's your headache?"

"The aspirin envelopes helped. It kept me from getting too lightheaded when I got into town. Better able to negotiate that way."

She touched his foot with hers, "She's not the only one that missed you."

He kissed the back of her hand. "She's not the only one I missed."

Turning thread into cloth had been too much to ask of just the girls, especially now that the loom was much wider. Shela liked standing on the pedals, even if her weight wasn't enough to move them. It was really the only thing she was tall enough to do.

In town, this would be a fortune in cloth. Perhaps enough for a new house and a lifetime of taxes, but they would use it mostly for clothing a growing child. Shela would outgrow anything quickly, as she was already. Sheets, stacks and stacks of folded sheets, they could produce two or three a day.

A full third would never go beyond being stored as spools of thread. Thread, with a multi-spool spinning thingy, could quickly be braided into incredibly strong rope like that used in the fan and washing-machine, nets, or loomed into clothes. In truth, this was the thing most likely to 'wilt' or mold or be eaten by moths before it got used, but it was a byproduct of the milk that they really wanted, and waste was, wasteful.

Winter would be very long without projects like this. The little girl's enthusiasm made it all worth while. She even dragged them out of bed to go "play" on the loom. She liked running her fingers across the strands and chasing the traveler they passed between them. It was fun for her. She was especially fascinated with the making of a new version of denim. He was a little fascinated too, this was the first year of it. It was a way of weaving two sheets into a thicker, almost three-ply sheet, perfect for pants and jackets.

Sandwiches, soup and chips, then loom, loom, loom.

They had a mini-loom they used to make extra-thick tube-socks that Shela could work on her own. They showed her how, and she would make a pair or two a day, but quickly got bored with it. It wasn't in the middle of them like the pedals were.

The weeks flew by, and the rafters filled with stacks of cloth.

Shela was heartbroken the three days both parents left to take down a deer, even though they only left her alone for a few hours each time.

"You'll never guess what your daughter asked me today," Dana said in bed, Shela sound asleep.

"Another where'd it come from?" he said, hand on her back.

"She asked me why I hadn't married her daddy yet. I wonder where she got that question from?"

He looked away, humming.

"That's what I thought," she said.

"It's not what you think. She overheard me asking you one night, and she couldn't figure out the words. And, I want to marry you. I always have."

"I'm not going all the way into town just to say some words in front of people who mean nothing to me, or you. There's nothing of value there for me. Nothing to give any oath meaning enough to make it real." She rolled to her back, "There's not a lot of me left. Mother, probably. I'm not sure I can handle adding wife to that."

He had read her enough to end the conversation there. He wanted a yes, because it meant something to her, and that meant everything to him. "Best mother in the world." He pulled her closer. "I can still pretend to be your husband, right?"

She relaxed into the embrace. "You're a better father than I expected."

The bed shook with a thud as a bunny was hurled onto the sheets between them, preceding the climbs of a little girl. "Can we play loom today?" She climbed atop him.

"Honey, we're done with that," he said.

"But, I can make socks. I will this time, I'll make socks all day!"

He pulled the little girl down on the bed, then kissed her belly as Dana kissed her giggling little cheeks.

She squirmed her way to the foot of the bed. "Let's play in the garden!" She declared.

"It's winter, Honey, we can't garden until next spring."

That was exactly what she did not want to hear.

"We need someone to tend the sprouts," Dana said.

Shela thudded to the ground then ran for the kitchen where the sprouts were kept. She was way too short to reach the counter, but that didn't keep her from tossing Mr. Bunny onto the counter before yelling, "I said I'd catch it, just push it down," then, as if to answer, "No, it's beside the chips, silly bunny." She stared at their bed, puzzled by their laughter.

Shela was a master of sprouts. The first few weeks under her total control, they had more sprouts than any human being could eat. She completely misjudged. They had sprouts in bread, for lunch, and with dinner for days. After that, however, she was rather perfect at managing them. She liked seeds and was fascinated by the whole idea of growing things. Her mini garden had produced several meals and quite a few seeds of her own. It was really a learning lesson for her that she carried through to this indoor garden.

"It wasn't Mr. Bunny," Dana said, trying to comfort the crying little girl.

"I'm so sorry," Derik said to both girls, "I didn't think, about— I shouldn't have let her come along, but it's so—"

"The little bunny was squished with that mean, heavy log!" Shela cried again.

"Shh, Honey. Listen," Dana said, "Fall and Winter are hard on animals, all the food like our garden dies. If we don't kill some of them, then there won't be enough food for all the others to eat. It sounds mean, but it's part of life, it gives those left behind more food." She hugged the little girl. "It would be wasteful," Dana almost cried herself. "We hunt deer every year to help thin the population, so the little fawns have a chance to find enough food to make it to spring. Without us, the bigger deer would eat so much, the smaller, younger ones would die."

Shela cried harder, but, it was making its way past her intense feelings on the matter and was well on its way to being reasoned with that smart little mind. She just didn't like the idea of bunnies being hurt, whatever the reason. It was an association she didn't make a year or even a few weeks ago.

Shela petted her fur-lined slippers, tears running down her chin.

Shela didn't really have many teeth, but Daddy and Mommy brushed their teeth and she wanted to, too. Toothbrush yes, fork and spoon, no.

She drew interesting lines.

Their oldest evaporated milk had browned and separated. It still tasted ok if they mixed it, but separated by sitting on the shelf for years lent it well to cheese, and more to his way of thinking, cheesecake and cream for her coffee. With enough cheesecake, even Shela made peace with the fate of winter rabbits.
**B5.C28**

Game playing, drawing, storytelling, crafts, and the always-interesting questions leveled by such a tiny little girl made the winter fly by. Shela was quickly closing on the age of two. Terrible twos, he had always heard it called. So far, it was anything but terrible.

He woke to a very early and very loud, "Happy Birthday Mommy!" and Shela throwing an impressive hug around Dana's neck, followed by a series of kisses before she crawled to the foot of the bed where Mr. Bunny was sitting. She took something from the bunny's stuffed hands then crawled back. She used a brief sad face when Dana's eyes opened, "I don't know how to make cheesecake." She handed Dana a little basket made from woven pine needles. "This is my favorite round one," she pulled a pebble from the basket. "And this one looks like Mr. Bunny," it was a bluish stone, "And this is my favorite feather." It was a brilliant, shiny, hummingbird yellow, "And this," she unfolded a piece of paper, "is my favorite Mommy." She threw another hug on the still waking Dana. The page just had the letters Y O U.

"Thank you, Honey," Dana said, tears in her eyes.

It was Shela's birthday, she had guessed it perfectly from the marks on the sundial. It was entirely too sweet to correct the little girl, "Would you like to help me make your mother a cheesecake and some coffee?" he said.

She shifted her hug to him as he carried her to the kitchen and started getting out the ingredients. He kinda liked celebrating Shela's birthday this way. It made more sense, considering what Dana went through getting her here.

He looked over to the bed while assembling the mixing bowls. Dana was holding the items like the delicate treasures they were, arranging them on the windowsill. Terrible terrible twos.

Tears ran down her face as she rammed into his leg.

"What's wrong, Honey?"

Shela was almost hysterical, too much so to speak.

"Honey, it'll be all right," he said, but it seemed she was getting worse. He sat on the floor with her, comforting her as best he could. Dana was down at the cabin. "Shh, it'll be ok."

She pressed Mr. Bunny into his hand. One of the button eyes had fallen off.

"Oh, Honey, it'll be ok. I can fix Mr. Bunny, he'll be feeling fine soon." He put his hand over the big, floppy ears, "Can you be a brave little girl, I think you're scaring him."

She was slowly calming down. He found the button in the folds of her bed and sewed it back, then found a scrap of cloth to tie a little eye-patch.

"Now, he has to wear this for a few days, ok?"

"Thank you Daddy."

Shela really loved the garden, especially her little section of it. Her experience with sprouts gave her an insight that he lacked. She knew, almost instinctively, how to segregate the rows to prevent their silent little bio-wars. Plus, she looked absolutely adorable with her woven straw hat. She had insisted on making it herself, and it was bigger than Dana's. It seemed too big for her head to possibly handle, like it could crush her at any second, but straw was nearly weightless. Whenever she would run excitedly, it would fly off her head, but she refused any attempts to alter it in any way to make it fit better.

She was easily distracted by butterflies and moths. She would follow one relentlessly until she could catch it. Then she'd run it back to her nearest parent, picking up her hat dozens of times in all the excitement, just to show it off. Rarely would it get injured in all this before she let it go.

Her excitement seldom extended beyond lunch. One of them usually carried the sleeping child back to the house and tucked her into bed. It was his privilege most of the time.

Thunder rattled the windows as the flash lit the house like day. Shela screamed, running straight to her daddy.

He lifted the girl into his arms. "It's all right, Honey, it's just a storm," he said.

The next clap shook him too, made more frightening by the matching intensity of her scream in his ear.

Dana took her from his arms, then sat on the chair before the window. "Do you know what lightning is?" she asked.

Shela sniffled.

"It's the same stuff that makes the night sky blue, only much closer." Dana patted the little girl's back. "Science used them, many years ago; it's energy in its most compact, useful form. I think it's pretty, like an upside-down tree that's miles high and lives a brilliant lifetime in under a second."

A bolt struck the distant mountaintop with a shutter that echoed into the valley. Shela's tears were calming, she didn't scream this time.

"See. It's made of these tiny particles, electrons freed from atoms."

Shela looked up from Dana's lap.

Dana touched Shela's wet cheek, "Seeds are the tiniest a plant can be, and still be a plant. Well, atoms are the tiniest anything can be, and electrons are the smallest part of them. That flash is a river of electrons that have been freed from their atom, falling from the sky to the ground."

Another echoed into the valley, but Shela only winced. "Where in the sky do they come from?"

"Well, on a very dry day, you can make mini lightning by rubbing plastic against hair. For a long time, they thought it was much the same way with clouds, that humidity rising from the ground and forming into clouds made such friction, but that's not what my mother believed. She believed it was powered by the sun."

Shela looked at the darker than daylight outside.

"Sunshine has many parts, one of them is a steady stream of electrons and the other parts of ripped apart atoms. She believed that the reason why lightning was around during storms was the moisture between the heavens and the ground made it easier for the two charges to connect. The sun only ever 'rubs' one side of the planet at a time, why we have day and night."

Shela had settled by the next distant rumble. "What do you believe, Mommy?"

"You're too young to have seen the sky turn green—"

"The whole sky?"

"Just at night, Honey. It's a light green, instead of light blue. It happens every decade or so, for a year or two. My mother believed it reflected a change in this solar wind."

Derik sat on the bed near them, he hadn't heard this one before.

"There is this old saying," she continued, "about seeds harvested under a green night, that those seeds should never be planted. For whatever reason, it's true. Seeds harvested in any green year tend not to grow, and half of those that do, turn out badly. It's a marker of a bad year. Anyway, she said it marked changes in the cycles of the sun, like winter and summer mark cycles here, only, the sun cycles every decade or so. It's why it's so important to store food for hard times, because we know they will come."

"Are storms worse under a green sky, Mommy?"

She kissed the little girl's forehead, "I think they are."

He had never heard of such a thing. His village had always had some superstitious reason, like punishment for wickedness and such. He had never connected the two, and Shela's little question seemed to nicely prove the theory. In his life, he had only seen one year of green night skies. It was only visible just as night fell or for the earliest hour before morning, midnight was the normal blue. And it wasn't every night either. Sometimes it was visible during midday, but that was even more rare.

They watched the show outside the window. It was beautiful, like flickers of upside down trees.

A lunch of salad and sandwiches seemed the best match for such a storm. Story over, he got up to make it.

"Mommy, what made the night sky blue?" Shela asked.

"Well, it's hard to say. My mother came up with two theories. The first, that it was a punishment. Most blame it for the high infertility rates, and, that's probably true. But, as she got older, she rethought it. Because of its shift every decade, it may easily be a manmade shield, protecting us from something far worse coming from the sun. There's really no way of telling, all the science that could pierce its secrets are forbidden by its existence."

No, ok, that was the end of the story. He started slicing the bread.

Playing cards with three people was indeed more fun. Cards with Shela was even more so. Especially when they taught her a new game. She was very smart. Backgammon, checkers, and dice games tended to mess with what little talent she shared with her father. She didn't seem to read people at all, she just— Dice were beyond her scope, for now. Thus, it was more fun than cards. They also shuffled the deck between hands and after each dealt card, sort of like dealing from the middle of the deck. That too seemed to befuddle her talent. It was odd, and she was just two. It was doubtlessly going to continue to grow and change, just like the little girl it was attached to.

She was prolific with her drawings. He had to triple paper production just to keep up. She decorated the walls with them, from floor to ceiling and the well-pipe to around the corner and nearly to their bed. Dana had introduced colors and ink, and as disastrous as a child with ink could have been, Shela proved conventional thinking wrong again, with hypnotizing patterns like those found on wings.

She was equally good at capturing shapes and angles, but proportions and realism were still beyond her, so far. Yet, as he looked over her papered corner, he could easily tell what she was drawing. Most of the time, there was a portion of the picture that was perfect while the rest looked like, perhaps the drawing equivalent of shorthand.

He covered the closest one with his hands. It was of the washing-machine. The visible gap between his hands revealed a perfect representation of the intricate workings of the agitator, the most complex part. He moved the gap to the tensioner. It too, when removed from the picture, looked like it had been done by a child in her teens, not one of two. He removed his hands and stared. The rest was, boring, blurry, shorthand. Mechanically, insignificant blur.

Momma's girl.

He packed their lunches, then carried them out to behind the house. Today was pottery day and a chance to catch up on all that had gotten chipped or dropped. The mound behind the house had been originally built for baking bricks. In the years since, it had been used at a lower heat to dry sacks of seeds, potatoes, and other long-storage foods. Deer, just by virtue of only hunting them in winter, was about the only food dried inside. Most garden items were dried in the brick-maker. Add more heat and it was perfect for pottery.

Pottery fascinated Shela. She liked shaping dirt as much as she liked drawing on his paper. They had just finished filling it with pottery and a few of Shela's figurines, mostly insects, and a plate imprinted with tiny hands as eyes and the widest of smiles, made especially for her mom.

Drying, then baking and glazing was a multi-day project. They had shaped most of the items over the last week. Two-dozen new plates, bowls, mugs, spoons and forks, plus pots for increased canning, and replacements for those sold filled with wine. Added to that were a few, complexly odd ones like the mini-stove and a batch of crossbow blades. The amount of wood seemed to be the same whether it was one item or nearly packed, so they usually waited until they could pack it, unlike with perishable seeds. It took several trees worth of wood, the equivalent of weeks' worth of home heating, to make pottery. They were nearing the end of day three, the cool-down phase, and there was no way little Shela was not going to be there when Dana opened it up.

Two cracked plates, but other than that, perfect.

They ate lunch there before carefully toting everything inside.

Shela was delighted with her Shela-sized cups, mugs, plates, bowls, and utensils.

"Mommy," Shela said while it was just the girls in the cabin, "if you married Daddy, it would make him happy."

"It might make him too happy, Honey," Dana said, sizing the growing girl for more clothes.

"Is too happy, bad?"

Dana held the sleeve against her daughter's arm. "Your father and I— it's like a game we play with words, Honey."

"Does Daddy know it's a game? I think it makes him sad," Shela picked up her rabbit again, then plopped on her chair while Dana sewed on the sleeve. "What's married?"

"It used to be when two people promised the rest of their lives to each other."

"Don't you want to stay with Daddy?"

"It's a little more complicated than that, Honey."

"I don't want to get married either," Shela said, hugging Mr. Bunny.

Dana stopped sewing, she was teaching the wrong lesson. She put down her work and sat beside her little girl. "Honey, where your father and I grew up, marriage was only five years. I don't want just five years. They also made you give up your children to be raised by the village. In a way, that's why we're here, so remote in the mountains. So we can stay together, and raise our little girl ourselves. That's important to us. I don't have anything against— My parents got married, had me, and wanted to stay together and raise me while they lived in a village like the one your father grew up in.

They tried to stay married, and the village ended up killing my father. Marriage, isn't what it once was.

I don't know what it is here. I don't know how they do it in town. I've never been in town, and I don't plan to ever go. Getting married, is a promise made between us and the people of the village we're a part of. I'm really not a part of this village. Does any of this make sense to you, Honey?"

She nodded.

"If my parents were alive, I'd happily marry your father in front of them, because that would have meaning for me. There's nobody in town that has such meaning for me."

Shela just looked sad. She wanted to solve this, but there were some things that even a two year old couldn't do.

Dana picked up her needle again.

They had a monster year for milkweed. Gallons and gallons of milk. It was also a boon for little girl drawing paper and thread. With paper came a kind of molding clay even easier to work with for Shela, papier-mache. She spent hours making little shapes, trees, and even a model of the cabin. When it dried, it was very sturdy and nearly waterproof, thanks to the mostly milkweed-milk made glue.

Shela even painted them, often in odd, yet surreal colors, then Dana would add a final coating of cooked latex that gave it a permanent, hard, weatherproof shell. His favorites were her insects, especially her bright yellow grasshopper with blue and red butterfly wings, and the head and face of a praying mantis. She made eight more of them for the gardens to frighten away the other bugs.

Mounted on sticks, she could move them around in the garden, and, with each and every visit, she did. It always seemed to be precisely located, facing a particular area. She would spend minutes with each, aiming it just so, and giving it Mr. Bunny like instructions for while she was gone.

Shela slammed into Dana's knee. "What you doing, Mommy?"

She steadied the child's wobble with a hand on her little shoulders. "I'll tell you, if you help me."

Shela came to a stand on her own at the edge of the garden. Standing was still a challenge to her. "What's inside these?"

"Termites. We grow termites, just like anything else in the garden." Dana unlocked the top portion of the weird-looking box, then placed a little bowl behind it. "These termites like to live underground," she pointed to the bottom portion under the chimney-looking box, "this is full of dirt and that's where the queen and the nursery are." She slid the box over the bowl. "See the little holes in the dirt?"

Shela looked at the dozens of holes with white little ants crawling around them. "Ewww! Bad bugs have eaten all the termites!"

"No, Honey, termites are bugs. Very useful bugs. They're blind."

Shela took a closer look, "They're tiny, Mommy."

"See the ones with a black head? Those are the warriors. The rest are workers." Dana covered the dirt with a plate so they wouldn't try to swarm. She started blowing smoke into the top of the chimney with her embered bellow. "Watch the bowl." Shela watched as it slowly filled with thousands of termites. "They flee the smoke and run back down their holes toward home. But they're blind, so, they don't know it's gone."

Shela touched the chimney, "What's this made of?"

"It's like bricks, only very thin. It has to breathe a little, but it also has to protect the termites from other bugs, mostly ants, and it can't have openings big enough for them to get out. It's hard to make lots of big pots in a kiln, so we make it out of these interlocking plates. It also makes replacing damaged pieces very easy." When the termites stopped coming out the bottom, Dana drowned them in the bowl, then dumped the chimney into a bucket of water before refilling it with a mix of withered stalks and twigs, set back in place. "We let their leftovers soak in the bucket for a few days, it's excellent fertilizer and it makes like a paste that helps keep the topsoil from washing away. We eat the tomatoes and potatoes and peppers and cucumbers and corn, and the termites eat the stalks and the pieces of wood that are too small for the fire. It'll take them months to eat all this, but we don't have to do anything but water them on occasion and harvest them a few times a year."

Dana poured the drowned termites into a sack that separated the wet from insect, then headed for the pond. Shela was never less than a few steps behind.

When they reached the pond, Dana asked, "Do you want to feed the fish?"

"Can I!"

Shela stood at the edge of the water, reached her hand into the sack of dead bugs, then flung tiny handfuls into the water. This shower of termites was greeted by bites and flops breaking the surface from below. "See, fish eat bugs, and termites are very nutritious. If we didn't feed them bugs, then they would eat the babies of their neighbors. Fish don't like twigs and corncobs, but they love termites. And we, like fish."

As Shela approached the bottom of the sack, Dana stopped her.

"Did Daddy ever show you the crawfish?"

She looked puzzled.

They walked past the cabin to a loosely built knee-high log box near the trickle of the creek. Dana lifted Shela to its lid so she could look through the wicker-like topped mini pond. "See those crawling things with pinchers? Those are crawfish. A lot of things love crawfish, they're very delicious. Raccoons especially love them, and this box protects them from raccoons."

Shela poured the rest of the sack over the holes, then poked them with her fingers until they all fell through. "Look at that big one!"

"It's a year older than you, possibly a few pounds by now. They rarely grow this big in the pond. See those about the size of my thumb? That's about as big as they normally get." She whispered, "We'll probably eat him after the fall harvest, but don't let him know that." She pointed out four more of equal size.

Shela giggled at the idea of a secret.

"We have lots of these termite towns," she pointed to a few dozen chimneys clustered together in the woods. "Those are much bigger, but they like only wood, like branches and bark, but it has to be long dead. Those near the gardens prefer stalky stuff. If times get tough, we can eat termites too, but they don't taste all that good. Kinda bitter."

They watched them fight over the food, doing these intricate little dances of sidesteps and muddy darting. It was very entertaining, before returning to the boring chores.

Shela had been staring out the window for several minutes now, patiently watching the sun fall behind the trees. She had had a long, exciting day for a child, and had just gotten up from her nap. "Where did the hummingbirds go, Mommy?" Shela asked.

Dana sat beside the sad little girl on their bed, giving her a gentle hug."They, don't live all that long, Honey."

"They were here this spring."

"I know, Honey. I know." Dana hugged her for a while before returning to the kitchen, they had a ton of canning to do.
**B5.C29**

Crawfish. Steamed, seasoned, and drenched in the richest butter that had ever dripped down his chin. It had taken years to grow one big enough to be a meal all its own, fattened on fresh bugs. But oh, my, was it ever good.

Previous years, they had to steam them by the dozens just to get a taste, and even then it was mostly tail smaller than his littlest finger. That seemed hardly worth it. But this... Even Shela struggled to admit when she was full, too delicious to ever walk away from. The claws had the sweetest meat, but the tail had the biggest chunks.

He pushed his chair back, "Uhh. Wow."

Shela had dipped a chunk into the butter and was now dripping all over her plate, but, she couldn't eat it. Yet, she refused to put it down either.

"You can finish it tomorrow, Honey," he offered.

"Actually," Dana said, struggling with her last claw, "It doesn't keep well. You really have to finish it, or jar it. But even then it tastes, like toothbrush."

"Ok, then." Derik slid back to the table and inched closer to Shela. "I'll help you, Honey."

Shela slapped at his hand when he approached her plate.

They laughed at their little girl, then with her. Dana freely surrendered her plate to him just to set the little girl's mind to ease.

They collected acorns this year, but didn't grind them into flour. They had sacks and sacks and years worth of flour. Instead, they halved, boiled, and shelled them, dried them in the brick-maker, then bagged them and stacked them in the rafters at the cabin.

Acorns had proven to be an extremely hard thing to estimate. Their field had well over a dozen oaks. In the first few years, half of them seemed to produce only ten pounds or so per tree, while the rest yielded a little over fifty pounds each, which was plenty for bread and bakery needs. In the years that followed, the oaks grew out and filled in the thinned gaps between them. A hundred pounds each seemed to be the minimum now, with some yields heavier than a deer from a single tree. Drying reduced the weight considerably, but they still consumed bags and bags of space.

This was their biggest year yet, and Shela was actually a big help with picking the shells from the acorn meat. After being boiled, the meat usually shrunk some and fell out of the shells, but not always. She proved very effective at this kind of quality control. More so with such tiny hands.

"Mommy," Shela poked her until she woke, middle of the night.

"What is it, Honey?"

"I can't sleep."

"Aren't you tired?"

Shela nodded franticly. "Very."

When they went back to Shela's bed, Dana tucked her in. "When I was very young, I had problems sleeping alone too. My mom showed me this trick, it may work for you." She packed pillows around her little girl so tightly that she could barely move. "I'll stay here until you fall asleep, ok?"

She held the little girl's hand.

It worked in just a few minutes. Dana adjusted those pressing into Shela's back to ensure none could suffocate the little girl. It was like an all night hug. Very comforting. She worked Mr. Bunny into Shela's arms before returning to an all night hug of her own.

Shela handled deer hunting much better this year. It was a good hunt, two mid-sized bucks on a single trip. She didn't care much for strips of hanging meat dangling before the fireplace, but, just like her Daddy, she loved the smell of that flavorful liquid smoke.

She also found it very amusing to send them swinging into each other with a plick of her finger.

After dinner, they started doing dishes at the sink.

Shela shoved a chair to the counter so she could better watch. "Mommy, am I important to you?"

"Of course you are," Dana answered the out-of-the-blue question she was just starting to get used to.

"Do you value my opinion above anyone in town?" She asked.

Dana handed the bowl to Derik. "Much more, Honey. Where are—"

"Do you want to stay with Daddy?"

"I'd happily share the rest of my life with him." Dana looked him in the eyes instead.

Shela stared at Derik too, then jumped down from her chair and walked back to her bed. "Then you're married," she declared.

She arranged the pillows around her on the bed, then went to sleep.

That, was that, problem solved.

"Your daughter," Dana said that night.

"Your daughter, too." They faced each other under a single sheet as the snow drifted outside the window.

"Which is the more important word to you, husband, or wife?"

He ran his fingers through her hair. "I want to be your husband."

She leaned into him, then whispered, "I do." She rolled in his arms to look out the window. A plate with fingers for eyes sat smiling in the corner of the sill. She outlined the tiny imprint with her fingertip.

"Marry me," he whispered.

"I think I already did." She traced the little palms, forever frozen in baked clay. "My husband."

Shela didn't quite get snow. She liked shaping it like she did with clay and paper, but it turned to puddles of water whenever she brought it inside. She did, however, declare that all clouds must therefore be made of snow.

Winter slid easily toward spring with ample games and surprising questions, six more very successful hunts, the making of their finest wine yet, bags of pure sugar, and all the tea and chips any could ever want. Shela pouted, but didn't shed a tear when Derik took a trip in town. She had been promised he wouldn't, but it had been an extremely good year for perishable things.

"Mommy, there's a deer outside the window! See! See!" Shela was bouncing on the corner of their bed.

Dana looked. It was missing a chunk out of its ear. "It's ok, Honey. Your father and I rescued her from a trap a few years before you were born."

"A baby! A baby!" Shela screamed at the sight of the tag-along fawn.

"If you can calm down, maybe she'll let you pet it."

"Can I! Can I!" Shela was jumping on the bed, her hands pressed against the glass.

"Calm is actually the opposite of that, Honey."

Shela jumped to the floor then vaulted onto her bed to follow the two as they walked around to the back of the house and headed into the garden.

Dana slipped out the door while the little girl was distracted; they had to be caught before they did too much damage to the greenhouse. "Come here," Dana said while Shela went nuts watching from inside. "Come on, you remember me, don't you?"

It hesitated.

"I've got some dried acorns, you love dried acorns." She held out a handful.

It lowered its head like it was ready to charge, but walked over and ate out of her hand.

"That's a good girl." She petted it behind the misshapen ear. "Come on, you know where we kept your mom." She fished out another handful and led the deer into the woods.

Shela was very angry over the whole incident. She wasn't big enough to work the door, nor was she allowed to. It was all very frustrating for an anxious little girl, until Dana took her to see the deer.

"What's her name, Mommy?" Shela giggled as the deer licked her now empty palms.

"We never gave her a name. We were curious to see if she would come back before we were going to name her."

Shela rubbed its white chin. "Curi."

"Curi it is, then."

The fawn kept its distance and couldn't be bribed with crunchy dried acorns. With both animals fenced in and safe to return to the house, Shela asked, "Can I name the fawn too?"

"Let's wait and see if he comes back next year. Boys seldom do."

Suddenly terrified, Shela asked in a panic, "Daddy's coming back, isn't he?"

Dana lifted the girl to her hip before giving her a kiss. "Your Daddy is a different kind of deer."

Fresh milk gave them something to do, evaporating and canning. Canned milk older than a year or two was difficult to get to taste like milk. It browned, but it wasn't spoiled. It was perfect for cream, butter, and cheese, just no longer ideal for drinking as milk. Curi came at a perfect time. She was also an excellent distraction for a Daddy-missing little girl. She even got to ride, so long as Dana was there.

The surplus of acorns suddenly didn't seem like enough. Curi ate their surplus like the nursing mother she was.

Shela slammed into Dana's leg, "Daddy will be here tonight," she said.

"What do you think he'd like for dinner?"

What came next started with caramel chip cookies and continued down a list of things Shela wanted to ruin dinner with. They settled on steaming the last two big crawfish and a half dozen of the little ones, much to the happiness of the little girl.

He looked over the set table, "I've been roughing it in the woods for a week, and you guys have been eating like this the whole time I've been gone, haven't you?" he said.

"Silly Daddy, Mommy made it special for you."

"You've really mastered reconstituting milk." He guzzled the rest of the glass.

"That's Curi milk, Daddy."

"Curi?" he asked.

"Shela named our returning fawn, with a child of her own."

"Oh." They sat down to eat.

After dinner, they had buttered popcorn for dessert while sitting in a circle on practice foam pillows in front of the fireplace. Over the next few hours, Shela filled him in on everything he had missed. Talking slower and slower with spurts of enthusiastic, Curi centered stories, she finally leaned back into a pillow and fell asleep.

They tucked the little girl into bed.

Spring and Shela's birthday came with a papier-mache feeder with two, winged hummingbirds to hang from the window. It was a sad reminder of two little birds that, unlike the deer, hadn't returned.

Shela was small enough to get hurt by the deer, but was also small enough to ride them. Whenever he took the milking harness out to the field, Shela would add her slight weight and have a fun little ride. Walk really, Curi hardly noticed, except for the constant petting and hugs of an overly affectionate little girl.

The harness had been a great timesaving device. But now, because Shela thought milking was just a happy side effect of deer rides, it was adding time.

They saw their first green sky that night.

This crop should produce, but its seeds should only be used for sprouts and soup.

Good thing they kept dozens of gardens worth of seeds in vacuum storage, in addition to what very well may be a year's supply of acorns. The sky was deceptively pretty to look at, knowing the harbinger of what it promised to bring.

It was brutally hot, but Dana insisted that everyone wear long sleeves and big hats whenever they went outside. Sunburns were, according to her story, far worse under a green sky. The heat helped limit outdoor activities to the shade of mornings and evenings. The fan proved a godsend.

Shela loved feeding the fish. She wasn't big enough to heft the termite bag, or fling them far into the pond. And, she wasn't tall enough to disassemble— really, all she did was toss the termites and struggle with the bowl while getting very wet. But she was trying to help. She tried very hard, and that neither parent would ever discourage.

Shela ran to her mother and pointed into the woods. Dana followed her over and broke the massive branch then handed it to the little girl. Shela smiled enthusiastically as she struggled to drag it to the pond where she waded it out as far as she could comfortably walk, then spiked it down like she was planting a tree. The pond was littered with a forest of these mini trees, each with a massive caterpillar web. A few were already hatching and the instant meals were randomly dropping into the water. The wet little girl quickly returned to the garden.

Picking tomatoes was very fun for her. Standing, Shela was the perfect height for picking most things. She couldn't move a full basket, but she could fill one fast. She loved fresh cucumbers. And pizza.

"What's wrong?" Dana asked the silent, motionless little girl at the edge of the garden.

"Mommy." But that was it. She stopped. Something was confusing the girl.

"Honey, what is it?"

She pointed into the woods.

There was a mostly naked little girl trying to break open a honeymelon with the tip of a stick. It must have been stolen from the garden— There was a little boy too, approaching with as big a rock as he could manage.

They watched the two children trying to open their stolen prize.

Shela stepped forward, but Dana held her back. "They'll run away. Just, pretend you don't see them, ok?"

Shela didn't like that idea, but she did it.

"Honey, why don't you pick a little basket for them. We'll leave it over by the shade of that tree over there, ok?"

Shela felt better about that.

Later, Dana left some of Shela's most recently outgrown clothes by the garden where they could easily be found.

After a few weeks of baskets with bread and sweetened tea, the kids were acclimated to not trashing the garden. The girls watched them play from a distance. It was time to start trying.

Dana brought out the basket, same as usual, with Shela hugged tight to her leg. But this time she didn't leave after setting it down. They sat for hours under the shade of the tree as the nameless two slowly approached.

Shela, tired of the wait, grabbed a handful of chips, then ran her slowest run toward the little girl. "Hello," Shela said, stopped several steps away with a wobble.

The boy was a knot of angst, tugging the little girl to run away from this bizarre offering of chips.

Shela ate one. "They're my favorite. I bet you'll like them too." She offered them again.

Against the boy's angst, the girl took a chip, and smiled.

"That's my mom, Dana. You'll like her too." She offered chips to the boy, who refused. "Mommy said you can stay with us, if you want to. I have some games and can show you how to garden because I have a garden that the purple mantis is guarding for me and you can have some more of my clothes because they don't fit me anymore and you can see the crawfish fight over termites because that's really fun because you think it'll be the biggest one but the little ones can climb on his back and get them before they float down where he can reach them but he can't get them when the little ones stand on his back, and then, sometimes, they fight, but not a real fight, but it gets muddy and sometimes you can't see but they rarely bite off legs but they do sometimes but it doesn't hurt because it'll grow back but feeding fish is fun too but you can't see them as well." She offered more chips.

The girl smiled politely and took another one.

It wasn't this week. But slowly, with the help of a quickly cooling fall, the children came inside.

The names were obvious.

Dawn, and Guar.
**B5.C30**

They had a fortune in cloth. Had. Two additional children, sheets, socks, shoes, pants, and all the other cloth items ate through whatever surplus they had. Shela cried when Curi wasn't there for her to ride anymore, but having indoor company got her over that.

They had bunk beds, and a foam one that slid out from under Shela's that never got used. The boy liked the top bunk, Dawn, on the other hand, would only sleep with Shela.

The girls were nearly inseparable, though Dawn never spoke. They lay before the fire, drawing on opposite sides of the same sheet of paper. Dawn, unlike Shela, seemed unable to shorthand the boring parts of a picture; she spent hours perfecting each blade of grass.

Dawn stared at the washing-machine, hypnotized. This was the first time she had ever seen it used, now on its rinse cycle. She walked over to it and sat on the floor near the pedal. Before anyone noticed, the knot was untied. It dropped four inches before the safety rope caught it, sloshing water all over the girl as it flooded the floor.

Dana scooped up the frightened, drenched child. It could have been so much worse. "Are you all right?" Dana inspected her fingers. Dawn was scared, but fine.

With Derik's help, Dana restrung the washing-machine, retied the knot, then sealed it with glue. One knot held it all together. They tamper-proofed the fan next. By the time it would get used again, they might have forgotten about today.

If it could be untied, Dawn, somewhat compulsively, would. Everything. She tied and untied her shoes for an hour one day. It happened. Unfortunately, when Dana showed her knots earlier that month, the washing-machine knot became the most compelling of them all.

Dawn spit into the sink, rinsed her toothbrush, then readied for bed. She sat at the foot of Shela's bed, then took off her slippers. She moved the pillow facing Shela before taking its place, holding the girl's hand.

"Good night," Dana kissed the boy on the top bunk and tucked him in before sitting with the girls. "Good night." She kissed each cheek, then returned to the kitchen with Derik.

Dawn smiled, then kissed Shela on the cheek too.

Dana dressed for a day in the cold. "Ok, Shela, kids, your father and I made you lunch, sandwiches and some soup that's simmering by the fire. We'll be back before dark, ok. Shela, you feed the fire, all right?" Dana said while Derik prepared a pouch of bolts and strung the bow.

"You're not going to kill Curi, are you!" Shela had tears in her eyes.

"No." Dana kissed the worried girl on her cheek. "We usually just get bucks. They're easy to tell apart. Curi will have a hard time finding enough food this year if she has to compete with all those bigger bucks on this mountainside."

"I don't want you to go," Shela said.

"Honey, we had a green year. There will be much less food for them this coming spring. They don't suffer this way. Starving to death is very cruel." She brushed Shela's cheek with a motherly thumb. "We brought in plenty of wood so, you don't have to go outside. Ok?" She kissed each on the cheek before they left.

They downed fourteen bucks over the next two months. Food would be scarce next year, so, the good news for Shela's ears was that her Daddy didn't have to go into town.

Five in the cabin by the pond was, crowded, to say the least. But the kids, well, the girls anyway, wanted to help, and there was a lot of loom work to be done. It was a nice way to spend the last few weeks of winter and the first few of spring.

Using older seeds, they planted a smaller garden than normal, milkweed everywhere else. After years of nurturing the termite towns, the queens had grown into egg-laying machines, almost an inch long. They were capable of laying over a thousand eggs a day, bringing them into a level of production where each chimney could be harvested three times a year without hurting the health of the colony. Just in time too, they wanted to push up the pond population during green years when vegetables would naturally decrease.

The garden faltered, in parts. Using older seeds, most of the plants bloomed, but the fertilization cycle that yielded such things as tomatoes and cucumbers was where it failed. One out of every ten or so of the tomatoes looked normal, higher odds with some plants than others. Stuff like lettuce, mustard, and spinach were more or less seedless but unaffected, and they made up the majority of what Dana had planted.

Green year foods, it was all a new concept to him.

He lifted Dana onto the counter beside the dishes and kissed her cheeks until she dropped her frown and returned his smile. He brushed the hair out of her face, "I love you," he said, kissing her lips this time.

The kids had gone to the pond to feed the crawfish and do some fishing for dinner; they had hours for wherever this would lead.

He had already unbuttoned her shirt, her ankles touched behind the back of his knees. He could take this as far as he wanted, but that had always been true, with her. She seldom stopped him. Her arms hugged loosely around his neck. "I love all of you," he kissed her bottom lip, a favorite of hers. "I adore all of this, every flaw that makes you real, to me."

He kissed his way down her neck. Her shirt fell to her elbows as he kissed each shoulder bare.

As he slipped from her arms, he kissed her ankle on his way to squatting by her dangling feet. He gathered the pieces of the plate she had dropped, broken on the floor. She had dropped many plates, cups, and mugs, easily half a dozen this year alone.

She dropped things. Many things, since she nearly died, more since Shela shared their world.

She dropped grudges as easily now too.

He placed the pieces on the counter, opposite side of the sink as her. They had been washing dishes before he so rudely disturbed her.

She reached into the suds, pulled out a mug, and held it over the edge.

She stared at him with a flirtatious smile as she dangled the mug, inches from the edge. It was hard to take such a threat seriously, from someone in a bra and a half off shirt, but she faked sad and shocked perfectly, when the mug shattered on the floor.

He started kissing her again.

He adored her, after all.

He washed the rest behind her back as her arms returned to a loose hug.

Upping the termite harvests beyond pond needs meant steaming then drying them by the sack-full. Steamed, dried, and ground in much the way as her sweet-potato chips made for interesting crackers. They didn't even look like smushed bugs. He tried one that she had mixed with other ingredients. It actually wasn't bad.

"It has more protein than meat, per pound," Dana said as he finished the cracker. "I didn't figure on you eating them, I just figured, if we lost a few colonies to storms or mold or something, they would keep better this way, and it stores smaller as crackers, so why not add a little flavor."

"It tastes a little like rabbit."

She shrugged. "That's because I borrowed some of the rabbit recipe."

He took another bite. "I can taste some molasses, carrot, and some of your sun dried tomatoes that you made that first year, but never seemed to eat."

"Yeah, they were awful by themselves, weren't they? I almost threw them out but, I guess I was just saving them to mix with something. And carrots came in ok this year."

Shela, never wanting to be left out, sampled one of his bigger crumbs, made a sauerkraut face, then sampled another crumb. "TerMeat looks like chips, but it's not!" Shela declared, then made another face.

She took a cracker with her anyway.

Cabbage did well too, just as it did the year before. The kids were asleep in the fanned house while they went for a walk in the cool green night air, an open bottle of last year's wine in his hand. They ended up by the pond, sitting at the picnic-table.

Dana sipped from his bottle. "I miss this view," she said.

"It's breathtaking. Especially how the green reflects off the— on the water." He sipped, but knew himself to be quite drunk right now.

"Your daughter is growing up very fast, with her new best friend."

"They're nearly inseparable. It feels like yesterday when she used to drool on me, used to panic if I left the room."

She leaned into him, "Have you ever seen anything more precious than the two of them sleeping together?"

"I have," he put his arm around her, "but not in a very long time."

"Do we have anything to eat down here?"

"I'm sure we do." He kissed her before going into the cabin and returning with roasted acorns.

"You've brought a lot of happiness into a life, I happily share with you," she said.

They watched as night slowly changed the sky from green to more its normal blue. In the cool air, the fireflies echoed flickers across the pond while the sounds of crickets and the splashes of frogs, the flops of hardened turtle shells rippled the air. Sounds. So many forgotten sounds.

"Well, with milkweed everywhere, we should catch up on cloth," she said.

"With this year's cloudberries, we'll have enough tea to buy a town."

She pressed a drunken smile onto his chin. "You only wanted me for my money."

He kissed her by the pond. Drinking gave her skin a pond like reflective shine, far more intoxicating than her wine.

He woke from both by the pond, top of the table, with the woman he loved still in his arms. The sunrise was as beautiful as he had ever remembered.

Without the massive garden to weed, they had a lot of free time. Harvesting milkweed and picking cloudberry tealeaves proved to be the easiest year ever. Summer flew by as they wound their way to fall.

"We're going camping, kids," Dana said. "There are some trees Derik and I want to transplant here, this year, but it'll take a week to get there, and a week to get back, probably a few days there. That's too long to leave you guys alone."

As a family they made new travoises, mostly as a lesson for the kids. The children weren't big enough to drag anything of size for very far, but they made some anyway, just for the experience of it.

Guar needed help building his, but the girls picked it up right away.

They hiked much further that first day than either expected. The most tired child rode on the back of a parent's travois until rested enough to rotate. Added to the pure excitement of camping, it made an incredible distance difference.

That night, they set up the two adult-sized travoises on opposite sides of the same tree, a foot separate in height. The kids crammed into one, while they stayed in the other. Their first night was a perfect cool, no need to even put up the tent, if it wasn't for the worry of rolling off the sides.

Dana stared out the open flap, up at the pocket of green night sky between the branches. "This is nice," she said. "It's very comfortable."

"It was a wonderful idea of yours. I liked your hammock tent better, though," he said.

"This is much easier to build in a single day, and it'll help with the return load. You can find them, can't you?"

"Well, actually, no, I can't. It's your skill that finds them. Cherry trees, and one apple. You sure you can graft—"

"The living fence is thriving, isn't it?"

"Where do you plan on planting them?"

She rested her hand by his chin. "By the pond."

"You ready to fall asleep yet?"

"Not yet, Husband."

He kissed her.

They had an early start of it in the morning. The kids were thrilled with camping, not so fond of long walking. Dana was quizzed on nearly everything. Why this, why that, what's the function of this bug, what eats that plant. To Shela, everything had to have a special purpose in the world, or it shouldn't exist.

After a long day of hiking, Dana stopped. "Ok, kids," She pointed her walking stick at the brush, "see those little nibbles a few inches off the ground? They're fresh rabbit markings. We'll stop here tonight."

Derik set up the travoises on a distant tree while Dana showed the kids how to make snares out of their strong milkweed string.

"You've got the knot right, now, see how the path is? You place it just so, and tie the other end up high. Perfect. Catching with snares is hard because, by placing them, you disturb the area and that gives most critters the jitters, so you have to set up a lot of snares to catch something."

Dana supervised as the kids set up a dozen on their own.

From the travoises, they could watch them all in perfect safety.

Wearing out small children was easy. Had they been much older, it would have been nearly impossible to have them this quiet. But now, only a few minutes after putting up the travoises, the kids were sound asleep.

Dana climbed over to the kids and gently woke each with a "Shh," and a point at a distant snare. They watched as the rabbit entangled itself. Shela was horrified at its choking struggles that only tightened the trap.

"Run bunny run!" Shela finally yelled, panicking it to a quicker end.

"Honey, it's ok," Dana said. "Rabbits die a much worse death in nature. Usually gnawed on until they die, with a great deal of suffering. Of everything that eats bunnies in these woods, we are the only creatures bothered by their suffering. The deadfalls around the garden kill them in a second. Bows and arrows, the crossbow, they do it almost instantly." Dana bowed her head like in silent prayer. "There was a story about a rabbit, cornered by a starving pack of wolves. A cliff behind him, all the rabbit could do was run circles while the pack chased. Like when you guys rest on the travois, the dogs could rest in shifts. The rabbit pondered its choices as it quickly grew tired. It could jump off the cliff, where it would surely die and feed worms and bugs; or it could continue to run and feed the fastest, meanest dog; or, a third option entered its wary mind. It could change the fate of this starving pack. It was only a meal for one of them, it wasn't big enough to feed them all. It could choose which would live, and which would die, changing the fate of the pack forever, or, it could let the pack choose. It chose the kindest looking one, running straight into his hungry jaws.

Let's honor this rabbit's choice to feed us."

They climbed down and learned the art of making fire, and how to prepare rabbit.

They found the cherry tree first. Derik climbed the tree to thin the branches while the kids helped dig up and chop into the roots. Dana held Guar on her lap as she showed them how to splice roots into limbs to make miniature adult trees. Guar felt like the center of attention while she showed them how to use fresh sap to glue it together, then wrap the branches in thin sheets for easier transportation and to simulate night. The roots were packed with loose dirt and held with damp cloth.

The girls got to practice splicing some smaller, less critical branches on their own. Dana had a way of building Guar's confidence, without him noticing he wasn't the smartest of the three. She was so very good at this.

The apple tree was a few days away, but they worked it the same way, packed, then headed home.
**B5.C31**

Acorns were pitifully few while winter grew a brighter green, a bad sign for the coming year. The transplanted trees seemed to be taking root, but only spring would tell for sure.

Dawn, though silent, was a challenge for Shela in most games, but they tended toward Shogi. They had been playing the same game for three days. Even Dana was impressed with how strategic the two were playing. Guar tended for the simpler rules of cards, but poker proved beyond him. They appeared to all be about the same age, Shela would turn five this spring, still months away. He hadn't mastered poker until he was ten or so; judging by that, Guar was normal. "Go fish," Derik said, more focused on the intensity of the girls' game at the same table.

"Fours?" Dana said, rounding out their game with Guar.

Dawn leaned across the table and kissed Shela on the lips before making her last move, ending a very impressive game in a most interesting way.

"Mommy," Shela said while it was just the two of them in the cabin, spinning thread.

"What is it, Honey?" Dana repaired the broken thread before pedaling it back to speed again.

"Dawn, she— I don't like sleeping with her."

"Have you told her that?"

She looked around, stared at the ground, then shrugged. "No." Shela added her combed fibers to the pile by the spinning wheel.

"Does she kick in bed?"

"No."

"Does she poke you?"

No.

"You know, your dad likes to toss and turn all night, and I like to sleep very still. When we first slept in the same bed, we both had some adjusting to do. When he goes into town and I'm all alone in the bed, it should be easier to sleep, but it's harder instead. I can ask her, if you want me to.

Dawn and Guar spent a lot of time in the woods together. She probably got used to sleeping with someone.

I'd like you to think about something before you tell her, or I do. She had the choice of four beds, but she chose yours. She's very fond of you, Shela. I'm sure she would stop if you asked her to, but it will probably crush her feelings if you do.

She wants to do, everything you're doing. She's very taken by you. She's not trying to annoy you; she's trying, probably a little too hard, to please you.

She's insecure, possibly a little scared. Her life, up until now, has not been as stable as yours. In a year or two, she'll probably feel safe enough to sleep alone, but right now, she feels safe with you.

It's a compliment, not an insult."

Shela thought about it while she combed another clump, pulled from the sack.

Neither said anything to Dawn.

Spring started with greener nights than the year before. Dawn kissed Shela on the cheek until she woke, still early enough in the morning to make everything look green. The second Shela showed no interest in getting up, Dawn crawled back into bed too, holding Shela's hand in a most soothing way.

Derik had watched this play out several times before, Dawn was clearly excited about starting to play or something, but without even a protest or the slightest pout, she gave in to whatever Shela wanted to do. He was up. Dawn had seen him in the kitchen. He had offered to make her something if she wanted, like most mornings.

She rarely took him up on it.

In a way, he understood Dawn the most of all the children. Most mornings, if he didn't have to get an early start on the garden, he would eat a light snack then climb back in bed with Dana and wait until she felt like getting up. He went to bed much the same way. If Dana looked tired, he would go to bed with her, then finish whatever after she was asleep. He had even tried waking her with kisses before. It was probably where Dawn had gotten it.

He finished his tea, brushed his teeth, then went back to bed, early in the morning.

"What are you drawing now, Dawn?" Dana asked.

Dawn didn't look up from the page, steadily scribbling tiny shapes in lines on the page like letters or words. She had started shortly after breakfast, stopped just long enough to eat lunch, and was now easily over a hundred pages, front and back, and frantically scribbling more.

"Honey. Sweetheart." Dana stopped Dawn's writing hand, only to see her continue writing with the other. Dana held them both. "Sweetheart. Honey, you need to stop now. Ok."

Dawn's arms continued trying to work her fingers as she stared at the unfinished page.

"Come here, Sweetheart." Dana pried the nearly exhausted sticks from her fingers, picked her up, and carried her to their bed where she just held the little girl in her lap, hugging her, telling her it would be ok, but getting nothing but a blank stare in return.

Derik looked over the pages. It looked like gibberish. Some of the shapes were similar, but most looked unique with just a few equal, addition, and subtraction signs sprinkled in. They were so unique that a single page containing perhaps a thousand tiny squiggles, only repeated two.

He moved the papers carefully, they were clearly important to the girl, before he set the table for dinner.

Dawn's fingers continued to move like she was still at the table while Dana hummed a lullaby.

Shela hefted a string of fat fish over her head, "Look what Guar and I caught, Daddy!"

He took them from the proud girl. "I don't suppose you would like to help me clean the—"

"Eauww! That's icky!" She ran straight for the bathroom sink to wash her hands.

Derik started skinning them at the sink.

"What's with—"

"Shh," Derik said, "I'll skin them for you two, but I'm going to need help with the rest of dinner." He distracted his fishing experts in the kitchen with otherwise meaningless tasks.

The table was set for three, for now.

The fried fish was excellent, little distracted hands turned out to have cooking talent after all.

They played cards immediately after dinner, doing his best to tire them out.

"How's she doing?" he asked after putting the fantastic fishing duo to bed.

"A little better," Dana answered quietly, but Dawn hadn't stopped fidgeting. "Holding her helps."

"Do you— Is there anything that—"

"I'm fine, she'll be ok by morning. As soon as she falls asleep, she'll forget all about it. Oh, put it away somewhere, but, keep it in order."

He put it in the attic, then joined them in bed.

A green summer without the demands of a garden was actually very fun. The kids spent nearly every day down at the pond, swimming. They got so good at fishing and swimming that they actually gave up on hooks and spears all together for the more challenging art of catching them by hand and flinging them onto land.

Termites. How brilliant was his Dana for thinking about raising termites. It was a bizarre idea years ago, why would anyone living in a log house want to raise termites of all things? But stuff like dead trees, especially branches, they would always have an endless supply of, even more so now in the green years or tree-killing droughts. And sheltered, mature queens could replace thousands every day for decades to come. It was actually a rather perfect idea, beyond yielding the ultimate compost. Should the fish die, the garden fail, and all the wild game be driven away, they could still live off of just one or two of these termite towns while feeding them on dead trees. It didn't taste that bad either. TerMeat, the name still made him laugh.

He nearly wet himself the first time he saw Shela and Dawn's latest projects. Three-foot tall papier-mache crawfish in bright blue and yellow shells with angry shades of brown and the fiercest pinchers he had ever seen guarded each of the termite towns.

Fall came entirely too soon.

"Shh," Derik reminded the kids. They were getting close to lunch and Dana was still asleep. She was having a string of bad days lately. Sleeping seemed to help. In truth, the kids could be louder if they wanted, Dana wouldn't wake, but it was kindness and thoughtfulness he wanted them to get.

Shela and Dawn had started another Shogi game. They were rather evenly matched, judging by the length of the games, and Guar had grown into poker, now that the score was being kept in sweet-potato chips. 'Four' had even been Guar's first 'go fish' word, though Dawn had yet to speak.

Games with Guar never ended with the highest score, he almost always ate his winnings on the spot.

"How do you guys feel about sandwiches and soup for lunch?" he asked.

That was a yes. He made lunch for four.

This year's deer were much thinner, smaller creatures. It seemed almost a waste to hunt the scrawny things. Although, they did get three of reasonable size before fall turned into winter.

On these days locked within the house, Dana taught class. Reading, writing, and math. The girls had a natural knack for math, Dawn especially so. It frustrated Guar to no end, but it was what it was.

Guar looked especially dejected as the boys dragged the empty travois down the path to fetch more wood. School had not been going well for the boy, from the child's perspective at least. It was more the girls excelled, effortlessly, while he seemed to struggle by comparison. He had already withdrawn some, calculating that his silence would draw less attention to this obvious, growing knowledge gap.

"Guar, Dawn doesn't speak, but you do," Derik said while they stacked the travois with firewood, which seemed to be exclusively a boy chore lately. "That doesn't make her dumb, does it?"

"No."

"That she's better at math, doesn't make you dumb either. Dana's smarter than I am in a lot of things. I'm as old as she is, and I couldn't teach the stuff she's teaching you guys. I'm not very good at Shogi either."

They finished the two days' load of firewood, and Derik started toting it home.

He pulled the boy in for a casual hug. "Don't let it bother you so much, ok? I wasted a lot of time trying to measure myself against your Mom, when it never mattered to her."

It snowed for a few days, only to be washed away by rain. They had needed the rain, desperately; the tank was nearly dry with the increased water demands. The pipe to the sink and toilet had been useless for weeks. They had been reduced to toting buckets around inside, baths were rare, and boys peed outside. It was almost as impressive today as it was that first night, to watch that weight inch down out of the rafters. The kids celebrated every squeaky inch with a wild running, water dance.

Today was the first break in the weather. His readings of Dana revealed it would rain again tomorrow, making today a perfect day for—

"Ok, see how the paper is shaped like an upside down basket?" Dana instructed the kids on how to finish their week-long project. "Now, while sticks hold the bag open, the strings will hold the candle centered beneath it. That's perfect, Guar." She kissed the boy on his forehead.

They had made dozens and dozens of these over the week, waiting for a clear night like tonight promised to be, light-green night-sky and everything a soaking muddy damp.

They loaded up and went outside, down to the pond.

Four sticks in the ground held the thin paper bags open, upside down, while she lit the candle dangling beneath. In less than a minute, the bag had swelled enough to start rising off the sticks to the cheers of jumping, excited kids. They watched it float in the air above the pond and out into the valley. Glowing from inside, it displayed their hand-painted designs for all the valley to see.

One after another they lifted off the sticks and drifted into the night air, like manmade fireflies casting a whimsical spell between the cursing green sky and the valley it punished below.

The most distant one burst into a brief but brilliant flare of fire before disappearing into the darkness.

They were all breathtakingly beautiful, even on this chilly night by the pond, watching from the picnic table. It was almost as beautiful as another night they spent, but hadn't shared with a dancing excited three. Dawn kissed Shela, then whispered her first words in her ear.

As winter hinted at spring, the green nights gave way to the normal blue. Gardening would be tried for real this year. Back to normal.
**B5.C32**

Shela and Dawn were running through the garden, frantically waving sticks over their heads, giggling.

Derik stopped the nearest, but unfortunately shiest one. "What are you two doing now?"

Dawn waited until Shela caught up before whispering in her accomplice's ear.

"We're catching fresh bugs for the crawfish, they're tired of termites," Shela said.

He inspected the end of the sticks. It was bent into a loop and, just as stated, crammed full of bugs and layer after layer of spider-webs. There probably wasn't an intact web to be found for miles to look at it. Hundreds and hundreds of twitching and trapped bugs.

He couldn't help but laugh. "Keep up the good work, kids."

They giggled off again.

Dawn had been talking for months now, but the only one she talked to was Shela. It was, well, it was still cute.

Transplanted greenhouse tomatoes were ready, nine out of ten were absolutely perfect. They had two nights of green, but other than that, perfect. It was looking like a good year. They had eaten down most of their reserves, the attic held mostly empty jars. Eleven sacks of dried acorns, and the thriving termite towns were about all they had left. And fish, and crawfish. No danger of starvation, but variety had nearly come to an end.

"Where do you two think you're going?" Derik asked the girls.

Dawn whispered to Shela, then Shela said, "Camping."

"Does your mother know?"

"... Yeah."

"She does?"

Dawn looked at her fidgeting feet.

"Where do you plan on camping?"

"By the pond."

"Oh." He wiped the long hairs away from Shela's face. He had read enough, perfectly safe. "I'll try to talk your mom into it, but no promises, ok?"

"Thanks Daddy." They double-teamed him with kisses for each cheek before dragging their old camping travoises down to the pond.

It wasn't until he got home that he realized how left out Guar would feel about all this. The boy had been left out of his reading too.

Bow lessons fixed that easily enough. Guar loved playing with the bow.

"Does the sky talk to you, Mommy?" Shela asked while weeding.

"Well, last year the green sure did."

"No, I mean, conversation, words, sentences. Talk."

"No, Honey, it doesn't."

Shela looked upset about that. "Dawn says it talks to her. That it mocks her."

"She does?" Dana stopped weeding. Dawn was at the other side of the garden with Guar and Derik. "Did she say how?"

"No. But, remember when we camped outside last week; well, she carried on an angry conversation with it. She kept shifting from real words to make up ones. It was a little spooky."

"Honey, sometimes, when she gets like that, you can snap her out of it by getting her started on something else."

"I poked her with my finger."

"She's in a weird place in her life right now. I'm glad she has a big sister to look after her."

Shela looked over to the distant Dawn. "I like her. I think we should keep her."

Dana hugged her little girl, "I'm glad you agree."

Early harvest canning was an all day chore that involved the aid of every child. Some got simple tasks, like stirring, but they all got a chance at vacuuming, drying, and bagging. Guar liked bagging the most because it was magical how it looked to crush the contents and seemed to turn loose items into a solid-feeling brick. Derik's favorite for the same reasons.

The girls came running into the house, "Curi's back! Curi's back!"

Derik grabbed the milking saddle and followed the girls.

It was Curi all right. Thinner, a little too thin really, but they had plenty of food for her this year. The fawn didn't look like it would make it. Curi lowered her head and charged straight for him, then rubbed her nose all over his shirt until he put the saddle on her.

He led her, and the wobbly slow fawn, to the oaks and a buffet of fresh cloudberries, blackberries, and all the clover a deer could ever want.

The girls had run off to get their mom.

Dana inspected the fawn better than anyone else could. "It's just nutritional," she said, "Curi's so underfed that there's—" she petted the fawn's face, checking its eyes, "I think he'll be fine." She checked his mouth. "Oh. Shela, go cut me a square of rainproof cloth, about the size for a shirtsleeve."

The girls ran for the cabin.

"His gums are swollen," Dana stood up, "and it looks like his lip is blistered and cut too much to nurse."

"That explains why she was so happy to see the saddle," Derik said.

They made a nursing bottle out of the cloth when the girls returned.

The girls took to the deer especially strong this year. They completely took over the chores of milking, watering, and feeding Curi while nursing the fawn back into health. It was a struggle for the girls to wrestle the heavy saddle onto Curi's back, but they refused any help. Especially Curi's assistance, which consisted of rubbing her nose on the nearest girl's shirt until she was tickled to the ground.

They lacked the surpluses of years before, but the girls still managed to fatten Curi on a mix of their specially made termite crackers, the oldest of the bagged acorns, and leftovers from the garden, mostly cabbage that would have been made into wine, and sugar beet pulp.

They weren't chores to the girls, they were pets. The girls had gotten too big for rides, but they still played games with the deer. They even took the fawn swimming every now and then. It would prance and dance at the water's edge as the children splashed and played, eventually joining in.

The girls taught Curi a useful game. One of the girls would load a Curi-pulled travois with firewood, and Curi would, all on her own, walk it back to the house where the other would unload it.

They even managed the condensing and canning of her surplus milk, something Derik hadn't mastered as yet. The milk tasted richer on their newly created diet. By fall, they had gallons of canned milk and had saved the fawn, which was what Curi cared the most about.

Both girls cried this fall, when Curi was gone.

With a low fire in the cabin while they worked the loom, Dana started on another story.

"Once there was a forest fire, and the only safe place was on the other side of the river," Dana said while working the foot-pedals. "This mother rabbit had a dozen sightless newborns and only a few minutes before the nest would be burned.

She could never hope to save them all, so she picked up the closest one and started to swim across.

It said to her, 'Thank you, Mommy, you picked the right one. I love you more than any of the others.'

She dropped it to drown in the water, and swam back to get another."

The kids were horrified that a mother rabbit would do such a thing, and worse, that their mother would tell the story, but they were glued in silence all the same.

"She started swimming this one across when it said, 'You are very wise to save me, Mother, because I will build you the best home you have ever lived in for saving me.'

She let that one drown, returning for another."

The kids stopped working in stunned silence.

"Midway across the stream, the third one said, 'Thank you, Mommy, for saving me, I'll raise my children with all the love you've taught me.'

She took this one to the other side." Dana started working the loom, alone, while the lesson slowly sunk in.

Five beautiful, fat, huge crawfish were steamed and buttered in Curi's richest yet. It was a sinful meal if ever they had one, with cold milk, a heaping plate of deep-fat-fried wedges of potato, fresh bread, and the last of this year's fresh spinach salad with tomatoes squeezed on top. A cherry pie cooled on the counter for dessert, to be topped with heavy cream when served. It was their first cherry harvest, and it wasn't as productive as they had hoped. But one cherry pie was better than none.

Apple had none, but at least it hadn't died yet. Only two of the grafted transplants died, that was very good.

"Mommy," Dawn said, "are we going to do the lantern thing again this year?"

"We can, if you guys want to," Dana said.

"Can we make a bigger one, big enough to ride?"

"It's possible, but, Honey, it'll take every piece of cloth we've ever made. It would need to be huge. We can't waste that much cloth, it'd be a year-long project."

Dawn paused, "163 days, and only eight and a half harvests."

"Ok, Honey, but the little ones just take a few days and are much prettier."

Dawn held out her arm, "I want to fly."

Dana picked her up and dove them both into the center of their bigger bed. Laying on her back, Dana's feet on Dawn's stomach pushed her above the bed as the girl stretched out her arms and pretended to fly.

"Me too! Me too!" Shela and Guar chimed in. Derik chimed in too, but just for the expression on Dana's face.

Winter thunderstorms were rare, but spectacularly beautiful in the evening. Dawn sat before the window in silence, sketching with the same intensity she watched the washing-machine with.

She skipped dinner and sketched well into the morning before she fell asleep, exhausted, still on the chair, pages in puddles on the floor.

Derik took the wrinkled sheet from her hand, pulled out the spent piece of charcoal, then wiped her fingers and palm with a damp cloth. He picked up the little girl and carried her to Shela's bed. He stared at Shela, then at Dawn. Dawn wasn't his child. She wasn't. But his heart told a different tale. He loved this little girl. He held her a little tighter, kissed her on the forehead. He adored this troubled soul who played so well with his other little girl. He tucked her in.

He looked over the sketches on the floor by the window. Thirty pages worth. The first few were just bolts and flashes, the next was a page with hundreds of overlapping, interacting, branching bolts. Several were filled with those familiar shapes written like words. The last few pages consisted of a full-page circle with her symbol words filling all the remaining spaces.

It clearly meant something, to her.

That morning, they let Dawn sleep late with the same practiced silence they gave for Dana's bad days.

As winter warmed into spring, the girls spent most days 'camping' at the cabin by the pond.
**B5.C33**

"Happy birthday Mommy!" They screamed as they kissed the woman awake.

Dawn and Shela presented Dana, first thing in the morning, with a hot cup of coffee and an intricately sewn quilt made, rather artfully, from every piece of scrap cloth to be found in the cabin. Opened and held at a distance, it looked like a picture of the pond with blooming cherry trees, fireflies, distant lanterns, and a cabin in the shade.

Derik offered a robe, and Guar, squarish new slippers of slightly different sizes.

She was easily overwhelmed.

Their stores were quickly replenished by shifting away from milkweed and gardening everything cleared, now that the children were of size that they could handle proportional workloads. The girls camped at the cabin for most of the summer, returning home for meals and baths. They easily managed the pond-side garden by themselves, so much so that Derik had stopped checking in on them as they shifted late into summer.

Derik stood by the window, recharging the fan and looking down the path to the cabin. The girls were coming up for a visit. What a treat, he should have read Dana better so he would have been ready.

"Hi, Daddy!" Shela paused to kiss him as they came in, lugging the biggest melon he had ever seen. "You guys haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"No, you're right on time."

It was still chilled from soaking in the creek, and so juicy and sweet. They all slept there that night, well, actually, none could stay awake long enough to even see the sun go down.

He had sketched this before, but he couldn't help adding another one. It was so very cute, the two girls still slept in the same bed, just facing each other, holding hands. Nothing more than that, but it was still so very cute.

The fan had woken him. Not the noise, but the absence of it, and the cool breeze. He had recharged it almost an hour ago, and this was his third sketch. He had missed this, having them here. He missed waking early and seeing Dawn up. She seldom joined him in an early snack, but it was just nice to have someone else up. He missed that.

After breakfast they would head their separate ways, but today, they were family.

He knocked on the cabin door. No answer. He looked out into the pond and saw a forest of planted trees with caterpillar webs an easy wade out. He looked beside the picnic table. They had made an outdoor tub. Rainwater off the roof was filtered and collected behind the cabin in a wooden frame, lined with rainproof cloth. He touched the dyed cloth. Warm, almost hot, just from sitting in the sun. It wasn't the whole tank, just a tub's worth. He spotted an outhouse too.

He opened the cabin door. Nobody home.

No fan, but a steady breeze. The windows facing the pond were closed. Well, no, not exactly, just the bottoms were. He looked outside again. They had changed the sun-facing roof. Black weatherproof— it made sense now. It was a very wide, thin duct that started at the top of the windows, then was painted black by the time it reached the top of the roof. Hot air rose like a balloon, which sucked air through the cabin. Smart.

It wouldn't work at their house because trees naturally shaded it, but here, it made perfect sense. What didn't make sense was, "Where are you guys?"

He checked the garden. Well ordered, weeded, and watered, but no signs of them. He waited in the cabin while sitting on the little bench-sized bed.

They had really fixed it up nice.

He looked at the tiny table, crowded with dozens of little half-finished crafts. Most were made from milkweed plastic. It looked harder, stronger. He tried to flex a piece. It was much stronger. They had mixed the stalk fibers into it, reducing the amount of precious milk used, while, at the same time, adding significant strength. Smart. There were dozens of molds stacked in the corner, three notebooks jammed with sketches.

He stepped outside.

"What are you looking for, Daddy?" Shela said.

He turned and looked. She was on his left side. He knew he had heard her. He did a lap around the cabin. Where was she?

"What are you looking for?" She said again.

This time it was as clear as if she was standing— he looked up on the roof.

"I'm not up there, Daddy."

"Where are you?" He said.

She laughed.

It sounded like she was standing right beside him. "Where are you!"

"I'm over here," she said. "See me waving?"

He stared at the garden.

"No, past that."

He strained. In the bitter distance he could see a tiny, blurry dot hundreds of steps away. He waved.

"That's me. We'll be there in a few minutes— Ok, I'll ask him. Can you hear me ok?"

"Yeah!"

She laughed, sounding as clear as if she was whispering in his ear. "You don't have to yell, Daddy."

Dawn emerged first, from behind him. Shela took longer coming through the garden.

"Look, Daddy, look what Dawn came up with," Shela said.

"You helped too—" Dawn said.

"Yeah, but the idea was—"

"I couldn't have finished it if—"

"Isolating the second whistle was key though—"

"Ok kids, ok," Derik said, the two of them could get quite confusing when they talked over each other.

"See, what it does is it takes two whistles—"

"At the same frequency—"

"High pitched frequency—"

"Yeah, that's right, it's so high—"

"You can't hear it on its own—"

"But they're exactly the right distance apart, so that they—"

"Cancel each other out!" They said.

"And all you're left with is the voice that was added to one of them. A carrier," Shela said. "Neat, huh?"

That was about the only part of the conversation he understood. "Very neat. Can you, make it do, that, thing—"

"Sure. You charge it." Shela blew into what looked like two miniature flutes, a small balloon inflated on one side. "Then, when you point it at who you want to talk to, hold down on the valve and talk softly into the tube, and it adds your voice to only the offset whistle. Easy."

He looked at the funny earflaps on her hat. That he understood, that was how she heard him over the same distance. "Cool." It was no bigger than a small stick, it could easily fit in a pocket, as long as the balloon was deflated. "What's it for?"

"We thought it might work for hunting. We couldn't figure out its range, but, if you can see it, you can talk to it. But the coolest thing is that—" Shela stepped back from him and whispered into the end of it while moving its aim slowly across him, "It's narrow, at hundreds of feet away, it's only hearable in about a ten foot area."

Her whispered words shifted from ear to ear as she waved it.

Too bad the cabin wasn't in sight of the house.

"Your mom made cheesecake," he said. "She'd like to see you guys tonight."

"Cool." They said in unison.

They explained the device again over dinner and dessert. Dana was not only more impressed, she actually understood what they were saying. For Derik, it was just more of the neat, 'Should have been so obvious, why wasn't everyone doing it,' stuff that Dana had been doing all along. Like termites.

It was nice having the girls spend the night again.

Fall came entirely too soon.

Double the harvest, double the canning, double the drying, it was fortunate that the girls had set up the cabin; they had more than what just one house could handle. Fall proved a suitable punishment for the fun of the green years, if it could be called fun. From early in the morning until late into the night, for the last three weeks, it was simply exhausting on everyone.

...Dana faced Dawn, "You can spend a few nights down there, if you want, but the two of you are not staying there all winter!" Dana said.

"We didn't fix it up so—" Dawn continued arguing.

"It wasn't broken, Honey, your father and I spent our first years down—"

"Then why can't we?" Dawn said, but Shela had the sense to stay silent.

"I'm your mother—"

Dawn stood, then headed for the door. "That's not the way I remember it."

He had never seen Dana this mad, or pushed as far as Dawn had today. He felt like he should block the door, but—

"Sit!" Dana yelled.

He found himself on the floor. They were all sitting, not just Dawn. Dawn had been the one headed for the door, but Dana was the one who left.

They continued to sit, long after she was gone.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dawn said.

"She is your mother," he said. "And you found the one thing that would hurt her the most."

"...Sorry."

He put on his shoes. "You don't have to try so hard to hurt her, Honey, she loves you enough to make that very easy." He went to look for her.

The carrier whistle thingy worked perfectly, without the hunting hat. The girls had made both, but the whistle was all they needed and was much easier to use and carry. Simply face each other, no matter the distance, inflate the balloon and whisper. The balloon only held enough air for one or two sentences, but that was more than enough, a simple wave confirmed the message.

He pressed the button and inflated the balloon, aimed, then whispered, "About twenty steps to your right, I'll go left."

Dana waved ok, then relayed it to Guar.

The girls had stayed home this time, but had made plenty whistles to go around. After a few failed attempts and a series of adjustments, Dawn had mastered four molds that made all the needed pieces. She could make hundreds a day, should it interest her. But it no longer did. She had obsessed over it for a week until it was perfect, then moved on. Never made another since.

He inflated the balloon, "Ok, Guar. We're ready, you take the shot."

Guar waved, readied, then let go.

It was a good shot, but the bow wasn't enough to bring a deer that massive down. It bolted. Three rapid bolts dropped it before it got much further.
**B5.C34**

The years rolled by, entirely too fast it seemed. Just fading sketches and notes he kept by the bed. Guar was already a handsome young man, and the girls had managed, without him ever noticing, to turn cute into beautiful. It seemed like only yesterday, she was eight. Today she turned twelve.

"Happy birthday, Mommy!" The kids yelled as Derik brought the cheesecake in from the kitchen. It helped when she slept past noon.

"I love you, Mommy," Dawn hugged her, "I'm sorry I made you mad, before." She still had a problem where that was concerned, but it had gotten much better over the last year.

Shela carefully handed her a hot half-cup of coffee.

"Thank you, Sweetheart," Dana said.

The crawfish sanctuary, guarded by a very angry looking warrior termite standing three feet tall, was extremely productive this year, yielding a succulently buttery meal every month. It had been just another experiment in the beginning. Now it was a science. They had expanded it into four pens since then; a tiny nursery, one for adolescents, one for big ones, and the largest box for those nearing eating size. Nets of differing hole sizes easily separated the big from the small. It kept them from eating each other, or at least, it ensured a fair fight.

Life had become very good, and Guar seemed to love cards nearly as much as Derik did. The girls had lost the fight to camp at the cabin during winter, but they could during the summer, even though they were resting the pond-side garden this year.

The kids were an enormous help this season, as they were last. They had perfected the art of tea. And it was an art. The leaves had to be picked at just the right time, let sit in just the right heat and humidity, dried to just the right brittleness, then crushed with minimal force. Green tea was even harder to get right because of its lack of fermentation and immediate steaming after picking. They, as a family, drank it green, but in town, the darker did better. They perfected flavors, drying the berry skins, and humidity-proof bags. Cherry, apple, strawberry, and lemon balm made excellent additions to their normal cloudberry and mint flavor teas.

It was a very good feeling to watch the kids with such a mastery of all the skills it took to handle life out here. They had but one skill left to learn, that of making wine. They were already halfway there, the sauerkraut was perfect.

Every year that they made wine, Dana and Derik had some, a taste from each container to ensure it was up to their standards. The kids complained about being left out. This year, parents gave in.

"... just a sip now, girls, it isn't juice," Dana said.

He knew what Dana was doing. It could have been very dangerous, it was potent stuff they made, but Dana had it figured almost perfectly. She measured everything, watched every sip, gauged every slur and cue. They were her precious girls too. They needed to know.

"Oh momma, I feel, I feel fine," Dawn said.

Guar had gotten sleepy but was desperate not to be left out. He finished his glass to keep up with Dawn.

"Are you sure?" Dana said, "Your lips have already fallen off."

Shela laughed uncontrollably while Dawn poked a finger into her nose trying to find her lips. "Na uh," Dawn said, fingers still holding the bottom one. "It's just geschwollen."

"It's what?" Dana said.

"Geschwollen, hinchado? Gonfio," Dawn said, which sent Shela into a giggling fit while Guar looked at his empty glass in bewilderment.

"Oh," Dana said, "Guar, would you like more?"

He looked at everyone else's glass, then pushed it forward to keep up.

Dana filled it to the top with the one she had switched, mostly flavored water. He was quite done.

Dawn downed the last of hers. "Mehr," she said.

"Mehr it is." Dana refilled Dawn's.

"Me hair," Shela said.

"When you stop giggling."

"Me hair, me hair!" but Shela couldn't stop giggling.

"You guys know what would be fun right now?" Dana said.

They all perked up...

Shela woke on the floor. She rubbed her hand across her throbbing head, then looked over to the bed. Dawn had something blue, red, and yellow all over her face. Guar was on the floor by the bathroom. He didn't look well.

She sat up, but it only made her head worse. The light seemed blinding, but she forced her eyes open and looked at Dawn. "Much worse" was painted on Dawn's forehead. Shela ran her fingers across hers. Something was written there too. She looked at her fingers. Finger paint, up to the knuckles. "I wrote this" was down her left arm, "funny" was on the right. She had vague memories of her mother asking her who wrote "funny" on her arm.

She closed her eyes, but it wasn't enough. She covered them with her hands until her brain could adjust to the light. Events were just a jumbled mess, not like the crisp memories she was used to.

She looked over to her parents' bed. Derik was up. He was just watching, making sure nothing bad could happen. Her mom must have taken the first shift, her coffee cup was still on the table.

She understood, a little.

She tried to stand, but crawled back into bed instead. The floor was very uncomfortable. Dawn had drooled, perhaps even vomited. Shela's pillow was wet with something, but she didn't care. It was wet but it wasn't hard. She had a single goal right now, to keep absolutely still until this misery passed.

Derik sat on Shela's bed, "Here, drink this." He handed each girl a glass of Dana's breakfast juice. "It'll help."

Guar was on Dawn's rarely used mattress, still sleeping close to the floor.

"Slowly. You're dehydrated, that makes the headache worse. In the few days it'll take for that paint to fade, try to think about how easily someone you trust, like your mom, talked you into doing that to yourself. She just made a few suggestions. Think about how your lips felt, how your tongue tingled, how your cheeks went numb. They were warning signs, but they almost always come too late. Guys, not Guar, but guys in town find it very easy to talk women, such as yourselves, into more than just paint when you're in a state like that.

You three mean a lot to us. Your mom wasn't trying to be cruel. This was going to happen to you girls, most likely. It was definitely going to be tried." He kissed each on their painted foreheads. "Hopefully, this'll stick in your head. Even your mom is easily tricked into doing foolish things when she's had too much; sometimes, it only takes a few. We drink only a few times a year. We probably won't have a drop after you kids are gone, to live your own lives in town.

I'm going to take this batch into town after the storm tonight. That and all that tea you kids made."

Shela looked into the corner, the travois was already packed.

When he took her empty glass, she gave him a hug and a kiss, "Your mom could use one of those too. She fretted terribly over this."

She kissed him again, then laid her head back down. Dawn too.

He would leave for town while the weather was good for once.

After spending the day in bed and missing their father's departure, the kids went to the cabin thinking a swim in the pond might remove the paint. It didn't work, of course. It was also very embarrassing for them to be around their mom, and it was a perfect place to hide their shame.

They spent every day they could by the pond. It was summer and Dana well understood, but Shela and Guar had spent the last few days sleeping at home while Dawn had been staying down there. It was too long to be simple embarrassment.

Dana inspected all the milkweed plastics and foams in the cabin after she had brought them lunch. "I think you've mastered it, Honey," she said. Some were as clear as glass, others stronger than oak, some stretchy strands, others dented, then retook their shape. Dawn had filled a notebook with each and every recipe, most were easily shaped and formed by molds. A hundred toothbrushes, dozens of brushes and combs were stacked in a pile beside sketches for a way to vacuum bags filled with liquid so they could reduce the need to search and sift sand for glass. It was simple, really; it incorporated a basket-like skeleton and the hardest recipe.

Dana sat down with Dawn at the picnic table by the pond while Shela and Guar were feeding the crawfish. She had another hard talk ahead of her. "Listen, Honey, this is great. You're a very smart child. Someday, when you kids live in town, this will all come in handy, but you're going to have to learn how to hold back."

Dawn looked puzzled, even a little hurt.

"We make our own clothes here. That's not the way of things in town." Dana looked at the disappointed girl, "I'm very proud of you. The whistle was brilliant—"

"Shela helped—"

"I know, Honey. You could make a good living just trading whistles, but as useful as they are for hunting deer, they're more useful hunting people.

Your dad takes wine in town, just enough to get by, but our cloth would do much better, for a little while. See, most cloth is made with cotton, not milkweed like ours. Because only one man in the entire valley has cotton, he can charge the highest price for it because it's so rare. But, if everyone suddenly found out it could be easily made from a common weed, then even the cloth we make becomes worthless. Does that make any sense to you?"

Dawn was confused.

"You children are so valuable to your father and me because there isn't anyone else like you. We raised you, and cared for you, and tried to teach you all you'll need to know, so you won't need us any more.

Sometimes, making just a few makes them more valuable. You think big. Your dreams could fill the sky from horizon to horizon. There will never be enough notebooks for you to fill. You could touch every life in this valley without even trying. But, sometimes, you'll find it more meaningful to just touch those closest to you."

Dawn pulled the notes close to her chest, staring at the sack of toothbrushes she made in under an hour. It was a lifetimes worth, probably more. It had taken longer to make the molds, the devices, and fine-tune it all, than it ever would have to make a few a year like they had until now.

"Look, Honey, I understand. All these ideas are swimming in your head. It'll drown you, it'll consume your life if you let it." Dana looked around, "Where's Shela?"

Dawn looked around too.

"She spent the last two days at the house, Honey. Did you even notice?" She hugged the little girl. "I'll help you, Honey, that's my place in your life. Let's get your things and go back to the house. Ok? Your sister misses you."

That night, Dana dipped her finger into the specially mixed mud. Dawn held still while it was smeared in a thin layer over her cheeks, across her forehead, around her eyes and on her nose.

"It feels tingly," Dawn said.

"It'll help with those blemishes, Honey." Dana dipped her fingers again. "I didn't know wine was going to make you break out like that."

Shela, equally mudded up, but like Guar, just to not be left out, said, "Wait till it gets dry and hard and starts to peel. That's when it really starts to feel good." But she liked how it felt when her mom put it on too.

Guar poked Shela on the bottom with the tip of a stick.

She screamed and ran around the table, picked up hers from near the tub, and fenced him back toward the beds.

"You two, take that outside—"

"It's too dark out!" they said, but Shela smacked it from his hand and it slid under the bed.

"That's it, Shela, hand it here."

"Yes, Mommy."

* * *

Kites with ten foot, brightly colored tails danced hundreds of feet above the pond. If it hadn't been for such a playful distraction, he never would have been able to sneak up on them so unnoticed when he returned from town.

Derik picked up the closest one who shrieked when she released the string, crashing the kite into distant trees beyond the pond. "Done— uh, Dawn," he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Daddy!" Another floated free when Shela thudded into his arms.

"Well, hello to you too, uh, Shela."

Guar was the one that brought him down.

Dana helped him stand under the mountain of children, "We've got crawfish steaming for you, Shela had a hunch you'd be back today. We're going to try some grilled tail, too. It ought to be good."

They headed for the house. Dawn ran circles around them, her arms held out like the kite she pretended to be, now lost to the trees across the pond.

"Grilled was amazing," Derik said that night, children tucked in bed.

"Shela had a hunch you'd like it."

"I love your kids."

"They are an experience, I would be much less without. A lot like you."

"We'll be very old before I have to make another trip in town."

She snuggled a little closer.

It had been quite a treat to have the girls. Dawn had shifted obsessions to cooking, and dragged a very willing Shela along. Fried fish sprinkled with crushed walnuts, potato bread, a wide assortment of cheese-based desserts, deep fat fried everything, and the richest caramel chunked cookies were just in the first week. They really got into it, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, her breaded and fried green beans were to die for. Too bad Dana missed that first week of breakfasts, the cloudberry pancakes alone...

"What's this?" Dana asked.

Dawn looked up from the desk with a smile. "Look," she placed her right hand on the pad, each finger had its own key, "the first key moves it up 1, this one moves 2, the third moves 4, the fourth moves left 1, and the last moves left 2. That's a grid of 32, more than enough for all the letters and numbers, if you code it right."

It was a grid of 8 rows and four columns with the tops of each square a letter, the bottom a number or symbol. She selected a few random key combinations and pressed the pedal between each choice.

"See, each time you press the pedal, it pinches a letter into this waxed paper like what you told us about printing presses, only without any ink."

She pulled out the ribbon. ABC H8 E5 L" L" O0. "Hello," Dana read.

"By using a thin layer of white wax on black paper, the words are easy to read and just add a little heat and it's erased. At the same time, it changes these lampshades from yellow to blue, corresponding to the five keys. But the beauty is, you don't have to learn a code to use it. Just move it to the letter you want to send and press the pedal, or press the keys for the blue's you see, and press the pedal. It does all the work. Just make the tower tall enough to get over the trees and that periscope thing you talked about with two mirrors and you can send messages as far as the eye can see, well, at night anyway."

She kissed the girl on the forehead, this was the first time she made a small model instead of the full-sized thing. Dawn was getting better about it. "You just put dozens of mailmen out of work. Perhaps a newspaper or two."

That seemed to make Dawn very happy.

"You can stop at just the one model, right?"

"Yes, Mommy."

She kissed Dawn again. "Go on to bed now."

Fall was filled with a garden's worth of distractions and a curious deer that was very fond of running up to them with its head down, then rubbing its nose all over their shirt with a tickle, in a most affectionate way.
**B5.C35**

Dawn and Shela presented Dana with a fancy walking stick, for Shela's birthday. It wasn't just a walking stick. A mid thigh-high knot could be stomped on, flowering out two strips on each side making it look more like a crossbow, a cocking trick borrowed from the fan. The bolts were the size of little fingers, and it could fire four, one at a time, two with twice the range, or a single shot that could reach anything seen with the naked eye. The girls had worked on it for nearly a month.

It was much lighter, more reliable, and quicker to cock and reload than her older crossbow. Unlike its aging counterpart, each could be cocked independently with a simple stomp without having to first be fully discharged. That gave it more shots per minute than even a practiced bow.

It also looked like a fancy walking stick to the casual eye.

It was very nice, and the bolts were easily made in a mass-production mold.

"Daddy, remember when you used to tell me I would break your heart, one day," Shela said while she sat by the pond with her father. It was such a beautiful, summer night.

"I remember when you used to slam into my leg every time you saw me. You cried for days the first time I had to go into town. Some day, entirely too soon, you're going to love some other man even more."

"I won't break your heart, Daddy."

"Yeah, you will." He put his arm around her. "And that's ok. It's my highest honor to be the first heart you break." Dana had covered all the biology with the girls; he had put this conversation off, entirely too long. It had been so much easier talking to Guar. It was just the two of them, by the pond, sitting at the very first picnic table he ever made. "I don't know what to tell you about men.

I, when your mother and I lived in a village far away from here, I used to read all the hunters and warriors before they went to work. It took days off of hunts and saved our village from countless attacks. But, it also let me see a side of people, I really wasn't meant to see.

Your mother and I slept in the same bed for years, we didn't do much more than sleep until we had a home.

If you give a man what he wants, he won't want you, just what you give him. That's probably why she fought so hard against marrying me, why she's never said 'I love you' to me. It's sad, but we all grow in stages; babies to children, to adults; so does a relationship, and, so does love. There's this, urge, to spoil babies, but it grows into spoiled children, and ruined adults. You can easily ruin love, in nearly the same way. I would have ruined it many times over, if it weren't for your mom."

She put her hand on his knee as a turtle flopped into the pond. "She loves you, Daddy."

He looked at his girl and easily saw her mother, "I've never heard her say it."

"She says it almost every morning."

"No, Honey, that's me, saying it to her."

She smiled like a kid with candy. "Is it?"

Shela went to bed, but he stayed up, thinking. It wasn't the first time he had pondered such. Dana wasn't like other people. She wasn't like other women. An angry 'sit' came to mind. He noticed Shela cheating at cards first, but she was first to notice how upset he was over not being married. This conversation, on reflection, was probably more his little girl comforting him.

He loved Dana's bare back, especially in the morning light, that little dimple below her left shoulder blade. He kissed the back of her neck. "I love you," he whispered, thinking of his little girl's words.

The kids had eaten and silently left for the garden dozens of minutes ago. He had climbed back in bed with her. They had had sex the night before, a sheet still separated the bed from the rest of the one room home. He kissed lower down her back. He loved this woman. She wouldn't mind, whatever he did, but kisses were it for now. A gentle rub would greet this sleeping-late hero of his heart.

In a while, he would run her a bath.

It had been too long since last he had that honor with her.

When he first learned of Shela's hunches with cards, it had frightened him. Seers, like him, rarely lived long lives. They were often sickly, as he had been. It worried him. But she was her mother's daughter too. Not a single cold, never a headache. A perfect little girl. He worried more about Dawn instead.

Dawn was brilliant, in a cursed sort of way. When she played Shogi with Shela, all her moves were precisely timed to match the length of Shela's. Quick move was answered with quick move, twenty seconds of pondering was answered with a twenty-second pause. It was very much like how Dana played with him. Dawn could easily be the smarter of the two, but he wasn't qualified to judge.

He thought of that masterful kite Dawn had made. She spent a week shaping every intricate detail. It flew more like a puppet she made to dance in the sky, a ballet of twists and spins, high-speed dives that stopped just inches off the ground. In her hands it could do things he thought impossible to do. But it was like any other kite, the second it wasn't tethered to her, it crashed to the ground.

Dawn was very much tethered to Shela.

He worried about Dawn. He feared her crash if that string should ever break.

Shela was more the lantern, floating in the wind. And Guar, he never worried about.

A thunderstorm rolled up the valley faster than any had counted on. The last harvest was already in, only the milkweeds near the pond were left. Dana stood at the window staring down the path to the pond. Shela and Dawn were still outside. There was Shela, just at the edge of the path. Dana opened the door for her while Derik grabbed the nearest towel.

Dana toweled off the shivering girl. "Where's your sister?" she asked.

"At the cabin, I think. At least closer to it than here."

The bolt echoed the valley and rattled the windows.

It was getting bad outside. Hail thumped the roof and rolled down the cedar shingles. They lowered the shutters to protect the glass. Dana waited by the open door; if Dawn came, she would be ready, towel in hand.

Something rose from near the pond, streaking up as fast as the hail came down. The biggest, thickest bolt he had ever seen followed a straight, single line to the ground by the pond, cracking the glass in the windows facing that way.

Dana ran out the door, headed for the pond. A line of glowing embers lingered where the bolt faded from.

Dana grabbed Dawn around the waist and carried her kicking and screaming into the cabin full of shattered glass.

"What are you doing!" Dana screamed over the pounding hail.

"I think I've found a way to—"

"Are you trying to get killed!"

"No, I—"

"Are you trying to worry me to death!" Dana shoved the girl down on the chair.

"Don't you see, I can stop the curse of the—"

"Dawn, Dawn, Dawn." Blood ran down her cheek from her run through the hail. "You untied the rope on the washing-machine, you could have gotten killed. You have to stop this."

"Yes, but I can—"

"You guided a lightning strike to within feet of where you were standing. You can't be this stupid."

"You're bleeding, Mom."

Dana pushed her back in the chair. "You aimed a bolt of lighting at yourself."

Water dripped in past the shards of glass, chiming those on the floor.

"You have the happiest life I could give you. You've had the best friend you're ever likely to find in your sister. You throw it away, locked in endless obsessions.

Let me save you the time. You can end this, you can remove the night sky. You can figure out how. It'll just take the next twenty years of your life and every man and every resource of everyone in this valley, and a few thousand more.

But let's say you do it, and it's gone. Let's say the fertility problem is due entirely to it. Who's to say that makes anything better, it's just as likely to make things worse. It changes colors with the changing seasons of the sun. What if it's a shield, protecting us from much worse solar storms?

There is no way to know, Honey. Unlike what happened just now, those lives aren't yours to play with.

They're not."

Dawn was crying.

"I love you, Honey. I always have. I want you to find happiness, not a cure. Happiness is yours to have, just let this go. It's not your fault, it's not your problem to solve."

"I'm sorry, Mommy."

She held the girl as rain soaked the floor.

Only a month had passed before they found themselves in the cabin again, this time with the calming force in Dawn's life, Shela. They worked the loom as a cool breeze pulled through the open windows. The water stains on the floor were all that remained of that night. Like the glass swept out the door, Dawn had forgotten her obsession at the edge of the pond.

The loom was fun again, just Dana and her girls. Growth spurts. New clothes. Mother daughter time. Just time. It meant so much right now.

The experiments with acorns, termites, and crackers the girls had carried out on Curi had led them down a more people path. They had perfected, with dried onion, potato, and tomatoes, not only a palatable termite cracker, but one that rivaled the taste of anything thus far. Crunchy, chewy, dried berries for pockets of flavor, it even had an end coated in caramel that was intended to be eaten last, like dessert, but often got eaten first. Perfect for camping, extreme storage life, an easy recipe that could make dozens of pounds at a time. Plus, nutrition wise, it was a balanced meal.

Dawn's latest book.

This year's wine, the children handled it all by themselves. No drinking contests, no faces painted, just samples, tasting, and another dozen recipes added to a book. Dawn was by far the most prolific child of the three.

The first snow gave the perfect excuse to use the gift the girls had given earlier that year. As a walking stick, it moved easily through even a dense growth. It required no twisting or turning, it didn't impede walking at all. When the trail looked fresh, a simple stomp on the knot cocked all four bows, the bolts already positioned. The stomp made the end change from what looked like a 1 into an elegant 8. Even like this, it was easily maneuverable. The trigger, as complex as its functionality was, borrowed its simplicity from her telegraph idea. 1,2, or 4 was selected by the thumb, then a simple squeeze to release each bolt. It couldn't have been any easier.

In a single afternoon, they downed four. Two while they were in the middle of a rutting fight, the third and fourth at a distance that should never have been possible.

Three more the week after that.

Cocked, it almost looked like a musical instrument. Art, and function.

Dana was very proud of her girls.
**B5.C36**

"Momma," Dawn said, middle of the afternoon. "Momma."

"What is it, Honey," Dana said in bed, her eyes barely open.

Dawn sat on the bed. "I wanted to go with Guar and Daddy into town, too."

She closed her eyes. "I know you did."

"Momma, if I ran, I bet I—"

"No."

"But Momma, I—"

Shela left the dishes in the sink to stand behind Dawn. "Momma, I have a hunch about today, can Dawn and I go on a hunt if we promise to be back by tonight?"

"Sure."

"But I don't— I want to go into tow—" Dawn was getting frustrated.

Shela put her hand on Dawn's shoulder, "Come on, put your coat on, I can't lug something that heavy through the woods by myself."

Dawn glared at her sister. "But I don't want—"

"You'll be ok by yourself, won't you, Momma?"

"I'm just tired, Honey." Dana adjusted her blanket.

"Come on, let's go." Shela pulled her sister to her feet, "We have to leave soon or we'll miss it."

"But I—" But Dawn was on her feet, putting on her heavy clothes, just like Shela was. They tossed another log on the fire before heading outdoors.

The girls trekked uphill for a minute or two until the house was out of sight before Shela stopped. "Momma doesn't— haven't you noticed, Dawn, Momma, she's getting worse. She's having more bad days. Daddy, he can't take us all with him. Someone has to stay with her.

Don't— You don't— if she dies, when she dies, you don't want her memories of you to be filled with these silly arguments over meaningless things that you want.

She's too tired to argue with you. She doesn't have— she has so little energy left, don't weigh her down with— just, just," Shela wiped her cheek, "She tries to hide it from us, because, she doesn't want us to worry about her. Let's— She's been a good mother to us."

Dawn looked toward the house. She hadn't noticed. She was so angry over Guar getting special treatment because he was a boy. Neither parent had even considered her argument. Guar had to go because he was boy, that was just it. That was the way they did things in town.

Shela laughed, inappropriately, "I lied about a hunch to get you to stop pestering her. I just had one." She walked in a wandering arc until the hunch tugged her in a clearer direction, "This way."

They called them stomp-sticks. The one they gave to their mother was the finished, perfected product. Intricately carved, perfectly balanced and aimed. The two that came before it had only two shots, packed a bit of a jolt when fired, and pulled to the left on the first shot, then right on the second. All were problems perfected out of the polished design. But flawed as these attempts were, they were lighter, faster, more maneuverable, and every bit as lethal and accurate as the one Dana had built over a decade ago.

It was a massive buck, well worth the trek.

Four rapid shots from two directions dropped it almost instantly.

Shela knelt by its head, her hand on its solid shoulder. "We are honored that you chose us, cousin of Curi, for your passage from life to what is beyond. It was as peaceful as we could make it," she said, her head bowed, "noble creature." She said a shorter prayer over rabbits as well, but never over squirrels, raccoons, or other creatures.

"Pancakes, with cloudberry jam," Dana said, waking just as the sun set behind the mountain. She sat up in bed as Shela piled the pillows behind her and Dawn brought the plate in from the kitchen. "Oh, I'm sorry you didn't get the deer—"

"We got it," Shela said, "We're drying it in the brick maker around back. Didn't want to see it hanging from strings for days. Besides, the smell, as good as it is, stays in the clothes for weeks."

Dana put the first forkful into her mouth, "Oh, this is perfect, Honey."

Shela had a hunch she'd like it.

It worked perfectly for blemishes, which none of them had, but it also felt very good to smear that special mud onto faces, especially if it wasn't your own. The mint smelled heavenly, but getting someone to laugh at just the right time to crack it before it could peel was the goal. Derik may have been the one who filled notebooks, but Dana was a storyteller, through and through.

They had a week alone with their mom.

Minus the one fight, it was a week any would repeat, as often as possible.

Guar and Derik returned days sooner than ever before, mostly because Guar, as young as he was, had more than enough stamina for two.

Late that night, the girls climbed their way to the upper bunk, Guar's bed. "Well," they whispered, confident parents were sound asleep.

"Well what," Guar whispered back.

"What's it like?" Dawn asked.

"Well, you've seen Dad's sketches, the map and all. That's about it. Just people look'n at you all the time."

"What do the people look like—"

"What are the buildings made of—"

"Were there a lot of people—"

"Our age—"

"What were they wearing—"

"Did you see only men, or were there women there too?"

"Shh," Shela said. Dawn was getting a little loud.

Guar tried to hide under his pillow.

Shela covered his mouth while Dawn tickled him into spasms. He was going to answer and it was going to be tonight.

He did his best.

Derik put his finger to his lips, middle of the day, hand gesturing to keep it down. Dana was sleeping. Dawn noticed now. She noticed that spring, when Derik would ask Dana if she could make lunch for everybody, a lunch Dawn had watched him prepare early that morning. She noticed these subtle things she hadn't noticed before. Noticing, changed her. She wanted this to be the year her mother remembered best, in case it was the last.

Planting, harvesting, pond, termites, harvests with canning and drying, it was easy not to notice with all these distractions. Fall, and another winter, then, all too soon, another year was gone.
**B5.C37**

Dana stared at the empty bunk beds. She hadn't cried that first day. It was the two that followed that the tears didn't stop for. She was doing better today, she just stared at the empty beds.

"They're fine," Derik said. "I gave them the names of everyone I dealt with in town. They'll get a fair deal. They have two years worth of rent in the finest rooms in town worth of wine. You raised them well."

"She's just fifteen."

He sat beside her, "When was the last time you got up before noon?" He offered her a hot cup of coffee to warm her hands. "In a few years they wouldn't have left, they would have stayed to take care of you." He kissed her. "That's my job."

"She just turned fifteen this spring." She held Mr. Bunny instead.

"They're fine. Gaur's not going to let anything happen to your girls." He took the bunny from her hands.

Fall was quiet, lonely. Dana was in her mid thirties by now. He found her every bit the beauty he knew in her teens. Three streaks of gray only highlighted the natural waves of her hair. He sketched her holding the bunny, sitting on empty bunk beds.

She had dropped her share of plates and broken even more mugs; she hid it from the kids well, but she didn't hide it from him at all. Borrowed time. Holding a hot mug was often the only way to get her hand to work in the morning.

He heated stream-rounded stones with her morning coffee now, and he rubbed her hands until she woke. One had been broken, the other stabbed through, he knew her injuries well. He kissed her beautiful hands while lying in bed until she woke.

"Marry me," he said.

She smiled. "Only if Dawn approves."

He looked down, "I think she will."

She squeezed his hand with the warmed fingers that worked. "I think she will, too."

Winter piled snow outside their window while he finished disassembling the bunk beds. Three chairs took its place, Mr. Bunny on one.

They skipped hunting, the attic had food enough to last a family of five for two years.

They made cherry pie in the kitchen together.

While waiting for it to cool, he washed her feet as she soaked in the tub and reminisced about the kids, and Curi.

She held their quilt like a security blanket, tattered and old as it was, and wouldn't let him wash it for fear it wouldn't survive.

"It's a beautiful night," he said, "let's go for a walk." He offered her an arm and an escort.

They found their way to the pond and the cabin with new glass. It had been forever since he had been down to the pond. They sat on the picnic table, a bottle of hot coffee this time.

Flickers of blue and yellow danced in the distance, answered in repeating flickers near the center of town. It was pretty, like the silent songs of fireflies, the mating calls of news. A handful dotted the sides, singing a song of their own.

The kids invested the wine well.

He adjusted her quilt around her shoulders as the silent song played on.

"They don't know nothing about termites or crawfish in town," Shela said, with five of the biggest in the basket she borrowed from the cabin. She kissed her mom on the way to the kitchen. "Dawn and Guar were right behind me— You got rid of the beds! It looks great with your bed pulled away from the window. I bet the fan works better there too." She started the crawfish steaming, "You sit back down, both of you, I'm fixing dinner tonight. It's your birthday, you didn't think I'd forget, did you?"

"Honey, it's your birthday, not mine," Dana said.

Shela adjusted the flame under the pot, then replaced the lid before sitting beside her mom. "I've known since I was three. I didn't do anything harder than breath on that day, same can't be said of you. I hope dad's been spoiling you."

"He has."

"Good, he likes that."

"Yes, I do," Derik said, setting the plates and arranging the chairs.

Dawn brought in an armful of flowers, fresh from the garden by the pond, and Guar.

It was a fine meal, and great conversation. They even opened a bottle of wine, leftover from the year before. They were very adult for only sixteen. It was nice, and none drank enough to get drunk.

They had built the first few telegraphs, just the three children, sold to the newspaper printers of the two towns so they could save the expense of running reports back and forth, since the same family owned both. When they found out how well it worked, they made an offer, a generous one, for the rights to making as many as they wanted. With a hood and a heavily coded key, it could be made as private as they could afford, but its beauty was in its public side.

Whistles would wait, the magic of milkweed too.

Most important, and the thing Dana and Shela stayed up all night talking about, was this boy Shela had met just two weeks ago.

They slept on foam mattresses laid on the floor. They only stayed the night and said their good-byes and hugs in the mornings.

Dana stood in front of the termite town, staring at the weathered crawfish guard. She ran her hand across its monstrous claw. Time and humidity had left it soft inside, it was just papier-mache. It flexed under her touch, but popped back easily enough. The sun had worn away the colors the weather was unable to touch. They had stopped feeding the fish. No point really. No point in keeping all the termite towns either, they needed only one to feed the crawfish. She harvested them all, including the queen.

He kissed her belly, then traced the scar with his finger. It seemed like only this morning when a finger pressed back from the inside. He kissed each thin line on her arm, the one on her hand, the eye that had been closed so long ago. Such beauty had passed through her, giving him those magical years that followed that most difficult day.

He loved these mornings with little to do, but adore.

The garden was so small, just enough for greens, a little corn, salad stuff mostly. He planned on pizza for the next few days. She could still eat his pizzas for several straight days.

The pond-side kiln held the markings of the lightning strike. Crumbed, cracked clay that baked hatchet bricks, melted in spiraling lines. She pulled a thin plate from inside, as thin as paper, stronger than brick. It easily fit in the palm of her hand. She pulled out the remaining flakes.

"What's that?" Derik asked.

"Nothing."

He held one, it felt as smooth as glass. It was hauntingly familiar. He handed it back. "Ever wonder what's written in those hundred pages?"

"Seldom. Hopefully, she's thought of them even less." She tossed the pieces into the pond. They floated briefly, like the shadows of leaves, before sliding from sight.

She sat on the crawfish cage and dropped termites in, two or three at a time. They crawled all over each other in hungry excitement for feeding time. Guar and Shela used to thrive on this chore. There was something to be said about the entertainment of watching them scurry on and over each other and the brave little threatening poses, but it made her sad instead.

Returning home, she looked through the book of Shela's first paintings, those that decorated her walls before Dawn. The butterfly wings, the insects, six were of pine needles. Pine needles. That made her sad too.

"Go, see her," he said, "I can handle the garden for a while."

"You sure?"

He read her, "You'll be fine. It's been three months, you should see her."

She left in the morning.

The walk did her a world of good. She was so excited about seeing the kids, she walked the last two days straight. She found being around so many people painfully unnerving. Towns did not suit her, but she wanted to see her daughter.

She found Shela rather easily.

"Momma!" Shela hugged her as soon as the door opened. "Come in, come in! You remember Adora, right?"

"Adora?"

"Adora Findick, Ellie's daughter."

Dana looked at her. Adora looked every bit Ellie's daughter, even inherited Ellie's graceful walk. The hug felt very natural. "Wow, look at you. How's Ellie?"

"Fine, well, getting by. Shela had just supervised the telegraph at my mom's house so she could keep in touch with her sisters. Grandpa bought it for her. His farm did better than most few years back, turned everything around. Had no idea Shela was your daughter, but momma spotted it right away."

"Sit, sit," Shela said. "You must be starved, I'll fix ya something. You've got to spend the night, right?"

It was a very pleasant evening.

Guar and Dawn were one town over, helping with another installation. It was part of the price. Shela often went with them, but stayed this time, on a hunch.

His name was Mark. Shela was seeing much more of him lately. He had taken her to her first play, her first restaurant, and several parties. Celebrations, she had been told. She was getting more reluctant to keep going because they seemed like rather obvious pretexts to simply drink. He had called her his 'lady luck' after the first poker house they went to. He wanted to take her back again and again, but so far, she had refused. It was starting to annoy her, but she hadn't given up on him yet. He had, qualities.

He was the grandson of, ironically enough, a cotton family, though very distant from any money. And Adora insisted he was extremely charming.

He was coming over next evening to take her out to eat; Dana's timing couldn't have been more perfect.

"You're up early," Shela said.

"Your neighbors live very close."

"Noise keep you up?"

"No. Not, per se. They're fighting. Angry."

Shela handed her mom a hot mug. "I feel it sometimes, too," She said. "It's real distant, like crickets by the pond, heard from the house."

"I think I sit a little closer to the water, Honey." Dana sipped the coffee. It was perfect.

Shela frowned as she sat beside her. "A few days back, Mark took me to— I thought it was a play. But the people on the stage didn't wear their clothes very long. It—"

"What does your gut tell you?"

"I think he knew where he had taken me. I want to believe him though. It's hard to tell when Daddy bluffs in cards. Mark's tells are— I just don't, I... "

"You think he'd been there before."

"... Yeah."

"But you want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Your father, had sex with someone before he ran away from home to be with me. That was how they had raised him. I can't tell you, Honey. Time tells. People change a lot over time. The more they have to change, the more time it takes. He's the first guy outside of Guar and your dad that you've spent any time with. I'm sorry for that." She stared at the distracting wall. "It's unlikely that someone perfect for you would find you this quickly. If I were you, I would wait until your early twenties. It doesn't seem like it, but you'll change a lot between teens and twenty. I did. Your father did, so will you."

They talked some more, of lighter things. Shela missed gardening, the dirt and earth, bugs and termites. The plumbing was very different here. Most outside of town lived like the cabin with outhouses and outdoor baths. And she was very upset because she couldn't get bread to taste right, until she found they used flour instead of acorns.

For a small family with limited time and land, acorns made sense. For a village that needed to feed people on scale, flour came from wheat. Except in green years, where everyone went without. Adora's grandpa had, purely by chance, planted mostly green crops on the green years and was one of a very few that grew acres of food, when farms failed all across the valley.

Mark was indeed handsome, charming, and easily in his mid-twenties, clearly too old for her daughter. He took them to a fine restaurant, with a very expensive, familiar wine.

When they returned to Shela's place, they played a few hands of cards and snacked on some chips. Shela left to make some sandwiches.

"You're seeing someone else, behind Shela's back," Dana said.

He sat back in the couch. "No ma'am, I—"

She touched his hand. "You were seeing her before you met Shela. She lives in another town, so you think she'll never find out?"

"No ma—" he gasped, then slid off the couch onto the floor.

"I was wrong. Shela knows her. She lives around here."

He made a fist.

"I'm an old woman," Dana said. "You could probably take me." She let go of his hand, but he remained folded over on the floor, holding his stomach in breathless pain. "I doubt it would ease your suffering. You know someone who is right for her."

He nodded, then loosened his fist.

"She's not a toy to be played with, Mark, much like I lack the time to play polite politics with you. Hurting her isn't in your interest. It might be best, if you introduced them."

He nodded.

She helped him get back onto the chair, "Thank you for dinner, by the way. Time to put on your charming face. I trust you'll find a nice way of telling her."

Shela entered the room. "Here you go," she passed out the plates and glasses of juice.

Mark finished the night well composed, the actor Dana pegged him to be.

"Momma, remember when you said I'd miss sleeping with Dawn?" Shela said that night, after Mark had gone.

"I miss your dad, too."

"I know you only planned to stay a few days, but I want you to stay a week, if you would. There is a lot of this town I'd like you to meet. The friendly people I've grown to know. Tomorrow morning, I had offered to cook breakfast for Mrs. Everling, the owner of this place. They have a marvelous kitchen, and it feels nice to cook for people sometimes. They like my cooking."

Dana smiled.

"You taught me well. She offered us room and board if I do it just on the weekends and Friday. Just for breakfast! After the morning rush, while Dawn and Guar are gone, I like to sit and talk to them. They have such different and interesting lives. Most of the people who stay here have come from several towns over just to trade, cotton mostly. Some couples come for a romantic night or weekend; they're the most fun to talk to because they're so very happy. It's fun, most of the time, unless you sit next to a young guy that's by himself; they get the wrong idea too often."

"I bet they do."

"We have two beds, but I'd like it if—"

"I'd love to."

After breakfast, Shela showed her around the town. She pointed at a building. "Daddy said this guy gave him the best deals. It's true," they stopped outside the shop, but didn't go in. "But he's not a very honest man. Sally has a shop on the far side of the town. She's small, but she's a trip to talk to. You'll like her. She's old, and fearless. She also owns a small book press and does a monthly gossip and recipe paper that's very smart and funny. Dawn and I have talked her into raising termites for feed, and she's considering adding a gardening section to her monthly. By the time the queens are mature, we'll be into another green year and she'll make out very well." Shela smiled at her mom, "Dawn is very smart like that."

They walked past a crowd and down a wooded path.

"That's their theater, it's open only on the weekends. Some people travel for days just to take in a play. The few Mark talked me into were very funny. One was very sad, but I found, I liked it too." Shela stopped to read the board. "Tonight is a very funny comedy. You have to go with me. You have to feel what it's like to be surrounded by a room full of happy, laughing people. The joy of that moment just washing over you."

"Ok. Sure, but I've felt joy before."

She leaned into her mom, "I know, Daddy loves his girls. This is different, trust me."

They walked on, they'd be back in plenty of time.

"Earlier this year," Shela continued, "Dawn went to see the old mailmen that were getting too worn out and were thinking about retiring. They still liked carrying the mail and talking to the people. I think some of them were addicted to gossip and would do it for free, if it weren't for the daily trips into town. Some of them were perfectly located, and she talked them into forming a network where they'd cover most of the distance with telegraphs, relayed one to another at night.

The people in the field that were losing their jobs, get to keep their jobs.

Dawn's working with some farmers between this town and the next on growing milkweed for plastics. Combs, toothbrushes, vacuum bags, stuff like that. She showed each a different product, and so long as they split the first three years honestly with her, she promised to show them something beyond paper to make with the stalks, once the fields were big enough.

She is so very smart about those things."

"So are you, Honey."

Shela stopped walking. She looked embarrassed. "Dawn's fearless, unrestrained. I kinda envy that about her. She dreams these huge dreams of dams and plumbing and irrigation and— Just big. I just want a garden, somewhere peaceful, quite, with someone I love."

"That's very nice, too."

They started walking again. "I have so much to show you. You should stay for a week, please stay for the week, maybe even two."

"I'd love to."
**B5.C38**

What was it he was looking for? Aspirin? Oh, there it was, on the counter. Odd, he must have left the top off the bottle. That was so unlike him. A little water helped wash it down. That's better.

He looked around. What was it he was supposed to be doing? It was light outside. He walked outside. There was a garden around here, somewhere. His feet hurt. He looked down. He wasn't wearing his shoes. That was dumb, how could he have forgotten that? He went back inside.

What was it he was looking for?

Aspirin? Oh, there it was, on the counter. Odd, he must have left the top off the bottle. That was so unlike him. A little water helped wash it down. That's better.

He looked around. What was it he was supposed to be doing? It was bright outside. He walked outside. There was a garden around here, somewhere. His feet hurt. He looked down. He wasn't wearing his shoes. That was dumb, how could he have forgotten that? He went back inside.

What was it he was looking for?

He stared at this thing on the wall. It had something to do with the fans, something about the pedal. He stood on it. It didn't move. Something had to be unlocked or something. Tensioner, that was it. Ah, there it is. Ok, it's coming back now.

Shoes, where were they?

Garden, there was something about a garden. Why was the bow by the door? He should take that with him, just in case. Ah, there's a path, going down hill. He followed it.

What was he doing in the garden, with a bow? He can't garden with a bow. Nothing seemed to be growing, just weeds and such with a random corn stalk here and there. He must be hunting. Why was he hunting in the garden?

A doe with a chunk missing from its ear was nibbling on a lonely patch of spinach and cabbage. It looked up at him. He aimed, but, hunting a doe seemed wrong. Its head was down, it's charging! Shoot it! Shoot it!

What was he doing in the garden, with a bow?

He didn't have any arrows. What good was a bow without arrows? He needed more arrows. Where are— arrows were in the house. Where was the house? There was a path, it had to lead somewhere.

He sat on the bed and stared at the tub. It was a nice tub. He looked at the other side of the fireplace. A row of chairs and a stuffed bunny made that corner look less lonely.

Lonely.

Why was he lonely?

That bunny looked odd. Its eyes didn't match. Mismatched, slumped in the chair. A tattered blanket was folded beneath it, made of odd scraps sewn together. Perhaps he should throw it out.

A swinging weight caught his eye. It had just dropped another inch closer to the floor. That was a good thing, but he was unsure why. His eye wandered to the kitchen again. A bottle was open on the counter.

He walked over.

He woke that night when he fell onto the floor. This wasn't his bed. He crashed into chairs in his stumbled crawl. Something was moving outside. There was a horribly sad cry, some distance away. It was small, hoarse, and scratchy, overwhelmingly mournful. Tears ran down his face just to listen to it every now and then. His hands were shaking.

It was too dark to find his way in this strange room. There was that sound again. He wiped his chin as he quivered on the floor. "Leave me alone!" he screamed, then shoved a chair toward the door. "Leave me alone," he sobbed.

* * *

"Oh, Curi," Dana fell to her knees. Two arrows. The doe had been dead for several days at least. She held her hand an inch over Curi's torn ear, then the scar on the side of her neck in one last pet of Shela's favorite guest. Her twin fawns had starved to death, curled next to their mom. Tears ran down her face. The shafts she knew well.

She got a shovel from the garden.

Derik was sitting by the fireplace, one pantleg on, one off, trying to pull his sock over his shoe. Spilled food on the counter was covered with dozens of flies. He pulled off the sock and stared at the shoe.

She started pouring a bath while his focus was entirely consumed by the shoe. She rested her hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, stumbling back to the bricks.

"Derik," she said, "it's your turn for a bath." She rested her hand on his. "I'm sorry, I used all the hot water."

He stared blankly at her.

"I've had a long day, I'm going to take a nap, ok?"

"Uh, sure." He took off his clothes, puzzled by the sock on his shoe.

She cleaned the counter, took some aspirin, then went to bed.

He sat in the chair. The bath had been over hours ago. She was sound asleep, flat on the bed. He looked around at the mess, returning to his shoes and his stretched-out sock. He stared at her again.

"Never enough, to share my life," he said. "To share my life." He wiped his cheek on his sleeve.

He looked at her back. Her shirt covered the dimple he knew was there.

He was killing her.

Slowly.

Daily.

He grabbed the notebook by the bed. He looked through their life, drawings of him and her. He looked again. He had never drawn himself! They were the added sketches of a little girl. Dawn— No, Shela, her name was Shela. Shela had drawn him into some of the drawings. Their daughter, he remembered now. He opened it to the last blank page and filled it with, "You're killing her."

He started with the dirty dishes.

"Dana," he said from the chair, "Dana, you awake?"

"Hmm."

"Dana?"

"Come to bed," she said.

It was a powerful urge to do just that. "Dana, I— We— I can't live like this."

She offered her hand, "I've missed you terribly, come to bed. Just an hour or two."

He couldn't— shouldn't— He climbed in.

She adjusted him slightly, her head rested on his shoulder, her thigh covered his lap like the decade before. He missed this, craved for this. He stared at the palms of his hands.

He remembered the feeling of splinters ripping them to shreds. They quivered with the memory. She survived what the strongest man he had ever known, could not. And it was he who was killing her. Slowly. Daily. Piece by piece, stealing hours and minutes a day.

He stared at the fireplace, his hands on her back.

What was he, without her? Did he even know?

It wouldn't be for an hour or two, she would sleep from morning to night. He wouldn't sleep at all.

"I thought I saw Curi last week," he said, "while you were gone." He brought her breakfast in bed, middle of the night.

"I saw her on the way in. An, animal got to her. She's buried by the pond, near the cherry trees." She sipped her thick tomato juice. "This is an old jar."

He got up, "I'll get you another—"

"No no, it's good. I, remember when you got the recipe from me, just after Shela was born. You started making them, for me. You have ever since. I— two years back, you didn't get the carrots just right. Remember? I liked it like this." She took another sip.

He sat by her feet on the bed.

"I think they're going to be fine, now. They're such grownups. They were children only last year, crying over the plight of bunnies. Shela's dating." She nibbled at the crust. "They have their own lives now."

"Who am I, without you?"

She sipped her juice.

"How long can I watch you fall apart," he stared at his hands, "knowing it should be me."

"It's just sleep."

"I, can't take the guilt of this."

She tore another chunk of bread, but did nothing with it. "You don't have to."

He pulled her feet onto his lap. "That my affection is the source of your pain, may damn me for all time."

She held his closest hand. "I happily share my life with you."

He ran his fingers through her hair. Her gray had brown roots. "I, can't."

"You plan on never touching me again? Is that the kind of marriage you want? No kisses, no holding hands. Distance in the same bed." She slid to his lap. "I can't live like that. Shela's not going to like you asking for a divorce."

"I don't want—"

"How is it different? You want to take away everything I married. What happened to that boy who loved to watch me while I slept?"

"... He found out why you slept so long." He couldn't look her in the eye. He couldn't, and still say such things. He just held her, unable to take back anything he had just said.

She frowned, then relaxed her hug. "Give me until fall, to say goodbye to the father of my children, my dearest friend." She sighed, then shook her head. "If you still can't accept what I freely give," she closed her eyes, "then I'll give you that divorce, Husband."

He didn't expect to cry. He should have. He loved her more than anything, right now.

It was a divorce.

He spoiled her, best he could, letting her sleep past noon most days. Love proved to be a horribly complicated thing. Take it away, and he would try to trick or manipulate her into doing exactly what she was doing now, giving up her life for his. Add it back again, and he was riddled with guilt over every resting moment.

Strawberry cheesecake and a cup of coffee, breakfast in bed, middle of the day.

He washed his hands at the sink, dishes done. She would wake soon. He picked up the heated stones. All her little problems had quickly returned. Her hands were nearly useless in the morning, even though her mornings came past noon. Breakfast in bed, as romantic as he tried to make it, was more a reflection of her stiffening knee and weak ankle. She was very slow to get out of bed.

He climbed back into bed and rubbed the back of her hand with the heated stone. It helped, it felt nice at least. He kissed the start of her morning smile, noonday sun leaking past the cracks of the window shades. The nicer he was to her, the longer she seemed to take to wake, and the better his day was. He hardly slept at all. He loved her. As joyous as he could make her shorter days, it left him longer to contemplate the meaning of such ever increasing stretches of slumber.

He enjoyed gardening, even though he now did it alone. He had plenty of time with Dana sleeping past lunch. He missed having her there, though. But it was what she wanted.

He was happy with her. He was happy with this, happier than he could ever be with anyone else. She slept long enough, most days, that he could have every conceivable chore done, every minute of her being awake was spent together. If he bothered to do the math, he could easily rationalize that he had more time with her this way, not less.

He never minded a single chore. He liked cooking for her, he enjoyed waiting on her. On spoiling her. Dana was right, he really didn't want what he had asked for. He didn't want a divorce. Over these last few weeks, he— They had never been happier. He wanted to grow old with her. If she was ok with this, why couldn't he be?

He picked the last few cucumbers before walking back to the house.

If this was her wish, and it was, what was so wrong with honoring it? He stopped within sight of the door. He didn't want this to end. Neither did she. She was the happiest he had ever seen her. They had been dating, like he never had a chance to do. He even had today's picnic fully planned, down to the last detail. He had spent an hour just wandering the woods for the perfect spot. He wanted to spoil her, she didn't mind being spoiled. He loved the idea of spending the next few years like this.

He stopped at the door and looked in through the window.

He just couldn't live with how wrong it was, that her feelings for him, as unspoken as they were, would ultimately be what killed her. That she would die his death, willingly, only made him feel worse.

He walked through the door.

He'd have her favorite spinach lasagna ready by the time she woke. The brightly colored leaves on the trees were so breathtaking this time of year; it made a perfect backdrop for just such a fine meal.

He started baking the bread, then sat by her on the bed.

They had kissed perhaps a million times by now. Each was so little different than the one before. Yet, he anxiously awaited the moment when she would start to wake, just so he could kiss her again. A million wasn't enough. How could it ever be?

Her days lasted only six or eight hours long, but he filled them with as many smiles as they could hold. He owed her his life, several times over by now. How could he just continue to take more?

Without the children, they had enough crawfish to dine on them once a week. He became an expert on the many ways to prepare them. He added the shells to the compost pile before returning inside. He looked around. The dishes were done, the counter was clean, all the little chores were complete. She was already in bed.

He brushed his teeth and joined her.

She quickly adjusted to him.

He wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her shoulder. He soaked in the smile pressed so close to his chin. "I love you," he said, thinking about his little girl's wise words.

He spent his time in bed with her, even if she did nothing more than sleep. It wasn't boring anymore. It wasn't. He basked in those silent words he never heard before.

Fall was already here.
**B5.C39**

They had never argued, or discussed it the slightest bit. She just looked at him, late that fall, when the last possible minute could no longer be found. She was more than willing to let him change his mind. When he looked away, she put on a pair of sleeve-length gloves. Nightshirts changed to full-length clothes.

"Derik," she said.

He stared at the plate.

"Do you want me to heat that for you?" she asked.

He picked up his fork, speared a pancake, then drug it through a puddle of honey. It had gotten cold, but it was still fine. The cloudberries were the perfect mix inside. He looked at her. The gloves looked nice on her hands.

She filled his glass with milk, then sat down beside him. "I can make up some more, if you want thirds."

Thirds? He paused. He hadn't remembered sitting down. Seconds, that sounded like it should be enough. He swallowed another forkful. He was full. "No, Daw— Uh, Dana. Thank you, this is more than enough." He quickly forced another one down. "I like these, they're real good. We should have them again tomorrow."

She rested her hand on his knee. "Sure." They had been eating them all this week.

He sat up and looked around. Where was he? It looked— he stared at a chair with a stuffed bunny. What was it about that eye? Something moved beside him! A woman was sleeping in his bed. Who was— She looked— He should know her. Was this her bed? He searched the room for clues. He stared at a plate in the window with a child's hands as eyes in a smiling face, a tiny basket, a stone and a feather. Why was that junk there?

He started to get scared. Who was he? What was his name! He didn't know.

She rolled to face him, a gloved hand rested on the side of his neck, "Go back to sleep, my husband."

His panic faded away, she had said all he needed to know. His world suddenly felt complete.

He sat in the chair and stared out the window at the garden, covered in snow. It was very beautiful. Cornstalks stood in random clumps, leftovers from the fall. Their thick sticks broke the snow in random little lines that squirrels seemed to follow, digging little holes. He touched the glass with his hand. It was cold.

He watched someone pull the top four logs off the pile, tap each against the pile until it was snow free, then stacked them on a sled that was slowly building to full. She pulled it around the corner, out of his view.

The squirrels quickly returned, only to scamper off after scrounging in the snow.

The door opened and the air about his ankles grew cold.

He watched her bring in an armful of wood, set by the stove.

He looked back out the window and waited for the squirrel.

He pressed his hand against the glass. It was cold.

He looked around the room. He watched her grab a jar from the cabinet and pry off the lid. Her back was to him. Her long hair swung from side to side, just below her shoulders, as she worked at the counter. The smell of the room was wonderful, something sizzled at the stove. He looked at his hands. The buttons of his shirt were wrong again. He undid them, and started again.

A clatter at the table startled him. Why was she setting two plates? He stared at his hands again. The buttons were all wrong, he should start again.

"Dinner's ready," she said.

He tried his fingers again.

"Honey." She knelt on the floor before him. "Derik."

That's right, his name was Derik. He stared at her. He should know her, she looked friendly enough.

She buttoned his shirt for him, then stood and offered her hand. "Let me help you, dear husband."

He looked at her hand. The line on the back of it was so faint he barely noticed. He stared at her gloves, folded on the edge of the bed. He reached forward, but grabbed her sleeved arm instead.

She helped him to the table.

"Honey," she said, "what are you trying to do?"

"Bucket, water, tub."

She helped him unbutton his wet shirt while the water filled the tub. The foamy soap plopped from his hands. She lathered it against her glove. "Let me," she said.

"Soap. Soap. Soap."

She lathered his shoulder.

He giggled, leaning away. "Tickles."

She paused.

It had taken only a few weeks to drift this far away. He forgot her name in the first two weeks, but at least he still tried. He knew he should know, and he talked his way around those words he had forgotten. Now, he mumbled to himself, often forgetting she was there. Sentences were rare. She stiffened her chin and forced a friendly smile to keep from terrifying him.

A simple kiss would waken her prince from this sad spell, much as her offered ungloved hand. She had offered it often, but he remembered enough to just as often refuse.

She could touch him now and he wouldn't notice, but it would be easier to simply sleep without gloves. Or she could just rest her forehead against his ear. It could even look like an accident; he would wake the man she married, like none of this happened. She just couldn't wake up first. She anguished over it almost every night, much as he must have. She could postpone this dance, she could save him, but only for so long. Eventually, it would end like this.

She lathered the other glove.

She stared at Derik from the kitchen. He had been buttoning his shirt for several minutes now. He kept missing one button, would realize it was wrong, but was unable to fix it without undoing them all and starting again. She was busy making lunch, so hadn't tried to help. His hair had turned white. He garbled his words. Spilled his food. Soiled himself, sometimes. Tossed and turned in bed.

She looked at her gloves on the counter. Lacy. Her husband would awaken with a casual kiss, that she promised not to give.

"Sad," he said.

"Yes. It is." She felt the best she had in years, and the worst ever too.

She understood the pain he was feeling, watching a loved one slowly dying, and able to save them. She would have liked to have had the next few years with him, her husband. He was making the wrong choice, this didn't have to be now, but she had made her peace with it being his choice.

She brought him the sandwich. He was startled at first. He seldom recognized her, sometimes he cried a kind of whimper.

Her husband had been gone for over a month, his wife was not. "Honey, it's ok. Just a sandwich. You like this." She took a bite, "Mmmm," then handed it to him. "There you go."

She fixed his buttons.

"You look handsome today."

He coughed, not quite remembering how to swallow correctly. She gave him a peck on the cheek, just enough to get lunch down, but felt guilt for it.

He looked through the notebook again. The words made no sense, but the pictures made him happy to look at.

"That's your daughter, Shela. You remember her," she said while he stared at the page.

He usually lingered on this one. That was a good sign. Or a bad one.

"You drew her a lot." She turned the page for him. "This one is my favorite, there she is sleeping with Mr. Bunny." She turned a few pages. "That's Dawn, her sister and constant companion for years. Do you remember when they caught bugs in the garden with spider webs?"

He tapped the book with both hands.

"Do you need to go, Honey?"

He tapped the book again.

She helped him to the bathroom.

She didn't sleep anymore. She didn't seem to need to. She had slept too much anyway. Winter made everything look so peaceful, pure, and new. He had fallen frail, needed help to stand or get out of bed. Her hands hadn't hurt in months, not a single cramp. Most of winter he hadn't said a word. His silence hurt. She thought of all the un-gloved hands she had offered. She had rationalized that she was offering him a second chance, then a third, fourth, tenth. He would stare, but he never accepted.

Silence. It was peaceful, but difficult to take. He had taken his share of silence when Shela was born. This was simply her turn.

She didn't like taking turns. She wanted her husband back.

Spring gave her the distraction of a garden. It was a blessing to be outside, to nurture life from seeds. This was such a pretty place. She worked the garden by the pond this year. It was part of their normal rotation, but even if it hadn't been, she would have found herself here. The house where her daughter was born had become the bed where her husband would die. Distance helped keep that from her mind.

She enjoyed gardening. She spent most days sitting on their first picnic table. One corner had rotted, bug-shells still stuck in the dulled shine. She could feel the echoes of Shela and Dawn, playing down here. Camping, they called it. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that the slipping of turtles into the water was the sounds of a child's dive, the flops of frogs became the splashes of play.

She had toyed with the idea of sleeping in the cabin, but she slept so seldom anymore. She couldn't abandon him. Not that he would even know.

She looked in on the crawfish. There were no more, not that she wanted some. She had ended the last termite town early this spring. It was just comforting to sit on the edge and watch their echoes through the curious eyes of a child.

She loaded the travois with firewood, then drug it down to the pile she had built near the pond. She took a break to straighten the cabin, when she ran across Derik's old notebooks. She read them at the picnic-table before carrying them home to be joined with his last. She wanted them to be easily found.

She burned Dawn's, written in her madness, then stirred the ashes to ensure it was thoroughly gone.

The cherry trees had started to bloom.

She had made her peace with this as well.

She held the quilt to her face. She could feel her girls stitching each thread. He had made it to spring, Shela's birthday was right around the corner. She looked at the bed. His breathing was labored, he hadn't sat on his own in over a week.

She went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, changed into her nightshirt, then returned to bed. Her folded gloves rested on the windowsill while crickets chirped outside. "It's ok, Honey, I'm here."

He had slipped too far for even her to save. Comfort was all she could offer. She climbed beneath the sheet, her hand on one shoulder, her leg across his lap. She listened to his chest. He wouldn't last much longer.

She winced when her hand touched his cheek.

The crickets chirped louder outside.

His breathing eased. "Husband," he whispered with an exhale.

She kissed him on the cheek and winced again while the squirrels scampered up the trees and barked warnings at each other outside the window. "You don't get to leave my life, without knowing how much joy you brought into it," she whispered near his ear.

His trembling hand calmed as he stared at the rafters. "Shela's a beautiful name, for a beautiful girl."

A tear ran down her cheek, "You don't get to leave my life, without knowing how much I love you."

The crickets fell silent outside the window.
**After...**

They climbed the mountain, following the trickle to the pond. Shela dropped her bag at the cabin as she stared into the garden. It was all, dead. Fully grown, nurtured plants, simply lost the will to live. It was all dead, even the trees had lost their leaves. A horrible feeling crossed over her.

Dawn dropped her bag and ran to the house, a few steps behind her running sister.

Shela tossed open the door, stopped cold at the foot of the bed. Her father looked withered and decades older, decomposed except where they embraced, where he remained as preserved as her mother. Both had been dead for some time. Had it not been for the dust, her mother looked as if she might have just laid down a few minutes ago, to whisper something in his ear.

"No," she said as Dawn stepped inside.

Dawn looked at her sister, the bed, then backed her way into the kitchen. She moved the plates from the table to the sink where she busied herself scrubbing the dishes, then washed her hands before bursting into tears.

Guar stopped at the door, turned outside, then paused before the open window by the bed.

Shela picked up the notebook, still opened to a page. She covered them with the quilt under her bunny, then they carried their parents to the pond, lifted by the sheets off the bed.

They turned the pile of seasoned firewood by the pond into a funeral pyre that burned throughout the night until embers and ash were all that remained. The girls embraced in its blazing light, reading all night from the pages of two lives, they were just starting to know.

[End of book five]

_Daughters of Immortality_

As a turtle splashed into the pond, Shela woke on the warm dirt, notebook clutched in her tired arms. She pushed herself to sit, wiped her eyes, and looked around. Three years worth of firewood had been burned in the last two days, right here at the water's edge. Now it was all reduced to random pockets of flames, lumps of ash, and smoldering embers.

She scanned the center of the pile as she wiped her watering eyes. She would never see her parents again, yet she knew this was what they had both wanted. Her ashes, inseparable from his, scattered and blown across a land Shela had always known as home.

Her sister walked down the path from the house, two more books in her arms.

Shela stood, knowing what her sister brought promised to be just as precious as the hand-bound pages she held.

Parents.

She had known them, lived with them all her life, yet she was just coming to really know them in these last few days through the words her father trapped on just such precious pages. They had had lives too, long before they became simply Mom and Dad.

Dawn handed them over. "I think these are older. Looking through Daddy's pictures, I can't find any with us in them."

Shela sat at the picnic table outside a tiny, weathered cabin, and opened the first book... But she didn't read a word, still lost in thought over everything she'd seen. "I," she looked up from the pages, "I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help but watch them burn. Our parents." She looked down at her father's words as she ran her fingers across the page, the ink as black as the ashes of their remains. "Daddy, he, his hair burnt like paper, his hands disappeared like straw... yet, her hair just danced in the flames like it was a gentle breeze. It wasn't until he was gone, thoroughly gone... but even then, she didn't burn. She just fell into ash, hollowed out, like she just gave up without him." She looked up from the page. "I lived with them, and misunderstood them all my life, I think." She wiped her cheek. "They were... she... He always seemed to be the picture of health, up early in the morning, hauling wood for the fire, gardening. It, it just never occurred to me that he was the fragile one, not her." A tear ran down her cheek. "I never remember a day when he didn't tell her he loved her, and I never remember her ever saying it back. Not ever. But I always knew she loved him. Loved him in things other than words. Felt it every time she looked at him." She wiped her cheek before her tears could smudge the open book. With the best of each of them inside her, she didn't envy the choice she might one day have to make. "Would you give up immortality, for love?"

Dawn sat beside her sister. "Immortality would be the worst kind of curse, without it." She gave her a casual hug. "Mom was sick all the time, she wasn't immortal just because she took longer to burn."

"Was she sick?" Shela looked at the pond they spent every summer in. She thought about all the days their mother spent in bed, while they played right here. It didn't seem so fun and inviting anymore. "Who was Nyin?"

Dawn let go and inched away, hand on her stomach.

Shela flipped open the other book and quickly found a picture of a girl, impaled on the branch of a tree, like someone would do to a deer before dressing it. "You're not the first Dawn or Guar in their life. They met you before. Both of you." She pointed to the distant mountains, "He buried you, right up the—"

Dawn cupped her hands over her ears.

Shela touched a mosquito bite on her sister's arm. "I don't ever remember being bitten. Momma showed me where the beehive was, taught me how to harvest the honey. Said that as long as I didn't want them to sting me, they wouldn't... When they swarmed my head and I panicked, she said to tell them to behave, and mean it in my heart. I swatted at them and yelled it at the top of my lungs, like the words were a magic spell... but it only got worse, until I calmed enough to mean it in my heart... and they behaved. I'd say leave, and they would." She scratched at the itchy welt on her arm, her sister's hardly showed anymore. "Mean it in my heart, like her." She flipped through the pages again. "Half of me thinks we shouldn't be reading this. It's his personal diary, after all. But, she would have burned it if..." She closed it again. "She wanted us to have the choice."

Dawn lowered her hands from her ears.

"Why would you react to a name you've never heard?" Shela asked, but didn't give her sister a chance to answer. "I thought it was a riddle that I just wasn't smart enough to figure out, but Mom told me once that you and Guar were related to me, and her, but not to each other, and not to Dad. Didn't make sense back then." She watched Guar pace on the other side of the pond. "You both always felt like family. Never knew what strangers felt like, until that first trip into town." She ran her fingers through her hair. "I, I just didn't expect them to be dead so soon. She seemed fine last time I saw her. Better than ever, really. Dad never seemed sick a day in his... It just happened so fast." She watched Guar walk their way. He would be with them soon. "Maybe faster is better, in a way."

Dawn frowned, looking at the notes. "I want to read them, but it's just too sad right now. Too soon, I think. I like seeing her, through his eyes. I like seeing that side they hid from us. But it makes all this that much sadder."

Guar opened the door to the tiny cabin, looked inside, closed it, then leaned against the door without going in. "What do we do with all this?" He pressed his forehead against the door. "What do we do?"

Shela shrugged. "Should be plenty left in their account for taxes and such, they always kept a few years ahead. Don't see why we have to do anything, more than what we did. Nobody but us ever visited them, nobody needs to know." She looked uphill toward the house, hidden by so many trees. "I know why they lived here. It's so beautiful, so quiet. Peaceful. Every day spent with each other." She looked down the mountainside toward town, wiped her cheek, and sighed. "Wonder what they would want us to do?"

"Sell it," Guar said.

Dawn leaned away. "And have other people living here!"

"You want to stay and farm it?" Guar said, stepping to the table. "You couldn't wait to get out of here just a few years ago. Threatened to run away more than—"

"But I never would," Dawn said, standing.

"You hardly spend two weeks someplace before you're restless and begging to move on," he poked her shoulder with his finger.

Dawn clenched a fist, hidden from his view.

"Fighting over—" Shela interrupted before the two came to blows.

"We're not fighting," Guar and Dawn yelled.

"Sorry, my mistake," Shela said.

Dawn relaxed her hand and sat, "Sorry, Sis."

"Wanting to sell isn't enough, you have to find someone willing to buy it too. Very few want to live this far from town or this high up the mountain. But selling is good thinking. We should still sort through everything and take what will spoil into town and auction it off," Shela said. "Beyond that, I... None of us has a permanent place to stay, do we? No place to keep sentimental things, other than here. Right?"

Dawn nodded.

Guar sat as he looked out over the withered garden, "At least we don't have to do anything with that mess. Looks like everything's dead, even the weeds. Half the trees near the house look dead, like the land's cursed. Probably couldn't give it away looking like this."

Shela scratched the bite on her arm, "It'll come back next year. It's not dead, just mourning."

Guar stood, "You kidding? That shit's dead, girl. You blind?"

"They're not dead," Shela said without looking, "just gave up the will to keep growing." She put her hand on his, "Like a garden in a dry season, it'll be back to life next year... or the year after that. Sit," she said, pausing as he sat. "I don't know what the law would say, but I doubt us girls would be allowed to inherit land anyway."

Guar stopped slouching as he slowly realized the implications.

But Dawn set him straight, just as quick. "If you think that gives you final say in any of this, you're wrong. I gave you a sound clobbering when we were six, and I'm not above doing it again." She gestured at her sister, "We'll decide what YOU will do."

"Well," Guar said, "I just don't want to stay a week's walk away from town. I like it back there. No gardening, no working a loom for weeks when you want new clothes. Never have to cook your own meals. Always something new to see and do, just around the—"

"We're going to have plenty to do around here for a while," Dawn said, before heading up the path to the house. "Don't worry, Sis, I'll get everything ready." But she stopped, mid-step, circled back, and yanked Guar off the bench, dragging him uphill with her. "We'll get everything ready."

When the two disappeared into the woods, Shela heard Guar complain, "Why doesn't she have to—" then Dawn mumbled something that ended with "adopted."

Shela stacked the books on the table, then looked over the smoldering ashes. Someone had to tend the fire, it desperately needed to be raked into a pile so it could continue to burn, but such things just seemed grizzly right now. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and stared.

Adopted was never a word used around their home, but her brother and sister were technically adopted. Yet, that wasn't the reason why Shela remained behind, vigilant by the pond. Nobody ever treated them like they were adopted. She got no preferential treatment from either of her parents. If anything, Shela did more chores than the rest.

Vigilant.

Vigil.

She was still too connected to the smoldering remains. They were her parents, and she simply couldn't leave. She couldn't leave anymore than she could avoid watching them turn to ash. She hadn't left once since the fire started, and she wouldn't until it burned out. She closed her eyes and listened. She still felt the whispers of them, together in the ash. The words she never heard her mother say, lingered like the smoke in the air.

But it wasn't as loud as before.

When they found their parents dead in bed together, she could feel them, stuck, frozen in that final moment that neither could release.

Her father could see the future at a casual touch, something Shela could also do. But where his was a curse that could easily have driven him mad from his inability to turn it off, Shela's adhered to her will.

To use it, he had to touch someone.

Shela didn't, though touching someone helped focus it.

He couldn't touch someone without being flooded by visions. She could touch without them. She had to try to see them, but when she tried they were just as powerful as his. What he struggled with all his life to master, came naturally to her. But her advantages went beyond that. Unlike him, she had hunches, like an angel was always on her shoulder, keeping her out of trouble. She always knew what she could, and couldn't, get away with.

She looked at the ashes and knew where that angel was.

Telling the future was a powerful advantage to have, but it wasn't all they had given her. That only covered his side of her family. And she was slowly learning, his 'magic' was the weaker of the two. She scratched at the bite that had only moments ago been her sister's alone.

Her father had always seemed the picture of health. But he wasn't. He wasn't long for this world, without her mother.

A fragile man, a frail boy when they met, Shela had heard their stories many times. But now she had context. When her mother's band of refugees arrived at his tribe's gate, her father used his talent of reading futures to talk his elders into letting them stay. He saved her because his visions through her were longer and clearer than through anyone else. He had thought it the hand of destiny, but he saw more with her mother simply because without her, his life was painfully short. He was never to have lived as long as he did, where her mother may well have been immortal.

Her father had three scars down his back, one over his heart. Two out of three were fatal arrow wounds.

Fatal.

But he wasn't the only one with them. Her mother wore them too, in exactly the same places. Like the bite Shela now shared with her sister, her mother shared fatal wounds with her father. Immortal may have been too strong a word, but her mother was clearly not easily killed. A hundred years was well within her reach.

Dead before forty.

She stared at the ashes. Her father looked like a withered old man, but her mother looked in her twenties when they found them. Her mother died trying to save him, one too many times.

He loved the bustle of the village, craved being surrounded by people. She couldn't stand it. Telling futures was a talent for the masses, hers was best reserved for an intimate few. But her parents were more alike than they thought.

Her father couldn't touch someone without being flooded with their futures. Her mother probably couldn't touch someone without healing them either.

Shela had to love them to heal them. She had to mean it in her heart. Much like reading someone, it took effort on Shela's part.

She could have helped her mother keep her father alive. She would have, even knowing the cost... a price her mother just paid.

She had the best of both of them, and so much more. She had the happiest childhood she could ever imagine.

She opened the cabin door, reached inside, and got out a rake.

She would see this through, right to the end.

For them.
**B6.C2**

"Eat something," Dawn said to her sister as it rained outside the window.

"She let all the crawfish go, ended the termite towns," Shela said, laughing a little, "but she left all the dirty laundry and dishes. Even left the plates on the table."

"You know, I remember Daddy doing the dishes the most," Dawn said.

"Wash too," Guar added from the attic where he was still sorting a mountain of items.

"Wash too," Shela repeated. "He used to hold me in his arms as he did it." She looked in the corner at the handmade machine as it jostled its way down the wall on a final load. Dawn folded the last of the dry clothes, in from the line ahead of the storm. "Guess what doesn't fit us should get sold too."

"Milkweed," Guar reminded from the attic, "Dad was always careful to never go in town with anything made of milkweed."

Shela ran her fingers across her expensive cotton shirt. Milkweed was a little more durable and had a softer feel, but she doubted anyone in town would really notice the differences she saw. Even so, it would spell a political nightmare if anyone did. Cotton was a most precious commodity, ruled by the few families that could get it to grow on their lands. And they exhorted a high price for every thread. Milkweed cloth, like theirs, could end that cotton dynasty overnight, and it was difficult to say what a powerful family like that would do to any who challenged their monopoly. Likely they would get crushed like bugs, and with about as much care or thought.

"Score!" Guar yelled, climbing down the ladder with jugs in each arm. "I'd say they have twenty gallons of the good stuff up there. Judging by the dust on it, I doubt they even knew it was here."

Dawn stopped folding long enough to pop off one of the tops and pour a splash in the bottom of a glass. After a casual sniff, she knocked it back, swished for a second, and swallowed. "One of their best. A mix of mint and cloudberry, if I'm not mistaken. No hints of turning—"

"Like you're an expert on wine," Shela said.

"I know what I like," Dawn said, putting the clothes away on the shelf by their parents' empty bed, mattress burned days ago.

"Any of those caramel-dipped Termeat crackers left? Or maybe some sweet-potato-pie chips?" Shela said, pouring herself a glass.

Guar looked frustrated, "Wasn't really looking for that. Thought you two wanted to get the valuable stuff down first. Chips and crackers ain't exactly valuable on anyone's list." He got a mug out for himself.

Dawn covered it with her hand, preventing him from pouring, "You see some, yes or no?"

"No—"

"If I go up there and find—"

"Maybe there's some tucked aw—"

Dawn hid his mug behind her back, "Where?"

He pointed, "By the chimney."

She thumped the mug down, "Was that so hard?"

He started to pour—

But she didn't move her hand. Instead, Dawn glared at him until he climbed the ladder again. She checked the washing machine while he returned with two sacks. "You should have had some of the soup I made last night with this season's jerky. I'm always amazed at how Momma managed to dry and bag all the ingredients to a perfect pot of soup, every time, just add water and heat. Always a crumbly block, never too hard, like a small brick... of croutons... she," Dawn sniffled, "I... she was always such a good kid. So patient."

Shela poured another shot as she paused, and pondered. Every now and then, Dawn had a verbal slip. Most often, she would slip a made-up word into a casual conversation. Other times, it was like just now. The wrong word. Kid. But maybe it wasn't as wrong as she thought.

Perhaps the made-up words weren't made-up either.

It was difficult to tell with Dawn.

Shortly after the rain stopped outside, Shela woke on a mat on the floor. Dawn was under the sheet with her, head on the same pillow. It wasn't unusual at all, they had slept together most of their lives. And even though they had slept in separate beds and rooms for most of their time in town, to have her this close felt natural again.

Comfortable.

She hugged her sister, held her hand, and closed her eyes.

She had never read her sister's future before. Her father had always treated reading futures like an invasion of someone's privacy. It belonged to them and should only be previewed if invited to do so.

Actually, it wasn't strictly true about not reading her sister. She had, by accident, on numerous occasions. Most of which before she learned how to avoid it.

This time, she tried to read as far as she dared.

As far as she knew, Dawn had no powers of her own. She was, outside of a rather brilliant mind that tended toward the occasional obsession, completely ordinary. Attractive, but ordinary there too. Shy around strangers, bold and assertive around people she knew. It seemed odd that Dawn didn't have... something.

But their mother's healing talent stayed hidden from the family for years. To say her sister was without could easily be wrong. It could be just like her mother's and something hidden from view.

The next four weeks unfolded in a flash before her. Nearly identical to memories, it was as if she had already lived her sister's future, and it was now in her past. Four weeks ahead was as difficult to see as four weeks ago was to remember.

To Shela, it felt identical to memories. But for her father it was something else entirely. For him it was a little painful, uncomfortable, very disorienting, and came in a disconnected jumble. He struggled to make sense of it, with the exception of when he read their mother.

Or Shela herself.

She squeezed her sister's hand, kissed her on the cheek, then quietly slid out of bed without waking her. She had seen enough.

Shela had hardly eaten in the last few days. In the middle of the night, after a hard rain, she woke hungry. Starving, actually. She opened a jar of thick tomato juice, poured a glass, and took a healthy gulp before munching on the chips and crackers that Guar got for her last night, but went unopened.

Collard greens, spinach, radishes, onions and peppers were everywhere in this tomato juice, but only added hints of flavor and a dash of color. It had so many other ingredients it should hardly be called tomato juice, just the tomatoes were the most recognizable ingredient, and color.

Guar called it cold tomato soup, but it wasn't.

She paused, mid munch. Maybe it was cold soup, she had helped her mother make it often enough to know. Five gallons of ingredients, slow cooked for days until it broke down into a liquid, no chunks remaining. Traditional soup, cooked into a drink.

She smiled with the next thick gulp. Her mother's favorite breakfast, it was more than a meal, all by itself. They had gallons of it. Delicious to some, revolting to others, it was one of her first memories of childhood.

Dawn and Guar hated it, she and her mother loved it. Her father enjoyed a glass every now and then, but her mother drank it every morning. Delicious and comforting to her, it had no marketable value outside the home. Not like the jugs of alcohol Guar found.

Same with the crackers. A nutritious, but acquired taste, it had little value in town.

Such a pity, too. They had sacks and sacks of chips and crackers, and more dry-roasted acorns than anyone could count. Not to mention stacks of flour and other bags and sacks without labels they had yet to identify. It amounted to a few years worth of food for sure, but it was all too heavy to carry into town, and not very profitable, even if they did.

The family brand of alcohol, on the other hand, was legendary and had a large following at the far-flung restaurants in town.

She looked at her sleeping sister, remembering her future like it was a memory of yesterday. A few fights with Guar stood out, several rainy days came to mind, and a long trip into town dragging a fortune in wine.

But bringing in this much, all at once, drove the price down at auction. A massive effort, wasted.

But not wasted.

She knew better now and would change their future to avoid that fate.

Her father used his talent for the exact same thing. She even knew the winning bids, giving her a good idea of who to approach in town and how much they were already willing to pay, eliminating the percentage the auction house took. She also knew that if they waited two weeks, they got a much better price.

Flooding the market, it was called.

That was probably why her parents had accumulated so much of the stuff. Neither drank more than a few glasses of alcohol a year, if that much, but they made a fresh batch every year as a kind of byproduct of the sauerkraut they enjoyed with almost every meal.

Her father's range with futures was nearly identical to her own. Taking a week or two to walk into town, a few days to do the auction, and a week and some change to come home neared both their limits. But that covered storms, weather, pests and prices, and left a little margin of a few days to make any needed adjustments. Pause at a campsite a few extra hours one morning and they would miss crossing paths with a pack of wolves.

Useful hints in itself.

But if her father knew he was going to get the same price for six jugs as three, he'd save the effort and take in only three, leaving the rest at home. But he wouldn't know to take only three unless they made six to trade. He couldn't foresee the right number to make because it took months to make the jugs.

Her father read her mother nearly every day and had decades of experience using this talent. She didn't. She rarely used hers and needed the practice. It came with clauses and loopholes that let the unexpected sneak in. Wait for a pack of wolves to pass and you changed the fate of the wolves too. That had consequences that often required multiple readings to fully factor in.

As if that wasn't hard enough, markets and politics were weird things to get her head around too. Cotton was prized because it was so difficult to grow. If it flourished everywhere, it'd become almost worthless. But because it was rare and believed irreplaceable, it commanded the highest prices.

Her family wine was the same way.

Since they didn't need the money, they should limit the quantity the same way their parents had.

Yet her mind stumbled with this concept. Shouldn't something have the same value, rare or abundant? A pie was just as good, just as nutritious, if you had a hundred as just the one. And a shirt was no warmer or more comfortable because it cost more. Usefulness should govern value, not artificial rarity.

Without their parents around, they needed to figure out such concepts on their own. And they had to get them right the first time. And if consequences were more than four weeks out, as politically entangled ones tended to be, even a talent as powerful as hers wouldn't see them coming until it was too late.

She rinsed the empty jar, sealed the sacks, brushed her teeth, and returned to her bed on the floor.

Sometimes her dreams solved her problems for her, and she was just tired enough to let them.

Three jugs seemed the perfect number for her parents, and it held true for them as well. A single person could carry three jugs, and that single person would be Guar this time. When she casually read her brother, she confirmed it all.

Guar, being male, was the only one that could access their parents' account. He was the only one the town would accept to manage their parents' affairs. Yet, even with the advantage of being male, disclosing the fate of their parents was still a bad idea. Children, like they still were, were not allowed to inherit property. By law, someone else would be appointed guardianship of them until they turned of age. And honest guardianship was difficult to find. It was doubtful even a powerful seer like herself could find guardians that wouldn't bleed their account to zero by the time Guar was of inheriting age.

Two days later, with a long list of warnings and instructions, Guar left for town, on his own.
**B6.C3**

Shela stood by the pond, her feet encircled by damp ashes. "They're gone," she said. "Really gone. I can't feel them at all." She touched the ashes. "Whatever waits beyond this life, they reached it together."

Dawn, long finished with her inventory of the tiny cabin by the pond, had waded out, hands down in the water.

"I should have felt this happening. I should have been here before it did. I could have helped, somehow."

Dawn flung a catfish onto the shore, "Keep blaming yourself if you want, but Daddy always said he couldn't read Momma, especially if she didn't want to be read." She walked onto land, grabbed a wooden club, and whacked the flopping creature on the head. "I haven't had fresh fish in a year, have you?" She pulled a glass knife from a band under her sock and started carving it up. "Daddy used to fry these into the best burgers in the world." She paused while tossing the guts and the head back into the pond. "Shame we don't have any fresh greens to go with it. I'm starving for some fresh tomatoes, onions... it just won't be the same, but it'll still go good with that loaf you made last night."

Shela walked over and stoked the small fire.

Dawn dropped the first slab of meat into the pan, "What did they feel like, to you?"

Shela closed her eyes to better remember. She crossed her arms, hands on her shoulders. "Like a hug that never let go. Warm, but incredibly sad, like a last goodbye. Sad because it couldn't really last forever. Now, they've let go. Parted or together, I can't tell anymore. Maybe we should have buried them instead of—"

"Someone stacked all the wood here, even arranged the logs to make the hottest fire, and left his notes open to that drawing of a couple being cremated by a pond." She added the other slab, "Couldn't have been clearer if they had left detailed instructions for us."

Shela pushed the flesh around on the pan. "What happens after this? We live, love, and die. But is that it? Is that all? Are hand-written notes all that's left? I love them and miss them so much. It just doesn't seem right that it just ends like this. Shouldn't there be more? What's the point?"

Dawn kissed her sister on the lips, "You're the point. We're the point."

"Who was Nyin?"

Dawn got quiet as she stared at the sizzling pan.

"When they were captured, Nyin broke them out. He helped them escape and got them safely here, where they could live free for the rest of their lives. But Daddy skipped over a part. He wrote about the escape and the long trek up to the top of the mountain, but he left out what happened next. He picks up with Nyin dead, a girl impaled on a tree, and both of them wounded, Momma nearly dead." She rested her hand on Dawn's. "When I was tiny, they told me a story about hummingbirds and how they're—"

"Ancient warriors, reborn, their debt to violence, fulfilled. I remember it too."

Shela remembered her childhood vividly and was sure Dawn had never heard the story. "I've seen hummingbirds, have you?"

Dawn flipped the meat, "Did you bring the bread down with you?"

"I was real young, just a baby really, but I remember them. We had a feeder, right outside the window. I used to watch them every day. Two of them, rain or shine. Never more than two, and never less, dancing in the window for hours. Then they just stopped coming one year."

Dawn looked down at the pan.

"Then we found the two of you."

Dawn poked the meat.

"Will we see them again, if we stay out here? Will hummingbirds find me again?"

Dawn frowned, still looking down, "Momma wasn't an ancient warrior. No debts for her to repay." She checked the meat for crispness.

"It's a few years before Guar is old enough to inherit anything. Maybe we should just stay and see if—"

"Say the myth is true. Say they come back as birds. What then? You ready to give up the next few decades of your life, for what? You think that's what they would want? They pushed us out of the house early, don't you think? Pushed us out into the world so we could stand on our own. Barely teens, and we've been living on our own for the last year or more. They want you in town, meeting people, finding your own path. Not reliving the past."

"I miss them," Shela whispered.

"I do too," Dawn said with a sigh. "But it's the way of things. We should be legally the same as Guar. But girls aren't. We should have had decades more with them, but we don't."

"When we were in town, I felt sorry for them, all alone and stuck up here. No plays to go to, no music just a walk down the street. Nobody ever came to visit them up here. I can't remember a single visitor my entire life, can you? Yet everyone we met seemed to know who Daddy was, but nobody really knew him. Just what he traded every year. The wine and the tea, not the man. Nobody really knew either of them. Like they were outcasts. Unwanted. Unliked... unloved.

I don't feel sorry for them anymore.

I feel sorry for the town, not getting to know them like we did."

Dawn toasted the bread in the pan, "I think they're ready."

They moved to the picnic table. "They liked being left alone. Did I tell you that Momma visited me in town once? She never seemed to get comfortable with being surrounded by so many people, it just upset her." Shela took and chewed a bite. "Can you tell when someone is looking at you?"

Dawn wiped the corner of her lips on her sleeve. "Especially boys."

"If I try, I can feel emotions in the room. Boys looking at girls, angry couples, jealousy... I feel them like conversations people aren't saying. Sometimes every room feels like it's full of boys, all of them staring. Momma had it worse, I suspect.

I felt the two of them being in love, you know. It surrounded their house.

I even felt Daddy's occasional doubts.

But I've never felt that kind of love for myself." Shela paused for another bite. "You ever slept with a boy?"

Dawn swallowed, "Hardly ever sleep alone, you know that."

Shocked, Shela pushed further, "Who?"

"Guar."

Shela shook her head, "No, I mean sleep with someone like Daddy and Momma did."

Dawn dropped her sandwich, "Oh, no then. Kissed you more than any boy. Since we moved away from home, we hadn't stayed in one place long enough to get to know someone like that. You know how I get most of the time around people I don't know."

"In town, I..." She held her sandwich inches off her plate. "I wish Momma was still alive. It's very confusing, you know. It's not just my feelings I have to deal with, I feel how they feel about me. Like a weird emotional mirror, I guess. I look at them and see how they see me. Passion... lust... Such strong feelings, I was never ready for any of it. It's so very easy to get swept up by it all... Swept into someone else's emotions.

She didn't have to guess how Daddy felt about her, it washed over her every minute of every day.

In town, they all feel different, like love's different for everyone, or maybe just nobody had what they had. I wonder what it feels like, when it's new and just beginning. Is it always hungry lust and passion, then fades to a content, comfortable love? Does it start as something else?"

Dawn squinted at her sister, "You've been kissing boys, haven't you!" She giggled shyly as she poked her sister with her knee under the table. "You've been kissing boys!"

Shela punched her sister in the arm, "Shh!! Just one, and just a little at first. I couldn't help myself, the urge was impossible to resist. But, I think the urge was all his. I'm not— It's very confusing when you can feel what they feel too. Momma dealt with it all her life, and I really wanted to ask... But I can't ask her anything any—"

"How far did you go?" Dawn said still rubbing her arm, but leaning in closer.

"We were kissing and, and I don't remember when or how, but he was almost naked and my shirt was—"

"You're so lucky Momma isn't here. She'd take a switch to your backside for sure!"

Shela punched her sister again. "Stop it! Wasn't like it got any further than—"

"'Nother few seconds and it would have, I bet!"

"You've never had to— Hard enough dealing with your own feelings, try adding someone else's to it. Every touch lets it all pour in. Overwhelming is an understatement. Don't know how Momma dealt with it." She thought back to her father's written words. "She never said, but I think they were in love from the very beginning, but Momma was always so careful to keep him at arms' length. I think I know why now. He took her distance as her being mean, cold even. But I don't think that was so. I think she had to, to keep from being overwhelmed by it all."

Dawn leaned forward with a grin, "What's his name?"

"Doesn't— I'm not seeing him anymore, so his name's not—"

"I know him!" she said. "You'd tell me if I didn— It's Mark, isn't it? He was hitting on you something fierce when we built that optical telegraph for his family."

"I don't want to—"

"It was him! I knew you stayed in town for something when Guar and I left to—"

"It's very intoxicating to have someone that's that interested in you."

"Being that handsome don't hurt, I bet. Rich too, cotton bloods."

"Momma even met him. She acted like she liked him, but I had my doubts. But I had doubts even before they met. I think that's what kept me from falling for his charms." She looked up from the plate, fish still in her hands, "Falling all the way, that is."

"What'd you do? You have to tell me, you just have to!"

"Dinner. Dancing, plays. More poker than I wanted, once he found out just how lucky I could be... when I wanted to. Always fun, and nice, but it never seemed like he was the one. I kinda expected that I'd know. Know without a doubt, like how I know the next card in the deck. He never seemed wrong, just not right."

Dawn crunched into her sandwich, chugged some tea, and shrugged. "I don't know, I think I might just have seen where the moment took me. Mark's about the most dashing guy I've ever met."

Shela playfully shoved her sister. "Stop it! You know that's a lie, you'd just sit all tongue-tied. Besides, in a weird, dreamy way, I kinda know. I didn't mean to, but I read him, just before I stopped him... I know what it was like, through his eyes.

Every detail just as vivid as if we had.

Very surreal.

But that wasn't what stopped me. It was visions from days after.

Boys talk about that sort of thing, you know. And never very accurately, it seems. I think that's what stopped me more than anything else, how easily it came to him, to brag, about me.

Like trophy antlers, kept from the kill.

Like the dinners were the ante and I was just another lucky deal in the cards, remembered fondly, but soon to be shuffled back for the next play." She shuddered a little, remembering his unspoken words like it was yesterday. A memory of events that never were. Vivid and real, but only to her. "Maybe all boys are like that, I don't know. Just didn't seem right to me. Didn't seem like something Daddy would ever say."

Dawn opened a sack of chips and dry-roasted green beans to round out the last of her fish. Shela had a lot of eating to do if she planned to catch up.

But they were getting caught up in other ways.

Shela woke in bed with her sister again.

Bathed in the emotions of hormonal boys were one thing, Dawn's were quite another. To be so utterly adored by someone was rare, but something she had become oh so very accustomed to over the years. Dawn had a big, beautiful heart. She hurt over the loss, same as Shela, but Dawn wasn't frozen in the moment. Of her many obsessions, this was not one.

Dawn simply didn't mourn death the same way. Life and death were different for her.

When the rain ended Shela slipped out of bed, middle of the night, and quietly wandered outside, down the path, and stopped at the edge of the pond.

She adjusted her nightshirt as she watched the ripples crisscross the dimly-lit water. It looked so tranquil, calm, and peaceful, like even the fish were asleep. Frogs seemed the only ones still awake. She tossed her shirt on the picnic table and slid in for a swim.

A few minutes later, she emerged naked at the muddy edge of its far side. Squatting, she dipped her hand in and watched the ripples cross, then bounce back from the other side. Ripples were like the memories of her swim, fading into the vastness of the pond.

Her memories didn't fade so fast, but she felt free of the weight, free from her overwhelming sadness.

Washed clean at its other side.

She dipped her hand again, then held her fingers like a bug trying to walk on the water's surface. But physics worked differently for her.

She looked uphill, toward the house, but the darkness concealed all but the outlines of trees. Even in the rippling reflections, she couldn't see the path to the house, but she knew it was there.

When she stood, mud squished up between her toes while she was deep in thought. One of her first memories of her father was of him, carrying her down to this cabin in the middle of winter. Naked, she was tucked under his jacket to keep warm. She had just noticed that her parents wore shirts and pants, and she insisted on being dressed the same. Diapers were not pants.

She had frustrated her father to no end until he gave in, but he didn't get mad at her. She put her hand on her cheek as she remembered more. She remembered his hand being so big that it warmed her entire head as he walked down the snowy path. Inside the cabin by the pond, where all the cloth was kept, he patiently spent hours sewing her a pair of tiny pants and a shirt so she could match the rest of the family.

She wiped the water off her cheek as more dripped from her hair and down her back.

It was almost like he understood her disfunction. She desperately wanted to fit in with the two of them, and she couldn't get past the realization that she was dressed differently.

"Poor Daddy," she whispered. He went out of his way for her that day, but he never once seemed to mind.

She swam toward the cabin, then walked over and went inside. The loom and all its equipment were stowed away, but she remembered them like yesterday. She remembered him taking his time as he sewed, trimmed, hemmed and hemmed again, for his little naked girl who suddenly refused to wear baby clothes.

She remembered the uneven sleeves, the buttons that didn't align with the holes, and the long walk back, cradled in his arms, dressed in her crude miniature clothes. She remembered every day after that, feeling like she once again belonged... because of him and those silent hours of patience he shared, right here, in this tiny room.

So empty now.

She toweled off, dressed, and walked back home.

Shela felt a warmth like the summer sun was pressed to her cheek, but it wasn't light that warmed her.

Dawn kissed her sister again, pressed her forehead to Shela's ear, and smiled. "Morning, sleepy head," Dawn whispered before another kiss. She sniffed her sister's hair. "You went swimming without me," she said. "You could have woken me, I would have gone." She sat on the floor, near Shela's head, fingers picking through Shela's hair. "We should decide if we're going to stay here this winter, before we get snowed in. Figure out how long we plan to be back home. Starting a garden, termites, crawfish, it's a big list of chores that needs constant tending, pending how long we're staying." She crawled back into bed and cuddled her waking sister. "Eventually, we'll have to decide such things. Make a life out here like they had, or what life in town has to offer. We need to decide," she pressed her smile to Shela's cheek, "what Guar is going to do—"

"Before he comes back and decides for himself," Shela finished. "Growing up, I never thought of boys, getting married, or a family of my own. I was so happy, I just wanted to live here forever. A year in town and suddenly I'm not so sure anymore. I love this house, it'll always be home, but it's so tiny now.

When did it get so small?"

Dawn held her a little tighter.

"And I love that pond, I could sit at its edge for hours. I can't imagine growing up without it, or fishing. But it can't be the only pond around. I hate making that hike up this mountain every time we come back from town, and I don't think I like being this far away from everything and everyone.

It has its charms and tranquility, but I think the spell is broken, without those two. It looks so different now. Just cut and stacked wood, ripply glass windows. Just a curtain to give the illusion of a bathroom and privacy."

"Guar will find out from Sally how long before he can inherit. We'll know when he comes back."

Shela didn't have to wait, she knew before Guar left from the last time she read him. "Twenty-one, but nobody in town knows for sure how old we really are, just none of us would ever pass for twenty-one. I'm barely seventeen. Guar can't even grow a mustache yet, if he ever—"

"You seen the hair on his arms and legs? Won't be long, I expect."

"I think we can count on a few years here, but not everybody has to stay. None of us really need to, if we're careful. If I keep cooking in the Inn, I'm sure they'll keep letting me stay for free. I pick up another few days, and I'm sure you and Guar could stay with me. But we could all stay here, too. If we're going to tell Guar to sell it, we should spend some time fixing it up first."

Dawn rolled to her back and stared up at the ceiling. "Found a book of yours, bound by Daddy I expect, full of drawings of butterfly wings and other things." She pointed to a section of the attic. "I didn't realize they kept all those things, but they did. I remember drawing with you by the fire, every winter, and the smell of something cooking, always in the air. Fresh bread almost every day, pies and cakes, pancakes and pizzas. And those huge crawfish dinners every year." She sat up, "Found a few gallons of deer milk and some strawberry pie filling." She smiled, "Milk that old has probably browned and separated, but I bet it'd still make a nice cheesecake."

"That was one of Momma's favorites," Shela said, sitting as well.

"I had a bad dream last night." Dawn fiddled with the bunched sheet on her lap. "A scary, big man, stuck his hand inside Mom, and... and he... he ripped out her heart." She straightened the folds. "I have bad dreams when I sleep alone. I dreamed about drowning all one week, when Guar was away. Something would grab my foot and drag me under the ice, the cold water felt like embers burning in my lungs. Then I'd wake shivering, every time. Took hours to feel warm again, but it always felt like Mom was there, looking out for me."

Shela put her arm around her sister.

"I don't like bad dreams. Some are... Some are more horrible than drowning. Before we ever drew happy pictures together, I had one where someone chased me through a smoky building. When he got close enough, he grabbed an arm and cut off my hand." Dawn scratched at her wrist. "Crawling away, they chopped off an ankle... and much worse. But what scares me most of all is, sometimes, I don't think they're dreams." She leaned into her sister's hug, then got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. "We should make a cheesecake for Mom's birthday. I think she'd like that."

Shela adjusted her nightshirt, smiled, then joined her sister.

Dawn quickly forgot her gloom as they assembled the ingredients on the tiny counter. "Sometimes I dream about flying, like a kite in the air, without a care for strings. I like them the most. Remember when we were little and Momma would fly us on the bed?"

Shela opened the jar of very old milk and gave it a courtesy sniff. "Like it was yesterday." She closed her eyes, arms stretched to her sides, "I can still feel her feet on my stomach as I flew over the bed, staring out the window."

Guar would be mad if he knew they made, and ate, a cake without him. But they had weeks to get rid of the evidence before he got back. Not that a cheesecake ever lasted weeks, it rarely lasted a day.

Good ones didn't last hours.

Shela stopped in the garden nearest the pond. Something had caught her eye as she knelt, then pushed the withered weeds to the side with a crinkle as she dug down, closest to the dirt. A green leaf had broken the trend and was boldly showing some life. She sifted to its sides and found that it wasn't as alone as it seemed.

A closer inspection of the brown leaves on the tree revealed that, out here, furthest from where the two had died, new blooms were starting to bud. She had known that, withered as all the vegetation was, it couldn't all be dead. Besides, it hadn't felt dead, so she knew it would eventually rebound. She just didn't think it would show signs this soon.

But she shouldn't have been surprised. The ground around the gardens were richer than any she had seen in town. Even prime farmland was a distant second to this soil. But that wasn't by chance.

Her parents had spent years turning acres of this poor clay into something suitable to feed a family on. A large percentage of it was literal tons of dried termite poop, enhanced with a special mix of compost including crushed coals from countless fires, acorn shells, and too many fish bones to count, not to mention buckets of sludge from the bottom of the pond. But even more key was a mix of coals and plant fibers her parents perfected that let this ground absorb water like a thirsty towel and keep it at the root level, safe from evaporation.

The tricks and techniques she had learned as a child turned dirt barely fit for weeds into prime farmland, hidden in these mountains. Albeit they had only a few acres this rich, but the skills she learned would work almost anywhere.

She looked around at what her parents had managed to carve from a land nobody wanted. A few years in anyone else's care, and the clay would reclaim these gardens. But for now it was golden, and with a little care it could last forever.

She thought of the termite towns and the crawfish pens, both emptied.

The termites needed feeding and tending every month, the crawfish needed tending every few days... Emptying them meant only one thing. Her mother knew she couldn't save her father. She knew it would be fatal for her to try... and she tried anyway.

She freed the termites and crawfish because it would have been cruel to leave them to starve to death.

Her mother knew, and did it anyway.

Shela pondered the wounds on both her parents' backs. It wasn't the first time her mother tried to heal fatal wounds, without knowing for sure she could, yet fully aware of the consequences.

She had loved him that much, for a very, very long time.

Shela wondered if she would ever find that kind of love in her life.
**B6.C4**

Shela stared out the kitchen window as she finished the last slice of cheesecake that morning, every bit as good as those her mother made. And why shouldn't it be? Four weeks' range was more than enough to know how the cake would come out. A future memory of a cracked, overcooked cheesecake was easily corrected with a more timely removal from the oven in the present; soggy crust was fixed with less water in the mix.

Seeing futures made her an excellent cook with near perfect timing and seasoning. She need only wonder what it would taste like if she added 'this' and she would know seconds later, the memory of the taste fresh in her mouth.

No, this cake was as perfect as she could make it, and as close to her mother's as anyone may ever come.

She ran her finger across the plate and licked the strawberry filling, savoring how its sticky thickness clung to her lip. 'Cheating', her mother would tease her father when he cooked the same way.

She modestly refused to think of herself as a chef for the same reasons her father had, even as good as both their meals always were.

Cheating.

But in town, she told no one of her cheating ways, even as they called her a magician in the kitchen. Often, she had orders half made before the patrons were even shown to their table. She was their only cook to never get a single meal returned to the kitchen. Not ever. And with so many ingredients at her disposal, and such an imagination for flavors and meals, she was always inventing and experimenting with something new, writing it all down for posterity, in the event her talent for cheating ever failed.

She liked cooking, but she loved food.

She sipped dandelion-root coffee, her mother's favorite, as she waited for Dawn to finish in the bathroom.

Coffee had never been one of her favorites, but it was growing on her as she got older.

Like her siblings she preferred the softer, sweeter flavors of green tea they had at their disposal. Mint was a favorite with everyone, but cloudberry was a close second, with strawberry a comforting third and cherry and apple, still excellent flavors, battling it out for last. They had fifty-pound bags of each, most of which were destined for town.

In value per pound, it was second only to alcohol.

But in this house, tea was tops, and they had some with most meals, alcohol being just an occasional indulgence.

"Hey, Sis," Dawn said, resting a hand on Shela's shoulder, "what you thinking, are we staying the winter?"

She shrugged, "This year, I think we all should. Don't you and Guar still have a contract to fulfill with the telegraphs?"

Dawn sat beside her, sipped from Shela's cup, then slid it back. "I love the smell, but I don't get you and Mom. Takes a lot of honey or molasses to make that palatable for me." She licked her lips, then dragged her finger around the empty plate. "One cup all you make?"

"Yeah." She passed the half-empty cup to her sister. "Cheesecake didn't seem right without the smell of coffee in the air. Funny how often smells go with tastes, isn't it?"

Dawn stirred in a spoonful of honey before sipping again, this time with a smile. "I remember the exact wording of our contract. I was careful to keep the timetable as flexible as possible, but mostly out of a consideration for weather at the time. We trained six already, that was all we had to do with that part." She gulped the next. "That and supervise making six more... but that's just over the next four years. Guar and I could supervise six next summer, easy. It's just the walking from site to site that takes the time, but Adora promised we could use a horse her family owns. Old and no good for hauling, it'll still cut the traveling time from weeks to days." She finished the cup, "Besides, the remedy for breach on our end was we had to build two additional units for free, with an additional five years to complete them, or return half the advance they paid us. No big downsides, even worst case." She rested her head on her sister's shoulder, then held her hand. "If you don't want us to stay, Guar and I'll—"

"No," Shela ran her thumb across Dawn's fingers, "that wasn't what I was saying at all. Just, if you needed an excuse, that would have made a good one." She put her arm around her sister as they watched the sun filter through the bare branches outside. "The garden by the pond is showing signs of recovering, but we'll need to rebuild the termite towns if we want to keep it that fertile. I thought we'd see if we'd have any luck digging for queens, just you and me. Maybe see if we could catch some crawfish and restock that too. Momma did it once, guess it's our turn now."

"Sure," Dawn whispered.

With Shela's little talent for hunches, they managed to find hundreds of adult termite queens, complete with their lairs stuffed with eggs, plenty enough of the blind white ants to rebuild the towns near each garden. Even so, it took three solid days and amounted to morning-till-night of digging, hunting, and walking, since all the insects near the house had, unlike plants, actually died.

Without termites, the primary feed for fattening the crawfish, there was no need to catch more of the delicious 'fish' than what they planned to eat.

Shela snapped off the wrist-sized tail, cracked open the shell along the seam, then carefully peeled it off like an unbuttoned shirt in a single piece. The vast majority of the crawfish in the pond were about as thick as her thumb, these two weighed several pounds, each. The benefits of foresight let her find them in a matter of minutes, where others could spend years without finding either.

She knew where to stand, within inches, and when.

Dawn wiped the dripping butter from her chin before dipping another fat chunk into the bowl. "I can't tell you how long it's been since I had one of these," she said, bringing it to her lips. She lightly sucked the drop of butter before slipping the bite in her mouth. "Ohhh," she moaned as three oil lamps lit the room, one of which was at the center of the table, keeping the butter warm.

"Guar is going to be so—"

"Doesn't need to know," Dawn said. "We did plenty of digging and walked over half this— We earned it, damn it!" She dipped another fat chunk in the garlicky butter, "This and then some!"

It wasn't equal to all the walking Guar had done, going to and from town. But it didn't matter. There were plenty of crawfish to be found in the pond. Few this big, but with her talent, they shouldn't be all that difficult to find. "It'll be nice to start farming them again, get them whenever we feel like it." She pressed her power for a week. "Five more this size in the whole pond. Remember when we were kids, never less than a dozen this size or bigger in the pen. Just reach your hand in and get them."

"Nobody in the entire valley has ever had one. Ever. Can you believe that?" Dawn pointed out the window, "Been a month's walk from here, two towns over in Bestoms, and nobody even knew what the word meant, even after drawing them a picture. Termites go unused everywhere." She dipped, then savored a slow chew. "Could build either just about anywhere." She dipped another chunk. "I really feel sorry for everyone in town." She popped in the last morsel, then licked the dripping butter from her palm.

"Never been to Bestoms—"

"Same as anyplace else we've been. They're a little stilted, look down on strangers like us— You'd hate it, but it wasn't much different than here. Clothing stores, a few deer farms, but mostly pigs and turkeys, two cotton barons like here, and the regular crops. No sauerkraut there, either. Some specialty shops, six theaters, where we have just the one. Only one bar though, where we have eight, and uncounted illegal taverns out the backs of homes."

Shela cracked open a claw and sucked out the strands of meat. "Are we brave enough to try to break the cotton dynasty? Do we want to be those people?"

Dawn was reduced to picking through the legs. She leaned in, like disclosing a secret. "We don't have to, I think. Just a few farmers in this valley growing milkweed, and none of them are making cloth. Have them making paper and plastic items from the juice. Once they get established and take off on those ancillary products, milkweed acreage should expand to more than enough to displace cotton in a single year. We can't even go that last step until then." She stopped her picking to ponder as she washed her fingers in the bowl on the table. "We don't need to take that last step at all, really. Getting those strands free from the stalks is no easy step anyway. Without our help, I doubt anyone in town would figure it out. But I've been thinking about that politics thing you keep worrying about. Played right, the milkweed farmers will fight the fight for us. We'd just be supplying them with the machines, the patent licenses that easily turn stalks into soft cloth. We shouldn't really be involved that way, and with the town depending so heavily on those same farmers for most of their food, they should be safe enough and rich enough to withstand any controversy. It'd be suicidal to bite the very hand that feeds them."

Shela reflected on the plan. Dawn had always been better at thinking that way. Often shy around strangers, Dawn could be extremely bold and brilliant, when she needed to be. So much so she seemed like a different person entirely. This was just such an occasion. "Ironic, isn't it? Momma grew milkweed specifically for clothes, all the plastics, paper, and foam pillows and beds came much later, as an afterthought, something to do with all the unwanted milk. Now the unwanted parts are the most desired, and the town will get the inexpensive clothing last." She smiled. "I never would have thought of positioning the farmers like that. But you're right, nobody would be foolish enough to risk starvation over cheaper cloth. They're nearly as powerful as cotton, just in a different way. That's just brilliant."

"Only the biggest farmers had enough land to spare to grow milkweeds for our little experiment. None of them were as rich as cotton barons, but together they're the next best thing to a level playing field." Dawn walked to the kitchen and washed her hands, her right elbow, and her chin. "Damn that's sinfully good, and just as messy." She looked at a table covered in splatters and shells. "Oh! I just had an—"

"Messy bread," Shela said.

Dawn smiled, slicing the loaf. Done right, a slathering of thick molasses caramelized as the bread toasted. And Shela wasn't the only one who had perfected this messy, but delicious treat.

Not as good as sticky buns, but far easier to make.
**B6.C5**

Guar returned and, as predicted, they had years before he, and only he, could inherit his father's land. Girls could own land, just as they could legally enter into contracts, buy, sell, and own any other kind of property. They could not, however, vote or inherit. The only exception was if the girls were the only children of record, and then all the property was held as a dowry until she married or had a son.

As bad as this town was, some had it worse. Under areas once controlled by The Emperor, women couldn't show skin in public, their testimony in court carried 1/3 the weight of a man's, they could be forced or sold into marriage, and they were even forbidden to travel alone, among other things. This town fell far short of fair, but could easily have been far worse.

Guar and Dawn were officially recorded as her biological siblings, fraternal twins a year younger than Shela, which worked against them. It was a convenient lie at the time to avoid complicated adoption rules, but was legal enough now as far as the town was concerned. Since most children were born in homes, not hospitals, and rarely witnessed by anyone other than the mother, a father's word was as much as most ever got. Her seventeenth birthday made Guar sixteen, five years away, and her father's only legal heir.

And even if her father had left a will, Shela couldn't be listed as the only heir. Guar, even if it could be proven that he was adopted, would still inherit it all as the only boy in the family.

The law was the law.

But Guar wasn't like that anyway.

And even if Shela had inherited it all, she'd share, same as they always did. Same as Guar would do. They were brother and sisters, and they had always been family.

Around the world, girls may not get a vote. But here, in her family, they always did. And here, on this mountain, they decided to stay for the next few years. Probably until he was of age.

He was outvoted, two to one. As he had been for most of his life.

"I'm so tired of fish!" Guar said, fishing pole in hand as he stared out into the pond.

"Well, get used to it," Dawn said beside him, her line pitched to the other side of the pond. "We need to put a hurting on the big predators in this little pond. They're wiping out all the little guys and the populations might crash if we can't rebalance it."

"I just don't—"

"Because," Dawn said, tired of the weeklong argument, "all of our lives, we've been feeding them with our excess termites. That took all the pressure off the predators and fattened up the little guys, doubling or tripling the populations. But that all stopped when they died. Since then, it's fish eat fish, and—"

"Then why are we fishing them? Shouldn't we be leaving them alone to build up again?"

Dawn looked frustrated enough to smack him. "The predator fish need thinning. But since some of them have gotten too big to be eaten by anything else in the pond, they're now running it like their own personal smorgasbord. Tiny fish eat a limited amount of plants. Those are food for fewer bigger fish, and those in turn are food for the biggest fish. Right now, too many plants are in the pond, choking it down. That means too many plant-eaters have been eaten by too few big—"

"I get all that, you don't have to spell it out like I'm a child! What I'm saying is the fish in it had been here for hundreds of years before us. Why can't we just leave it alone and let it balance itself? This has got to be the most boring thing I've ever done for three straight months."

"It rebalances by big fish getting huge and nearly obliterating all the small guys until the huge starve to death and the few tiny plant-eaters rebound. That way of rebalancing through population spikes and crashes takes decades to rebound from, if it ever does. This way we take out the problem, the big predators, until the termite towns can catch up next year. Supplemented with termites, that many big fish in this tiny of a pond was sustainable. Without them, it's a collapse nightmare waiting to happen."

Guar threw his pole on the ground, "It passed nightmare on the third damn week. This is excruciatingly boring. Just the stupidest waste of time ever invented! Why don't we just chunk some poison in the damned thing and be done with it!" He pouted off into the woods.

Dawn picked up his pole before returning to her chair. "What the hell is his problem?" she mumbled to herself. "I like fishing." She put her feet up on the footrest, leaned back, adjusted her hat to keep the sun out of her eyes, and tried not to fall asleep again... not that it mattered. She fished just as well in her sleep.

Guar grabbed his pack, a stompstick, and headed for the door.

"Where you going?" Shela asked while she packaged and prepared the last few days of catches.

"Gonna go kill something." He grabbed a pouch of bolts and slung it across his shoulder as he flung open the door. "Thought it'd be best if it wasn't your sister. Deer, rabbit, dogs. I don't much care at this point. So long as it ain't fish."

"Wait a second," she washed her hands. "You know we're supposed to hunt in twos, case something—"

"Yeah yeah yeah, they ain't here. I'll be—"

She caught him by the arm. "That's not the point. Accidents happen all the time. That's what the word means."

He jerked free. "Be fine," he said, storming out.

She followed for a few steps, but wasn't wearing any shoes. It didn't matter anyway. She had read his future when she touched him the last time. He'd spend the next two solid weeks in the woods. Track no less than three deer halfway around the mountain, but would only snag two rabbits and a squirrel for all his trouble.

Except for all the insect bites and a little brush with poison oak, he'd be fine.

Besides, he'd put in enough time.

She watched him get further and further away, until she couldn't see him anymore. "Poor guy, as if one sister wasn't bad enough." She returned inside. Without her father there to defray the situation, two sisters could be rather relentless on the poor boy.

Games requiring two players usually left him sitting out.

Without her dad there for him to talk to, he probably had to pick fights just to get involved in the conversation. She had forgotten how often the boys had talked.

She was sick and tired of fish too, they all were. Had he asked, she could have given him detailed directions to the where and when to find a huge deer just an hour away.

He knew she could.

And he didn't ask.

He didn't want to find something. He wanted to be alone for a while.

And that was fine.

Sad, but fine. She would try to include him more, like their parents did, but she doubted that she'd remember to often enough to make a difference. Her relationship with Dawn came so natural and effortless, but with Guar... Was it because he was a boy?

She checked the dried fish as she crushed it up, packed it into a waterproof bag, then vacuumed it closed and sealed it, just as her parents had taught her. Waterproof would make it last for months, vacuumed would last for years.

A decade or more wouldn't be out of the question.

If only her bond with her brother was so easily kept fresh.

Dawn came in that night with easily forty pounds of headless fish in tow. "Where's Guar?"

Table set, dinner out and ready, Shela took the fish from her sister and got back to work. "Hunting. He'll be back in a couple we—"

"What a wimp! We ought to go pound some—"

"Take it easy on the poor boy." She skinned, then filleted the first into thin strips, collecting bones to the side. "He's got nothing but sisters to talk to all day. Surprised he didn't go nuts before now. Should have seen it coming better than I did."

Dawn washed up and sat at the table. "Soup?" She stirred it with a spoon. "Oh, sweet, you found some veggies! Peas, carrots, potatoes, green beans and deer. Nice. I was looking for these last week. I knew they were up there."

Shela smiled. "Guar's a good kid, you know. Without Dad, he's just got us to talk to. And picking on him is different than talking."

Dawn dropped the spoon. "I don't pi—" she looked down at the table. "Maybe I do. But he should be used to it by now. We spent all last winter traveling toge—"

"You worked with a bunch of boys, training them, and only spent a few weeks alone with each other, I bet." She put another fish on the cutting board. "We've basically double-teamed him the whole time, bossed him around, or plain excluded him. He won't always be the little boy we grew up with."

Dawn traced circles with her spoon in the soup. "I guess." She sampled it again. "Had a dream when I fell asleep, fishing. It was very weird. I dreamed about fishing with a boy by the edge of a pond, and a skunk playing at its shore."

"Ughhh!" Shela moved the strips to another plate, discarded the bones, then started on the next slab. "Remember when they had a problem with them in town? Killed one down by the theater, couldn't walk past that place for a week. Even had to close it down. But I've never seen one up here, have you?"

"Lots of times. I've seen a skunk playing..." Dawn put down the spoon. "No, come to think of it, you're right. I've never seen one this high in the mountains. Very strange dream. It came right over to me and jumped up onto my lap, like a pet." She stirred the soup, counterclockwise this time. "Very strange. I remember how soft its fur was, the tickle of its tongue, and how warm it was on my lap." She returned to eating. "How many more of these big ones you think we need to catch before we can stop?"

Shela washed her hands, then touched her sister's arm. For things like this, reading someone else extended her range and clarity significantly. "Two or three more like today will do it. Knocking them down this early, before they get too far out of balance, is making a huge difference." She calmed, concentrated, then pushed her talent to its limit. At such an extreme it wasn't very clear, mostly hunches and feelings with nothing specific. "Next spring, it'll be fine. It's this winter that's key. When the plants go to sleep, but the predators don't, is when—"

"I know the science of it," Dawn reminded her, focused on the soup.

Shela messed with her sister's hair, "Of course you do." She returned to the kitchen and her cutting board. The strips had to be thin, and every bone, no matter how small, had to be removed. Meticulous and boring, she proceeded on.

Dawn straightened her hair. "Chess tonight?"

Shela didn't much feel up for it tonight. "Sure."

"You can even cheat, if you want."

"I don't have to cheat to beat you, Sis," Shela said. But that was a lie. Dawn was unbeatable otherwise. Barely beatable even when she did cheat, often ending in a frustrating stalemate. She split the fish down the belly and opened it up. "You're not nearly as smart as you think you are."

Dawn rinsed out her bowl at the sink before carving up a fish of her own, shoulder to shoulder with her sister.

Shela woke where her parent's bed had always been, now with their smaller mattress on its huge frame. She stared at the windowsill, a tiny basket woven with pine needles sat in its corner. A tiny plate, barely big enough to be a saucer, was propped beside it. Two hand prints like eyes, it even had little dents for a nose and smile. She remembered making it like it was yesterday. It looked so big to her then, tiny and insignificant now.

As a child, it was just play.

Silly play.

Something to keep her occupied while they made the real plates, bowls, and mugs. But to her mom, it was the most valuable piece in the house.

Her mother never woke early enough, so this was her little sunrise.

Shela never knew. She had never noticed it before.

Not like she did today.

Not from her mother's point of view.

She looked around, but Dawn was already gone. Fishing, most likely.

Shela woke her sister, line already in the water. "Catch any skunks?" she asked.

"Huhhh?" Dawn jerked the rod as she sat up straight. "Oh, no. Got off to too early a morning, I guess." She reeled in the line, bait missing. "Damn it. Might have had better luck catching a skunk."

Shela sat in the chair beside her and baited a hook of her own. "Ever think of having kids of your own?"

Dawn laughed. "With who? I think talking to boys would have to come first. Maybe dating."

Shela flung the line, sending it near the middle of the pond, but still on her side of it. "Don't have to do all that to start thinking about having kids. We visited a lot of families when we were building those towers. Extended families trying to keep in touch. Grandkids talking to grandmothers, relayed ten miles or more away. Kids everywhere.

I think about it sometimes, more now than I ever had before.

The Redgemonds came in every Sunday morning to see their parents and cousins, always bringing their baby. He was just the cutest thing. Those huge eyes and tiny fingers. Absolute wonder and curiosity about everything." She jiggled the line, but knew no fish were near. It simply wasn't time. "When I started dating Mark, I just thought about the moment and how special he made me feel. But after a while, I started trying to imagine what kind of father he would make."

"No point in that, only one out of ten can even get preg—"

"Not what Momma said. Those rules don't apply to us. She said her family was free of the curse."

Dawn jiggled her line, coaxing a nibble. "Hear all sorts of talk like that in town. You seen the guy that sells those creams and potions and stuff that's supposed to cure fertility problems? And you've seen those girls that promise to get pregnant for you, for about the price of a house, selling babies. The preacher that promises to 'lift' the dark cloud about you, if you make big enough donations to his church. They all get their money up front."

"I may not know who I'm supposed to marry, but I know I can have children. I've never felt something so strong in all my life. Two girls." She closed her eyes, "I can almost see their faces, hear their voices, playing in the distance. They sound like us, when we were young."

Dawn scoffed, "Seen you and Daddy do a lot of good guessing, but I've never really believed in all that magic stuff. Could all be luck, if you ask me. Ain't like it hasn't come up wrong before, either."

Shela looked down at her feet. "Well, I believe. I know what I know." She looked at her sister. "You can too, but you won't. You'll choose not to." She touched her sister's hand. "You won't regret it a bit. You'll make a great aunt, and you'll land this catch in the next minute or two."

Dawn shrugged. "Hardly takes any magical insight for that." She sat up straight. "Obviously I'll be a great aunt. And a nibble now, in the hands of an expert like me, means—"

"Catfish, six missing whiskers and a scar on its right side," Shela said, "What's the odds of that being just a lucky guess?"

Frustrated, Dawn jerked the—

But Shela steadied the rod instead. "You trying to cheat a cheater?"

"Fine!" Dawn yelled, straight at the pond, but couldn't leave it at that. "One out of three million, six hundred forty-three thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one, point three, seven, eight, four—"

"Tiny odds, almost impossible, right?"

"Seven, three, three, one, eight... two."

"And what do you think about finding those giant crawfish? What were the odds of doing that, in under an hour, in a pond this size?"

"Fine!" Dawn yelled again, but again couldn't help but do the math, "One out of four million, three hundred—"

"Tiny," Shela finished, letting go of her sister's rod. "Be ready," she added, "and quiet, it'll be soon." She leaned back in her chair. "Scarred, and missing some whiskers."

"Could still be just luck," Dawn muttered.

"Maybe." Shela reeled her line in, ten feet, then jiggled it again. "Maybe I'm better at figuring odds than you. Not the ones that define why not, but those much harder figures that inscribe and refine the how to. When something is a one in a thousand, maybe I'm just better at finding that one than you, or anyone else. Has to be a pattern behind it all. Has to be figurable. Nature. The wind seems totally random, but the rules are rigidly defined. The leaves jostle and fall, landing where those rules tell them to. Nothing is random in the world.

At least, not as random as we're wont to believe."

Dawn jerked the pole and wrestled it in.

"Besides, I either cheated you in chess last night, or I'm really that much smarter than you. Which would you rather believe?"

The scarred catfish flopped on the shore as Dawn rested a foot on its middle, firm grasp on the club, "Damn cheater," she muttered, bashing it twice in the head, on the side missing whiskers.

Shela propped her pack against a tree, then tapped her sister on the shoulder. She pressed her finger to her lips and pointed in the distance. It was a huge deer, clearly a buck, heavily mixed with elk like most in this valley were.

Dawn footed her walking stick, put her other foot high on a knot, and jumped in the air. As the knot slid down its length, the clear shape of bows flowered from its sides. She checked the bolts and cleared the safety while Shela did the same with a stompstick of her own.

Each silently took a different path, converging on the clueless buck from separate sides.

As soon as its head came up, ears perked, the girls unloaded, two bolts streaked from each stick. The buck staggered a single step before collapsing, motionless.

Each girl, neither closer than forty yards, stomped their sticks again. Reloaded in seconds, both waited quietly, from a safe distance, in the event that the massive buck was part possum too.

After five long minutes, they approached to verify the kill.

"Thank you for honoring us with your passage from this world to the next," Shela whispered, her hand giving it a gentle pat on its head, just around the eyes and ears. "It was as quick and painless as we could offer you."

Dawn brought over the rest of their gear as Shela got started skinning the massive animal.

Guar returned, disappointed after a long and fruitless hunt, to the smell of massive steaks frying in the kitchen... but neither girl would let him sit at the table until he showered off first.

Two weeks in the woods was thirteen days too long.
**B6.C6**

Winter came early this year and promised to be longer than most. The termite towns had thrived over the summer, thanks largely to an over-abundance of dead and near-dead vegetation everywhere. They had already buried them in mounds of leaves to keep them warm for months to come. The gardens, green in spots, failed to recover close to the house, though the one by the pond showed enough promise that they planned on planting it next year.

Guar dipped the spoon in the honey jar, then drizzled it over his toast as the snow obscured everything outside. "This ain't nowhere near as sweet as what it was three years ago." He licked off the spoon before setting to work on the toast, "But it still ain't bad."

"I'm not surprised. No flowers, honeysuckle, or—" Dawn said.

"Wasn't asking!" Guar said, "Just making an observation."

Shela slapped a heaping ladle of potatoes on all three plates, then topped each with a fistful of radish sprouts. "Wish we had fresh potatoes," she said sitting at her place. "I'm getting tired of powdered. It's good, but just isn't the same. The garlic and herbs don't seem to stand out like they do with fresh. They seem too bland, no matter how I make it."

Guar sampled. "Taste the same to me."

"You're too picky, Sis," Dawn said, stirring in her sprouts before spearing a chunk of deer on the same fork.

Shela poked at it with her fork, but didn't eat. "Sure would have been nice to have some greens, other than sprouts to go with this." She straightened the potato pile. "Momma always canned enough fresh greens to last through winter. Mustard or collard greens would have made this perfect. Just perfect. But we ate the last of it months ago. No bell peppers, onions." She sighed, fork poised.

Guar shoveled it in with the help of a honey-dripping slab of toast, "Don't worry, I'll help you eat it."

Shela woke, middle of the night, when the toilet flushed. It was quiet enough that she normally would have slept through such a thing. But not tonight for some reason. She watched Guar rummage in the kitchen for a snack.

He was trying to be quiet, but it didn't matter much. She was already awake, and Dawn was soundly asleep.

She slipped out of bed and joined him in the kitchen. She had a hunch what he was rummaging for, and he was nowhere near finding it. Cloudberry jam was unlabeled and behind the dehydrated soup. The jam was perfect for the old, and now dry, cookies she made a few days ago.

She joined him at the table. "Too bad we don't have any milk to go with this."

Guar silently shrugged.

Shela put her arm across his shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. "You know, you're my favorite brother."

He forced what was left of the cookie into his mouth and chewed slowly.

"You are." She pulled him closer and kissed him on the cheek, then ran her hand across his back. "Remember all that swimming we used to do, before Dawn went crazy for a week. We had a lot of fun back then. I know you're feeling left out—"

"I'm fine," he said, leaning out of her touch to slather another cookie.

She ran her fingers through his hair as he leaned back, "Yeah, I know." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "You've been sleeping in a bed of your own almost all of your life. You're the only one of us that's really independent."

"You stayed in town on your own while we were working in Bestoms."

"Just the few months until you two came back. I don't know that that counts." She hugged him again, but this time he didn't resist. Instead, he relaxed into her embrace. "You're about as restless as I've ever seen you. Didn't realize how much time Dad and you spent together. Dawn has a way of occupying all of my moments. Now you're snowed in with two girls. We could have handled the house, we should have let you have that adventure, training and building what's left on the contract. I think you would have liked that more than this."

"Nah." He bit into his fourth, "I don't know what I'm doing with all that."

"Oh, sure you do."

"Nah, I—"

"Bet you could handle building one on your own."

He shrugged, "Maybe, but I don't know what's important and what isn't. That's very different than just following some plans and assembling parts. I'm just not as bright as the two of you."

She kissed him on the cheek, "Could have fooled me." She ran her fingers through his hair again. "How'd you turn out so well? Where'd all that time go? Snowed in for another month at least. I think I'd like to get to know my brother again."

Uncomfortable, he played with the sticky crumbs, trying to push them into a pile big enough to eat.

She smiled in the flickering light of a very dim lamp. "You ever think about taking the mayor up on his offer?"

Guar bolted beyond uncomfortable and straight into embarrassed.

"Some of the girls in that trade are fairly cute. A few are even our age."

"Dad never did when he—"

"He was married, you're not."

He eased a little, distracting himself with another cookie he really didn't want to eat, but nibbled at all the same.

"I was always proud of Daddy for that. That he never did on any of those long trips he took into town." She ran her fingers through his hair again, before touching a kiss on his cheek. "But I'm prouder of you, because you resisted the same, but had nothing to lose." She went back to bed with Dawn.

"NO!" Dawn screamed, arms flailing helplessly as Guar and Shela flung her ten feet out across the knee-deep fresh snow.

Guar lobbed a snowball, reinforced by one from Shela.

"No fair!" Dawn yelled after Guar's had missed, but Shela's managed to connect with her shoulder, despite her dodge. But Dawn was not without an arm of her own. Guar's vision was obscured by a sweeping kick of fluffy snow, while Shela had to dive to the ground to avoid two rapid-fire balls aimed at her head.

Anyone else would have run from two assailants, but not Dawn. She could be shockingly bold, at times.

Distance would have advantaged them and let the double-team continue, so Dawn closed instead. Shela, already down from the dodge, was an easy target. Dawn landed on her sister and shoved her under the snow, then leapt straight for her fleeing brother's legs.

Shoe in hand, Dawn tossed it behind her, grabbed his wrist, slammed her hip into his, and flipped him to the ground, landing atop him and winding him in the process. With a fistful of his hair, she kept his face in the snow. "She's playing you," Dawn whispered in his ear, "You double-teamed me after we double-teamed you. She's played us against each other three times alrea—"

"That tricky little—"

Shela was pounded with snowballs and chased from the house all the way down to the pond, where running in knee-deep snow that long finally exhausted all three.

"I like this little place," Dawn said, staring out the window at the frozen pond. Her bare feet felt a slight draft on the wood floor while her socks and shoes dried by the fire in the tiny cabin.

"It's a shack," Guar said, warming his hands by the flames.

"Can you believe they lived here for years," Shela said, cup of hot tea in her hands. "Just the two of them. I think that was so romantic, and it was even smaller with a tub." She pointed, "That corner, I think."

"I remember spending every winter down here, working with that loom," Dawn said. "We'd stand on the sides, passing the shuttle back and forth."

"I hated that damn thing," Guar said, pacing the few steps to the door. "Day after day after day of the same thing—"

"Story time," Dawn and Shela said, remembering the same events very differently.

"I remember the one about the bunnies with—" Dawn said, excited.

"Remember the one about the fox and—" Shela said, standing.

"Remember the one about the lonely tree—" Dawn said, one step closer to her sister.

"Remember the one—"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Guar said before their excitement couldn't be contained by a room this small. "Stories! Boring damned stor—"

"Boring?" Dawn yelled, "They weren't boring."

"Thought-provoking and insightful," Shela said.

"Whatever," Guar said, "as long as I don't have to sit through the two of you retelling them all." He pointed at each, "Cause if you are, I swear, I'm going back to the house and locking you two out, but I'm tossing a bucket of snow on this fire first."

"There once was this bunny—" Dawn started as Shela began a story of her own, "A prince was cast out one day—" one blocking him from the door while the other blocked him from the fire.

"I swear, I'll do it," he said, each continuing with their own stories, talking over each other, getting louder when he covered his ears, "Please!"

The girls laughed, then kissed him on his cheeks. "Was that so hard," Dawn said, getting out of his way.

Shela ran her fingers through his hair, "Bring down some soup mix, I think we'll eat down here."

"Get it yourself," Guar said, still upset when he opened the door.

Shela caught his hand on the door, "Please," she whispered.

With a begrudging grunt, he was gone.

Soup in the cabin by the pond was cramped for three, but Guar didn't stay very long, leaving long before the sun went down.

But the girls remained. In a way, they were giving the poor boy a break, but more for selfish reasons as they continued to talk.

Reminiscing.

"Remember when I made all those toothbrushes that one year? Hundreds, I think," Dawn said, cup of hot strawberry tea in her hands. "What was I going to do with hundreds?"

"I was so worried about you," Shela said, sitting across from her on the floor.

"I remember spending all day making a dozen molds, yet I couldn't get any of them to do right." Dawn sipped from the cup as it warmed her fingers. "I kept thinking this was the wrong medium and they didn't have the right polymer bonds. When they weren't perfect enough, I'd start over again. And again." She sipped and pondered. "I remember waking with my cheek numbed to the table more than once, but I never remember falling asleep."

"You'd work for days, muttering made-up words like polymer to yourself. You'd stop and stare at something for hours, not moving an inch. I tried to get you to go to bed, and you'd lay down for a minute or two, but you'd mumble to yourself too much to sleep." Shela handed her a blanket she had been keeping on her lap, then got another out of the attic for herself.

"I get stuck, sometimes."

Shela sat beside her, put an arm around her, and tucked them in on the floor, both leaned against the wall beside the dimming fire. "You haven't gotten stuck like that for years."

Dawn held her mug, staring at the ripples inside. "Am I crazy?"

She hugged her sister. "Less now than you were. Crazy," she whispered. "No, not now. Maybe not even then. We're all walking the edge of our own sanity. You're not crazy. You're my favorite sister, you know."

Dawn stared into the cup, like the ripples could calm her restless mind. A mind that too often in her past had raced out of her control.

Shela snuggled in. "I don't worry about you anymore," she said. But she did still worry. Dawn was brighter than Guar, perhaps the brightest girl she would ever know. But Guar was fine alone.

Dawn... well, that had yet to be seen.

She ran across the snow and jumped onto the ice, her wooden skates carving her across its frozen surface with effortless speed. Turning, spinning, and flying across its surface, she seemed to only increase in speed. Arms out to her sides, she lapped the edge, once, twice, three times before dashing to the— Dawn slammed bottom first onto the ice, tumbled twice, then slid off into the snow on the far side, face first.

"You alright?" Shela yelled. Having problems lacing her skates, she hobbled over as fast as she could.

"I'm alright," Dawn said, stumbling to her feet, before collapsing again.

Shela slowly slid across, laces dangling precariously by her ankles, knowing that if she went any faster, she risked a twisted ankle of her own.

Dawn sat on the ground, curled over her knee.

"Told you no jumping, remember?" Shela said, sliding to a stop.

Dawn looked up, tears in her eyes, "I only feel free, going fast and in the air." She rubbed her ankle before being pulled to her feet by her sister. "My timing was off a little. I'll get it right next—"

"No, you'll be staying off that leg for a few weeks, my fast little friend. And that ice won't stay this thick that long. And no matter how much I may love you, I'm not swimming out to get you if you try sneaking out and crack through. Especially after I've already warned you."

Dawn leaned on her the entire way back to the tiny cabin, where after some inspection, the twisted ankle was iced.
**B6.C7**

Shela crawled out of bed as soon as she knew her sister was asleep. She stopped by the fire, added two logs, adjusted their special flue, then shuffled over to Guar's bed and woke him as quietly as she could. "Slide over," she whispered.

Guar didn't budge, "Sleep in your own bed."

Shela sat on the edge of his, "Can't," she whispered. "I'll end up with a sprained ankle by morning, same as Dawn. You don't want two sisters hobbling around, do you?"

He gave her the brush-off gesture, followed by the cold shoulder, but nonetheless turned his back to her and slid to one side, hogging both pillow and sheet.

She climbed in and hugged him from behind. "I told her she'd sprain it if she wasn't careful, but she wouldn't listen—"

"I'm not listening now," he muttered.

She kissed him on the cheek before hugging him tighter, "When was the last time we spent the night together?" She paused while he relinquished the excess blanket. "I remember a few camping trips, but nothing since. It's a pity, I think." She rolled to her back and stared up at the ceiling. "We'll be going our own ways all too soon, and sometimes I feel I don't know you as well as I should."

"I'm sleepy," he grumbled. "That's all you're getting until tomorrow."

Dawn sat at the breakfast table, her fork sliding the pancake around for the fourth lap of her plate.

Shela tapped her on the shoulder, "Eat it before it gets cold."

Guar stabbed it with his fork, folded it over, stabbed it again, and wolfed it down in a single gulp. "Too late."

Dawn tapped her fork on the empty plate, but that was the extent of her protest.

Guar downed the rest of his tea, then dumped his plate in the sink, "I'm going to bring down another sled of firewood from that field way past the oaks. I figure I can get in a couple loads before the sun gets too bright and blinds me."

"I'll help you in a minute," Shela said, taking her time. Eating breakfast, for her, was not a race for the last pancake.

"Don't need it," he said, then threw on a coat, hat, and deerskin boots before he was out the door.

Shela nudged her sister again, "How's the ankle?"

Dawn shrugged.

"Bad dreams?"

Dawn turned the plate ninety degrees, then slid it to the side.

"You can tell me about it, if you want. I'm not mad at you, you know. I told you I couldn't— I fall asleep next to you and I'll wake up with your sprain. Half of it, anyway. That'd be even more unfair to Guar than we've already been." She felt bad enough about it as it was, Dawn easily could have taken last night as a snub, but she also knew enough about the talent Shela shared with her mother to know what was said was true. All it would take was a touch with enough compassion in her heart and Dawn would be weeks closer to healed, but both would be limping. "How is your ankle, by the way?"

Dawn shrugged, still looking down.

"Alright," Shela said, taking the plates to the sink, "We'll be back in a few hours."

Guar and Shela pulled their sleds down the long path toward the house, each loaded with days' worth of seasoned wood. "I think this'll be it for me," Guar said, his overloaded sled crunching the snow as he strained to slide it, even downhill.

"There's at least two months of wood left up there," she said, having a much easier time with her lighter load. "How'd you know it was there? I didn't."

Guar paused as his sled snagged on a slight incline, "While you two were goofing off spending summers by the pond, Dad and I did a lot of cutting all around up here. Most of it was pines that we bled for years before chopping. Those buckets of sap didn't fill themselves, you know."

She stopped beside him, grabbed one of his ropes, and leaned with him as his sled started to move again. "We weren't goofing off down there. We were busy with all that milkweed too. Made hundreds of toothbrushes and combs we sold all across this valley and the next—"

"Making a mold and a little crank box is not exactly months of ten-hours-a-day of hard labor."

She let go of his rope, hand on his shoulder, "We worked the garden ourselves, just the two of us. Guar, we're not in competition with you. There are things that you do much better than either of us. And there are things we do better than you. That's the way with everyone. I couldn't budge a sled as full as yours by myself," she leaned into the straps on hers, "but I'm out here with you now. When we get home, dishes will be done, soup and toasted bread will be minutes away. I've done chores with you for years, you know. It was just the two of us feeding the crawfish pens, remember? Sure, you did more hauling wood with Daddy than either of us girls, but that wasn't the only chore around. And you're not doing it alone right now. Dawn might have come up with those towers, but it takes you by her side to be bold enough to turn it into a small business."

They pulled the sleds the rest of the way down the narrow path to the house.

Shela opened the door to the tiny cabin by the pond. "What are you doing, Hon?"

Dawn kept working at the tiny table, the fire long dead. She paused, shivered a little, then waved her hand over the items, deep in thought like she was studying a chess board, trying to make up her mind on what piece to move next.

"Dawn?" Shela said, frost on the windows, fog with every breath. She walked past her and added kindling to the fire before returning her attention to her sister. Dawn's ankle was swollen, but she continued to stand. "What have you been doing here all day?" She looked over the items on the tiny table.

Dawn waved on, blankly staring.

"Hey," Shela put an arm around her, "it's getting dark outside, you coming home tonight?"

Dawn looked at her own shivering arm, then noticed the crackle from the fire.

"What you building here?"

"Uh," Dawn looked it over, like it was the first time she was seeing it. She inspected each piece before gathering them into a pile. "I'm tired," she whispered.

Shela unfolded the cot by the wall. "Sit with me for a while." When Dawn did, Shela pulled her sister's feet onto her lap. "Do your shoes even fit this anymore?"

Dawn looked around. She didn't remember taking off the one shoe. When had she done it? How long had she been walking around with just one shoe?

"Don't worry, I'll find it for you tomorrow. What is that? What are you trying to make there?"

"Oh," Dawn looked at it again, "I, I was— sprouts, I think."

Shela slid out from under her sister's feet as she stood by the table, inspecting the parts for herself. With some idea of its purpose, she assembled them rather quickly. They looked like pie plates that stacked atop each other into something like a bucket. The one on the top looked big enough to hold several gallons. Tiny floats and valves, much like miniature versions of those she used every day with their sink, were built into the sides of each piece. The top was designed to drip slowly into the one just under it until it filled to a modest half inch, plenty deep to soak some seeds. After a time, it would drain into the plate below it, and so on and so on. Each level soaking for an hour, then remained dry for eight, fully adjustable by a water clock. The large bucket at the top might hold enough water for a week. It need only sit on another bucket to give the bottom somewhere to— "If you set it on the counter, it'll drain into the sink." She turned to her sister, "Very ingenious. Have you tried it out yet?"

Dawn shook no, more interested in the flames.

She plucked it with her fingers, "This is from a mold, right?" She checked under the table where she found dozens of smashed molds. "Always think big, don't you? We have any milkweed latex left?"

Dawn shrugged, then shook no.

"That's alright," she returned to the cot, feet on her lap again. "We'll plant the field by the oaks again. The oaks were far enough from the house to keep their leaves this year." She pondered for a minute, "You know, if we want to encourage farmers to cultivate more milkweeds, we should introduce them to Momma's foam mattresses and pillows. I can't believe how comfortable they are after spending a few years in town on lumpy straw topped with turkey feathers. Takes gallons to make each mattress—"

"Doesn't have to," Dawn whispered as she shaved the frost off the window with the back of her fingernail. "Momma's were almost a foot thick. Change the size of the bubbles and add fibers for strength and increased wear and we could cut it down to a few inches. Change the viscosity of—"

"Viscosity?"

"What's that?"

"You said it, not me," Shela said, "I think you mean thickness."

Dawn turned her attention to inside the tiny room. "Viscosity... viscosity... it's a real word, it means resistance to—"

"Where'd you hear it? Momma's never said anything like—"

"It's a common organic chemistry term."

Shela just stared at her sister. "We should go see that mountain, the one shaved flat in Daddy's drawings. You and I should go, I think it'll help you. He described a cave, as big as a city, filled with ancient machines. Answers were there to be found. We should go one year, when we don't have gardens to tend. See if it holds any answers for you."

Dawn just shook no, looking out the window.

"We should go, it might inspire you. There may even be a library there, like Momma talked about when she was a kid. We should go and see, while we're young and have several years to wait to be of inheriting age." She tossed another log onto the fledgling fire.

The biggest advantage to such a tiny room was it heated quickly.

Shela woke in the chair by the fire, Dawn asleep on the cot. She added another log to the fire and tested the water before dipping two teabags. Dawn was soundly asleep as the sun trickled up from behind the trees and over the shoulder of the mountains looming across the valley. The best views could only be had outside, but even through the rippled window glass, it still took her breath away, every time.

Viscosity.

Dawn said such words with absolute conviction, so much so they felt like real words. What was that other word of hers she used to mumble in her sleep? Sublimation. She'd have to ask what it meant before she forgot.

She warmed her hands, adjusted her blanket, then stared out the window again.

Even with a swollen ankle and torturous levels of exhaustion, Dawn actually seemed happy when she was inventing. The world didn't seem to burden her while she stood at that table in this cold room.

She stared at the automatic sprouter. Why this? Why now?

But slowly she remembered. She had recently complained about having nothing green to go with their meals. Dawn was probably just trying to help.

Once an idea entered Dawn's mind, she found it difficult to let go until it was done.

Out.

Free and in the real world.

Shela had been around that side of her sister before. It was part of what made her brilliant, she never let go of an idea until it was finished. She remembered a story of her mom's, told right in this room while working the loom, about another inventor many centuries ago. Da Vinci, if she remembered right, was inventing something in his lab when the town was overrun by the enemy and buildings were set on fire. But the genius was so engrossed in his work that he didn't think to leave.

Dawn was easily the same way. Adding wood to the fire didn't occur to her, even as she shivered in the cold. If she wasn't finished with a project, she might not leave if the building was burning either.

But oddly, once she completed an invention, and it worked, she would drop it like toilet paper. It ceased to exist again. But while she was constructing it, it was the only thing that was real to her.

Her entire world existed within its many parts.

Her mom was much better at handling this side of her sister, but there wasn't really much that needed handling. She wasn't dangerous, other than to herself. Like a fever, when it passed she tended to just need patience, attention, understanding, and sleep.

But somewhere there was a cure for her sister, a way to calm her restless mind.

A way Dawn could be alone, without falling apart.

Shela sat at the table, a bag of seeds spread out before her. One or two at a time, she sorted them into three piles, picking through endless seeds that looked identical.

"What are you doing?" Dawn said.

Shela slid two dozen to the pile on the left, "These won't sprout no matter what, but they're good for soups and seasonings and such," she plucked and slid seven to the center, "these will sprout, but are defective and won't grow much past that," she plucked two from the mess, "and these, these should be planted. They're very fertile and full of life."

Dawn selected one from each pile and held them close to her eye as Shela sorted on, distinguishing them as easily as if they were different colors. "I don't see nothing special."

"Neither did Mom or Dad, but I—"

"They're identical. You're just screwing with me," she mixed the three. "Pick 'em again."

Shela did with a glance.

"What are you seeing that I'm not?" Dawn said, puzzled and staring at the seeds in hand.

"I guess being a little like Mom leaves me sensitive to when things are healthy, and when they're not. Maybe it's from Dad's lucky hunches. Maybe it's the two mixed together in some weird way, because neither of them could do it." She went back to sorting, faster than before. "They always let me do the sprouting, so maybe I just picked up on—"

"You're noticing something, and it isn't magic," Dawn said, then dug through the leftover lenses they had made years ago for the optical telegraphs so she could get a closer look. By the time Shela had finished sorting the last bag, Dawn had assembled a crude microscope. The imperfect lenses gave the enlarged seeds a ripply bluish-red tint, but it didn't deter her a bit.

She studied them, one at a time, all night while everyone else slept.

When Shela woke in the morning, Dawn was still at the table, staring through lenses at seeds. "Don't worry about it," Shela said, making breakfast at the counter, "it just takes me a few seconds—"

"Shhhh..." Dawn said, holding up a finger. "I think I see what's—"

Shela crunched into the termeat cracker as she looked at the mess on the table, twelve piles now, and growing. "How long did all this take you?"

Dawn loaded another seed, stared through the lens, then spent a few more seconds repositioning it and adjusting the focus. "Not long."

Shela put her hand on her sister's shoulder, "You had any sleep at all?"

Dawn adjusted the seed again.

"Don't fuss over it, it isn't worth all this effort of yours. They're just seeds. If fifty percent aren't healthy, you just put two in every hole. Nobody's going to inspect them this close—"

Dawn looked up, "If I can figure out the science behind this, it'll increase the food from every field—"

"A few gallons of soup an acre. That's not worth this much effort, Sis."

But Dawn was undeterred. "Here," she said, "this glass has two spoons of salt." She dumped in a handful of seeds, stirred, then let it settle. Some floated, the rest sank.

Shela grabbed the glass and immediately saw it for what it was. It separated them as quickly, though a little less accurately, as she could. Though soaking for very long in salt would eventually ruin the healthy seeds, it could be quickly and easily washed off with little harm.

"Your luck may run out one day, and you might want a cookbook for doing this too." Dawn looked up from the lens with a smile, "Can you do this with any seed?"

Shela nodded, but didn't get up. "You're going to clean that off the table before Guar wakes up, right? We're going to have a real breakfast, then you're going to get some sleep, ok?"

"No, this is important for—"

"It'll be just as important when you're rested. You got bags under your eyes and have been on that bad ankle entirely too long again. This is why these things take you twice as long to heal from." Shela checked the auto-sprouter, working perfectly as usual. She hadn't thought about losing her talent and had assumed it would grow stronger as she got older, but maybe it wouldn't. Things rarely worked that way. Dawn was right to take advantage of her cheats now, while another way could still be figured out, just like with writing the cookbooks. "If Momma was alive, she'd make you go to sleep too. She wouldn't accept no—"

"You're not Mom," Dawn said.

"Doesn't mean it isn't what you should do."

"And Momma was always against Daddy cheating."

Shela pointed to her empty bed. "Breakfast, then bed, or I'll never sort any seeds for you ever again."

Dawn pouted, but had the table clean by the time Guar woke and pancakes were served. A shot of wine slipped into Dawn's tea was all it took to knock the little girl out. She'd been up all night, after all.

After two weeks of intense study, Dawn had filled another notebook with sketches of seeds to visually identify the miniscule differences that had such profound implications. To the sides, she devised and charted the most efficient methods of separating and segregating said seeds, with minimal effort. Most were achieved through differing levels of salinity or by thinning with alcohol.

But most importantly, her new obsession had distracted her long enough for her ankle to heal.

She had tried to disprove Shela's 'magic' by finding a way for science to replicate the results. But it didn't disprove anything to Shela. It didn't reveal the trick behind how Shela could do what she did.

But it made Dawn happy for weeks.

The rest didn't matter.
**B6.C8**

Spring seemed to come early, but it wasn't real. Three weeks of warm weather were followed by four of bitter cold. Had they planted, as some in the valley may have, they would have lost the entire crop to a late frost. Instead, they used a second sprouter and a window greenhouse for those four weeks of cold, then transplanted as usual.

It amounted to far more work than simply planting seeds, but it let them add an extra harvest to this year, without planting an extra field.

Gardening was something they knew well.

But none of them liked farming. Truth said, the two gardens they had could not be called a farm. They had seen farms of acres and acres stretching as far as they could see. Their gardens were tiny by comparison.

They had toiled on these plots all of their lives and had tasted a life free from such labors in town. Free from bending over, crawling in the dirt, battling with bugs, pulling weeds, and fending off hungry critters. Chores. None of them wanted to garden this year. They wanted an excuse, like last year, not to plant. They had food left over, but nothing fresh. They could make it another year without lifting a finger, if needed. But wantonly lazy plans like that were unwise.

Their tiny gardens, at full production, could easily feed a family of five or six for two years, making them quite self-sufficient up here. A cluster of oaks, alone, yielded enough acorns in an average year to keep them alive. But a diet of only acorns was only acceptable to a family of squirrels. People needed flavor.

Flavor meant gardens.

And gardens meant hands and knees, hours every day, animal traps, and the return of the very chores they thought they had left behind.

And gardens meant they were tied to the land.

Invested.

Two gardens were a lot of work, but the three of them threw themselves at it, full force, and brought both of them back to life. But it left little time for anything else, a stark contrast to the year before. By the time they got it tamed, middle of summer, they let Guar go into town and finish the contract, on his own. Whether he felt up to it or not.

By the time he got back and winter rolled around, they had replenished most of their stores of fresh food. Chopping wood was next and every bit as exhausting as Guar had made it sound.

Months of monotonous chopping, dropping, and hauling ended with the first snows, late that fall.

Guar and Dawn went hunting this time, while Shela stayed home.

She tended the large keg of sauerkraut, making sure it had aged enough before canning the last batch of the year. The leftover vinegar and cabbage, in turn, would continue to ferment with the leftover pulp from the sugar beets and, if done correctly, would yield their first batch of alcohol.

Technically not a wine, a vodka, or Scotch, it just didn't fit any normal niche as defined by the people in town. They had never made it by themselves before, but it didn't seem all that difficult to her. Since it wasn't exactly like a cake recipe, her talent couldn't see the end of its multi-month aging process. But it seemed simple enough.

Being the chef, her siblings left this batch to her hands.

It seemed simple enough, but her gut was giving her doubts.

She looked over her parents' notes and, for the first time in her life, was unsure of herself.

By the end of winter, it was clear that she wasn't perfect after all. Three batches, not one of them as good as those her parents made. Yet, none of them were horrible either. All three were comparable to anything else they had tasted in town. Just, they all fell far short of the excellence their parents, and the family brand, was known for.

As the last of the snow melted, they readied for a hectic next year.

Perhaps aging it a few years would make it taste better.
**B6.C9**

Shela stared out the window and saw something neither of her siblings saw. But she could often see things looming several weeks away. Especially if they were bad.

And this promised to be very bad.

"We should plant soon," Dawn said, "the sundial says—"

"It's going to be a green year," Shela turned her back to the outside and returned to the table and breakfast. "I promise, it will."

"Haven't seen even a hint of it," Dawn said, spoon of rice and peas poised by her chin for a final cooling blow, "I think your thingy is on the fritz."

Guar speared the last pancake and tried to sop up the syrup left on his plate. "I don't see nothin' neither."

"Well," Shela said, "give it a few weeks and you will. But by then, it'll be too late."

Dawn dug into her bowl and got the last spoonful out, "Doesn't really matter, should still plant something. Green seeds, like Momma did when we were young."

Shela tried to imagine, but knew there was something better. "Milkweed handles green seasons well, and we wouldn't have to tend it as—"

"Yes," Guar said, always ready to do less. "let's do that."

"Mustard greens, spinach, collard greens, lettuce—"

"Lettuce doesn't can or store very well," Shela corrected her sister. "Green foods seldom do. Probably should rest the fields a little. Tend just one of them, leave the bigger for milkweeds. We need the milk to perfect foam—"

"Oh," Dawn said, leaning forward in her chair, "I had an idea for some other—"

"Products to push milkwe—" Shela said.

"Cut it out!" Guar said, pointing at both, "I hate when you two talk over each other."

Dawn quickly calculated the size of the field needed to carry out her most ambitious plans. They then did a quick inventory of the few empty jars and jugs they had left to fill after the bumper crop of last year. They could get by with a tiny fraction of their smaller garden next to the house. Three teens ate far less than three teens and two adults.

"Ok, what's your theory, then," Shela said, middle of termite town.

"Well," Dawn removed the top half of the closest one, covered the bottom half with a plate, then held the top over a bucket of water as Shela attached the baffle and started filling it with smoke, "it isn't magic—"

"Yeah yeah yeah, you don't believe in it," Shela rolled her eyes, knowing something very different from personal experience. "If it ain't magic, then what is it?"

"Well, it turns green in reaction to something, most likely sun related. The sun seems like the only logical power source strong enough to do something like that." Dawn watched the water fill with drowning white ants. "These guys thrived right through it, maybe being shielded by the dirt—"

"Potatoes handle green years fine, but onions and radishes don't. They mutate like crazy, and carrots often look like orange spaghetti, dirt doesn't shield them at all."

Dawn looked pissed, "Potatoes from seeds mutate too, just those cloned from eyes survive unscathed." She cleaned out the top, repacked it with twigs and dry stalks, then replaced it on the termite house as they progressed to the next. "No, it has to do with the sun, I think. I can figure it out, just like your little trick with the seeds. It'll just take more studying."

Shela pressed the baffle to the next one as Dawn harvested its termites. "Sure sure, it's just a trick that even I don't know the secret to."

Dawn pondered as the termites drowned themselves, fleeing from the smoke. "I could probably make some lenses and capture a good image of the sun— Sunspot cycles are every ten years or so, that probably synchronizes with green years in some way. Might be something simple like gamma-rays or microwaves or UV or plasma bursts."

Shela wasn't distracted by the made-up words. "But how did I know a month ahead of time?"

"You noticed something that I haven't, yet. That's all. Just like with the seeds. But I will figure it out, I promise."

"Hey, Sis," Shela said, "we should go to that mountain, see if we can find what secrets it holds. Daddy wrote about it being a hollow mountain filled with ancient relics of the past. It might have the very answers you're looking for. I've never seen relics, other than some old pots, pans, and rugs sold at auctions after people died. I think we should go this year. In a green year when most of our garden is milkweeds, for once, and it doesn't take all three of us to tend it. It'll be years before we'll have a chance like this again. A decade if you're right about the sun cycles."

They moved on to the next, and next, and next until they had harvested a few pounds of termites to feed the rebounding crawfish pens.

At full production they could easily harvest tons of termites from every acre, even in lean years, often like this, a few pounds at a time. But since termites weren't as delicious as crawfish, or any other kind of fish for that matter, it was most often used as food for something even tastier.

Termites and fish were their safety net. No matter how bad things got, they could always live off of termites and fish.

A few days later, Guar left to take another load of wine and tea into town, and delivered a notebook from Dawn to their friend, Sally.

Dawn sliced the mutated hip-high stalks low to the ground as she slung the sickle side to side, cutting a path through the field under the oaks. Behind her, Shela gathered the milkweed stalks and piled them on the travois for the long haul back to the cabin.

It took most of the morning to carve away the tiny field and move it all to the cabin, but they hurried it all in before the sun got too high, so they could do the rest in the shade.

Shela fed the stalks into the device as Dawn worked the pedals. Milk dripped down the rollers and into the bucket as the crushed fibers fell into the pile behind Dawn's latest improvement on the old machine their parents used.

For one, it was much faster.

And easier.

But then, Dawn had always had an eye for improving machines.

Before Guar returned, they even had time to fill every empty jar with fresh, though imperfect, greens, and dried and bagged the rest of the harvest to flavor soups and other meals.

When he opened the door, most of the hard work was already done.

"Any news from Sally?" Dawn asked as Guar sat at the table.

He pointed to the bag he had tossed on the floor when he came in. "Gave me a paper of something. Looked boring, so I didn't read it. Got any crawfish?"

"Nothing big," Shela said, "Takes a few years to fatten them up, even gorged on termites."

"Huh," Guar said. "Seemed to me it only took a year."

Shela smiled as she dug the papers out, "Momma had that pen for years before we took it over." She flipped it open to the dog-eared page, "Sally printed it," she said to Dawn, now looking over her shoulder. "Looks good." She handed it off while she read the handwritten note. "Said she was going to do the recipes as a separate book, but tease it in the paper with one recipe every month."

"Cool," Dawn whispered, flipping through the rest of the notes. "She ran the reminder of what green foods to plant. Maybe the town won't be hit that bad this year."

"Her fledgling termite farm is thriving too."

Guar smothered the potatoes with gravy, then sliced into his steak. "Oh my, I love these potatoes!"

Shela smiled, "Thought you might."

He probed it with the fork, a task much harder now that it was covered in gravy. "What's in it?"

"Red skinned potatoes with little chunks of sweet potato, finely shredded mustard and collard greens, dried tomatoes, garlic, and some re-hydrated sweet onions, fried before they were stirred in." She patted him on the shoulder as she passed behind his chair, "Eat it up, boy, it's good for ya." She returned to the kitchen to finish the dessert. "When you get settled in, I think Dawn and I will go see what we can find on that mountain. It'll take a few months to get there and back, so, we should leave in a week or less, or risk snow coming home."

Dawn put down the paper. "I don't want to go see some gerumpel on a mountain."

"Gerumpel?" Shela said.

Dawn looked puzzled, "What's that?"

"You said it first."

"NuUh."

"Yeah, you did," Shela said, turning to Guar as he ground his way through his second helping of potatoes.

"Ya' did, Sis," Guar said between hurried swallows.

"I'm nineteen," Shela said, "it's a green year, the attic is full of food, and we've got nothing in the fields except milkweed. I want to go, I think there's something there for us that needs seeing. Something that will help un-gerumpel your head." She walked over and put a hand on Dawn's shoulder, with a little contact she could be powerfully persuasive. "I'm going. I shouldn't go alone, but I will, if I have to. It's the only mystery of their lives I don't know. It's an adventure I want before I can't have them anymore. Stay here with Guar, if you want—"

"She's going with you," Guar said, well into his third helping. This time he was eating straight out of the serving bowl.
**B6.C10**

It took nearly a month of trekking through the thick vegetation across the valley to get to the foot of the mountain in question, barely within sight of the house proved nearly out of reach by foot. It was perhaps the biggest and tallest mountain in the region, but it stood out for other reasons. Unlike the rest, its top was shaved flat. Even now, they could see the rubble pile spilled down one side. Everything from boulders to gravel littered in an endless line, pushed over from the top without any effort to make it look like anything but garbage. There was a spot near the base where trees and grass refused to grow, like a large pond of death had spilled from inside.

Or it leaked concentrated evil.

But inches away, where they stood, plants flowered and bloomed.

They camped at its foot that night, on the side where plants still thrived.

Shela stood her travois against the thickest tree, walked up its back like a ladder, secured its top to the strong trunk, hooked a strap as high up as she could reach, then winched its feet off the ground until its long length was level.

Within minutes, Dawn joined her up there as they set up the built-in tent and prepared for bed. "I don't want— Let's go back," Dawn said, fishing for some termeat crackers. "This place creeps me out. Eerie, like a grave no one visits, for a reason."

But Shela was undeterred. "It took weeks to get here, and it'll just take till tomorrow night to reach the top. Can't come this close and just turn away at the last step. Aren't you at least a little interested in seeing ruined relics from hundreds of years ago? This place was once something special, you know. Daddy described it as a hollowed-out mountain. How many of them could there be in the world? When will we ever get a chance like this again?"

Dawn pointed to the distance, easily visible from the tree. "It's leaking death."

Shela smiled, "Eerie... That's a little like believing in magic, isn't it?"

Dawn slapped her sister on the knee, "I believe in eerie alright. This is—"

"Whatever happened here was over long ago." She paused as she took a cracker from her sister. "Maybe it's too eerie for you." She read her sister's future, just to be sure. "You need to go, Sis. You do. You need to face your fears, face this place and its past that keeps tripping you, so you can put it behind you where it belongs. It's perfectly safe, here. It's been abandoned for hundreds of years. Just don't drink anything but rainwater and we'll be fine." She ran her hand across the two inches of foam beneath them. "I think you've really mastered this stuff. Used less than a half-gallon of latex, soft on the top, firm underneath. I think it's just as comfortable as our bed."

Dawn smiled as the sun went down outside the tent. "I think I got the polymer bonds right this time." She stretched out beside her as they both laid down for the night.

"We've got a long day tomorrow. It's even steeper than at home. Daddy wrote about it taking a week to come down it, but he had to go slow because of Mom. We'll make it in a day, for sure. But it'll be a horrific workout. I know I should just close my eyes and go to sleep..." she yawned, "just can't seem to. This is like the missing chapter."

Dawn wasn't tired either, but yawned anyway. "Not missing. Intentionally left out."

The steady march uphill was the most strenuous either had ever endured. There was an easier path to the top, but it was much longer and would have added days to their travels.

And as difficult as it was, it could easily have been worse. Her hunches seemed infallible, and every tiny adjustment away from thickets, thorns, and wrong turns made it that much easier.

They broke over the top of the mountain just in time to see the sun setting in the distance, a green haze creeping in as the ball of fire receded into the horizon.

"Would you look at that?" Shela said, taking in the view. She dropped her gear as she ran to the edge, closest to their house. "Right over there," she pointed, "You can almost see the pond. A hint of it, anyway, flickering shimmers from the ripples on the water. Just a tiny little hint. I bet we'll see where every house in the valley is tonight, like fireflies scattered across a field."

But Dawn wasn't listening, she was staring at a lonely tree, standing tall next to a pile of rubble. The brick remains still retained a corner of a fallen wall. Outlining the fall of a once great society.

Shela returned, knowing, for once, what her brilliant sister didn't know. "Daddy drew that rubbled corner out of memory, but I recognize it. And the tree." She looked around, then walked over to a suspicious lump. When she kicked at the dirt, a hand popped out. She jumped back out of reflex. The hand looked like it might move at any moment, but hadn't for decades. She bent down to touch it.

Cold.

Dead.

But she couldn't help but make the comparison. This body was just like her mother's. Lifeless, covered in dust, but perfectly preserved, like it was waiting, caught between the seconds of time. Like a last drop at the lip of a cup, refusing to fall.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

There was something huge her parents didn't tell her about what happened here, and that something seemed to have everything to do with her sister, and the man attached to this hand.

Dawn touched the tree, then stepped back and held her stomach.

Shela was tempted to voice the thoughts swimming in her head and bombard her sister with endless questions until the answers came flooding from her. But she didn't. "We'll lose the sun soon," she said, kicking dirt over the find. "Let's put up the tent..." She looked at the tree Dawn seemed mesmerized by. If it was what she suspected, putting the tent there would be beyond cruel, but there wasn't another suitable tree around. She listened for her hunches that had never steered her wrong. "We'll be safe on the ground tonight. No dogs. Let's stack those blocks to get it off the dirt."

That seemed to break Dawn's spell. She walked away from the tree and rearranged the blocks while Shela dragged over the travois and went through their stuff.

Shela lit one of the oil lamps as the sun faded behind the distant mountains, "We've got a few hours before the clouds roll in. Enough time to scrounge some firewood, I think. But it'll be tight."

They headed in separate directions, Dawn taking their only hatchet with her.

The fire was small, but very comforting as the girls sat on the travois like it was a couch in front of it.

"They were here, before I was born," Shela said, dried fish in hand. She pointed, "Over there, miles and miles away, through some of the toughest terrain imaginable, is the army that imprisoned them. The one place in the world where they could meet the man that broke them out. Nyin. Dad was very careful in describing him. A big man, young looking, that claimed to be very old. He described the breakout in vivid detail, of a man getting pelted with arrows and axes, and shrugging them off like so many drops of rain, while carrying Mom in one hand as he ran." She chewed another chunk. "But right here, he died. Was killed." She glanced at the mound, "But Daddy left out how. How does a man that could outrun a horse, was impervious to arrows and blades, that couldn't be stopped by dozens of soldiers, by an entire army, die here, with Mom, Dad, and a little girl? It doesn't make sense to me."

Dawn sat quietly, staring at the tree.

Shela pulled her sister into a hug, "I love you, you know. You've been my best friend for as long as you've been my sister. But I've always felt there was a piece missing from you. I think it's here. I think Nyin thought that, too."

Dawn held her stomach as she looked down.

"Don't worry, nothing bad is going to happen. It's actually going to be pretty uneventful. Fascinating, but uneventful."

"Let's go home," Dawn mumbled.

"I love you, Sis. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. The only thing that's left here, is answers."

That morning they woke with the sun to a view breathtaking enough, all by itself, to have been worth the last month of effort.

The glow of the sky was reflected in the fall leaves of the valley, all covered in the blue haze of a thin morning fog.

"I want to walk through the biggest museum of relics the world doesn't know exists, untouched for hundreds of years," Shela said after a breakfast of crackers. "I brought two lamps and a month's worth of oil, and I plan on seeing it all." She stood and wandered in a small circle, arm outstretched. She shook no, no again, still no— She smiled when her hunch tugged her in one direction. "He wrote about going down a flight of stairs that seemed endless." She made her way to a small pile of rubble. "Awesome," she said, jumping by the hole to the steps.

Dawn grabbed a stompstick and their pack of food as the two started their descent.

The stairwell was littered with rubble and a glass, thinner than eggshells, that crunched under their feet. Every few flights, they came to a heavy metal door, bashed in and folded to the side like it had been made of paper and was as light as leaves.

Shela stopped at the third such door they passed, different than the others. It opened to a corridor. "Where does this go?" she said aloud, her lamp, suitable for reading in the house, only lit a dozen feet into the hall. A hall that seemed as endless as the steps.

"Munitions lab, harvester and tower parts storage," Dawn whispered.

Shela stepped inside, scanned the walls, then returned to the stairs. "Where do you see that?"

Dawn hesitated, "It's on the door."

Shela inspected the crumpled metal. It retained dozens of knuckle imprints and those of a barefooted heel. She put her fist in one, but the impression dwarfed her palm. She had only seen one hand that big, and that was just recently. She pressed it with her hand, but it seemed the most solid, cold, unyielding thing she had ever touched. "I don't see anything written on it."

Dawn pointed with the toe of her shoe to a cryptic number, written in blocky black paint. 'ML1 HPS CTPS 200'

"Harvester sounds interesting, let's take a look at that." Shela headed down the hall. Dawn, hesitant to follow, eventually did, as she was even more reluctant to be left alone.

They walked for minutes, exploring down each hall, stopping to test each of the dozens of doors. Some on the left, others on the right, they were all metal, locked, and rusted shut.

None budged.

No windows to offer looks inside.

All with cryptic numbers and letters instead of useful words.

While Shela struggled in vain to force open one door, Dawn placed her hand on a tiny square of glass, then punched some numbers into a keypad. But nothing happened.

"What's that?" Shela asked, but Dawn had spaced again. There was an outline of a hand etched into the glass, right where Dawn's palm had been. Shela stared at her palm, then that of her sister. "Huh, the lines are different. Maybe it's like those palm readers in town that read people's future, often for a small fortune. What's 0-9 for, some sort of code or something? That's one hell of a lock, if that's how it's opened. I've only ever seen those like we have on our door, just complicated enough to keep critters out." She picked at the glass with the tip of her knife until the blade broke without gaining her access to what lay behind. With nothing to lose, Shela smashed the tiny piece of glass, only to find a maze of string and other strange pieces of colorful crumbs behind it. "How can you read a palm with rubber string?"

"Circuit board and wires," Dawn whispered, turning away. "We can't get into any of these," she gestured at the battered door in the stairwell, "without doing that."

Frustrated, Shela smacked the door with her hand. "Momma made a bag of black powder one time, I even have a small handful in my pack. They're all pea-sized and sealed in wax for starting fires, but I've seen some of hers that explode. We could come back with some of that, it might have a kick that strong."

"Might be something like that here," Dawn whispered, then walked off down the hall to the stairs.

They continued exploring down to the next level, where another corridor was kicked open for them, and again they walked another maze of halls filled with rusted doors, frozen in time. Same cryptic letters and numbers hiding what lay behind.

They reached the bottom of the stairs well past lunch, not that they could tell time this far underground. They knew it was lunchtime by the rumbles in their stomachs. Eating on the steps wasn't much fun and far less comfortable than the foam of the travois. In fact, though still interesting, her little adventure wasn't turning out as Shela planned.

Hundreds of locked doors only deepened the very mystery she had come here to solve. Shela watched her sister eat the same crackers they had been eating for weeks, and knew that this trip had not been in vain. Dawn was remembering things. Words from cryptic letters, "wires", "circuit boards", a palm pad and codes. She was remembering. With luck, Dawn would remember enough to make this all worth the effort.

"You and Guar are related to Momma and me, but not to each other," Shela said, "and not to Dad." She chewed some dried catfish. "It all ties like a knot to what happened here. Nyin came here for a reason. He wanted Daddy to help him find something he had lost, here."

"It isn't here," Dawn whispered, "never was."

When they finished eating, they followed the broken doors to a massive chamber, partially lit from the outside through a hole in the ceiling big enough to drop a house through.

"Wow," Shela said in a chamber easily big enough to hold every building in town. "Daddy described it as big, but that left a lot out. Look at all this stuff!" She walked to the nearest hulk. Its sleek lines and aerodynamic curves were unmistakable. "Airplanes." She ran her fingers over the holes ripped in it. No, they weren't exactly ripped, this was something different. She held the lamp as close as she could get it. Splatter marks, like it had exploded? Vaporized? She climbed her way up the side, but was thwarted by the clear bubble on top.

She held her lamp to the glass and looked inside. Gauges, switches and complicated knobs were everywhere around a single chair, the throne of the great machine. Standing atop it, she had a much better lay of the land and saw a few that were more inviting, their glass windows open. She climbed down and dragged Dawn to the nearest open one.

Sitting in its seat, Shela pointed at instruments. "What's this?"

"Altimeter," Dawn whispered, the rotted rubber disintegrating into dust under her touch. "Artificial horizon, HUD, accelerometer—"

"How are you reading that?" Shela said, looking at all the weird, sometimes backward letters.

Dawn paused for a moment, not sure herself. "It's a Flogger, and they're written in Russian," she whispered, then climbed down and walked away.

Shela went after her, but kept a few steps back. She watched as Dawn wandered from plane to plane like she was sleepwalking, caught in a dream. She stopped in the far corner where there were rows of machines, each as big as their cabin, dozens of tables, tools, and parts on shelves and hundreds of boxes everywhere.

Dawn walked to the first table and started sorting the few items not rusted into its surface.

Shela inspected the shelves. Most were rusted into a blob, but some seemed immune. "What's SS?"

"Stainless steel," Dawn whispered without a pause.

"Titanium," Shela pronounced slowly, finding parts with that label even more pristine.

Dawn returned what she sorted to the shelves where they belonged, then stood in front of one of the giant machines, long rusted into a solid mass.

Shela walked to a little room in the middle of the floor. Room seemed like the wrong word. In the middle of such a cavernous space, it looked tiny. But it was bigger than their cabin by the pond, just not by much. The only difference was it wasn't built to withstand the weather. And unlike the other doors she had seen that day, this one was different. This was different. It had windows.

Shela put on her gloves, picked up a heavy metal slug from the parts bin, and ran for the door.

The slug slammed into its center and bounced to the floor with a clatter.

Damaged, the door had nonetheless survived the blow.

Shela struggled to lift the slug to her lap, staggered to stand, took two wobbly steps backward before making a second charge. The door survived unscathed this time, as her target was inches to its side. A wired window of shattered glass held firm to its frame, but was weakened far faster than the deceptively strong door.

It survived two more blows before flopping from the frame to become a crinkled sheet inside the room. Shela crawled through, lamp in hand. "What's all this stuff?" She rummaged the desk, then looked at the walls. "Massachusett's Institute of Technology," she read, "Who is Massachusett?"

Dawn climbed through the window, sledgehammer in hand.

"Massachusett?"

Dawn picked a spot on the wall and bashed through it with ease. "Doors and windows are usually hardened, but walls are often overlooked. Thin as paper." She had opened a hole into the next room within seconds.

"We could use that hammer on all those other doors," Shela said, following her through.

"They're too solid. Would take all day to—"

"What about the wall around them?"

"Solid block or concrete, most of them," Dawn whispered. She dropped the hammer on the floor as she looked over the room. A filing cabinet stood by the door, a coffee pot sat on its top. Everything was hauntingly familiar, and, at the same time, she knew she had never seen any of it before. She pulled a pry bar from the belt on her waist and opened the top drawer at the desk. Pencils, pens, notebooks, and a calculator. She pressed the on button and a "C.C" appeared on the screen. Solar powered, she held the lamp closer and played with the other buttons. It seemed to work with only two digits having bad elements.

Shela played with it next. "This is amazing. It does math as fast as you do, but doesn't get that look on its face. And it's so tiny and thin." She entered another problem before turning it upside down. "How does something like this work? Strings like the palm pad?" She shook it by her ear. "It sounds empty."

Dawn pressed the power button on the desktop, without a reaction. The expected lifespan of the old monitor had been exceeded centuries ago, as had the calculator. But the calculator had far fewer interdependent components to corrode and fail. She ran her finger across its brittle plastic, which cracked into sand under even her slight pressure. "Runs on electricity, same as this." She looked around, "Same as everything did, once."

Shela remembered that word. "Like lightning?" She typed at the calculator again. "Tamed lightning is doing this? That's a very strange concept, who would ever have dreamt such a thing?"

Dawn closed her eyes, but couldn't stop the answer. "Benjamin Franklin," Dawn whispered, "but he used a kite and a string." She sat, hands in her lap. "Remember when Momma— When I... when I nearly killed myself. I used a hot air balloon and a spool of salty string to aim a bolt at the kiln by the pond."

"I wondered what destroyed that. I thought it just—"

"I did it." She hung her head low with the flickers of the flame. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, it was an accident. I didn't think it all the way out. The thunder cracked all the windows in the cabin, sent glass everywhere. I still remember that look of terror on her face, blood in Momma's hair from running through the hail." She looked up. "The idea just stayed stuck in my head. It wouldn't leave me alone," she looked down, "until I got it out. Until I found out if it would work."

Shela squatted beside her sister. "You've been here before. You knew where this hammer and that bar were, and where all those parts on the table went. You knew how to turn that math thing on, and what those words in the funny letters meant. You're stuck in a past that's buried down here." She stood and looked around, "You killed the kiln trying to remember something that's sitting right here, an echo from long ago." She watched Dawn bury her head on the desk, she was pushing too hard. Perhaps this was too much, too fast. She pried open the filing cabinet and started reading the tabs. "These sound like names." She pulled one out. "These are personnel reports and work orders. They repaired planes here? That must be why so many are damaged and filled with holes."

Dawn pointed to scorch marks and tiny holes along the wall, near the ceiling, "Not all of them."

Since most of the files were dry and referred to people and planes she didn't recognize, she went to another drawer. "These look like drawings of some sort." She tossed one to the table for Dawn, as she studied what remained. "I was expecting stuff that was much simpler to understand, gears, levers, belts, things that I could follow. These seem needlessly complex and overly convoluted. I don't think there's anything in them for me." She kept looking, all the same. "These papers held up well down here, especially inside these cabinets. The pages stick together sometimes, but not as much as I would have expected. How old do you think these are?"

Dawn shrugged, "Hundreds of years at least, this much rust takes time. Maybe a thousand, but I doubt it's much older than that." She closed the folder and crawled back through the hole and out into the hangar.

Shela watched from the window as her sister scrounged the toolboxes and material like she had lived here her entire life. Dawn was remembering, just as Nyin had hoped, perhaps a lifetime ago. Her father hadn't understood Nyin's riddles, but had nonetheless written them down. Shela was beginning to get what he was looking so hard for.

The memories in Dawn were what Nyin took them here to find.

Shela braced the tube against the foot of the door, near where she guessed the hinges were, while Dawn placed another against the far side of the hall. A piece of threaded rod connected the two pipes into a straight line, complete with the needed nuts and washers. Dawn held the rod still with a pair of pliers as she worked the nut with the wrench.

"I see," Shela said as she no longer had to hold it against the door, "the threads work like gears like with the tea press, every revolution of the nut only pushes the thickness of a few sheets of paper. But I've never seen threads so small before. How strong can they possibly be?" The door groaned. "If the hinges are as rusted as the door, it shouldn't take—"

Snap! Something inside the door gave way as the pipe dropped to the floor with a clatter.

They repositioned the contraption, now closer to the center, and tried again. Then once more after it broke free closer to the top.

Even like this, a rusted, stubborn door still took over an hour to break through, and her pipe rig would only work in narrow halls like this. But it worked well enough for the time being.

Inside the room bigger than their house, they looked around.

The door said armory, and it didn't lie.

Unfortunately, they were not the first ones there, and it had been looted long before they arrived. All that was left were tens of thousands of rounds of blanks and low-power paint rounds, nothing more.

Dawn held a shell next to her ear and shook it, "Century-old powder probably isn't much good anyway."

Shela shook one too, but didn't know what she was listening for. "I don't hear anything."

"Damp turns solid and isn't any good." She pointed to the ends, "Corroded is a bad sign, too. Good should be silent and shouldn't feel like a pea is stuck inside."

Shela put it back in the box, "Well, so much for the easy way. We won't live long enough to open all these doors with that pipe of yours. Not that this place isn't an endless maze anyway. If that big room is any indication, this place is beyond huge."

"Hangar," Dawn whispered. "I doubt any others are that big."

"It almost doesn't matter. Like this, we can only open a few doors a day. With black powder we might be able to open them a few minutes after we come to them."

Dawn pondered. "Too bad we can't use rust, it's everywhere..." Dawn grabbed a few boxes of ammo, "There's something about rust that I think we can use."

Back in the hangar, they went around gathering buckets of rust, ground it down into a fine powder, then mixed it with the clumpy powder they recovered from the worthless bullets.

Within a few hours, they had a bag of this rusty mix. Unfortunately, it required mud to complete.

Mud meant a trip back up what seemed like an equally endless flight of steps at the end of a very long day. Neither were looking forward to that.

As they reached the last landing with a door and could see hints of light coming down the steps, Shela's pocket spewed smoke.

She fumbled as it grew hotter but was unable—

Dawn ripped it, pocket and shirt, right off her sister as smoke dripped into splashes of fire.

"What the hell?" Shela said, stepping away from it like it was possessed.

"That was the calculator, wasn't it?"

Shela nodded.

"We should leave things found down there for down there."

"Surely you don't believe it's cursed?"

"Oh, curses are very real. Curses aren't like magic." Dawn knelt, then went through everything in her pockets and her bag.

When they were carrying only what they came with, they walked the last few steps out and made it to the top in time to watch the sun slip between the distant mountains for another spectacular sunset.

"What happened here back then?" Shela asked after a quiet dinner of soup by the small fire. But when Dawn didn't answer, she changed the subject. "I think it's fascinating that those huge planes could fly. I mean, most of them are bigger than our house. That doesn't seem possible. And after all that size, it's just a tiny chair. I would have thought it took much less to put someone in the air." She tapped her sister's knee, "Remember those kites we flew? I was thinking something like that, like wings about the size of two beds or something for just a chair."

Dawn crumbled in more dried fish, then stirred her soup as it soaked up the juice.

"Flying must have been an amazing feeling, I bet."

It may have been too dark that night to have seen Dawn's faint little smile at the thought of Shela's last words.

When it rained that night, it filled a plastic sheet they had brought with them, just for that purpose. A modest half inch of rain wasn't much when it came to rain, and it hardly looked like much on the sheet that morning, but when pooled it quickly added up to well over twenty gallons. Plenty enough for drinking water, they even had some left for washing up.

Down inside the mountain, Dawn made a cup out of paper, filled it with their rusty mix, and pressed it against the door near the handle. Dipping a hand into the sack of mud, she packed three handfuls around it, sticking it to the door. She pierced it with a sharp stick, opened up the hole, added a fuse of a short piece of paper, lit it, and ran down the hall.

Foooommmm!!!!

The hall billowed with thick smoke as red embers spilled across the floor, but they couldn't wait for the air to clear before rushing in and giving the door several blows with the hammer. Fortunately, it swung open before the melted metal could fuse.

"What's down here?" Shela asked, smoke still clouding her view.

Dawn didn't answer. Instead, she hurried down the hall, past rows of doors until her path was thwarted again.

And again, she made another paper cup filled with rust and packed it in mud.

Foooommmmm!!!

Foooommmmm!!!

Foooommmmm!!!

Clatter!

This door had been massively reinforced and was, by far, the most solid Shela had ever seen. Yet three cups of burning rust had cut through it like a fresh loaf of bread.

"What's down here?" Shela asked again, but Dawn seemed oblivious.

They wound down three more corridors, each lined with doors on both sides, packed tighter than anywhere else she had seen. Each had a number and a handle, and looked like they slid along the wall instead of hinging out or in.

Foooommmm!!!

Foooommmm!!!

Foooommmm!!!

Clatter!

Dawn ran through this one and disappeared down the hall, moving so fast this time that her lamp blew out.

Shela cautiously caught up, careful not to extinguish their only light. She took her sister's lamp and carefully relit it while Dawn stood, transfixed in front of a door.

It wasn't in the beginning, or on the end, nor in the middle for that matter. It seemed totally random and utterly identical to the dozens they had been sprinting past.

Yet it obviously wasn't.

"What's inside there?" Shela asked.

But Dawn didn't respond. She just stood and stared.

"What's in it, Sis?" Shela asked again, this time using a cheat. She touched her sister and read her future to discover what was inside before they opened the door.

Blank!

It didn't work!

Panicked, Shela held her sister with both hands.

Nothing!

Her talent was gone! That had never happened before! Not once in her entire life had it ever been silent like this.

Shela grabbed the stompstick, cocked it, then pointed it down each hall. She had assumed hunches and visions worked everywhere, meaning no bad feelings meant it was entirely safe. But if they didn't, it wasn't.

Danger could lurk behind any of the perhaps thousands of doors.

When something crackled behind her, she spun and unloaded two bolts without hesitation. Panicked, she reloaded, grabbed a lamp, and slowly investigated. A piece of the ceiling had fallen, nothing more. "What's down here, Sis," Shela whispered when she returned to her side. "What's behind that door?"

Dawn touched it, almost lovingly. "Bunnies."

"You have to be kidding? How could bunnies have survived down here this long without food or water?" She sniffed the stale, moldy air. "I would think it would stink more, but maybe you couldn't tell." Suddenly, she felt the eerie too. "How would you even open something that slides like this, with burning rust?"

Dawn used the rest of her mud to mold an arch, just big enough to crawl through at the bottom of the door, and filled it with the last of their special powder.

FOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!

Despite the smoke, Dawn ran back and bludgeoned the piece with their hammer until it collapsed with a clatter. But she didn't crawl in.

Because she didn't get the chance.

Shela grabbed her sister and dragged her back, aimed the stompstick in the hole, and shoved a lamp inside.

No bunnies in sight, it looked like a tiny room. A shiny toilet sat at the end by a plastic curtain. Desks seemed to be aligned on both sides. Tiny, it was about the size of the cabin by the pond, no bigger.

It looked safe enough, but they waited for the molten door to cool first.

Shela stood by the metal toilet. The sink built into its top was very much like the one she had grown up with at home.

Dawn flipped a latch and a bed folded down to cover the top of the desk beneath it, barely wide enough for one. The foam mattress had been sliced open, not that time had been any kinder to the other.

The curtain ripped under Shela's touch and collapsed with a crumbling smack on the floor, revealing a tiny, painted concrete shower stall with a withered bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo, still on the shelf.

Dawn put her hand on her cheek and took a giant step back, slamming into the desk behind her. She shook for a second, then composed herself again as Shela continued to rummage around.

"I see some clothes, boy's on this side, girl's on the other." She held up a bra in one hand and boxers in the other. "Daddy said his village had a big building with married couples living in dozens of private rooms. Maybe they did the same thing here. But separate beds and desks doesn't make much sense, if that was the case. You'd think married people could share, like Mom and Dad did."

"They weren't married," Dawn whispered.

Shela inspected further. "Well, brother and sister then, but that seems just as odd." She pulled a notebook from the desk. "These look the same as those in the hangar, very technical, but handwritten instead." She folded the bed back up, then let it down again. "Now that's a useful thought. A fold-down bed over a desk, that way it doesn't take up any extra room, like bunk beds." She adjusted the chair, then stood on it, "Hey, this is perfect for climbing up. That's a very efficient use of space. Like that toilet-sink-shower combo is. You know, come to think of it, I've been to a lot of houses, and none of them used a sink-toilet combo like we do."

Dawn picked a helmet off the floor and stared at an emblem, hand-painted on the side. The shape was identical to that of the kite she built.

"Cool," Shela said, "I bet this was where the pilots bunked. Maybe they weren't brother and sister, just on the same crew. Look at this," she held up a flight suit, "look, it's got the same symbol."

Dawn ran her fingers across the patches on the knees, then straightened the cuffs.

"Some of these might fit, but like the adder, might not work outside of here. Wish some of this stuff still worked, like that adder did. It looks like a toy in comparison to what's on these desks." She tapped at the keyboard, then plucked the fluorescent tube. "It kind of makes the houses in town seem so insignificant. When you see all that paper printed with such fine lines, it makes Sally's wooden printing press seem juvenile. Even the paper itself is so exactly identical, free of blemishes, lumps and loose strands. I thought our washing machine was the most fantastic invention ever. It seemed so complex just a few days ago. Seems simplistic now. Nyin said they found a genie here. Maybe he wasn't that far from the mark. In its day, this might have seemed magical, like flying in one of those planes."

Dawn held the helmet on her lap, the name of their mother, Dana, was written inside. "It was two girls that lived in here. Two dear friends." She looked at the shredded mattress. "The boy came later, and was alone."

Shela nearly dropped the lamp when she looked at the back of the door, a painting of bunnies playing in snow-covered woods.

Dawn had found the plane the day before, but hadn't left it since. Shela had to go up without her and bring down their gear by herself, sleeping on the floor near Dawn.

It was morning again, and Dawn was still working. She had assembled only a small part of the plane, but it had been enough to figure some things out.

Several pieces were missing.

Dawn had assembled what she could, with other pieces pushed together like a puzzle on the floor. The jagged edges on the missing sections were a dead giveaway. This thing had taken a most savage beating from some rather formidable weapons.

Shela checked the oil in the lamps before joining her sister, one had nearly burned dry already. Oil they had, wicks would be harder to come by this far from home.

Dawn picked up another piece and dragged it closer to where it belonged, but the remaining pieces were far too big for one person to wrestle into proximity.

"It won't fly again," Shela said. "Doubt any of them ever will. If it wasn't holes, it would be time."

"It shouldn't have survived at all. There shouldn't have been anything left of it," she whispered, "much less pieces this big."

Shela crunched into a termeat cracker. With Dawn in this sleepy state, she was prime for Q&A, though she mumbled a lot. "Why?"

Dawn just ran her fingers across the skin of a big piece of wing. "It's dead. It won't tell me."

Shela ran her fingers across it too. It felt like glass. "What happened to it?"

"They executed it for helping me... escape."

That matched Nyin's tale recounted in her father's book, but he used genies instead of science. It also marked a first with her use of the word 'me'.

"It was supposed to escape with me, or sublimate, leaving nothing behind. But they must have damaged it too much before its mission was complete."

Shela touched the few blemishes on its skin. It had taken a beating for sure, but most blemishes, when cleaned, were pits about the size of grains of sand. The jagged edges looked like a cross between broken glass and pottery, and were much thinner than its stiffness suggested. She picked up a piece, far lighter even than if it had been papier-mache. "What is this made of?"

"Thin air," Dawn whispered.

Shela hugged her sister, still wishing her talent worked down here. If it did, she would know for sure how close to the edge Dawn was. There was a line she didn't dare cross. Her sister could be strong and bold, at times, but Dawn was far more fragile than she seemed. As a child, not all that many years ago, Dawn spent a week silently rocking. Unresponsive to anyone. Oblivious to everything. She couldn't risk such a reaction again.

She looked on the edge of that now. Or on the edge of an epiphany, it was impossible to tell.

Well, it was impossible to tell down here. Atop the mountain, it was as easy as a casual touch. "Let's go upstairs," Shela said, "where the air is fresh. I want to feel the sun on my face. I—"

"I love the wind in my face. Picking the garden, when the wind is right, just before a storm, I close my eyes... and I have wings," Dawn whispered. "I have wings."

"We don't have to stay here any longer. Not if you don't want. I think we found what we were looking for, a little more than bunnies behind a door."

Dawn ran her fingers across the skin, "It used to talk to me like this, when it was alive. Before they killed it. This place feels so familiar, like it was always looming over my shoulder, haunting me. It's not so frightening anymore. Faded, like a bad memory, or paint on the wall."

Shela picked up a small piece, about the size of a plate, but weighed no more than a sheet of paper. "Maybe we keep a souvenir, if you think it isn't cursed."

"I think I want to look around some more."

"Ok," Shela said, standing up with her.

"Besides, I have this urge to go poop on someone's desk. And I've heard Massachusetts makes the best toilet paper."
**B6.C11**

They stayed a few days down inside the mountain, exploring, but it had too many tunnels and stairs that wound for miles and miles in every direction. It was, as her father described, a hollow mountain. Even with thermite, as Dawn called her rust concoction, exploring its vastness would take a team of dozens several lifetimes, and most of what they would find was as worthless as rust, or cursed like the calculator.

Eventually, they returned to the top, sunshine, and wind.

Shela replenished their water bags from the plastic sheet by the tree, while Dawn just stood and stared. "You want to see where Daddy buried her?" Shela calmly said, filling the last bag, "They called her Dawn, too."

Dawn just quietly touched the tree.

"I always felt you had a very old soul, like Sally when we first met her. Momma, she loved you dearly, you know, right from the beginning. I think her heart skipped a beat when she first laid eyes on you and Guar, trying to hide in our garden. I remember how happy she was the day when you two finally came inside." She put away the bags, "Do you remember that too?"

Dawn leaned back against the tree and stared out into the clearing. "Planes would run as fast as they could, wings stretched out wide, and just throw themselves over the edge... like clearing your heart of doubt was all it took to fly."

"She's right under that pile of rubble, not too far from where he fell."

Dawn looked at the rubble.

"You know what happened here, don't you?" Shela said, packing up the rest of the gear. "You know all the missing pieces. You know who Nyin was, don't you?" She walked over to the mound where she found the hand. "Was he a friend for helping them escape, or an enemy for what happened here? Should we burn him, bury him, or leave him be?"

Dawn stared silently.

"It doesn't seem right to leave him in the dirt like this. Our parents would have died in prison, if it weren't for him... and I could never have been."

Dawn looked away.

"What happened here? How did Mom get that scar on her stomach?" Shela spoke as calmly as she could. "That tree is the one Daddy pulled Dawn down from, just before he buried her."

Dawn wiped a tear.

"How does a man that armies couldn't kill, suddenly drop dead?" Shela whispered as the wind blew across the top. "Just close your eyes, tell me what you see."

"He beat on her for minutes, broke her hands and her foot, trying to get her to answer his questions. Daddy's back was broken, right under my feet. I couldn't... I couldn't..." Dawn wiped her cheek again, and choked back a cough. "He... he, ripped out her heart."

Shela listened in disbelief, but Dawn had never lied to her. Not ever. She worked a branch under the mound and, with a lot of effort, flipped the man over onto his back. If it weren't for the dirt and bugs, he'd look handsome. Huge, but normal. He looked like he was in his thirties and had just taken a nap, instead of dead for decades. The blood on his shirt still looked wet. When she moved his shirt with the tip of the stick, she saw the open wound, identical to the healed scar her mother had worn.

She poked his hand with the stick. The bones were broken, it was even cut identical to the scar on her mother's hand. She checked the other—

Shela fell to her knees when a heart rolled out across the dirt.

It seemed so utterly impossible. How could her mother have survived without a heart, and how could someone invincible on the battlefield—

But it was starting to make sense. She had only seen the healing side of the talent she shared with her mom. Love Dawn, and the bite on her sister's arm became her own. But what if that was only half of the equation? What happened when it wasn't love in her heart? Anything short of love and she couldn't heal someone's scratch, a touch was just a touch. But the idea of hating someone, actual hatred...

She couldn't imagine her mother hating anyone, yet, not even Nyin seemed powerful enough to survive it. Bugs had had decades, and not a single bite was anywhere on his body. Even dead, he remained impervious.

She cautiously touched his skin again.

She didn't sense hatred or evil.

She sensed peace.

Calm.

With her parents' bodies, she sensed love, and sorrow.

She remembered her father's words from when she was just beginning to talk and pester him with endless questions. He said her mother had the strongest magic he had ever known, and that she had survived a beating that would kill the strongest man. This was the strongest man her father would ever know, and he was very dead. That would easily qualify as some strong magic.

The irony that, in the end, this invincible man died of the very wounds he inflicted on her mom was not lost on Shela.

But that still left the question of how Dawn fit at the center of everything that happened here.

"We should do something with him," Shela said. "Cremation was what our parents chose."

"Won't burn," Dawn whispered.

Shela ripped his bloody shirt and tossed it into the fire. Her mother eventually burned, maybe he would too. But Dawn was right, the blood-soaked cloth didn't burn, even hours later.

Which was surprising in a way. The dry parts of cloth burned within seconds, she expected that even if the blood was immune, the cloth under it would still burn. But it didn't.

Dawn stared at Nyin's open mouth as bugs crawled in and out with impunity. "This isn't right," she reluctantly agreed after an hour of silent contemplation. "Everyone deserves a final resting place."

Shela looked around, "If he won't burn, that only leaves burial." She pointed at the sunny side, "Maybe over there. I think that would be the place I'd pick. Or maybe right here, under that tree."

Dawn tested the dirt under her feet. It was soft enough, right by the tree.

Shela sat beside her sister, "We could make more of that thermite, give it a try. There's an endless supply of rust down there."

Dawn stared at the tree, then the spectacular view. "Rust would burst into flames before we got it up here, so we'd have to carry him down. And if he didn't burn even then, we'd have to carry him back up. Nobody should spend eternity down there."

Shela walked over to the massive, house-sized hole that led directly to the hangar full of planes. "We could roll him over and just drop him down, wouldn't really have to carry him. Mom might have picked cremation for a reason."

Dawn looked at the hole, lost in a sea of memories, but eventually agreed.

Sort of.

Down in the hangar, they made more thermite, then tested it on all of him they carried with them, the bloody shirt. The shirt disappeared, completely vaporized in a flash along with a large chunk of concrete. But when the ground cooled, they found a few drops of wet blood had somehow survived.

Nyin wouldn't burn, not even down there. Whatever blocked her future-reading abilities had no effect on him, even dead.

That meant more than just an hour of climbing stairs. It meant hours and hours of digging awaited them once they got to the top.

That morning, they wrapped him in sheets from the room with bunnies and wrestled him into the hole. Staring down from above the ground, he looked small, and alone.

"We should say something, I guess," Shela said, not anxious to cover him over just yet. "I don't know who you were, before you met my parents. And I don't know everything that happened up here, oh so many years ago. You hurt my mom in ways that stayed with her the rest of her life, but I'm not sure I can hate you for that." She knelt down, her mother's heart slowly burning in the fire behind her, and looked inside the hole. "I should hate you too, I suppose, but I don't. I believe my father's words about you. Without your help, they never could have escaped a fate far worse than death. They never would have found the years of peace and happiness they found here. And for that, I thank you."

Dawn knelt beside her, closer to his head. "This never should have been asked of anyone," she whispered the only words that came to her.

By the time their mother's heart had turned into ash, they had filled in the hole and covered it with the rubbled blocks and bricks easily found littering the top of the mountain.

They stayed for one last sunset and sunrise before hiking down the next morning.

Dawn was quiet almost the entire hike home.
**B6.C12**

When Shela woke that night, she wasn't alone. The travois was swaying, high in the tree, as the wind in the valley picked up.

But the wind wasn't why she grabbed and loaded the stompstick. They were within a day's walk of home right now, and she had positioned the travois on this specific tree for a reason. She opened the flap and stared outside, letting her eyes adjust.

It hardly seemed fair, but all she had to do was wait as the buck walked closer and closer.

Her talent was a cheat, but it wasn't like she couldn't track and find such an animal without it. She could. It simply took something that was difficult and made it impossibly easy. But rationalizing it didn't dissuade her nagging conscience. She could have earned this, but didn't. It felt every bit a cheat.

Thwap! Thwap!

Thud.

The buck was dead, not even a twitch. Her aim was impressive at night, in this little light, but then it wasn't very far away. And hunches often helped with her aim as easily as they did with travois placement.

She climbed down, reloaded, then waited a few minutes before approaching, just as she had been taught.

Butchered and wrapped, they drug it uphill and back to the house, though they both could have used the extra sleep.

Green years meant more than just failed and mutated crops. The food that deer depended on diminished too. It may have seemed cruel to double their kills during such hard times, but by thinning the bucks they were actually leaving more food for the does and the fawns left behind.

The earthen mound behind the house was actually a kiln, big enough to make a load of bricks at a time. Before Shela was born, her parents had baked hundreds of bricks in it, enough to make the fireplace and the fancy chimney they enjoyed. By the time she came along, it had been shifted to making clay pots, pans, jars, plates, mugs, and even utensils. But by far its most useful function was what they asked of it now, as the girls climbed inside and arranged the strips of meat. First, it would get smoked for a day or two, for flavor, then it would be dehydrated for long-term storage.

The kiln was big enough to smoke and dry four deer at a time, but it also worked wonders on surplus vegetables, seeds, acorns, and termites.

Guar sliced into the fresh steak as he mounded his plate with a second helping of potatoes. "So, you two have fun?"

Shela nodded, "Bitter sweet, there's a fortune in relics down there. The size of things was impressive, all on its own. It really changed my perspective on what grand things people can accomplish, if they really try. We saw maybe a hundred planes, each bigger than this house, and all in one room. Yet, as big as they were, they only carried one or two people into the air. And it's got a maze of halls and rooms and stairs... offices, it's like a dozen towns, all hiding inside a mountain. Abandoned for centuries. And the doors connecting it all are massive, nearly impenetrable, and all corroded closed. I'd love to spend a few months there, but I doubt I'd leave with more than I already know." She tapped the table, "We found a little box that did math instantly, and beds that folded down out of the walls. Imagine how much bigger a room could be if beds folded away into the walls."

"A box that did math?" Guar said.

"Yeah, how fantastic, right?" Shela said, moving her spoon through her potatoes without eating, "Fits in a pocket. I was going to bring it back, but it burst into fire when I tried to bring it up. Ruined my shirt." She brought the spoon to her lips, then set it down again. "It makes me sad how much people lost over the centuries. Life had to have been so different back then. They probably wouldn't even recognize us now."

Guar kept shoveling it in.

"You've had to cook for yourself while we were gone, haven't you?" Shela said, putting her fingers through his hair. "Poor kid. You need a haircut too."

"Did alright by myself. Got awful tired of soup, though."

"We got a lot of potatoes still in the field?"

"Buckets and buckets," he said between forks.

"I'll make a few pots of mash tomorrow, add them to the kiln to dry with the deer. You harvest all that milkweed while we were gone?"

Guar grunted as he sliced into the steak again, "Go see for yourself, I'm trying to eat."

She let her hunches do the walking for her. He managed to get gallons of the precious raw latex. But that didn't mean she'd excuse his rudeness, "Enough to make some waterproof bags?"

He shrugged while he chewed.

"We have to have at least enough to waterproof some bags, otherwise there's no point in drying the potato mash. I mean, if we don't have anything to put it in, then—"

"Yes, yes!" he said, his hand slammed the table. "Got plenty enough for that!"

"Well, do we have enough for new mattresses and pillows? How about enough for some new sheets and blankets?"

Guar grunted as he sliced another piece.

The sisters laughed at his stubbornness, then double-teamed the questioning.

Though the loom in the cabin by the pond was designed to make blankets and sheets, it worked just as well on canvas bags, too. After a few days, the girls had dozens ready for coating with Dawn's latest concoction of plastic from the latex in the milk. After the coating dried, they turned the bags inside out (coating inside) and lined each with a paper sack, just as they had done for years.

Fall was breathtaking on their mountain by the pond, even when they had so much work to do. The windows in the cabin seemed perfectly aimed to take it all in as they toiled the hours and days away.

Over the next month of pots and pots of potatoes, hunts, and dehydration at the kiln, the girls had gotten caught up on most of their chores, but had yet to say a word about what happened at that distant mountain, quietly looming in the background, never really out of sight. Shela had been waiting for Dawn to digest it all and come to terms with its many implications.

But as they turned the last of the milkweed stalks into cloth, Shela could wait no more. Her years alone with her sister had almost reached its end. Within a few more, she knew they would all go their separate ways.

"Momma wasn't just our mother, was she?" Shela asked, tamping down the threads before shoving the shuttle across for another pass. "She was something more to you, wasn't she?"

Dawn wiped her cheek.

"I'm related to Guar, and you, and Mom. When she died, she didn't burn easily. She didn't decay, and bugs didn't bite her. She just looked like she had just laid down for a nap. I'm related to everyone in our family. But Dad wasn't related to Mom, and you and Guar aren't related to each other. That really only leaves one way for all that to be true, doesn't it? That math has only one answer. Mom was your daughter, wasn't she?

That strange story in Daddy's notes, the one that Nyin told that ties you to that mountain, maybe it was true. That myth about reincarnation and hummingbirds... I asked Mom what happens when hummingbirds die. She joked they were reborn as little girls.

She knew you were her mother, didn't she?"

Dawn stopped working, fingers on the threads like she meant to straighten them. But there was nothing to straighten.

"She knew all along." She had watched her sister over the weeks since they got back. The trip had changed her. It had started her thinking thoughts she had never dared before. "She was a good mother, and 'a good kid'."

Dawn sat down and stared at her feet.

Shela sat beside her, then pulled her into a hug. "I'm not trying to be mean to you. I'm not. I've always loved you as a sister, you've always been my best friend. None of that will ever change. I know this is painful to you, I can feel it. I could feel how reluctant you were to go there with me, to see it all for yourself. Relive it. There's part of you that's missing, and it's all tied up in memories of there. Momma didn't burn easily, Nyin didn't burn at all. If I had to bet, I'd say they were related to each other, somehow. Related to you, too. And me." She kissed her silent sister on the cheek. "You'll tell me who Nyin was, some day. You don't have to say anything right now." She patted her on the back, "Just know I'm always someone you can talk to."

Dawn held her sister's hand.

As fall turned to winter, then to spring, the green sky only brightened. This forewarned of a horrible year... for those that hadn't prepared. As for the three of them, they had more dried deer than they could eat in years, and more dried potatoes too.

This time, all three went into town, each carrying as big a load as they could.

They'd make much less than they would have had they carried this much weight in wine, but food was needed more by those who lived in town, and Shela hadn't perfected the brew, just yet. Besides, this would be the most they could ever get per pound for their surplus food.

Sally, the owner of a small shop, a smaller newspaper, and a tiny publishing house, gave them the good news mixed with the bad while they were in town.

Most farmers had stubbornly refused to change their crops for the green years, but those few that had (all of them faithful readers of hers, by the way), were very successful last year.

Corn and wheat, the main crops most farmers got their best value for, failed horribly with less than five percent making it from the field to the table. Sally had even explained the science, best she could, in her paper, to little avail. For whatever reason, the products of pollination (corn, wheat, tomatoes, etc.) mutated exponentially under a green sky. Potatoes cloned from eyes didn't. Lettuce, spinach, mustard, and plants like them still mutated, but people didn't eat their seeds, they ate their leaves. So though they were equally affected, the impact of the mutation was limited to a strong warning not to use their seeds to plant next year's crops.

But since green years came only every decade or so, and only lasted for a year or two, rarely longer than five, most farmers had chalked it up to bad luck, demons, or curses, not cycles. And valleys such as this often had several preachers and practitioners that, for a fee, would lift said curses from someone's field.

That the causes were scientific, not religious, was violently resisted by those charlatans that had the most to lose. But those were the kinds of fights Sally's paper lived for.

She was feisty, brave, and very outspoken. That was why they had come to her years ago with their theories and experiences passed down from their parents.

But their stay in town was brief. They had planting of their own that needed doing.
**B6.C13**

With milkweed production doubled over previous years, they had all the ingredients necessary to put the next steps of their plan into action.

They had plenty of the stuff for Dawn to experiment with.

And did she ever.

Their loom was simple, by comparison, to some of those they had seen in town. But theirs was never intended to clothe hundreds, only keep up with three growing children. And more importantly, it had to be small enough to fit in a tiny room, and hidden when not in use.

Dawn was about to turn that way of thinking on its head, had she not been forced to focus on the perishable latex instead.

She had already made small devices that turned milkweed latex into hundreds of combs and brushes, and she had a notebook full of formulas to change hardness, softness, and flexibility pretty much at will. And within weeks she had mastered dozens of foams as well. Formulas that would take others a lifetime, she did within a few weeks, kept in a book on the shelf by the (with great restraint) lightly modified loom.

Next she shifted her focus to perfecting the device that separated those long cotton-like strands from the wooden stalks they had mountains of. Their parents' design, like that of the loom, simply didn't scale to meet the demands of a town. It was fine for processing an acre, two if pressed. But the town needed one that could process hundreds of acres, and not take years to do it.

After six prototypes, each better than the one before, Dawn finally declared she was done.

They had learned from Sally that they had made a mistake with their strategy on combs and brushes. The few farmers she had supplied with the little machines had taken them apart and duplicated them. The technology had spread and had, in practice, cheated her family out of any future royalties. But it had also burned the proliferating farmers too, turning once prized, but disposable commodities, into something so abundant that they were now nearly worthless.

The devices she now made for turning worthless milkweed stalks into priceless threads were not only faster and more efficient than what had served them well for decades, they were also tamperproof. Made to look insanely complex with dozens of fascinating and critical-looking distractions, it was also assembled in such a way as to destroy itself if taken apart by someone other than her.

The authorities in town made no attempt to investigate their claims since it was just brushes and combs. And with their parents gone, they couldn't press the issue very hard. Besides, the law made it clear they had other 'important' things to do.

Shela sat beside her sister as they looked out at the pond. "I just turned twenty, you know."

Dawn pulled in her line, set another worm, then cast it again. "I was an inventor, in a previous life."

Shela smiled, "You're a darn good inventor in this one, too."

"I remember more of that life every night. I think being inside the mountain left me open to it. Put the memories in context." She looked at her sister as the sun started to set. "They're not nightmares anymore." She pointed at the destroyed kiln. "I caught lightning in that. Nearly killed myself, and terrified Mom." She gestured at the mountain. "I caught lightning in that, too. It could have saved the world... instead, they used it to nearly destroy it." She gave the line a tug, then relaxed back into the chair. "I remember being in a chamber, deep inside that mountain. It was almost like a magical experience. I did real magic back then, did you know? I stood and waved my hand in the air, like I was casting a spell, and an airplane would fall from the ceiling, literally conjured from thin air." She smiled. "For those few seconds, I controlled all the power in the world. But I think the memory I'm most proud of was when I was sixteen, and I had a little girl." She stared at that mountain. "That place took away everything I wanted to be. I want to hate it now... but I don't.

There would have been no me, without it."

Shela held her sister's hand. "That's how I felt about Nyin, someone I've never met. The only you I've met is the sister I found in the field, and she's someone I'm honored to know. Whatever happened back—"

"Very bad things happened to me. Nightmares, but they're very difficult to see. They took my childhood from me, parenthood too. They wanted me to be something not of my choosing." She stared at the pond. "But I remember being happy, too. I remember this pond, and fishing. I remember the peace it always gave me, and a pet skunk, too. Max was his name, I think."

"I've always loved this pond." Shela cast her line, knowing she would catch nothing today. It just wasn't meant to be. Some days were like that, and even her talent couldn't change it. But fishing wasn't always about catching fish. "A pet skunk? I can think of a couple ways that could go horribly wrong. Especially if it's an inside pet, like some cats and dogs."

Dawn smiled as she closed her eyes, "I remember him being very curious, and incredibly friendly. And terribly brave, when he needed to be." She opened her eyes to see dragonflies scatter when a frog splashed in. "I remember flying the most. It's a feeling of freedom you can't experience any other way. Planes and birds are almost identical, you know. Shooting down planes, eating insects, fleeing from predators, dancing in the air." She tested the line... that was a definite nibble. "You know, he always referred to Max as his cat."

"Guar?" Shela asked.

Dawn jerked the line, hard, and wrestled in a determined perch. "Damn," she said, "from the fight he put up, I thought he was a fat carp for sure."

"Still doing better than me," Shela said.

The little guy was only a few pounds at best. But it was fresh and would make a decent meal. "I'd kill for some tomatoes and cucumbers to go with this little guy," Dawn said as they walked back to the house.

"Me too."

Shela walked down the path to the cabin and the pond. She opened the door and stepped in. "I thought you were done with this?" she said, but Dawn continued carefully shaving wood off another prototype. "Hey," Shela said, hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Hmmm," Dawn whispered without taking her eyes off the tools.

"Sis," Shela said, taking the scraper from her hands.

Dawn paused at the desk, then after a few seconds noticed she wasn't alone in the room. "I can make the tensioner auto-adjusting by synchronizing the—"

"Don't care, Sis, what you had was good enough. I spent all last week with you, just the two of us down here making seven of those damned things. I'm not making seven more just because you've come up with something better. You'll always come up with something better, that's what you do. It's never ending." She pulled her away from the table. "You've captured the king a week ago, it's time to stop obsessing over this game. It's been won. Move on."

Dawn got a little pissed. "You keep improving your recipes!"

"Seven was all we needed. That's enough to clothe three towns for the next twenty years. I make a new cake or pie every week. You see that difference, don't you?"

"I can make a better one, I can! You see the similarities, don't you?"

Shela kissed her, "Of course I do. But wouldn't paper work just as well? A small model, perhaps? Cupcakes instead of pies. This doesn't deserve your precious focus anymore, that's all."

Dawn calmed, shuffled the items on the desk, looked underneath, then produced a piece of wood about the size and shape of a notebook. "It only adds and subtracts, multiplies and divides. And only to seven digits. I can't figure out how to float a decimal point. It's pretty much a horrible failure."

Shela laughed, but she knew Dawn was torturing herself over the failure. "I think it'll be fine, just like it is." She hugged her. "It isn't as tiny as the one down in the mountain, but it's a lot more impressive, if you ask me. Not bursting into flames is a big plus."

Dawn smiled.

"Let's go get you washed up, ok?"

Potatoes were abundant this year, surpluses to the extreme, actually. So much so that even Guar had gotten sick of eating them. But that didn't mean the end of the harvest.

The smell of boiling potatoes surrounded the house for nearly a month, inside and out, and the kiln struggled to keep up with all that drying as they turned mounded pots of mashed heaven into sacks of lightweight dried flakes.

But potatoes had one last use.

One that Shela and Dawn struggled to perfect on a small scale.

With hunch-improved guesses and carefully calculated science, they fermented a delicate mix of sweet and red-skinned potatoes, then filtered the condensing alcohol through a dense mesh of mint and cloudberry leaves. It wasn't the wine of their parents. This was distinctly different, and in all of their opinions, just a little bit better.

As fall crept in and the last harvest was done, they planted the winter cabbage, gathered their surplus potato flakes and several jugs of potato alcohol, then headed for town. For the first time, none of them looked like teens.
**B6.C14**

While Guar was busy arguing the price of potato flakes at Jefferson's store, the girls continued to the far end of town to meet with Sally at her store, which unfortunately didn't deal in food or alcohol.

"You should have been here last week," Sally said, sliding the next line of letters into the stick before justifying the words with blank shims. "Had a trial—" She stopped what she was doing when she noticed a spelling error. "Damn it! I, uh, I should back up I guess. One of the town's girls was found with a black eye about three weeks ago. When pressed, she said she got it on the job. Well, you know how Sheriff Eagleton is around here. Oh, back in the days of pimps and madams, they had girls in the back you could smack around, if a fella was into such, but you'd get something a little harsher than foul words if you marked up one of their front-window girls.

Back then, the law just looked the other way, even if the back-room girls ended up dead... until things got out of hand and too many of them did. Now that the mayor has taken over, made it legal and such, there's Eagleton to deal with if the town's girls get blemishes." She jammed the stick into the frame, then started on the next line. "Found out there was a lot of tax money to be had, and bruises hurt revenues for weeks. Well, they got a manhunt out on the boy. Caught him, tried him, and punished him all in one day. Tied him to the theater doors and gave him six lashes with a whip. Well, when he went home to Bestoms, the shit hit the walls. Twenty brothers, uncles, and cousins came looking for their own kind of justice.

Can't say I blame the family too much. Her bruises was gone by the time they got here, but his scars from that whip will last forever. It may have been excessive, if you ask me.

But the mayor and the sheriff had a point, too. The law is what was voted on, simple as that. Got the law posted on the door to every cathouse in town, couldn't be more plain. Three lashes for every bruise, six lashes and a broken bone for every scar, plus a fine. It ain't eye for an eye, when tax dollars are on the line. Truth said, I interviewed every member that cast a vote making it law. None of them ever expected it would come to be used. The jury didn't have much discretion, either, except with the fine. Couldn't find him innocent of something he did, no matter how harsh the punishment might be."

Dawn looked faint and suddenly had to sit.

"What's wrong?" Shela said.

"I... I was just remembering," Dawn whispered, "when my sister had outgrown her clothes. Nothing fit her, and some boys started spreading a rumor about her. The state came and gave her seventy lashes for it. Over a rumor. Poor Reaha, such a pretty, sweet girl, she didn't deserve what happened to her."

Sally dropped the stick and closed on the girls at the first whiff of such a juicy story, "Thought it was just the two of you and a brother."

Dawn looked on the verge of tears, "Three sisters, three brothers. My two oldest brothers joined the caliphate to expel the infidels and join the army of The Twelfth." She looked up at Shela, wiping her eyes, "I, they thought I stole," she shook her head, "but I didn't. I didn't, but I couldn't say. I couldn't say the words," she looked at her feet, "not that they'd believe them anyway. They put a bag over my head, and I just hurt and hurt until I didn't hurt any more..."

"Where was this?" Sally said.

"When," Shela corrected. "It's a past life or a dream, I'm sure. I would have noticed two older brothers, two other sisters, a caliphate, and a war." She looked at Sally, "Is caliphate a word?"

"An old one," Sally said. "Very obscure. I'm surprised I didn't pick up on that sooner. I'd have to look it up to be sure, but I think it's a super-religious state that grows till it covers the globe. A few hundred years ago, The Emperor came to spread it across this continent. Nearly succeeded, too. Think he was betrayed by one of his followers, then his empire collapsed into warring factions. Still causing mayhem, last I heard, just these mountains really slowed them down." She turned to Dawn, still in a daze, and pulled a notebook from her pocket. "Past lives, huh? You're not the first person to talk about past lives. About twenty years back, maybe more, we had a hypnotist that regressed people into revealing their past lives to help them fix their current one, but mostly did stuff like make people stop smoking, drinking, or remember where they lost things. I sat in on a few sessions when I interviewed him for the paper, did two pages on him. Fascinating stuff, but I never had the courage to go through it for myself. Don't much like the idea of someone changing my mind for me. But when I researched their regressed claims, they all proved true, best I could tell. I'd love to believe in past lives, it always fascinated me. Like ghosts and—" She stepped back, remembering regression wasn't as popular as other articles she had run, "Those planting tips of yours were a big hit this year. Same people that scoffed last year were lined up outside to pay the extra for reprints." She looked at the girls, "You want, I'd love to put together a farmer's handbook. Even ghostwrite it for you two. I just need some notes and such to flesh it out from." She smiled, "You two were holding back from those little hints you told me a few years ago, weren't you?"

Dawn regained her composure. "I can help you with that."

"It's a lot of work, and rarely any money in books," Sally said. "But I'll split anything it makes with you two. You two can stay here while we work on it for the next few days, if you want. Free room and board may be the most compensation any author ever gets."

Shela headed for the door, "I'll tell Guar and bring the rest of our stuff over." She paused after opening it, "Dawn's the one you should talk to anyway. She figured out all the science behind it."

Dawn walked over to the printing press and pulled one of the pottery letters from the rack. "How do you do reprints? Do you have shelves of these somewhere?"

"Oh heavens no," Sally said, "truth told, I rarely have to do reprints anyway. I'll only consider it if I have a couple hundred orders, or it's just a couple of pages." She walked over to the customer-friendly front of the shop, "See, over there is where I keep all the extra prints on those shelves for purchase, but in the attic above it I keep one original, tucked away for safe keeping. I keep one copy of every newspaper and book I've ever printed, though the rest are kept at my place near the Bregstaff's farm. Every reprint gets reloaded into those sticks, one letter at a time, one page at a time. But I'm pretty fast at it. If it isn't too busy, I can put together five or ten pages a day, pending how late I'm willing to stay."

"Oh that's horrible," Dawn said, looking at the little pottery letter in her hand. "Are these that expensive to make?"

"Jefferson does charge a small fortune, and they don't last as long as I'd like, but they last longer than wooden ones, and he's the only one in town that'll make either."

Dawn glanced over the press and other tools in the back part of the store. "There's an easier way, I'm sure of it."

Sally returned to the tedious work of filling the sticks with letters. "Well, as a reporter I've visited every town within walking distance of here, and they all do it the same way I do. If there was an easier way, I haven't seen it."

Dawn watched her work as she studied the process for a few minutes. "What tools do you have in this shop?"

"Just what you see. The press is very simple, so simple it's never needed fixing in the thirty years I've had it. What kind of tools you thinking?"

Dawn worked the press once without the dies or paper in it. "Plane, scrapers, fine woodworking tools. Maybe a kiln, normal stuff like that."

"Oh heavens no." Sally tapped another stick into the frame and started filling the next. "It's not like I build presses, I just wring every drop of ink out of the one I have, that's all."

Dawn watched her work, mesmerized. "You're doing this all wrong. It's so wrong, I can't even think of a way to reuse anything here. It all has to go." She waved her hands at it like gestures alone would make it walk out the door. "These sticks, the individual letters... it's all wrong. It's designed to make you slower, not faster. Flawed to the core. It's all—"

"Wrong, I get it, Girl. Bring me something better, believe me, I'll use it! 'Til then, this is all I got, and I've got a paper coming out in two days that I've got to get done."

Dawn stood next to her table, "I'd have to make it when I get home... but if I do, you can't show it to anyone."

Sally paused to look the kid over. "You bring it in, I'll give it a spin. If it's better, I'll be fair, but I'm not rich if that's what you're thinking. Ain't no money or fame in this, Kid. And as for secrets I've kept a lot of 'em in a lot of towns. All of them will be going with me to the grave."

"I can't possibly build one before winter snows us in. It might be spring before I can get it to you."

Sally hit her stride again. "Hon, I've been doing the wrong way all of your tiny life. I can keep doing it a few more months... years... or decades, if need be."

They stayed that night and two more days before leaving for home again.

Sally had asked for enough notes to write a book. She got far more than that. It wasn't the first time Dawn had written non-stop for hours and hours and hours on end. Like building devices, once started, she compulsively pursued them to their ends, or hers.

Back at home, Dawn stayed in the cabin where all the woodworking tools were. Still cramped, it seemed like it had more room, now that the bed folded up into the wall.

It only took her three weeks to perfect the new press. Unfortunately, it only took the weather two weeks to snow them in.

Shela looked over the device. "I've seen that before... well, sort of." She ran her fingers over the keys. "It's got the same nonsensical letter layout as the ones in the mountain. Why not just do ABC? Why start with QWE?"

Dawn paused. "I don't know, really. I tried alphabetical, but it just didn't look right to me."

Shela looked it over, closer this time. "It's very simple, in theory. There isn't any way to protect the idea by making it overly complex this time, is there? You take this to Sally and she shows it to anyone, I mean anyone, and there'll be thousands of copies all across the valley within weeks." She smiled at her sister, "It's very brilliant too. Memory, or invention?"

Dawn ran her fingers across the keys. "Both, I think. But I'm never really sure anymore." She put her hands inside the dying fireplace, then poked at the coals with a stick. It was as good as out, so she closed the flue enough to keep critters from getting in, then grabbed her coat. "I don't really care if it does get out. It's really a test of how far Sally can be trusted with secrets. I've been very naive before, and burned badly for it. Seems to be a pattern I can't shake, time and time again."

They walked out in the shin-deep snow and headed back to the house, six fattened crawfish in Shela's basket. "Remembering, as painful as it can be sometimes, helps us from repeating those mistakes."

"You sound like Mom," Shela said. "When we were younger, it was annoying. Now... it's just humbling to know how good a mother she was. I'm glad you take after her."

Steamed crawfish without butter was a kind of torture nobody was ready for. Whipped and thickened sunflower oil made a poor substitute, even when the crawfish were shelled and grilled. But without a captive deer to get milk from, they had no way to replenish the shelves and were completely out.

But killing deer and capturing them were two entirely different sets of skills.

Their mother had domesticated one over a decade ago, but it had been set free before their parents died and had yet to come back. If it ever would.

Most likely it had been killed and eaten already. Deer didn't live all that long anyway, it was surely nearing the end of its life as well. If they wanted more butter, they needed to find another.

They just had never made the time. Besides, winter was the worst season to try. Even if successful, they would have to feed it for months, then find a way to get it pregnant. And green years compounded the already difficult problem. No, the ideal method was just as their parents had done, capture a nursing fawn and use it to lure in its mom. Difficult, but achievable. And giving the fawn safety and shelter was a way of repaying the favor. If done correctly, the doe would come back, year after year to have its kids here. But all that would have to wait, as discussed, until spring.

Shela made two more snips with the scissors before pronouncing, "You're done."

Guar got up from the chair and headed for the window, the black of night giving him a perfect reflection in the glass. "Not bad, but I think it's too short."

"It'll grow out by the time we get you back into town," Shela said, her fingers aligning wayward strands. "You'll be chasing them away with a stick."

Dawn checked the still. "I think this is the best smelling batch yet." She tasted it, still a little warm. "Mmmmm... nice. I think we've matched their brew, Sis."

"Let me," Guar said, shooting it back too fast to taste. "Not bad." He poured another, then shot it back too. "It's alright, I guess."

"I've been thinking," Dawn said. "Three of us here, it isn't doing any of us any good. It's like we're hiding. Two of us should be in town, like our parents intended. Only one of us needs to stay." She looked down, "Anyway, I'd like to stay this year, if you two want. I have some designs I want to get out of my head, and I can't really do that in town."

Guar poured a third. "I'll drink to that," he said, then gulped it back.
**B6.C15**

That spring, the three arrived in town with their last big supply of dried potatoes and what they could carry of their latest brew of family wine. While Guar and Shela covered the town, trying for the best prices for their goods, Dawn carried her cargo to Sally's on the far side of town.

"So, you couldn't do it," Sally said, looking the modest girl over. "I can't say I'm not surprised. Heard that tall-talking before, you know." She plucked another letter from the rack and slid it into the stick. "Six others made them same kinds of boasts, just you're the only one that didn't ask for payment up front."

Dawn set two burlap sacks on the table, then started to unpack. "This is your new press," she said quietly as she stacked the paper into the tray. "Ink goes here," she pointed, though it was all clearly labeled, "And the impression key goes here, on this round drum, like this."

Sally stopped what she was doing. The impression key had columns and rows of perfectly aligned words.

"Now, all you have to do is work the crank." She started it turning, "Every revolution, it pulls a sheet off the stack, inks the impression plate, and runs it through, depositing the print on the other side." She then cranked out a dozen copies far faster than Sally's press could even do one copy. "Now, to change the impression key, you just loosen the clips and it slides out, like so, and you put in the next." When she ran it again, this time it printed on the backs. "Now, these impression keys are about as thick as three sheets of paper and are made of milkweed latex. They should last for hundreds of prints, maybe a thousand or two, but I didn't have that much paper to test their durability on. They won't last forever. Cold-set latex never gets very hard, and the more durable vulcanized rubber is too hot to use with wax. There's a complicated way to make them durable, but the most practical way is to make a master key that'll let you make hundreds of latex impressions that will let you make hundreds of... well, you get the idea."

Sally inspected the perfectly printed sheets, the press that was mostly a tiny drum only big enough to hold a rolled standard sheet of paper, and the soft impression sheets. "I've been fooled by things like this before. How do you make these? You know, change the words? That's where all my time goes. This is slick and all, but changing the letters is the heart of printing. Seen something like this before, but each stamp sheet took a week to make, and cost a fortune. Carving a new one for every page would break me."

Dawn opened the other bag. "It's basically an old typewriter," she worked in a sheet of special paper. "This is simple, homemade waxed paper, extra thick on the wax." She started typing. "The letters slam into the soft wax, leaving an impression." She finished a few sample lines, then pulled out the mostly blank page. "You can even add illustrations." She drew a simple stick house with the rounded tip of a wooden pen. "Then you cover it with a special brew of my latex," She painted it on thick with a brush. "Then add a sheet of paper on top of that to stiffen it up so the latex doesn't stretch. And in a few hours, the sunken letters in the wax will become the raised letters in latex. You can keep the waxed paper as a master key, but if it gets too hot, it'll be ruined, so I'd just make an extra impression. Pour hot wax on a latex sheet, add paper, and wait to cool and you can get another wax master key. They can be used to make each other that way. It's a little more complicated than this, but I left you with some detailed instructions so you can fix most problems yourself."

Sally was struggling to keep up, "When'd you leave me that?"

Dawn handed her one of the dozen illustrated prints they had just run off. "I even show you how to make the fast-dry ink and the latex from milkweeds. Now, you said something about a fair price?"

Having been swindled before by just such a presentation, Sally studied it hard for the trick. "How long does that stuff take to dry?"

"Couple of hours, pending on the humidity. Overnight works best, if you can wait that long. You don't need any help making homemade waxed paper, do you? You make all your own paper, right?"

"Sure, switched to milkweed when you showed me how easy it was a few years back. Even started growing my own to save even more, every little bit counts, you know. I can get bees wax, no problem. Candle wax is cheaper, think they make it from vegetables, but I'm not—"

"I only brought a dozen with me for you to play with. But add some heat and the wax letters erase themselves. Should be able to reuse them for a long time. In theory, you only need as many waxed pages as you can type in a day. That's in theory, real life rarely works out that way. Figured a dozen should be enough to get you started with."

"Heard Shela got a room at the Inn, was going to start cheffing again. Figured you all were—"

"I'm going home. Got some chores to catch up on. Spent too much time goofing off, reinventing a mimeograph and a typewr—"

"A mime what? Never mind. You'll be staying the night at least, right? You have to stay long enough to show me how to pull that latex out of the wax. You'll stay that long at least, right?"

Dawn awkwardly smiled, visibly uncomfortable. "Sure."

"Show me how to put that waxed paper in again," Sally said, standing by the machine. "Might as well put it to some serious use while I've got you."

"You know, the best part of doing it this way is you get to sit down." Dawn walked her through it again. Pages that used to take hours to set by hand took minutes to type, and Sally was getting faster with every line as she picked up on the strange layout of keys. "I don't have to tell you that with something based on this simple a principle, if anyone gets a look at this or you describe it in enough details, your competitive advantage will evaporate overnight." Dawn watched Sally type, then showed her how easy it was with a little heat to fix typos made in wax. "I think this will be the last green year for a while, but don't quote me on it. Your readers should still plant mostly green crops, just to be safe. You convince anyone to farm ponds?"

"Have a few curious, but no takers yet." Sally repositioned the paper and started on the next column. "I'm more than a little tempted myself. It's about the only flock that can never run away. No worries about holes in fences, but it's all the digging that keeps putting me off. Picking a location ain't much easier. Makes sense as a way to store water for droughts, and some productive use for termites, Lord knows they're easy enough to grow."

"I can get you plenty of fish eggs, just so you know."

She typed away. "I'll keep that in mind."

The next morning, after the tiny printing press clearly proved its superiority, Dawn left for home, and for the first time, was all alone.

And wasn't afraid.
**B6.C16**

In the cabin by the pond, Dawn woke on the fold-down bed. She had gotten better about sleeping alone. Most of her fears had been fueled by her bad dreams, memories that haunted her when she couldn't put them in context.

Memories she had had no control over.

She had control now.

She had talked to Sally for hours about theories on past lives and had discovered it wasn't as uncommon as Dawn had believed. Almost everyone thought their dreams meant something. Some, like her, believed they were past lives trying to give advice, often bad advice.

Seeing them didn't make her as insane as she feared. It wasn't proof of a damaged mind.

Reincarnation seemed to curse everyone the same, pushing them to repeat past mistakes while foolishly trying to get different outcomes from them. The stories sounded familiar, but she couldn't help believe it was different with her.

She woke every morning knowing years worth of knowledge she had no right to know. She knew how to fly planes, drive cars, repair some of the most sophisticated systems ever envisioned, program computers, and spoke dozens and dozens of languages she had never heard. But the knowledge didn't come alone, it came with experiences too.

Her reflexes knew jujitsu, and she was sure she could play a piano.

The knowledge was useful, as Sally could easily attest, but most of her experiences were something she could do without. She had had many unhappy childhoods, and no happy lives, until the present.

She had been raped before.

The knowledge of the event stayed with her, but detailed memories of the experience were thankfully obscured. She knew how, when, and who, but the event itself was missing. She knew it happened in a shower, but all she could remember was waking up afterward in Medical. When it happened to her a second time, all she could remember was being held down by boys, then waking in Medical again. Other memories of later lives, like being stoned and having her hands cut off, were horrifically vivid, down to the moldy smell of dirt and onions inside the sack they put over her head, "US Aid" printed on its side. She remembered the brutal bites of the stones and the breaking of bones, just as clearly as she remembered every stroke of the first time she brushed Reaha's hair.

Sally's previous investigations into past lives helped Dawn make more sense of her own. One life tended to stand out, usually the first one, and almost always hung on a traumatic event.

Her pasts revealed themselves in a flood at first, until the memories had caught up with her present age. Now, she woke with another day of memories from each of the lives. Dozens and dozens of lives, but only two had lived to her current age. The first was her life in that mountain with the freedom it offered as a pilot in limitless skies, and the prison it was on the ground. The other was with a daughter named Dana, the woman she knew better as Mom.

She opened the windows and looked out on the pond.

She so cherished the peaceful quiet its tranquil surface offered.

She had spent only a few months around it in that first life, but those days shined as some of her happiest. She had believed she was free, had dared to dream she could live like that forever, and she had fallen in love. Those fond memories sustained her when she needed them the most. Even across lives.

She leaned forward and watched the dragonflies dance their morning ballet from blades of grass to tiny shrubs, and everything in-between.

A pair of turtles crawled across a log, hugging the water's edge.

She liked peaceful.

She closed her eyes and listened to the crickets and frogs. She remembered being a mom and just how it felt to have those bright eyes shining up at her, glued to her every word. She remembered how precious those moments with her daughter were. Children and childhood were two of the things denied to her first life. She had had them both, now, in ways she never could have imagined.

She opened her eyes and marveled at the decision her mother made, just a few years ago, when she chose when and how to leave this life.

Children.

Childhood.

Peaceful contentment was something that had gone missing from her life too. She had never known it. She had struggled and suffered in every life she remembered. She closed her eyes again and listened to the quiet... and felt herself breathe, heart contently beating inside her chest.

Her mother, her daughter, could have chosen a very long life, perhaps even endless, surrounded by this same peacefulness. But without her husband, so much quiet contemplation may well have been too painful to endure. She chose to leave life together, with him, over living a much longer life, alone.

Dawn folded up the bed and sat on the chair by the desk.

She knew who Guar really was, her last love from her first life, but she didn't see him that way now. She just saw him as a brother. In a way, she loved him more like this. She liked him better this way too.

At this age in that first life, she was still a prisoner in the base. But something was happening. Something behind the scenes and out of her control. Something that that her was too beaten down to notice or follow.

She thought of that boy she knew back then, the Guar of old. He was her prisoner now, somehow tied to her like the way she was imprisoned by the base. She was his curse. He was a prisoner, caught in the enormous wake of her life.

What was happening to him wasn't right.

She opened the door.

She had read all of her father's books, and in them one of Nyin's stories described her dilemma with Guar as a curse. Outside, all the ashes had returned to dirt. Her parents were wherever souls go after this life, something she had been denied. Something she was denying Guar, even now.

Perhaps there was a way out for her too. Perhaps there was a way for her to choose, like her mother chose. She walked to where the cremation had been. She didn't want to keep being born again and again. But she didn't yet know what happened to her, oh so many centuries ago. Perhaps she was being punished for something and deserved this curse. Perhaps she was so wicked she needed dozens of lives to repent. But whatever the reason, that sinful her was long dead and gone. It should be over. It shouldn't be her burden anymore. This life had no sins to atone for.

She ran her fingers across the black soil.

Every morning she woke with more clues. She would have this figured out soon enough.

She walked into the garden and started her chores. As a green year, her duties were light. Just enough fresh greens to make meals interesting, she was leaving the rest of the gardens for hassle-free milkweed, even though this year was marginally green and had a solid chance to grow more.

The simplified gardening left lots of time for contemplation, reflection, and invention.

She sat at the pond, end of the day, and watched the sun go down, remembering the view from the mountaintop. The two didn't compare, but the one she was treated to now was gorgeous, all the same.

She hadn't talked to or seen another person in two months. The first few weeks were torture for her. An idea would strike and she'd ask her sister... who wasn't there. She felt horribly alone.

Lonely.

But she didn't feel that way anymore.

It felt quiet and peaceful instead.

She was discovering who she was, perhaps even for the first time in her many lives. This her had no regrets.

This her actually liked herself more every year.

That wasn't a bad thing.

Was it?

Explosions ripped through the base as lights flickered, then collapsed to the emergency systems. The sounds of a pitched battle raged in the halls. Machineguns and what sounded like the thumps from anti-tank rounds echoed from the floors below... her door slid open as others snapped into lockdown.

She bolted for the—

A guard grabbed at her arm as another drew his gun.

She threw her helmet, knocking the gun from his hand as she elbowed the other in his Adam's apple, then smashed the arch of his foot with a stomp of her boot. Wobbling backwards, she grabbed his shirt and spun him into the fumbling guard while drawing from his holster. Gun in hand, she rolled to the ground and unloaded three rounds into each before they could get to their feet. Helmet retrieved, she bolted down the hall. With one round left in the gun, she was already regretting leaving the other behind, but the two had fallen atop it, and she didn't have time to waste digging it out.

The heavy door slid open just as she arrived, then slammed behind her as she passed.

The base shook beneath her, followed by harder aftershocks that dumped her to the ground and slapped her into the wall. The gun slid from her grip and skipped with a clatter down the hall behind her.

She staggered to her feet and bolted for the stairwell as its palm-pad blinked on.

She plowed a shoulder into it just as the pad turned green and sprinted up the steps, double-time. Two more doors flickered green just before she reached them. Someone was on her side as she strapped on the helmet and cleared the last in a maze of doors.

Booommmm!!!

She stumbled to the ground again as smoky-hot air blasted up the stairwell like a truck bomb had detonated several floors beneath her.

"Halt!" a guard said, hand on his holster.

But it was too late, he was only a foot away when she broke into the room, bounced him off a wall, flipped him face first into the floor, and reflexively stomped his right hand, grabbed his left foot, and drove his knee into the concrete with a twist, adding all her weight to the impact in the process.

She ran through two more doors and was on the runway with the control tower blasting a warning alarm behind her as lights flickered everywhere. She threw her jacket to the side as she looked around. Nothing was parked on the deck to steal, but a helicopter was coming in fast from the backside. Unarmed, her odds of hijacking it were not good. She ran for the opposite edge of the mountain instead.

Boooommmmmm!!!!!

Fire belched from the corners of the elevator pad as it cracked and crumbled into the mountain as a war in the hangar raged on, un-muffled this time. Something beneath her feet was taking a pounding.

But she hadn't time to investigate.

She got to her feet and dove over the side, arms stretched like wings.

And, like magic, synthetic cloth stiffened, then unfolded as it ripped through her pants like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. As she fell faster, gaining speed, she hugged the treetops, then turned down the valley just before the heels of her boots ignited.

Mounted in her soles, its thrust was necessarily limited to what little human ankles could control. Her burn-rate calculations had to be conservative, for safety reasons, and her speed was suffering for it. With enough power to keep from stalling, but barely any excess to climb, she hugged the valley as it wound around the mountain range, forcing her to take the long way.

As she banked, she saw the helicopter lift off from the base out of the corner of her eye. Its destination was the same as hers. But without her limitations, it would reach there first, if only by minutes because of her head start.

Agonizing minutes.

Horrible minutes.

She tried in desperation to find the few thermals she figured should be there and could buy her the altitude she needed.

But to no avail.

She banked around the foot of the last mountain, then powered up its side until she slowed to a stall. She stretched her arms over her head, twisted her wrists, palms up, and the tiny current trickling through the synthetic wings turned off. As it went limp, seamless pleats in the wings ripped open and puffed into something resembling a more traditional parachute as she fell a hundred feet through the trees.

On the ground, she pulled two tabs and the chute fell free from her black suit as she ran unfettered toward the house, machinegun fire ringing in the distance.

She was too late!

She ran up the driveway and emerged near the pond, just behind a helicopter, blades still spinning as the turbine spun down. Helmet as her only weapon, she approached from the tail in the pilot's blind spot, opened his door, and pounded him like it was a hammer.

When she was sure she had broken his neck and crushed his chest, she unharnessed him and shoved him into the back, pulled an Uzi from the rack, and sprinted to the house as another blast of weapons' fire echoed through the woods.

She slowed her pace as she closed on the edge of the clearing, her training kicking in. Eying two guards around the back door, she dropped. The smell of a pissed skunk hung in the air.

Unnoticed, she checked her weapon, carefully aimed, and waited for a window of distraction.

Bang!

A single shot rang from inside, causing both guards to instinctively turn toward the door.

She charged, trigger finger poised until the last second. Ten feet from the door, the first one noticed her, and she sprayed them both, though the skunk had clearly sprayed them first.

Inside, smoke clung to the ceiling and was quickly filling the house as she unloaded on everyone in a uniform, then dropped the empty gun as she turned the corner to the couch.

Argo was there, sitting beside a woman that looked identical to herself... except for a hole just above her left eye. Her brains were all over the back of the cushion, his shoulder, and splashed in his hair.

A wave of horrific sadness washed over her as she stared at the lifeless body of a woman that could easily have been her. Should have been her. "This never should have been asked of anyone," she whispered, staring into an innocent, but dead face...

Dawn woke in bed and stared at the rafters, the sounds of crickets and frogs filling the air.

She remembered that girl. The relaxed, peaceful look on her face. The hole in her head. The price someone paid for her freedom. But there was something else there. Something more. Something she didn't see when she lived it.

That woman, identical to herself, was more than just familiar. It was the same phrase she had said out of reflex over Nyin as they laid him into the ground. It wasn't the first time she had said those exact words.

There was something else happening here. Something beneath the surface. Something she was too distracted to notice the first time.

She sat up in bed and looked out over the shimmering pond as it rippled under the night sky, wishing Shela was there to talk to.

Shela had pushed her to go to that mountaintop. Pushed her to go down inside. And pushed her to deal with something she had feared for dozens of lives.

She had killed people in her escape. She killed people without regret, and had even taken her revenge on each of the boys that raped her. Her whole life, she had trained to be nothing more than a killer. But Dawn found it hard to believe she could ever have been such a cold person, with such bloody hands. That person in her dreams seemed a total stranger.

She identified more with that lifeless version of herself that sat on the couch and had committed no sins. She felt for that girl, the blank slate. That girl was much as Dawn saw herself, punished for another's mistakes.

A clone seemed most likely at the time, and most horrific. The sinless version of herself should have been the one that lived, not the flawed and scarred her. In a just world, it would have been the other way around, but they didn't live in a just world. Had she known that the price of her freedom would be paid by an innocent version of herself, she would have stayed imprisoned. But had Dawn been born the clone, knowing the tortured life the other had lived, she too would have sat on that couch and quietly taken a bullet to the head to free the one locked inside.

An idea crossed her mind and gave her a chill.

Perhaps she wasn't being reincarnated at all, but was instead just being cloned, again and again and again until she got her life right, or had suffered enough. Maybe she was that girl voluntarily sitting on the couch. If her dreams could be believed, and there was a mountain of proof to support them, then the technology existed to clone and implant memories. At least one clone had been made. Memories, or some equivalent to them, could obviously be transferred into a clone's mind, just as it had happened to the girl on the couch. She might have nothing to do with the original girl at all, just another unfortunate owner of her memories, like the clone before her.

Perhaps the program that created the clone was never turned off, or became defective— No, her memories exceeded those experienced by the clone. And her memories were not from the clone's viewpoint. Though she didn't know how the clone had been made, or what rules governed it, it seemed unlikely she owed her existence to some sort of cloning accident. She seemed to have a purpose.

Shela and Nyin both believed the answers were to be found in that place.

Going to the mountain had given Dawn questions she would have been too afraid to ask without going. Walking around inside that horrible place with a friend freed her from a curse of nightmarish dreams, and turned them instead into a vehicle for self-growth and discovery. She didn't wake from them terrified anymore, even one as horrific and nightmarish as this.

She had distance from them.

Was learning from them.

Her new perspective gave them new meanings.

Meanings they didn't have when she lived them.

If she had ever lived them.

She watched the surface ripple as a fish slurped at the top. No, she had to face the probability that it was her. It was her life she dreamt every night. She didn't think she was a mere clone, but would a clone know it was a clone? Would it be aware it wasn't the original?

The one that sat on the couch knew it was a clone. It knew it was freeing the original.

She preferred the idea of reincarnation, even if it had been achieved by a purely scientific mechanism, instead of Sally's spiritual underpinnings. As she watched the ripples cross the pond, she realized that life didn't give easy answers to difficult questions. And, like in her dreams, what she preferred didn't matter to the universe one bit.

Fate and the universe may even have been showing their displeasure at being cheated for centuries by some irrelevant girl and a trick of science.
**B6.C17**

Dawn finished sealing the wooden barrel with pine pitch, then set it to the side to dry. She had noticed that her family was the only one in town that vacuum stored dried goods in waterproof sacks. Everyone else used wooden barrels. The problem with barrels was most of the time a few bug eggs would get sealed inside and, by the time it was opened a few seasons later, most of the food would be destroyed.

Her obsessive mind had come across an inventive idea she wanted to implement as soon as it dried, but she had her doubts that it would work.

She wanted to wait and watch it dry so she could implement the rest of the plan as soon as possible, but for now her time was best spent distracted in the garden again.

When the time came, she returned and tested the pine. Judging it to be hard enough, she lit a tiny alcohol lamp specially designed for this purpose, set it in the bottom of the drum, packed in all the bug-infested acorns and seeds she had collected that day, and sealed it up.

If her theory was right, the tiny flap valve on the lid would let any hot air escape. The lamp on the bottom should never get hot enough to cause a fire, but contained more than enough fuel to consume all the air in the barrel, leaving a bug-lethal concentration of CO2 behind. Her only concern was that even bug-free air might let fungus thrive, trading one villain for another.

She wasn't sure it would work, but without advanced chemistry, dry ice, or pure nitrogen, she didn't have another option to offer them.

She paused and stared at the barrel.

Why should she care? Really?

It wasn't her food being lost. In fact, her family had never lost a single sealed meal the entire time she had lived there. Teaching others to store food like her family did would have been far better. Unfortunately, the people in town tended to be very stuck in their ways. This last spell of green years only reinforced it. There were still farmers planting crops she knew would fail while paying charlatans to lift mythical curses. They showed the same stubbornness with her pleas to abandon barrels.

Barrels were easily rolled and stacked in barns. They transported well and offered a level of protection from mice that sacks did not.

Adding a tiny alcohol lamp to the bottom of each barrel would cost farmers almost nothing and probably insure no insect infestations, but might do nothing to combat losses to molds. Low humidity would be needed for that. If she worked the math right, she might get the flame hot enough to heat the barrel sufficiently to kill fungus too, but that was very tricky.

The bigger question was why did she spend eight days on this project? Why did she care if someone else's food spoiled? Why invest the time inventing something for others when vacuum sealing and canning them, like her family had always done, always worked?

Deep inside came the answer.

She wanted to help.

She wanted to be helpful.

It was who she was. And if they wouldn't accept the right answer, she would offer them the best answer they were willing to accept.

She wasn't, by nature, the cold-blooded killer her dreams portrayed.

She wasn't a pilot.

She didn't wear combat boots.

And even though she had the dexterity to hit a man in the eye with a knife from twenty feet, she had never thrown one in her life.

This lifetime, anyway.

She was someone else, now.

She sat back and stared at the barrel.

"Shadona," she whispered. Shadona was her original name. "Shadona," she said again. It sounded natural. It sounded fitting. It sounded like her. "Coulette," she said the name of the clone. It didn't seem to fit as well, but it didn't feel wrong, either. "Dawn." Dawn fit best of all. Dawn was the life she would choose. That all of them would choose, if they had been given the chance.

But what was in a name? Had she lived Shadona's life, she would have killed without mercy. Had she been born as Coulette, she would have sat on the couch if it was the only way to win Shadona's freedom. And if Shadona was found wandering the woods and adopted by a wonderful family, she would do just what Dawn was doing now.

She would help as much as they would let her.

It's who they all were.

If life allowed them to be.

She stared at her second version of a calculator, based partially on memories of an abacus. It was smaller than the previous version, had an extra digit, and was made almost entirely out of injection-molded plastic pieces. She could make hundreds of them, if she chose. Assembly took minutes, but it wasn't something she wanted to do all day. Ironically, she could solve equations in her head, without effort, faster and easier than she could solve them by this machine. It actually slowed her down and was of absolutely no use to her. She could spend a lifetime refining and designing newer and better versions and none of them would ever make her life any easier.

She built for the challenge, but the challenge was long gone, if it was ever really there.

"The king was captured," she whispered Shela's words, "days ago."

A flood of improvements swarmed into her head. But for once, she was able to move on.

Milkweed was, by far, the most versatile and abundant resource she had at her disposal. And she had just made her second harvest of the furthest field this year. Foam for mattresses was one thing she had already mastered, but by altering the chemistry and reinforcing it with strands, she was about to branch its simple concept into a whole new range of applications. Instead of soft and flexible, this batch dried solid and hard.

Having the knowledge of multiple PHDs swimming around in her head had once been a blessing. But now it tended to give her too much information, too many directions to go in. Too many ideas to pursue, most of which were dead ends without mature chemical industries to stand behind them. But she was getting better at tuning those voices out.

For her latest, she made a mold of their bathtub in papier-mache, filled it with her new foam, then let it cool. Removed from the mache mold, she carried it, with one hand, to the pond and tossed it in. It floated like a leaf and weighed only a few pounds. She jumped in and paddled it out, effortlessly.

If her math was right, she could make rigid walls out of material like this. Perhaps not as strong as the wooden logs most people used, but it was plenty strong enough to replace wood in single-level home construction, especially if the roof was this lightweight too.

The plastic equivalent of balsa wood, it still needed some refinement. Without accurately defining the chemistry of her raw materials, she was left to guess at the true contents and concentrations of most things. That meant experimenting and risking lots of errors. It would take time to learn how long items made of this would last, exposed to the elements, cold and sun wearing worst of all.

Paint, paper, or a thin mix of clay would protect the outside from degrading under sunlight, but the cold was another matter, she calculated. But making samples and filling decades with careful observations seemed impractical.

Impatient as ever, she pushed the experiment forward, trusting her instincts. All indications pointed to her current formulas having the correct ratios anyway. Without a proper lab, everything she did was a gamble.

She picked a spot where the ground was nearly flat, drove a few stakes in for the corners, checked it for square, then framed it in with shovels of dirt to help form a giant mold. Inside, she splattered it with a layer of ashes and paper pulp before turning in for the night.

The next morning the pulp had dried and she poured a thin layer of hot latex mixed with clay and carbon, then raked the top to leave it rough like treads on a tire. After waiting an hour for it to set while mixing a different batch, she added two feet of her special fiber-reinforced hardening foam and prepped the rest while she waited for this slab to cool.

Within the week she had all four walls and a roof poured. But even being fantastically light, by comparison to logs, these were still too heavy and awkward for one person to maneuver.

Fortunately, she was not without cards to play.

She cast and built a primitive crane out of the same stuff and stood up each piece as she staked and tied them into place. Within her second week of the project, she had completed the building's shell, poured the joints to cement the corners together, poured a floor (filled with as many heavy rocks as she could find to keep this lightweight house from blowing around), added a top inch that reminded her of the rubber mats at workstations in the base, and mounted the doors and shutters for the windows, made from the same lightweight stuff.

It reminded her a little of a story she read in her first life about making emergency shelters out of water-proofed cardboard. The problem, she remembered thinking at the time, was getting the long, straight pieces into remote places, often in the middle of disaster areas. If this held up, everything she needed could be custom-built on site and required just a few barrels of latex, fibers, a handful of binders, and some simple tools.

Sharing some of the qualities of Styrofoam, it should be easy to heat, if she remembered her science right.

At the end of the month of her construction obsession, she stood and stared at the structure.

It wasn't quite as big as their house, but it was bigger than the cabin by the pond that was already showing its years in rotted logs patched with straw and mud. The cabin had never been designed to stand as long as it had. Built in haste, it was only to buy her parents the few seasons they needed to clear the land and build the one they had always known as home.

Her new design sat within sight of the old cabin, as if to mock it with its shiny youth. She felt remorse for the old, but knew it was the way of things.

Nearly everything inside the new structure was made of milkweeds, in one way or another, with the exception of the earthen fireplace and chimney that needed to be fireproof.

It was a marvel of engineering and determination and exemplified the practicality of her fledgling new designs, but that wasn't why she was staring, why she looked at it with such utter disappointment in her heart, instead of the triumph she so sought.

They didn't need another house on this land.

They could have done with one fewer, now that everyone was going their separate ways.

She walked inside and stared at the tub, toilet, and tiny kitchen. Shela would hate the tiny kitchen most of all, but that left more room for a shop and the clutter of her inventive mind to run free.

She had an idea in her head that had completely consumed her again. She didn't need to build this, a much smaller model would do. A month's effort seemed wasted now, when she could have been— Why couldn't she see that a month ago? The building was structurally a complete success, but she failed to keep it in perspective.

She let obsession rule her again.

She moved in her things.
**B6.C18**

"Dawn," Shela said, poking her sister with a finger, "What the hell?"

Dawn bolted up in bed and threw a hug around the girl. "I missed you," she said, kissing her on the cheek. "Where have you been?"

Shela sat on the mattress with her sis, "Sally loves your printing press, by the way."

"Don't care," Dawn said. "Where have you been? What have you been up to? Why are you here? You still working as the morning chef? Nothing went wrong there, did it? How could it. You seen anyone I would know? Are you dating anyone? Did you ever—"

"You made a house, Sis—"

"Don't care," Dawn said, then jumped to her feet and paced the floor before sitting exactly where she had been just a few seconds ago. "I want to know about you. You happy?" She looked her in the eyes, "Of course you are. You still finding joy in making all those meals, like you used to? Or did it become a chore, somehow? Lose its magic for you. Tell me everything."

Shela looked around, taking everything in instead. "You've been busy—"

"Just a few weeks, put it out of your mind. All milkweed, polymers, catalysts, baking soda, boring papier-mache. You look beautiful. I love what you've done with your hair. I always picture you in the long, shoulder-length or middle-of-the-back hair we grew up with. I never would have guessed it would look so cute cut short like that."

"I wouldn't either," Shela said, her fingers in her sister's long, knotted strands that hadn't been combed in months. "But with so much cooking in that kitchen, long just left me feeling greasy all the time. It soaks up the fumes somehow. Short just made my life so much easier. It felt like I needed a change, too." She leaned in close, "You wouldn't believe how much easier it is to clean like this. It really saves on shampoo." She tapped the glass with her knuckles. "This isn't glass, is it?"

Dawn shrugged, then leaned in another hug, "I missed you, Sis."

"Thought I should come see you. It didn't seem fair of us to leave you all alone up here." She patted her on the back, but Dawn showed no signs of releasing the hug. "I just wanted to make sure—"

"You were worried, no doubt. I would worry about leaving your crazy sister alone too. She might do something crazy like build a house." Dawn leaned back, straightened the clothes she hadn't changed in a week, then quickly gave up on the impossible task of making herself presentable, "You caught me on a bad day. I—"

"You got a little caught up in what you were doing, and time got away from you. I know you, Sis, grew up with you, remember? You don't need to hide that girl from me, couldn't love her more if I tried. Sally turned those thirty handwritten notes of yours into a two hundred page book that flies off the shelf. Said she had to look up every other word on some of it, but got it translated and simplified enough, best she could understand of it. She also implemented that lending idea of yours. For a small yearly fee, they can take a book home with them, so long as they promise to bring it back within a month, or buy it. What'd you call it, a hybrid bookstore library? It's really helped sales and got people coming in that wouldn't have just six months ago. People borrow a book, read it for a few weeks, then decide they want to keep it and come back and borrow another. And the press is making her life so much easier. When you turn twenty-one, next year, we'll open you an account, all to yourself. It'll be legal then.

Sally blazed that frontier for us, you know. She's found all the loopholes in the law, and has all sorts of ways to exploit them. The unmarried woman gets to do almost everything but vote like a man around here.

I really like her. Reminds me of a sister I know. She gets lost in working that press, up all hours till she forgets what day it is."

Dawn looked confused, "Is it your birthday already?"

Shela smiled, it had silently passed weeks ago. "I missed my sister too, you know. You haven't gotten a full night's sleep since you started building this, have you? You lay down, exhausted, then think of an improvement or just a little here or there, and suddenly it's the next day again. Not a wink of sleep, have you?"

Dawn couldn't bring herself to lie, "I'm fine, I want to hear all about you."

Shela slid over on the bed, next to the window, and stretched out as she lay down, facing the rafters. "I spent the last two days hiking here, non-stop. Haven't had a wink of sleep myself." She grabbed Dawn's arm and tugged her down beside her as she rolled to her side to make more room. "You mind sitting with me, just till I fall asleep?"

Dawn had never hesitated with anything Shela asked of her. This she gladly did, dropping the shades first.

"You're fantastically brilliant," Shela said, "there was never any question about that." She looked over all the minor inventions and yet another improved adding machine, then she turned her attention to the new house. "I like how the roof drains into those long barrels at the bases of the walls. Weights to hold it down in a storm. Very smart, as always. It'll be fantastic in places without access to a stream."

Dawn smiled as she stared at her feet, embarrassed as easily as always by the very compliments she so craved. "You dating anyone?"

It was Shela's turn now. "Just barely. I... I had to leave town before I got overwhelmed by him. It's so intense, it's a little frightening. But I knew he was the one the second I saw him in the Inn, eating in the dining room with his father. It's almost like he shined. I just knew. I always thought I would know the second I saw him, and I did. Like Daddy knew when he saw Mom. But I always thought that would make it easier, but it made it harder instead. To know, and know how easily it can all be ruined by a offhand comment, or an action," she sighed, "or inaction, or an opportunity that slips by unused. It's more pressure than I can bear sometimes. To be the best me all the time..."

Dawn kissed her on the cheek in an almost flirtatious way.

"He looks nothing like I thought he would." She played with the adding machine for an idle moment. "It just terrifies me that I'll slip up somehow and ruin it. I obsess over every little thing I do. Every minute with him lives in my head for days, replaying it over and over like a flubbed line might stay with an actor on stage. Why'd I do this when that would have been so much better? How long should I wait between dates? Will he like this outfit, or is that one better? Does it go with these shoes? I never used to have those thoughts before. Not ever. I never worried if my hair was alright, or if I should hide it under a hat. I never used to care about what I wore before. Not ever."

"You've always been good enough for me. How could he not love you too."

Shela paced outside, turned toward the house, turned away again, and walked to the pond. "I feel so indecisive around him. I think that's why I ran home. The person I was becoming... she wasn't me. It isn't like I have a lot of experience with men anyway. Hardly any, really." She walked back to the cabin, got a fishing rod, and sat on one of the new chairs by the pond. "I don't know what I'm doing. I—"

"You're fine," Dawn said, casting her own line as she sat on the other chair. Dozens and dozens of ideas swam in her head, all easily pushed aside for time with her sister. "Taking a moment to find your center isn't a bad thing. It's smart." She watched the ripples echo around her string. "It takes some people a lifetime to discover who they really are. Doubt it'll take you that long."

Shela rapped the wall with her knuckles, "It sounds solid and hollow at the same time. Weird stuff." She smacked it hard with the palm of her hand. "Solid. It doesn't vibrate at all. Yet it isn't as solid as wood. Feels like it gives, just a little, and only here."

Dawn flipped the fish on the pan. "How long you want to stay?"

"Days, maybe a week or two." Her shoulders sunk, "Maybe the winter, I don't know really." She grabbed her short hair. "My head spins every time I see him. I'm not me around him. I can't keep being this way."

"I think I have some experiments that would be a perfect distraction for you, and your mythical talent for cooking."

Shela walked to the tiny kitchen consisting of a three-inch tall oil lamp the shape of a plate with a dozen wicks the size of shoestrings, each adjustable under the pan. It seemed as foolish as trying to cook with a dozen candles, but it cooked with precise, even heat, and took little to no space. Brilliant, yet simple as pottery. "Nothing mythical about my skills, Sis."

"We'll see." Dawn dimmed four of the wicks to give one side of the pan a warming function while she crisped some fresh collard greens on the hot side. "I was missing milk when I remembered tofu, which is based on soymilk. And soymilk made me think about rice milk, and almond milk, and—"

"That's nuts. I've eaten rice all my life, tastes nothing like milk, and I've got no idea what tofu is. And do you have any idea how far we'd have to go for almonds?" Nuts was a bit harsh and Shela was already regretting the choice of that word as she quietly studied the burner. Dawn's inventions wore the mark of genius, mixed with simplicity. All the wicks were controlled from the front and could be adjusted individually, or all at once.

"Well, tofu is real. Or at least it once was, and can be again. Soy is a bean that you can ferment and then make a milk. And tofu, if I remember right, is like a tasteless soft cheese, but I don't think it has to be tasteless. It's supposed to use soybeans—"

"What's a soybean?"

"Well," Dawn shrugged, "it's a problem. Kinda like green beans or split peas, but not enough like them that they'd work as a substitute, I suspect. I haven't seen one in any of the towns we've been to yet. Probably has to do with some sort of GM side effect that wiped— Doesn't matter. I know you can make milk from rice and almonds, so we should be able to use a mix of acorns and rice and sunflower seeds would be my guess. Since the rest is scarce in a green year, acorn flour may be a perfect starting point. We've always had more of them than we could ever use, and the mountains are full of white oaks with nuts going to waste." Dawn flipped the greens, then pressed the fish to extract more oil as the pan sizzled. "Think of it like a fine flour suspended in water, or a liquid bread." She smiled. "Imagine if we could find the recipe for making milk out of acorns. Deer do it all the time, why can't we?"

It sounded absurd to Shela, but the possibilities were growing on her. Milk without a deer might be as major a breakthrough in cooking as building a house out of milkweed was for construction. She touched her sister's hand and concentrated. Dozens, hundreds, then thousands of experiments over the next four weeks flooded into her head. Dawn was easily the most prolific mind she had ever read. Others were very limited in what they would and could do, providing her with just a few dozen probable variations to any given day. It was actually surprising to her how few choices people made, such creatures of habit. But everything seemed possible, through Dawn. On occasion, like now, it was overwhelming. Even so, "I've got nothing, Sis. You're leaving out some key ingredient, or you're just not smart enough to figure it out."

Dawn paused, put down the spatula, and stared out the window. Her fingers wiggled by her ear like she was twirling her hair, but she twirled air instead. "That's right, how could I be so narrow minded? How could I assume I had all the ingredients already? I'm thinking too much like a recipe, not enough like chemistry. I know chemistry. Something is missing. Enzymes, salts, and... and... acids? Vinegar maybe?"

When Shela read her again with salts and vinegar on Dawn's mind, eight formulas came into focus. Eight recipes that they'd settle on by the end of four weeks of experiments and after the exhaustion of every sack of flour the attic contained. Eight recipes that Shela had without opening a single bag. Instead, she just wrote them down while Dawn put dinner on plates.

Shela sniffed the milky glass. "It doesn't smell like milk. Smells sweet, like molasses. Just a hint of vinegar, but you wouldn't know if you didn't see it made." She held it up to the light, "I don't think the color is right, either. Kind of a bright, greenish gray." She tasted it. "It's not milk." She drank a little more. "It isn't bad, but it's—"

"It's the first of eight recipes," Dawn said. "And I thought you could cook everything perfect the first time, when you cheated."

"Not exactly how it works. I can cook something as good as I can cook it, at the time I'm cooking it. That's a big—"

"That's nonsensical," Dawn said, grinning like she was six and had just snuck a cookie off her sister's plate. "I could have made it this bad by myself, without 'magic'."

"As it is," Shela said, looking at the recipes on the page, "these are all your formulas, not mine. I was reading your future, not mine. It's a little harder to read my future out that far to this level of detail. And this is the best you could do in four weeks. But it gives me something to work wi—"

Dawn pressed, skeptical of magic to begin with, "Since we have the formulas now, why not read me again and fine tune them into—"

"Doesn't work like that. Making these is still in the future. These recipes are also from the future. They aren't in the present until we make them in the present—"

Dawn waved the paper in front of her sister. "Looks like it's in the present to me."

Shela continued, undaunted. "Paper doesn't count, it's just paper. Until it's made physical, it doesn't become a part of the present and it's just a memory, an idea. It isn't real yet. It's like trying to read a deck of cards before it's been shuffled, or before it's even been made. After you shuffle it, I know every card, but not until. Besides that, reading you, or me, making something that won't exist for weeks would exceed my limits." She paused, that last sentence seemed confusing, even to her. "If I could do what you're suggesting, I'd essentially be reading eight weeks into the future, could write down those recipes, then from them read twelve weeks, and in short order be a thousand years into the future by the end of today. That's like omniscience, nobody has that. Four weeks means four weeks. But, if we make the eight tonight, then they don't just exist in the future anymore but will exist in the present, and I can read another four weeks from a changed present, but only after it's been changed. Clear enough?"

"Time-space paradox? Some sort of Hawking's effect?" Dawn pushed her face within inches of Shela's ear, staring at her forehead, "Some sort of quantum entangled neurons, a relic of quantum computing... but what are they entangled with?" She pushed her sister's hair out of the way of her ear, "What's the mechanism at play? What's the power source? Why just you and Daddy? Can there possibly be a genetic component for quantum entanglement? That would imply a biological creation of quantum entangled particles." She scratched her head, "That doesn't seem reasonable. But what I remember of the quantum physics of my day was they were all wrong anyway. The observed effects were constantly being misinterpreted simply because the flawed math accompanying them kept coming up with useful answers. But could the theories of entanglement have actually been true?"

Shela sat back, away from Dawn's piercing stare, "Quantum?"

Dawn slid closer. "Since time is a variable in all equations, the entangled neurons in the 'future you' is four weeks ahead of this you, but you're hearing the echoes of her memories now. But knowing the future is not changing the future. You have to irrevocably sever that timeline from existence by altering it in the present, otherwise only that singular future exists. The alteration doesn't exist to be read until the 'rejected future' has been severed from existence, at which point an 'alternate future' can exist to be entangled again... disregarding, for the moment, the paradox of each 'rejected future' being pivotal in leading to the last, yet nonetheless being destroyed an infinite number of times and thus never existing to be referenced."

Shela drank the rest of the glass, "Phrase it any way you want, we have to make the other seven recipes before reading anyone will work again. I want to see tofu next. Cheese-like, huh?"

Dawn sat back. "Last I remember it was like soft cheese. Never had it made with vinegar before, that I know of." She stared at the table, trying to remember. "Nutritional yeast? I think it had something to do with molasses. If I can remember more about that, we can get something very cheesy flavored, too."

"One thing at a time." Shela assembled the rest of the pans for their first tofu.

It took two weeks to perfect the eight, which ultimately became twenty-two recipes and a wide variety of 'yeasts'. Three tofus tasted like cheese and one made a nearly perfect cheesecake in density, texture, and flavor. And all the milks were exceptionally palatable, yet none were identical to what they had always known as milk.

Four were minty-sweet enough to be a dessert and thickened into something resembling a cool, but not frozen, ice cream, that Dawn insisted on referring to as smoothies.

Shela filled the basket with the choicest cloudberry leaves from the field under the oaks, washed them, then crushed them under the wooden press, not that distant in design to what Sally had used for decades to print with. Dawn could easily have improved this too, but there was something romantic about using the same wooden press that their parents had used.

Besides, this was a question of volume, and it never took long to crush an hour's worth of pickings into pulp, ready to be dried. Cloudberry and mint leaves were green season crops, but both were really only good for teas and flavorings for wines. Though delicious, neither could be counted as food.

Over the years they had taken into town all the surplus teas and needed to start fresh again.

From the looks of it, she easily had two more baskets before the field would be picked clean. But that would wait for another day.

She spread the pulp out over a sheet stretched like a hammock between the trees, then covered it with another so the dried pieces wouldn't get bothered by bugs or scatter in the wind, the same way her parents had always prepared them. This batch would be labeled 'green', where the black version needed to ferment for a few extra days before being dried the same way. The 'hammock' was only big enough to dry one basket at a time, so with this minor chore behind her, she was done for the day.

Dawn sank her fork into the tofu cheesecake, then chased it with hot cloudberry tea with a splash of acorn milk. It wasn't exactly the same as deer milk, but it was still powerful good. The best Shela could make was difficult to beat. "You figured out what you needed to yet?" Dawn said, fireflies twinkling across the pond that night.

"I think so." Shela used a spoon to eat her slice, only because Dawn had taken the last clean fork. "I think I'm being childish, running home for an answer that ultimately has to come from me anyway. I think I needed to feel like me again, for a while. I always feel like me when I'm here, around you."

Dawn broke off a piece of crust, then moved it around on the plate. "I... in my first life, she's living with a boy now. I'm pretty sure it's Guar." She turned the plate 90 degrees, then pushed the crust with her fork again. "She loves him, but it's a reluctant love. And, I'm not sure he loves her back. She's had her spirit crushed, ground down to almost nothing, and she seems to be just going through the motions, the momentum of her life carrying her to the end. Careful to never be too happy, in case it all gets taken away, again." She turned the plate and pushed the crust. "I think she's given up hope, and in everything that's happened to her she's lost sight of who she wanted to be, settling for whatever's left."

"Who did she want to be, the you of a previous life?"

Dawn ate the crust, then sipped the tea.

"You don't have to be who she wanted to be. It isn't your life's mission to fill in her missing pieces, even if you were once her. What's the life you want, right now, in this moment? Don't tie yourself to a past that can never be fixed."

"I think I was supposed to help, and I was never allowed to. Tesla's life—"

"Who?"

"Tesla. He invented alternating current and— It doesn't matter. He changed the world for the better, made the impractical practical and the prohibitively costly, inexpensive."

"We're a few years from making cotton obsolete. That's no trivial change, if you ask me."

Dawn nodded. "The world hailed him as a brilliant genius with his first invention. Then they cursed his name with his next, equally brilliant idea. He was trying to help, I think. To solve problems others couldn't even see... but needed solving all the same. Maybe nobody can help a world that's more eager to crucify than listen."

"Maybe Tesla could have done it, if he was doing it the way you are. Nobody here would believe a girl came up with such things anyway. Everyone will believe the farmers came up with it on their own, or some 'man' was behind it and you were just the pretty face he sold it with, like you planned. Sally, who never tells how she can suddenly make a hundred times the books with a fraction of the staff, will just be another to be attributed to some inventive man."

Dawn stared at the plate. "When I was Dana's mom, I was having these same dreams, but I was interpreting them very differently. They made me angry, and bitter, and a little afraid. When they killed my husband, it—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Shela held her hand out of reflex.

"It's fine. Just dreams. It's not as intense for me, I think, as it was for her. She dreamed of a world crushing her, and lived in a world little different. Mine was anything but. I feel sorry for her, but it doesn't make me angry." She forked another piece. "It easily could have. I think she was putting it all together, just before she died." She looked her sister in the eyes, then looked at that kind hand she held. "I think, inside me somewhere, there's a few cells, perhaps only as big as a drop, and they're like Nyin, impervious to harm. Clearly I die, but because those few drops don't, the soul has some way to stay. Something to be tethered to. They grow into a hummingbird, maybe even two, and when they get eaten by something big enough, those cells get taken over, rewritten like a virus, and two children are born." She looked up, "I only once remember being younger than when you first met us... And I remember a cute girl watching me from a window, and a flower-like feeder that looked big as a house."

Shela smiled.

"I didn't just make a plane out of thin air, you know. I made a device, a giant ring bolted to the ceiling, that could literally make anything I asked it to, in the blink of an eye. The magic of stories. And it wasn't enough to buy my freedom." She looked at her hand again, the one Shela gently squeezed. "I bet that's where the immortal cells came from, inhaled like dust, but I'll never really know. I remember seeing my DNA once."

"DNA?"

"The words God whispered into clay that gave it life. The words that define all I'll ever be, physically. It said I'd lose my mind by my thirties, die of a dozen cancers alone. I was, irreversibly defective."

"Do you look the same?"

Dawn looked up again, "No, not exactly. But there is an extremely strong resemblance."

"Maybe the rest is changed ever so slightly too."

Dawn faked a smile, "What if two thirds of my life, this life, is already gone? What should the rest of my days look like, if I have her short fate?"

"You can't— We can't live our lives in fear of tomorrow. We have a destiny, you know." Shela leaned across the table to whisper the rest, "We have to bring tofu smoothies to the valley. Bet they'll be spectacular with blackberries, cloudberries, cherries or strawberries blended in. Oh, or honey melon. Can you just imagine? But we'll have to wait until next year to see." She let go of her hand to finish off the slice. "I give this another season and we'll have recipes as good as if it was real milk. Maybe even a tofu-acorn ice cream that just needs to be chilled and doesn't have to be kept frozen all the time. Smoothie ice cream. That's something to stick around for, isn't it?"

Dawn played with the empty crawfish shells, still on the table. "That tofu butter wasn't bad either."

Shela licked her fingers, "They're not ready for our fake butter."

"Do I have a soul?" Dawn said that night, hours yet until morning, still in bed with her sister.

Shela hugged her closer. "A very old one. Go back to sleep."

"Do you think one as defective as mine can be saved?" Dawn sat up in bed, her back to her sister. "The first me, Shadona, has a world of blood on her hands. And had a world of horrors visited on her. I doubt I'll ever know the full extent of it. Maybe it takes hundreds of lifetimes to atone for so many sins."

Shela had thought they discussed this thoroughly enough last night, but apparently not. "Say you don't have one, what then? Why worry? Nothing to lose, right? But if you have one, and trust me you do, then obsessing over it isn't going to do you any—" She suddenly understood. "What did you see? What did you just dream?"

"You think they're happy, wherever our parents went?" She drank the glass of water on the table, then climbed back to bed. "I'd hate to think... I'd hate to think that they went someplace different, because of me. Because of my sins."

"You haven't sinned. Since I've known you, you're—" Shela hugged her in an attempt to calm her, "You're one of the sweetest, kindhearted people it has ever been my pleasure to know. Now go to sleep."

She held her sister's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm obsessing her obsessions, again. She was smarter than me, and she couldn't fig—"

"Now that's a frightening thought," Shela snuggled her, ready to go back to sleep, with or without her sister.

"And she was more obsessive too. Maybe the two can't be easily separated. Maybe that's enough to make us different. Maybe souls can change too. Maybe souls are changed by living life. Embittered by sorrow—"

"Evolved and enriched by love. Go to sleep, please, I'm begging you."

Dawn closed her eyes. "I like to think, wherever they are, there's a pond nearby, and a view at least as beautiful as this. Maybe snow that isn't cold. Do you believe in heaven?"

"I'm trying to, but it isn't easy this early in the morning."

"Maybe it's a place that's reserved for those souls that were ready. Maybe hell is here, repeating lessons until they're finally learned. I doubt Momma had anything else to learn, do you?"

"Mmmm." Shela tried hard not to encourage her with more conversation.

"The first me was never meant to live very long. Late thirties at best. Maybe it's not possible to cheat fate. Maybe fate can't be broken, like the strange quantum entanglement rules that govern your tofu talents."

"Exactly," Shela whispered, "You've figured it all out. Now, go to sleep."

"I bet they have smoothies in heaven."

"I'll make you a dozen tomorrow, but only if you go to sleep right now."

Dawn closed her eyes and smiled in the dark. "Smoothies... You have to go back in town. You've been here too long. Lessons can only be put off so long. Don't worry about me, Sis. I think this is a lesson I have to learn on my own, too."
**B6.C19**

Shela took the tray of collard greens out of the Inn's oven and set it on the counter. "Come here, David," she said, "See these? How much longer did you say they needed?" She crumbled the ones in the center. "Another few minutes and all of these would have been ruined. And see here?" She pointed at the stain on the tray, "That's a sign of too much oil. A light spritz of oil is not a bath."

David wiped the sweat off his brow, "Sorry, Ma'am, it won't happen again. I'll get it right."

By his tone, he clearly thought Shela was angry at him. She was not. "You going to be ready by this fall, if I decide to go home for the winter?"

"If?" David asked. "You might stay? You haven't decided?"

She leaned against the counter and sampled one that was half burnt. "You'll want to add a little more garlic to the oil, too. And no, I haven't decided. Offered an open-ended contract, if I can get someone trained first."

"Sorry, Ma'am, I'm doing my best. But my timing isn't as good as yours, and these are all new dishes for me. I barely learned the last ones."

She patted him on the shoulder, then aimed him at a kettle that was seconds from boiling over. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You'll get there, just takes time. Until you do, you'll just have to keep checking on things, lifting lids and looking in. You can't just assume your sense of timing is as good as mine." She was tempted to make a smoothie, but without fresh fruit or berries, the town wasn't ready for it. "I noticed you haven't been— You've got to taste everything before it goes out. Get into that habit, it's perhaps the most important thing I can teach you. It's always about constantly improving every dish." She snacked another crisped green. "The rest is just following recipes."

He stirred the pot, then removed it from the heat. "Yes, Ma'am."

Shela assembled the last two plates, dressed them with crisped greens, put them on a wooden tray and hoisted it into the air, "I'll take these out myself." She paused before the doors, "Make some more tea, it needs to cool by dinner service. And, when you get time, get started on two cakes, we'll need them by dinner too."

"Yes Ma'am."

Shela walked into the lunchroom and over to table three, "Here you go, Mr. and Mrs. Findick. How's Adora doing? It's been forever since I've seen her."

"She's fine," Ellie said, "Been married now for two happy years. Still no grandkids yet." She leaned in close, "Was hoping your mother might be willing to pay her a visit. How's she doing?"

Shela stiffened, but was more than ready for the question. It was why she came out from the kitchen. She knelt beside her in the crowded room, "Sorry, she died last winter. She was a quiet person, as you know. Daddy's been taking it hard, just wants to be left alone. Wanted all of us kids out, but Dawn's staying with him, all the same."

Ellie put her hand on Shela's, "I'm so sorry, child. Your mother was one of the sweetest people I've ever known."

Her husband, George, quietly bristled while he stuffed his face and partook of the bottle of wine.

"Hope you didn't suffer too much over the last year," Shela continued, knowing the answer.

"Oh, George did just fine, just fine. Switched to potato eyes and leafy greens, like was in Sally's paper. Them pigs never had such a variety, though they don't fatten quite so fast as they do on sugar beets."

Shela gave her a casual hug before standing, empty tray in hand, "It was nice seeing you two. Come back and see us again, real soon." She smiled politely, returned to the kitchen, gave a few parting instructions to David, then left for the hour, knowing, as busy as they seemed right now, they were headed for an unusually long lull.

David was in his thirties and resented taking orders from someone so young. Being in the kitchen with him was sometimes difficult for her to endure. The silent resentment was bad enough, but recently he kept staring at her butt whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

For the next two hours, it would be slow enough for him to handle.

Besides, she was only scheduled for breakfast and dinner today. She stayed for part of lunch just to see the Findicks.

On a hunch, Shela intercepted Sally outside of Jefferson's store, saving her the long walk across town. "I'm glad I caught up with you," she said, "Dawn isn't coming in until next spring. You weren't having any problems, were you?"

Sally looked around, making sure none were within earshot, "Everything's going fine. Was never much of a cook, though, and brewing latex... well, that took me a long time to get right, but I think it's going well now. First few batches had bubbles and didn't heat enough, I think, another batch got moldy a week after— You know what, it doesn't matter. With that typer and mimeo, it's so fast it's a fraction of the hassle it used to be. I got nothing to complain about."

Shela smiled. "I'll drop by and walk you through a few batches. Besides, got some new recipes I wanted to leave with you before Monday."

Shela flipped the travois, leaned it against the tree, stomped her 'walking' stick and backed up the ladder, weapon poised. The sounds in the distance were unnerving, and the feeling of dread surrounded her. Weighed down by dragging a pack of clothes and a few days worth of food, she had no hope of outrunning anything. She scanned the horizon, then checked the status of her weapon. Nobody in town had ever seen it like this. To them it was just a fancy stick. But with the bows flowered out like they were now, its true nature was unmistakable. She had a few seconds, so she quickly lashed the top of the travois to the tree, then readied the pulley and ropes.

Scanning the horizon, she hoisted away. Seconds later the base of the tree was swarming with a pack of vicious dogs while she was safely suspended eight feet or more in the air.

She pointed at the obvious leader, "Go away!"

Drool splattered with every bark as it and five others jumped beneath her, nipping in vain at the underside of the travois. The rotting stench of their barks hurt her eyes as much as the pitch hurt her ears. Ribs were showing on three of the pack. They were all desperate for food and would not be dissuaded without something to eat, no matter how persuasive she could be.

"Ok, have it your way," she aimed at the leader, squeezed the trigger, and the bolt ripped through his ribs and spilled his guts on the ground, downed in a seamless second.

She unloaded into the next biggest that looked equally well fed.

The dogs ripped into their dead companions, only making the frenzy worse, trapping her there longer. Reluctantly, she braced her stompstick against the tree and cocked it with her foot again. Reloaded, she fired again, and again, and again, and again until they were all dead. The last two had done the reasonable thing and tried to run, but she couldn't let them live. If she had, they'd nuisance her for the next two days of travel. Best to deal with them all today, on her terms.

It seemed a waste, but she left them scattered around the tree while she continued with her travels. She had a long way to go and only had the one week off.

"Mom, Dad, this is Shela," he said, taking her pack and stick and stowing them by the door.

"Glad to meet you," Shela said, visibly nervous.

"Frances tells me you're one of the cooks at the Inn in town," the mother said.

"I've worked there off and on for a few years," Shela said as she took in the home, stomach in knots.

"Mom," Frances said, standing tall by Shela's side, "she's the head chef, not 'a cook'."

"Oh," the mother said, making Shela more uncomfortable than she already was. "Hardly seem old enough to me."

Shela looked at her feet, "I'm twenty-one, Ma'—"

"Hardly look over seventeen," the father said. "Let's take this into the living room. Hon, fetch us some drinks."

The mother dutifully went to the kitchen as they moved into the living room.

"So, haven't heard much about your family, other than you live on the outskirts like the Findicks. That almost makes you outsiders. You didn't go to school in town, did you?"

"No sir," Shela said, her knee shaking, just a little, until Frances rested his hand on it. "My mom taught us."

"A woman even more obscure," he said. "Nobody in town's ever met her."

"Not entirely true," Shela said, finding her courage. "Adora, the Findick's daughter, met her when she was in town a few years ago. Sally met her too, took in two plays, both comedies if I remember. And both my parents stayed with the Findicks one winter a few years before I was born."

The father laughed, "George? I find it impossible to believe that he let anyone stay with him over the winter." He stood, pointing his finger, "And I can't imagine anyone but that numb wife of his putting up with him for more than a few days, let alone months!"

"Don't believe it if you want," Shela said. "I wasn't there, so I can't speak for what I haven't seen, but all the same I know it's true. Ellie asks me about them every time they make it into town. And I was there with my sister and brother at the table every night while she taught us reading and writing, and so much more."

With a grump, he plopped back in the perfectly upholstered, intricately carved couch that was equaled only by the fancy molding adorning every room. "Well, bet the taxes are low, way out there."

Shela smiled, "It is." Their taxes were indeed very low. Had they lived this close to town, what they currently paid would only cover two rooms of the house, not the acres and acres that her father laid claim to. "But it's a week's walk to come in and pay them, and we have nothing this nice."

The father ran his fingers across the cushions with a look of pride. "We do alright. Ah," he smiled as his wife came in with mugs of hot tea and sandwiches, "I love this berry tea." He sniffed, sipped, and smiled. "When I found it at the auction house a decade back, I thought it was an amusing fad that would quickly pass. But the more of it I had, the more I liked."

Shela retrieved two three-pound bags from her travois, "These are for you, a special mix from this year's harvest."

The father tapped the rock-hard bag that showed no signs of giving. "Thank you?" He smacked it a little harder, then gave it a sniff. "What is it, a block of wood?"

Frances leaned forward as he filled his father in on something he obviously didn't know. "The tea you've been enjoying for years is from her parent's farm." He pointed at the plain bags, "They have a way of sealing them without air. Supposedly stays fresh for years like that." He sat back beside Shela, "Kind of the paper version of canning."

The father smacked the package on the table hard enough to make a screech as it inched across the floor. "It isn't solid in there, is it? Don't want to spend days grinding—"

"No," Shela said, "it's finely ground leaves, just like you're used to. No individual bags, though. Has a reusable pottery filter."

"Well now," he smacked it against the table again, with similar results, "how in the world does soft grounds come to be as hard as a block of wood?"

"It's difficult to describe, yet a simple principle. But when you open the bag, you'll find the leaves are exactly like what you're used to. Normally, when we sell them in town, we use big bags and we don't seal them because they get resold by the ounce or put in filter bags and don't have to stay fresh that long. But when Frances told me you liked our tea, I had to assume you always kept some on hand. This way," she winced as he aimed it at the corner this time, "as long as the package doesn't open, it'll stay as fresh as the day I packed it. You'll know when it's open, even with the smallest hole, because the bag will get soft inside, like you're used to."

"Interesting trick," he said, dropping it on the table instead. "It's very compelling to open it right now, just to see it turn soft for myself, but we just got four ounces in town. And if you're right, we should use that up first. Care to tell how you pull off such a miraculous trick?"

She smiled, "Family secret. But someday I'm sure, like all secrets, it'll eventually get out and everyone will be using it." Relaxing for the first time there, she leaned back with Frances, "But it won't be tonight."

She smiled as she pushed his lips away, "Cut it out. I didn't walk two days to do in your bed what I won't let you do in mine, back at the Inn."

But Frances didn't back down, he simply shifted to kissing her hands instead.

"I slept outside on the walk here, just like I'll do on the way back. Just as easy to sleep that way tonight too," she said, almost with a tease as she continued to fend him off, half-heartedly at first, before realizing that was her problem. In her heart, she didn't want him to stop. Like healing someone, that subtle difference had a profound influence on people in direct contact with her. She composed herself, then said it again. "Too eager isn't a good look on you. You need to stop, and I need some sleep."

He rested his hand on her thigh, fingers exploring the edge of her nightshirt.

She sighed as his gentle touch was changing her mind, again. "I think you're the— There's only one reason why I would visit you here and meet your parents. Don't spoil that moment, with the haste of this one."

He slid his hand up her thigh, her nightshirt bunching around his wrist. "Have a little faith, I won't ruin it." He leaned in another kiss on her lips.

Right then, she remembered her father's advice for just such moments. It was such a comfort to have his strength and clarity whispering in her ear. "You're a wonderful kisser, and I'd love to do nothing more than see where this leads. Believe me." She leaned out of the embrace. "But that would tell me nothing more of you than I already know. This may be hard for you to understand, but sleeping, actual sleeping is more important to me as a measure of our compatibility than anything else you could do in this bed. If you were a bad kisser, I could easily teach you to be better, but I can't teach you how to sleep. I can't get a good night's sleep if I have to fend you off for hours every night. If we ever go beyond kissing, and I for one hope we do, I have to know who you are first. Who you really are. The sleeping you. Are you restless, or restful? Cuddle in the middle, or separate sides? Toss and turn, or snuggle in for the night? And as good as kissing leads to, it's the least important thing we'll do in a bed, or in our lives. I have to be comfortable with you. It's the living together that's the test of us, it isn't the kissing, or those few blissful moments that follow, as thrilling as they may be."

He relaxed to his side.

"I like you. I really do." She leaned closer. "I think meeting your parents was the best next step. I've never done that with anyone. I see a future with you, and that means a lot to me. I'm comfortable, here, in your parent's house, in your bed. With you. I'm just not comfortable with more, right now." She slid into his arms as she snuggled in close for the night, "Let's get a good night's sleep, and see where that leads the rest of our lives."

He sighed, stared at the ceiling, then adjusted her hips just a little. "This wasn't what I thought you meant when—"

She pressed her smile into his cheek. "What else would 'sleep together' possibly mean?"
**B6.C20**

Her time with Frances was short, as intended. He had a lot of work to do with his father if they intended to pay their debts this year.

Despite the brave front, they were struggling, as most were, under the curse of a green sky, even marginal as it was.

Shela had learned something new in her short time there, though.

She learned that some people would lend small businessmen, like Frances' father, lots of money on a short repayment schedule. Their family was now obligated to pay nearly twice as much back, or forfeit the business as collateral. The father's rationale seemed reasonable, the business would be lost without the loan. The loan, however unreasonable the terms, was still a chance to hold on. But most of the words were concepts she had never heard, until that stay.

Everyone in his family chipped in, including distant relatives, but it might not be enough. They had only another few months to come up with the rest of what they owed. The father was pressuring Frances into a quick wedding in the hopes of a large dowry to save them, evidence that her family's financial affairs in town were not as secret as she believed. Living as far away as her family did, their expenses were almost nothing. They bought very little in town when they came in, so the family account had multiplied. Only Guar knew how much was actually in it, but judging by Frances' father's reactions, she guessed it was much larger than she had thought.

It wasn't all wine money, Dawn's inventions had fattened it too.

Sally had offered to keep Dawn's payments 'off the books'. Since they trusted Guar, it didn't seem necessary. But the next time she saw Dawn, she planned to bring it up. There might be other reasons to be 'off the books' that weren't apparent before.

Privacy had its own value.

Shela's deal with the Inn was largely off the books. She worked for room and board and enough extra to see plays and buy things every now and then. Most businesses operated this way, at least partly.

Bartering was a word she knew all too well, but the businesses called what Sally did second booking. Next time she saw Sally, she'd get a better understanding of all the terms to take to Dawn. They shouldn't have dismissed the offer out of hand.

Winter was a slow time for the Inn, and she planned to spend it at home again, just a few months away.

She lay in her room, late that night, staring at the ceiling and feeling alone.

She knew Frances was the right guy. She knew from the moment they met. She felt much better about that feeling, now that she had met his parents and spent so much time with him.

Before it was just a hunch, now she had real facts and experiences behind it. She had seen him frustrated for two solid days, but he handled it well. Barely a fuss.

Poor guy. But it was proof of his character, something she couldn't get any other way.

He had no clue what a life with her would mean.

She ran her finger across her lips as she tried to imagine that life her father wrote about in his book, and the parts with her mom he left out. Her parents had slept together for years before they did much more than kiss. Years seemed impossible to her, but she knew it was true.

He described it as torture, of a most pleasant kind.

She didn't want to torture Frances. But it took time to know someone. Time to find out what was in their heart. What tested marriages the most wasn't those passionate moments between the sheets, it was the next morning's elbows on the table, the way they eat, whether they tossed and turned all night, or lay quietly in bed. It took time and tested patience to discover such things. Sex, as tempting as it was, didn't provide a shortcut to such knowledge, no matter how often it was tried.

How experienced a man was in bed would shed little light on what kind of father he would be.

She knew these things, intellectually, but whenever she was around him, she just wanted to rip off his clothes. She ached for that shortcut to nowhere. How in the world did her parents deal with such a firestorm of feelings? She couldn't torture Frances for years.

She simply couldn't hold out that long.

She ran her fingers across the cheek he kissed, following his lips path down her neck and a little below. Against such pleasures, she could hold out for months, maybe. But even that seemed like an eternity of too long.

The only way she was able to resist last time involved running home. She couldn't keep doing that every time. Two days sharing his bed had her head spinning for weeks... who was she kidding with thoughts of months?

Sleep just wouldn't come that night. And she had to do breakfast in the morning.

She couldn't wait to see him again.

She just couldn't.

Shela met Frances outside the Inn. "How long you in town?" she said.

He looked down at his feet as they walked across the street, "I've got to head back tomorrow."

They turned right at the end of the block, "Well, you're just in time. Have a band playing tonight, cleared all the chairs from the theater for dancing. I've been waiting for—"

He stopped in the street. "I'm... I'm sorry. I just— I'm not feeling it." He stared at his feet as she circled back to his side. "I... Daddy didn't make it. He, he lost the shop. I... I hoped I could get him some more time, but I failed." He looked up and met sympathetic eyes. "We get to keep the house, but that's about it."

She wavered, briefly, then wrapped him a hug, "It's ok. Bad things happen to good people, entirely too often."

He broke out and stepped back, "Damned— You try selling furniture in a bad year. I mean, we can make the best damned couches and chairs, but if nobody's got the money to buy, what the hell can we do?"

"Sometimes there are problems without solutions. There's only try, or not try. You tried. Nobody can fault you for that." She looked down the street toward the theater. She had saved for weeks for this day, but put an arm around him instead. "Tell me about it."

They walked back to her room as he did.

"My God you're beautiful," he said, staring at her silhouette as she sat, looking out the window. He sat up and slid over when she turned his way. "Come back to bed."

She returned her attention to the window.

"Please. I need to feel you, next to me."

"I moved to the chair for a reason."

"I'll behave this time. I, I just got lost in the moment. It's so easy to get lost in the moment with you. I'll sleep on top of the sheets, if it'll put your mind at ease. Just don't... I don't want to feel alone, not today. Not on my last night with you, before I have to go home."

She moved to the bed, but sat on its edge, out of reach by his feet. "I like you a lot, Frances. I really do. I look at you, and I see two little girls playing in a garden, catching butterflies." She rested her hand on his foot. "I see you laughing as they tell you stories about what they did that day, such interest in their little lives." She patted the foot, then returned her hand to the bed. "It's you, but it's not quite you. At least not you, yet. I don't—" she looked out the window, "that man, that calm and content father of two is the man I'll fall head over heels for."

He leaned his sit closer to her. "Ninety percent of couples can't ever have kids. Let alone two. The odds are that whatever we do won't end in—"

"Two girls. I even hear hints of their names." She slid to sit beside him. "We follow our passions, blindly, maybe they still come to be. But will that man see them as a burden that got in the way, instead of the source of immense joy?

Joy and happiness comes in so many forms.

I feel horrible about your family, I really do. I wish I could help, but I can't. There is no dowry that comes with me. At best, I might inherit some land that centuries of town's people deemed worthless." She held his hand. "But land isn't the value of me. If you can't find contentment in your heart, just sleeping beside, you won't see it in their smiles. You won't see it in the days and years ahead." She slid under the sheet with him. "I am sorry about your family. And I'm glad they get to keep the house. But the fortunes of cotton barons may have lasted for centuries, but it won't last forever." She adjusted his embrace as she settled in to sleep, knowing his misinterpretation of her invitation had passed. "Your father's skills will be back in demand, soon enough. People like his furniture almost as much as they like the man himself, they just can't afford it right now. A shop without his hands is just another building filled with tools."

Frances ran his hand across her back, coming to rest, this time, on her shoulder instead. "To keep the house, we have to work through the winter building that bastard's new dining room and bedroom suites... at a quarter our normal price. It just isn—"

"Bad things happen to good people. Some truly horrible things happen to the most innocent among us. I am sorry for what happened. Truly, I am. But this wasn't horrible, just bad. Anger and bitterness feel good, for a while, but it isn't where solutions are ever found. You get to keep the house. You get to try again, in the years to come. Try focusing on that for a while." She snuggled a little closer. "Or, you can try to put it all out of your mind, for the time. Set your eyes on something else."

He ran his fingers through her short hair, then held her tight for a minute. Relaxing, he closed his eyes and lost focus of the anger and frustration that had plagued him. "Two girls, huh?"

"Fraternal twins," she whispered. "I think it's because I had such a wonderful time growing up with my sister." She smiled as an idea crossed her mind. "Your father was a member of the town's council, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. But that was decades ago. He doesn't have any real pull anymore, not since he opened the shop and moved out of the heart of town."

"You think he could work for a woman?"

He snickered quietly, "He'd hate it. Hated making Sally's press and all those shelves. But he'd work for free for the devil herself, if it meant he didn't have to make furniture for the very family that put him out of business. But Sally isn't rich, she barely makes ends meet, last I heard." He paused, then almost sat up, forgetting for a moment that she was partially atop him. "You're not good at making furniture, are you?"

"Oh, I'm good at many, many things. But I'm happy working in the kitchen, for now." She readjusted him again, "Besides, I wasn't thinking of me. Just an idle thought crossing my mind, that's all. Someone with controversial ideas would need someone with political savvy of some sort or another."

He found that cool spot on her shoulder again, then warmed it with his hand. "My dad tried to go against the system once before. He had some followers, but it wasn't enough in the end. Add a failed business to his resume and he'd be virtually shut out of that world, sorry to say."

She adjusted the sheet. "Just an idea," she whispered, almost asleep.

After going to a few dances alone, fall inevitably returned, though Frances was, as warned, too busy to show again.

Shela had packed the travois the night before, now she carried it out, said her goodbyes, and left for home, two weeks before the first snowstorm.
**B6.C21**

"Guar here, yet?" Shela asked, stopping first at Dawn's workshop by the pond.

At first sight, Dawn threw a hug on her sister. And instead of answers, she tightened the embrace.

But Dawn didn't have to answer. Shela read her instead, between struggles to breathe. Guar had stopped by a month or more ago. While in Bestoms, he had discovered why they had only the one tavern. In Bestoms, they smoked a special weed that had nearly the same effects as alcohol, and he had squandered the family's entire fortune buying and smoking that weed. He returned because he had been run out of town, like a common broke drunk, and returned to the only place he knew that would take him.

But he could hardly take it there with Dawn. The night he drank the last of their wine was the last she saw him.

Shela read her sister, this time with new purpose. She could find him well within three weeks, if she left now. He had stolen Dawn's travois, selling his in Bestoms for his last fist of smokes. "I," she struggled her way out of Dawn's embrace, "I have to leave now if I'm going to catch up with him. The coming snowstorm will keep him in place, for now. I need to get some food first."

Dawn cried in her ear, "Please don't leave. Please."

"I'll be back," Shela said, but knew her sister was a wreck right now. "I won't leave until morning, how's that? I'll still catch up with him by then."

Dawn tightened the embrace.

They could have discussed their brother some more. But there was no need, now that she had more practice with her talent for reading futures. Dawn blamed herself. She couldn't follow him without a travois. It was more than just an easy way to carry food and equipment. It was a ladder, an instant tent with a sleeping bag and a thin mattress. It was safety from predators and a good night's sleep. It was everything someone needed to survive in the woods. Without it, Dawn's chances weren't very good. She followed him, best she could for two days without one, but had to turn back.

She blamed herself for him leaving.

For him not feeling welcome to stay.

Dawn had been torturing herself every day since he left. She had finished another travois, but by then any trail he had left had been washed away. But Shela didn't rely on trails. She used, according to Dawn, some sort of quantum entanglement, the science behind which was nearly as dubious as magic, yet somehow preferred in Dawn's mind.

Packed, after only spending the night, Shela headed for the door. "Someone has to stay to keep the fires going so the canned food doesn't freeze and crack the jars." Shela said before kissing Dawn's teary cheeks. "That person is you. I can find him, you can't. Trust my quantum magic, for once. I'll bring him back and the two of us will have all winter to straighten him out." She hugged her, one last time, then opened the door. "Don't worry, Sis, I'll be back soon. Try to find something to keep your mind off of all of this. It'll be ok, trust me."

Dawn sat and reflected, now that she had too much time for just that.

Guar, in his first life, had had problems like this before. It was one of his weaknesses.

She should have foreseen it, but didn't. So involved in the events of her own past life, she had rarely focused on him. She had discovered that, with some meditation and a calm mind, she could access all of her past memories at will. She didn't have to wait for them to come to her in dreams. She had accelerated them, skipping over some of the boring parts.

The parts with him.

That neglect had lead to this mishap. Had she not skipped ahead, she might have seen this weakness in time.

The night sky that loomed like a curse across the world and blotted out the stars was one of her ideas. For a month she had been riddled with guilt over it, consumed by it. Every waking moment was spent skipping to every memory with it as she pieced its mysteries together. Now she knew it wasn't entirely her fault. And it wasn't the curse she first thought, either.

She looked at the box she counted sunspots in, hundreds in this green year alone, with dozens of visible flares every month. The sun hadn't been this active in history. It looked like it was throwing a tantrum.

Centuries ago the upper atmosphere had been filled by terrorists with solid-state, super-conducting dust in an attempt to block satellites and shove the world back into a stone age they zealously preferred. It worked with a vengeance, obliterating the most powerful country's technological advantage. Powered by the sun's swelling rage and cosmic rays, it basically subjected the planet to millions of random magnetic pulses hundreds of times more powerful than any weapon ever devised. But that was merely a side effect of what it was actually doing. The chaotic pulses were shielding them from a coming firestorm from the sun. X-rays, gamma-rays, and UV blasts that would have sterilized the planet a thousand times over had been absorbed by the shield and turned into colorful light shows and a few green years.

This scientific cure to mass extinctions nonetheless cursed the planet, forbidding the very technology that created it.

Fate seemed to find a way to fight back, with a vengeance.

The terrorists' dust saved the planet from a sun that, for whatever reason, had been warning deaf ears that it was about to abandon its life of stability for centuries of chaos. But politicians, unable to tax the sun, busied themselves blaming it on the deepest pockets around.

But her efforts to understand what she had thought was her greatest failure didn't ease her guilt at all, adding to it instead.

Guar.

She loved him as a brother. She had loved him once as more. She had had a child with him. She was tied to him, and owed him better too. She owed him a happy life.

A life she couldn't provide.

But she could have helped him with his demons, had she cared enough to notice them.

She could have helped, had she not been so self-involved.

Without Shela around, Dawn wrestled with the many ways a mind as brilliant as hers could find to blame herself.

For everything.

Shela opened the door and shoved their brother through with a foot on his butt. "Sorry, Dawn," she said, tossing her travois on the floor, "I had to burn your old one." She poked Guar in the shoulder as she forced him down into the chair. "He kept trying to sneak off with it every night. Burning it was the only way I could think of to make him stay put."

Dawn hugged him and kissed him on his hairy cheek, "I love you," she said. "Anybody can make mistakes. You can always come home, always always always."

He wouldn't look her in the eyes.

Shela had fought him, kicking and screaming for the last three weeks, every inch of the way home. She was in far less a forgiving mood. "I'll burn both of these, too." She poked him in the chest with her finger. "Believe me. That one's never been used, the best your sister has ever made, and I'll drag it out there and burn it with mine, right this second. Keep thinking about stealing it." She poked him again, "I've just about had it with you. So what, you burned through all our money. You still so stubborn you think that's what's got me mad?" She grabbed him by the ear and aimed his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "I'm pissed because you didn't come to us first. That you didn't think we would help you. I'm pissed because you should have known me better than that. How dare you be afraid of me. Of us. How dare you think we wouldn't help, that you couldn't come to us."

Released, he stared at the floor.

Dawn hugged him while Shela paced in front of the door. She stopped by the two travois, picked them up, and threw them outside. "Sorry, Sis," she said, then grabbed the lamp and burned them both, just yards from the window.

Shela paced by the windows in the house furthest from the pond, the only place two beds were. "What's done is done. How much do you owe? Come clean," she said, already knowing the answer. But also knowing that it was just as important that he say it.

"A lot. I borrowed as much as they would let me."

Shela sat beside him, hand on his knee. "I have to have a number to work with. We need to know when it's due. We need to know all of it, you can't hold anything back. Holding back how bad it is makes the difficult impossible. Dawn and I can get you out of difficult, impossible is impossible."

He pulled the slips of paper from his pockets, and they started adding it all up.

It was a lot. The interest was high, and the window to repay was short indeed. Fortunately, the creditors still thought their parents were alive and didn't extend him credit based on the value of the land, but instead limited it to what they figured the boy could earn in four years, to be paid back in one. With what he spent and still owed, they could have bought three parcels of land and all built homes of their own. Instead, it would all go for naught. But ultimately there was only one family name on all the slips. One she was entirely too familiar with. And she had one more reason to crush the cotton dynasty.

The sooner the better.

Ironically enough, wine, which started his problems, was also their only way to get him out.

Fortunately, brewing was something they had recently mastered.
**B6.C22**

Dawn sat beside Guar, late that night while Shela slept. They needed to tend the still. Perfectly balanced temperatures were required to keep the quality and proof of the wine as consistent as theirs was expected to be.

Guar, of course, wasn't allowed to be unsupervised around so much wine, and the girls had taken turns watching him for weeks.

"Do you remember past lives?" Dawn asked as she sampled the bottle before sealing the lid.

"Of course not. Nobody has past lives, that's crazy talk." He turned down the heat by closing the valve, then watched the thermostat slowly recalibrate.

"Well, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I'm not entirely sure myself. Like believing in God, we all find out eventually. Usually when it's too late. But I think maybe you had a past life where this was a horrible challenge for you to overcome. Drinks like this, and... and smoking, what you did. I think this may be your burden that you carry with you, from life to life until you find a way to master it." She readied the next bottle. "Shela and I, we can't be financially tied to you after this. You know that, right? You spent a lifetime of Daddy's savings, and everything the three of us saved. We'll get you out of this mess. We will. But, when you go into town and officially inherit, you need to do the right thing. Something Shela might not ask you to do, but I will. Give us the land. You'll always be welcome here, and legally, if something like this happens again, you won't be in jeopardy of losing it for everyone. Your actions won't put us in jeopardy that way. And you'll always have some place to call home."

He plucked the clear glass tube as the fluid inside stopped just shy of the mark. He adjusted the valve again.

"I do love you," she said. "I do. I didn't spend as much time with you when we were kids as I did with Shela. That's nothing against you, I think girls just get along better, when they're kids. Don't be mad at us, or her, for that. Shela surely would have played more with you, had I not tried to drag her everywhere, monopolizing all of her time. I love you. Shela loves you. She wouldn't have gone after you if she didn't. We wouldn't be brewing day and night if we didn't. I've never baked and glazed so many bottles and jugs in my life." She pulled him into an unwanted hug. "We love you. It isn't just words, you know." She kissed him on his stubbly cheek, "If anyone else had done this to us, they'd be buried in the hills between here and town by now. After the telltale bolts were cut out."

Shela looked over the items stacked on the desk. Dawn's inventions were prolific. They would need to part with some of them. But which?

Going by weight and bulk, the adding machines were an obvious first choice. Dawn had made a few already, and with how little of this years' milkweed latex was left, they could only make about seven more. Most likely they'd have to divide them up, same as with the wine, to sell a limited few in the three closest towns so they would avoid flooding any one prospective market.

But spring was too far away for her to get any indication as to what price any particular invention would ultimately fetch.

For now, she was relying on hunches alone. She picked up and held each invention that was small enough to carry and that they had enough raw materials and time to make. Each had value and was special and useful in its own right. Each filled a niche, but none stood out as extremely valuable.

She found herself staring at an early version of the printing press.

Betraying Sally wasn't top of the list. It really wasn't on the table. But she kept staring at it. It was worth far more than anything else Dawn had come up with. Sally wasn't the only publisher, not even the only publisher in this town. To not consider it was a mistake.

Shela held it, just to feel any hunch that might be available.

It would solve all their problems, but she set it down. Betraying a friend was too high a price to pay.

Adding machines were a distant second. A very distant second.

But her hunch was that seven would do.

Barely.

Each project would require more than a month to complete, and they were more than a month's travel from the furthest town. Even with her talent for futures, they wouldn't know for sure they'd make enough to pay Guar's debts until they had made everything and all three arrived in the closest town.

It was a guess.

She hated guessing. Her hunches, on rare occasions, had been proven wrong, especially when trying to exceed her four-week limit. And guesses on top of uneasy hunches could only come out wrong. But it was all they had.

The intricate gears and movements inside the adding machines were rather complex and mesmerizing to watch. The way they played off each other was like a choreographed dance with a traveling band, or a play pulled off without a hitch. But making and assembling them was incredibly easy. All the parts were easily cast and snapped into place. The time was consumed with having to reuse the molds, one in particular got reused two dozen times for each adding machine. But the pieces needed only a few minutes of touchup to clean and smooth the edges (once popped out), and often a single pass with a sharp blade was all it took to make them fit.

The numbers on the dials were all hand painted, same as the pad and instructions.

The last things they made that month were three new travoises.
**B6.C23**

Shela worked in the Inn while she counted off the days.

For it to have maximum effect and get their best prices, they had to sell in all three towns, simultaneously. Sell a load of wine in Bestoms on Monday and the buyer might try to resell it that night over the optical telegraph network, driving down prices everywhere the word reached. The price in any one town would be the highest if they believed that they could resell it, not only in that town, but to others as well. Flooding the market on a grand scale, without getting burned, required precise timing.

Bestoms would only pay top price if they believed they received the only batch for the year, not one of three batches.

Same with the other towns. They could, instead, sell some now, some in a month, and the last just before fall. That first batch would get a high price, but each that followed would get much less. No, this was the only way to get the funds they needed.

If timed correctly, and everyone did their part, they should make enough.

But it required she wait. Since Shela had a job that paid handsomely in the closest town, she worked while the other two walked. Guar walking the furthest of the three.

Only fair, since it was all his fault.

"Frances," Shela said, not exactly surprised to see him, but overly excited all the same, "your family make it by the deadline?"

"Barely," he said, standing awkwardly by the door to the kitchen.

Shela flipped the slice of ham, stirred two pots, then walked his way. "You caught me at morning rush. You going to stick around for a while?"

"Dad's auctioning off everything we could carry here. Staying tonight for sure, maybe one more, then I go home with him. He was angry as hell, same as me. But it wasn't like they forced him to take the loans. They took advantage, unfair advantage, if you ask me. But nothing in life is fair, is it. I, I wish I could stay, but he needs me to— We're tearing out a wall... and, uh, doing away with my room, and going to turn it into another, smaller shop for him. See if he can build the business back from scratch, for a second time."

Shela glanced over her shoulder, just to check, before kissing him on the lips, "You wear optimism well, Frances." She ran her hand across his chest, tapping her fingers over his heart, "I was able to get the evening off. First one in a week. Think maybe fate is telling me to give you another chance." She returned to a most demanding pot with a quick stir before it boiled over.

"Another chance? What happened to the first one?"

She flipped the ham onto a plate, topped it with her famous sauce and greens, salted ten fried potatoes wedges, and added a side of garlic rolls before sending it out to the waitress. "Arguing," she flirtatiously stirred another pot on her way back to him, "is the quickest way to needing a third chance." She kissed him on the lips, turned his hips, and patted him on the bottom as she nudged him out the door. "Try not to be late, again."

"You get a good price?" she said, greeting him at the door to her room.

He headed straight for her bed, but paused, sitting on the chair instead, hands in his lap. "Not as good as we hoped, but it was enough."

She stood beside him and hugged his head to her stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair. "It's an imperfect world. Have troubles of my own, you know. Think everyone has in these last few years. Been tough on everyone. Missed you this winter. Didn't think I would this much. But I did. I feel like our paths keep missing each other. I wish I could help you, somehow."

He pulled her down onto his lap. "Irony. I busted my ass, worked the hardest I'd ever worked last winter to get Dad out of the hole. I'll put in another four months or so expanding my room in his home into a workshop. Basically working hard to evict myself. When I'm done, the only place they'll have left for me to sleep will be in the hall. He's not even going to have enough tools for both of us. Like I'm being evicted and fired at the same time. Besides, it wasn't like I was that good at making furniture anyway."

"Furniture is half art, isn't it. Like cooking is for me, most days." She grabbed some clothes from the drawers, "I'm going to get cleaned up before I turn in." She paused by the door. "You, you want to keep me company?"

He woke that night with the urge to go to the bathroom. But he didn't, not yet.

Shela was a cuddler, through and through. She didn't sleep on her side of the bed, she slept wherever he was without regard to boundaries. Roll to the edge and within a few minutes, she'd be pressed against him again. He wasn't used to that, not at first. It had taken time to adjust after spending a lifetime sleeping alone.

The first few nights he thought of her as clingy. Had they been having sex back then, her clingy nature would have been more than enough of an excuse to end it. But they didn't then, and hadn't yet, and clingy was no longer the negative it once was.

It had become something else. It became something he craved the nights he slept alone. Its absence was what he now found uncomfortable.

So strange that the same act, in different context, could mean nearly opposite things.

Clingy.

Cuddly.

He tried to remember last night.

He had followed her down the hall to the common bathroom shared by everyone on that floor. He remembered talking to her as she drew the bath and started to undress.

When the conversation lulled, he realized he was staring at her. He even remembered her words as she pointed at his clothes. "I didn't invite you to give you a show. Just the company." He sat on his clothes on the floor and turned his back to the tub.

When the last two articles of her clothes hit the floor, her bath and their conversation continued.

He didn't remember her exact words, but she told him the story of her parents doing the same thing they did that night. Her mother took a bath, while her father kept her company. To Shela, it was one of those romantic moments she treasured of her parents' marriage.

He hadn't understood it then, but he understood it now.

Erotic didn't mean what he thought it did. Clingy vs. cuddling. By taking something that was normally heavily sexual and turning it into the same bonding experience, but without the sexual component, she was turning clingy into cuddling, right before his eyes, in almost everything they did.

But not just before his eyes, right inside his heart.

They had bonded over the experience, even though he still hadn't seen her naked yet. Even though they had yet to move much past kissing. He was already closer to her, cared more about her, than he had ever cared about anyone he had ever slept with.

As different as night and day.

He closed his eyes as he enjoyed the moment. Enjoyed being cuddled by a girl, still sound asleep. He enjoyed being around her. Enjoyed their conversations. Enjoyed their talk by the tub.

But he couldn't put off going forever.

He slid out of bed, careful not to wake her, then took a trip down the hall. The bathroom seemed so needlessly lonely this time.

A part of him wanted her in there, even now.

When he returned, the door was still open enough to slide back in without squeaking a hinge. But he paused outside.

Shela was dressed and angrily packing her bags, muttering to herself. "I'll kill that stupid shit-head, that's what I'll do." She shoved her underwear into a flap on the pack and grabbed a fistful of socks. "Just who the hell does he think he is? Nobody should have to put up with such foolishness."

Frances paused, having never seen the scary side of her before.

"Pound him within an inch of his life, that's what I'll do. Maybe then it'll sink through that thick head."

He looked down the empty hall, but running wasn't much of an option at this hour of the night, especially in underwear. Whatever he had done, the best move was apologize immediately, snag his clothes, and be ready to run, if need be. He stood up straight, braced himself, and entered the room. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he said as innocently as he could, "didn't think peeing in bed would be a better op—"

She yanked him inside and closed the door behind him. "You know what that moron is getting ready to do? Do you?" She poked him in the chest with her finger. "Dawn and I slaved all winter making enough wine and toys to buy his way out of that hole he dug himself last year. And what does he do?" She poked him again, backing him into the door. "That moron's already drunk half the wine before he even gets it to town. And once there, that little prick is going to sell everything for a night in the brothel and smokes, that's what!"

He held his finger to his lips to warn her she was too loud for the middle of the night. "Who?"

She stomped over to her pack and continued jabbing in her belongings like it was a substitute for a punching bag. "That dumb-ass brother of mine, that's who. Gave him a simple task, and he's two days from screwing it all to hell. Now I've got to sell my wine tomorrow, which'll blow Dawn's prices and—" She stopped and turned his way. "You'll sell it for me and—"

"I've got to go home and help my dad evict me. I can't stay in town just—"

She grabbed his hand and closed her eyes. "You're right. I'll get Sally to do it for me. She owes us big anyway."

"Owes you for what? What is all this? Did someone come see you while I was in the bathroom? I couldn't have been in there that long, could I?"

"You're coming with me. The two of us can get there in half the—" she squeezed his hand, hard. "Damn it! That won't work either. Still arrive too late. I need to get my hands on a horse." She closed her eyes again. "We'll hike to Adora's and borrow hers— No that won't work, she needs it back by—" She let go of his hand. "Here's what we'll do. We hike to Adora's, it's the wrong direction but her mother's coming there for a visit and—"

"How do you know that?"

"She's there for a visit, or will be by the time we get there. We can borrow her horse and the both of us will intercept that idiot before he screws everything up. Then you ride the horse back to Adora's and return her to the Findicks before Ellie's visit is over."

"I can't, I've got to—"

"I'll be taking my idiot brother to your father's house, and we'll put him to work helping you for a few weeks to make up for your help now." She pressed her finger to his chest, much lighter this time. "If I can head him off before he wrecks this, we'll still be able to pay his debts this year."

Frances tried, but he couldn't back away this time. The door was shut and the wall wouldn't yield. "His debts? What has— What are you not telling me?"

She finished packing, "Idiots are easier to rob than your father." She paused as she checked the empty drawers. "He's not an idiot, he's just acting like one. When you go, I'll tell you our dirty laundry, if I have to. But that's not why you'll go."

Curious, but cautious, he approached close enough to grab his clothes. "I've already told you why I can't go. My father has to have my room converted into a shop in enough time to build a big enough inventory so he'll have something to sell next year. Can't leave furniture outside in the weather, can't sell what ain't made."

She jotted a note for the owners of the Inn, her employer, explaining her sudden absence. "You'll go," she said with confidence, "because if you do, I'll owe you. And you want to find out what that means."
**B6.C24**

"Oh my God," Adora said, running out the front door and twenty steps through the yard before realizing her shoes weren't on. "That can't be Shela, can it?"

Shela waved, caught her breath, and handed the travois off to Frances as she ran to hug her old friend. "Sorry to drop in on you like this."

Her husband was next out the door. "Who is— Oh, Shela. What brings you out here?" He looked at the optical telegraph, opposite side as the chimney and four times as tall. "Nothing wrong with the thing, far as I know. You used it last night, right Honey?"

Adora ignored him, "Your timing is perfect. I'm expecting a visit from Momma any minute." She paused, "Sorry to hear about your mom."

"What happened to your mom?" Frances asked Shela as he just caught up.

Shela ignored him. "We in time to help you with dinner?"

Adora smiled as the girls headed to the kitchen. "Got a bumper crop of greens this year and nothing to do with 'em. Sally said we might not have to keep green, but we planted a little extra anyway. Just to be on the safe side. Mind showing me how you do those crisped collard greens? Everyone was raving about them in town."

Shela, Ellie, and Adora stayed up talking that night. Adora's house was small enough that Frances and Shela would have to sleep outside, where Frances was already setting up the travois.

With all the pleasantries out of the way, their conversation turned to Shela's strange visit, since Adora was more than a little walk out of the way. "I need to borrow your horse, Mrs. Findick," Shela said. "If you extend your stay a few extra days, I'll have enough time to get him back to you before George will get too grumpy." She rested her hand on Ellie's. "Trust me. I've got a little of my father, and a little of my mother in me."

Adora looked puzzled, "We've all got a little of our parents in us."

But Ellie's wide eyes showed she knew Shela's words held a deeper meaning. "Can you— Can you do what your mom did? George and I, we're not exactly ri—"

"I can try. But I've never done it before, and Momma never told me exactly how she did what she did for you."

Adora was now more puzzled than ever. "I feel like I'm being left out of the conversation altogether."

Ellie smiled. "You are the conversation, dear." She turned her smile toward Shela. "Of course you can use our horse. Really belongs to your parents anyway. Don't owe us nothing for it. But if you can try, that's more than I'd ever feel right asking."

"You remember what Momma did way back then?"

"She just waited until George's and my timing was right, then after we did our part, she just put her hand on my stomach, looked like she was saying a silent prayer, and that was it." She paused, seeing in Shela's eyes that that little bit wasn't enough. She tried to remember more. "Said wasn't much wrong with me. Said the egg just needed a little extra help making the right choice, that's all. And that a girl had the best chances of being born."

Adora sat back in her chair. "Momma, you never told me any of that before. Why'd you never say nothing?"

"Never told your father, either. Just said she gave me some good advice, same advice I given you."

They continued to talk for another hour, but before retiring for the night, Shela reminded Adora of the reasons behind Ellie's silence over all these years. It wasn't something Shela could do for everyone. That kind of help came with a price. And mobs had been sparked over far less gossip.

Much like with Ellie, it was a secret best taken to the grave. Even her husband couldn't be told.

With a horse, even as old as this one, they cut their travel time from weeks to days, though neither had ever ridden a horse before. Blisters formed in painful places too uncomfortable to discuss.

Shela pointed, early that morning, and the horse meandered over to the tree. She stood on the saddle, her hips steadied by Frances' hands, and climbed into the tent in the tree. The sounds of loud slaps filled the air, painful enough that even Frances was forced to wince and the horse instinctively walked away as the yelling had only begun.

Shela did a full inventory of Guar's gear, now that everything was on the ground. "You drank half of it, you moron! What are you, half fish? What the hell do you think they're going to do to you when they find out you can't pay? You think they'll just slap you into sobriety like me?"

Guar's slurred speech was barely understandable as he thumped his thumb to his chest. "I in-herit-n, member?"

She grabbed his collar and slapped him with the other hand. "You only inherit if you live long enough to, you idiot. Sisters inherit if they beat you to de—"

He shoved her away, falling on the ground himself. "Ain't no boss'o me."

Fists at her side, she stepped within a swing's distance... but turned away instead. "Drunken fool. You think they're proud of you now? Do you?" She counted off the days on her fingers, then started loading the horse with what products they had left to sell. "Frances, you take these into town for me. Go see a guy named Maury at a place called The Hole. Tell him you're there for us and," she pulled two IOUs from Guar's shirt, "get this much from him. He'll give it, but you'll have to argue hard to get it. Threaten to walk out a couple times. He'll let you walk to the door, but will stop you before you get out." She showed him how to work the adding machines, "These get sold at auction, before noon, Tuesday, but you'll have to demonstrate them, so practice some before you get there." She went through the remaining items with him, then asked, "You know how to get back to Adora's from Bestoms, right? You'll take my travois," she gestured at her brother, "and the two of us will meet you back at your father's house." She handed him Guar's stompstick. "Don't use it unless you have to. This horse will let you know when something fierce is coming. He'll get agitated. Watch his ears, they'll tell you where it's coming from. He can't outrun what he used to, and doesn't have much fight left in him." She hugged him, then pointed him to the horse. "I know you're sore, but you have to leave now or you won't make it in time. Take a right at the big fallen oak with moss growing in the rot. Take a right at the chimney standing without a house, surrounded by shrubs, and a left around the field of sweet smelling sticky grass."

As he rode off, she returned her attention to her brother.

She wasn't done yelling, but he was clearly too drunk to do any listening. Or remembering.

And she hated to repeat herself.
**B6.C25**

"Dad, Mom, this is Shela's brother, Guar," Frances said when the two showed up at their door.

The father shook Guar's hand, "You the one that came up with the travois? When I saw your sister with hers, I never knew it could do so many things. I just thought it was for carrying stuff long distances."

"Our parents came up with it," Shela said, still a little short from her long walk with her sobering, but stubborn brother. "Momma probably, but we've refined it over the years. Frances did us a huge favor, we're here to help. We'd like to get started as soon as possible."

After a hard day's labor, Shela and Guar set up their travoises on opposite sides of the same tree in the yard, nearest the house. "Remember," Shela said, "I've read you today. And I'm going to read you every day until we go home. Try to run away from me and I'll know it before you do. You think the last few weeks have been unpleasant, you really don't want me chasing after you again. Adora has already telegraphed Sally and had it relayed back to Dawn. We don't have an ounce of credit left to our name in three towns thanks to you. You're paid off. But because you can't help yourself long enough to dig yourself out of the hole, I now owe Adora for the horse and Frances for his time. You can't help me with Adora, but you're damn well going to help me pay our debt with Frances." She retired into her tent, still steamed over his lackluster performance today.

She was angry.

Fuming.

Being around her brother made her angry.

She couldn't help but be short around him.

She was almost too angry to understand why. Just like with being around Frances, feelings she felt, even strong ones like these, were not always her own. Some were reflections, and it was very difficult to tell the two apart. He was angry and disappointed in himself, self-loathing, and she reflected that, which only made him feel worse, making her angrier, and so on.

She sorted her feelings and focused her thoughts, then climbed over to his travois and slid inside with him. She punished him with a hug this time, one he knew he didn't deserve. It made him feel worse, but she didn't let up.

She didn't release him until she was no longer mad at him... when she felt love for him again, in her heart.

Guar complained about almost everything, working twice as hard as he had ever worked at home.

But his complaining didn't provoke her anymore. The most he got was a clenched fist by her side.

Shela returned the tools to the worktable that had been salvaged from the frame of what had once been Frances' bed. "I thought your father had to sell all of his tools?"

"He did. Took him near two months to make more. Not everyone has a knack for making stone tools. Almost an art in itself, and Dad was one of the best. When he was a kid he apprenticed the trade from his dad. Stone selection, the right quarry, and the ability to read the grain in stones are all key. A mistake in any will end in failure. It's as much an art as furniture making." He ran his thumb across the sharp edge. "Tried to teach me." He put it down. "But I'm no artist. I can't carry on the tradition. He can look at a log and see the pieces inside it. All I see is wood. Sure, I can get the general shapes right, stuff fits together. But it ain't as good as his, and it never will be."

"Functional has its place too. Your dad's very particular about everything. Wants it his way, exactly, or he doesn't want it at all. Don't mind him being so hard on Guar, that boy deserves everything he's getting and then some, but I can't imagine apprenticing for your father for years if he's like that all the time."

Frances shrugged as he leaned against the table. "Is what it is." He looked down at his dirty hands, "I just don't have what it takes." He looked up and smiled. "But boy my father does. Made some of the finest tools in town, had a good living at it. Gave it up to build furniture instead. Not everyone can appreciate a quality tool, or even use it right for that matter, but everyone knows quality furniture when they see it. More money in it too."

"Great source of pride for him, isn't it?"

He looked down again, "Yeah, it is."

"His dad proud of him, even though he abandoned selling tools?" she said with barely a whisper. "You'll find your furniture someday, and he'll be just as proud of you as I am."

Guar dropped his travois from the tree with a squeaky clatter.

"Where do you think you're going?" Shela yelled out the flap from hers. "We ain't done here by a long shot."

Guar continued working the knots. "I may have to do a lot of things, but sleep on the same tree, just a few feet from some guy as he's doing it to my sister isn't one of them."

Shela climbed out and stood next to him, early that night. "Look me in the eyes when you say that." But she didn't wait, she slapped him on the shoulder. "I've slept with you and kissed you more than I've ever done with him. You think I— don't call it behind my back, say it to my face."

He stared her in the eyes, briefly, but said nothing.

She lowered her voice. "I'll probably marry him, Guar. Your nieces will have his last name. I get your objections, it's weird for me to have you both this close. But you brought this on yourself. I'm not putting my life or my future on hold trying to keep you out of trouble anymore. He isn't doing anything I haven't invited him to do. And his ass is just as easy for me to kick as yours if either of you get out of line. Had you not driven us into debt, I'd probably have married him already, with all this happening in town. I didn't change that. You did." She grabbed the ropes from his hands and winched his travois back into place. "You're going to be seeing a lot more of him. I suggest you get used to it." She secured the knots before backing away. "I'm not going to let you ruin my future or this family. You've come close twice now."

She returned to her bed with Frances, just feet away from Guar's.

The next day, she relented and let him move his out of earshot, but well within sight.

By the end of a very long month, Frances' room was turned into a workshop, the wall with a window was removed, and a space large enough to qualify as a small barn was added. His father had aspired to do more, but this was all he could afford, for now. It wasn't as pretty as he'd like, but it was functional.

Shela looked out the flap, knowing her timing was still off.

Guar had set her back by months or years with Frances. Time, once lost, could never be recovered. That future had been severed and was irretrievable, but their relationship hadn't faltered yet. He was confused by her, but still intrigued and his views hadn't crossed into thinking her crazy or weird yet.

Guar was a problem. She dared not let him out of sight.

He felt bad about himself for giving in to his demons, yet giving in to them made him happy and let him forget. It was a downward spiral.

He was hurting and wanted to be left alone. But she couldn't.

Wouldn't.

He was her brother.

She wanted to finish her debt with Adora, but a quick reading of Frances said bringing Guar along was a bad idea. She wanted to fill her contract at the Inn, but giving Guar unsupervised access to the town would only make things worse.

There was only one way to solve all her problems, and that involved taking Guar home where Dawn— But he was too much for Dawn to handle alone.

Dawn never said, but Shela knew her sister was carrying around a lot of guilt with respect to him. She stared at Frances while he slept. Losing another year might end any chance of happiness she had with him.

She closed the flap and settled back in, the cool mountain air was almost too cold for as little clothes as she was wearing.

Her problem reminded her of a riddle of how to get a rabbit, a fox, and a head of lettuce across a river on a boat that only sat two.

There was only one answer.

And hers didn't involve making dozens of trips or rowing a boat.
**B6.C26**

He woke ready to scream, but didn't. Heart pounding, he had dreamt of falling off a roof, but something had snatched him around the waist at the last second. Eyes open, he felt two hands pull him back.

"You can't really fall," Shela whispered as she wrestled him back onto his side, "unless you rip through the tent first. Best not to try."

"How long you been up?" Frances said.

"Your flailing woke me." She positioned herself atop him, "Want to switch sides? Sometimes it helps me. Every now and then, I sleep at the foot of the bed. I don't know why, just can't get comfortable any other way. Got hours yet till morning, so, might as well get comfortable."

He changed sides beneath her, then waited for her to settle again. "Soft as feathers, quieter too, but this mattress is narrower than any cot or couch I've ever seen. Clearly isn't made for two."

"Any wider and it's impossible to weave down animal paths between trees. Ain't no roads around here, except to and from the biggest farms and town. Only a tiny fraction of most travel is out in the open, like this. You know there's not but three roads around these parts, and none will take you to my home." She adjusted her hips so he wouldn't rollover again. "Besides, never had any complaints about sleeping this close before yo—"

"Not complaining. Just taking notice." He put his arms around her as he lay on his back. "Been known to snore a little, facing up like this, but I think I can keep my balance better this way. How did you talk me into this again?"

She pressed her infectious smile to his cheek. "What were your alternatives again?"

"Dad's got barely enough work to keep himself busy. I'm talent-less, I'd have to pay people to eat my cooking, so my choices were hard fieldwork for room and board, or be a burden to my family. I, uh, had no alternatives to speak of."

"You won't get a room of your own where you're going, the bed's not much bigger than this, and I don't always cook at home like I do at the Inn. You'll have to do your share, but it'll be nothing like the fieldwork you were talking about." She adjusted her position a final time, "You might even find you'd like to stay."

"Did fieldwork before, bunked twenty a room, and nothing we got served came close to what hits the plates at the Inn." He rested his hand on her shoulder, "Your brother isn't that bad, you know. Known lots far worse. Don't know him as well as you, but—"

"I was so proud of him just a few years ago. And I'm— I thought he could— I lived just fine in town on my own. If there was anyone I thought didn't need watching over it was— I thought my life was going to take a path much different than the detour he's put me on. He's making choices in my life, and that's what makes me the maddest.

I close my eyes and I can see what could have been, a small house not too far from Adora's, the other side of this valley. A new life, full of change and choices. My own adventures, living much closer to town than here.

But maybe fate can't be changed so easily."

"I thought Dad was going to keep his business forever. Thought I'd be working the fields with a hoe in my hands and the sun baking my back." He closed his eyes and tried. "But I never saw a house of my own. Not for years to come."

The last few days of their long hike proved her point about the narrow travois. All forests were not built alike. Some had trees far apart with canopies dense enough to choke out most of the undergrowth. But near her house the ground was choked in shrubs and saplings and low-hanging branches, so thick at times that walking a mile a day was traveling pretty good. Their last day was consumed by a slow, long slog almost entirely uphill.

The pond was the first clearing they met in days. Easily a few acres in size, it stretched over a hundred yards to either side, but was at most seventy across.

Frances bent down to take a drink of—

Shela swatted him on the back of his head, "It's full of fish pee. Got clean water inside."

"Fish?" Frances said, "Never had fish before."

Guar strode past, "Get used to it. About the only thing we eat around here comes from that puddle."

"Never seen a house like that before," Frances said, pointing.

"That's Dawn's workshop, not actually a house. We'll be staying further up—"

"How many houses are here?"

Shela grabbed the travois from his shoulder to keep him from falling behind as she quickened the pace, "Three. Well, one. The two you see and our house further uphill. Not as big or nice as what you're used to, but—"

"Hey," he said, holding her back with a hand on the travois, "I'm not some spoiled rich kid like Mark. I don't come from cotton money. My dad's got a fine reputation, but I didn't live up to none of it. Just because I mentioned the narrowness of this thing doesn't mean I was less than impressed. I've never been so comfortable in all my life. Don't judge me by my father, 'cause I'll never measure up." Point made, he let go, "I'm just a little nervous meeting your—"

"My parents died before we met, Frances. The only one left to meet is my sister, Dawn." She started walking again. "And she's going to like you just fine."

"How'd they die?" he said when he caught up.

She didn't pause as she continued to walk. "The way they wanted to."
**B6.C27**

Frances stared at the fish on the cutting block. "It's an ugly looking thing," he poked at its whiskers, "but I can see why you call it a catfish."

"If real cats were this delicious, there'd be farms with herds of them." Shela pulled a blade from the drawer and quickly gutted it.

Frances pulled another from the drawer. "What's this made of? It isn't flint or obsidian. It's perfectly smooth. No chip marks or—"

"It's ceramic. We make them in a kiln like pots and plates."

He plucked it with his finger. "This is just clay?"

"No, it's our special blend." De-boned, she selected and sized the fillets. "If done right, they stay sharp for years. This one's probably older than me. But as soon as it goes dull, you have to throw it away. Can't be re-sharpened."

He tried the blade on a piece of tail. "That's sharp, in more ways than one." He looked around the modest house of just one room. "You've got a lot of sharp things in here I've never seen before."

He watched as she soaked the slices in sauce before breading them and tossing them into the pan.

"You make all your own stuff?"

Dawn came from outside, Guar in tow. "Got some fresh collard greens, three good cucumbers, and a dozen ripe tomatoes."

Guar dumped the basket on the table. "Radishes and onions too. Got everything on your list except the peppers. Damned grasshoppers wanted them more, I expect."

Frances watched the fan blades twirl above him as the room maintained a perpetual breeze. "Being locked in by these mountains, we get very little exposure to new ideas, I guess. Get stuck doing things the same way century after century. Your parents weren't from here, were they?" His eyes followed the moving strings as they wound through the contraption on the wall he had mistaken for a loom. It clearly wasn't a loom.

"How long's he here for?" Guar said, washing up at the sink.

"Long as—" Shela started, offended by Guar's tone.

"Can't you see how happy she is?" Dawn said to her brother, "Why are you being difficult?"

Shela plopped two fillets into the pan and they started to sizzle in the light sunflower oil. She knew why he was acting this way. Guar wanted the fight. He wanted to be punished, and Dawn didn't have it in her to be harsh with him. Shela had always been the easier of the two to be goaded into a fight, but she didn't have it in her either. Being angry around him didn't come naturally. Not really. She knew the impulse to lash out was a reflection of his own self-loathing. But knowing where the feeling came from was not the same as being able to ignore it. Shela turned to her brother as the fish seared, "I'd get that idea out of your head. I even know which bottle you plan on sneaking some from, and it's not going to happen. I can read you like a book and will always be two steps ahead of you."

Dawn threw a big hug around Frances, "Stay as long as you want."

Guar yanked a chair from the table and plopped down with a thud. "You say that now, but we'll see how you feel when you find out the sleeping arrangements." He glared at Shela. "Dad and Mom would never have appro—"

Shela pointed her spatula. "Mom and Dad did exactly what we're doing," she said, before flipping in the other two fillets.

Dawn finished plating the salads in time to help her sister carry the plates to the table.

Guar made a final grumble about where everyone was seated before the conversation shifted to pleasanter things.

With an extra person, they would have enough labor to carry out some of Dawn's more ambitious plans.

After dinner, Guar made a dozen inappropriate comments, then stormed out after neither sister took the bait.

Which just left more dessert for those that stayed.

Frances broke a chunk of caramel-smeared fried bread and shoved it in his mouth. "It looks like a failed pancake with impossibly thick syrup," he said, his words slurred by the dessert he was savoring, "but this is just decadently good." He swallowed hard as he shoveled another piece in, then licked his fingers.

"Guar didn't want to sign," Shela said. "He fought it every step. I had to be as persuasive as Mom to get him to do it. I feel guilty about it, but it was the right thing to do, wasn't it?"

Dawn nodded. "Just you—"

"No," Shela said. She sipped her tea while Frances tried to lick every sticky drop from his digits. "He put both of us on it. While we were there, I refined the map, too. Dad just gave them a general idea of what was ours, I expanded the claim to include anywhere we might want later. Those oaks, for instance, he had left them out. It'll be more in taxes, but not too much."

Dawn leaned across the table to her sister, "Is he a good kisser?"

"Not at first, but he's getting better—"

"I'm right here," Frances said, but it had no chance of changing this turn in the girls' conversation.

"That first night, I thought— Did I tell you he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth?"

"Now wait," Frances protested, "it's not like— She— Her mouth was slightly— Her lips weren't—" Flustered, he slid his chair away from the table. "Is Guar storming out a normal occurrence? 'Cause I might be understanding why."

"French kissing my sister," Dawn said, overly exaggerating the look of horror on her face as she slapped at his arm, "What were you thinking? She's not French. Besides, that's the kind of thing you ease into, you don't start with it."

Frances walked to the door as the girls started to laugh. "I thought she wanted—" he fumbled with the door. "This is very, uh, with your sister's— I think it would be better if I left you two to..." he wiggled the handle, "How do you open this door?"

"Push, left, pull, right and it opens," Shela said. "It's like drawing a square with the knob, counterclockwise to get out, clockwise to come in. Slows down critters and strangers... and keeps— Are you embarrassed about kissing me?"

"No, I," he got the door opened, but let it close again, "I just..." he returned to the table, but didn't slide in his chair.

"You're a lot better about it now," Shela said. "And you've found better uses for that roaming tongue."

"Really?" Dawn said. "What are you doing to my sister now?"

"Is this how my whole stay is going to be?" Frances said, head slumped.

Shela leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips. "It's like kissing. It's going to be awkward for a while before it gets better." She kissed him again. "But it will get better."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Dawn blush, just a little, as she shied away with a tiny smile.

The girls quickly continued the conversation where it left off. After the shock of such a candid talk between the two sisters wore off, he realized he had learned something.

Shela hadn't complained about his roaming tongue. She didn't always tell him everything.

But she held nothing back from Dawn. And if the only way he could hear this kind of candor was with Dawn in the room, then he was better off staying, plain and simple.

"You tell your sister everything?" Frances whispered in bed that night.

"I can't think of anything I wouldn't tell her," Shela rolled so she was facing him, though it was too dark to see more than shapes. "I'm sure there's something I wouldn't tell her, like I wouldn't say something that hurt her for no reason." She pointed him to the wall beside the stove. "Dawn and I slept in the same bed since I was two or three, right there. Guar got the bunk above us. It'll take you decades before I know you as well as her. Until I'm as comfortable around you as her. That's nothing against you." She ran her fingers through his hair, "And that doesn't mean I'm not comfortable with you, right now."

"You could have told me about the tongue thing. I mean, if there's something you don't like, just tell me."

"The first time you licked the inside of my wrist, all I could think was how much it tickled." She kissed him on the corner of his lips. "Now, it's a guilty pleasure. I don't always know what I like," she teased his lower lip, "but I always give you the benefit of the doubt."

"But why tell your sister before telling me?"

"I don't risk offending her, or making her self-conscious and afraid to try something new. I don't always know what I like, Frances. But I do like you. I like you more every day. I like how you get befuddled. I like how you awkwardly stood by the counter, trying to figure out how you could help, without getting in the way." She pulled him closer. "Some men have qualities that aren't shown by the clothes they wear, or how they walk or talk, or the furniture they make. I like you the most for the traits that aren't so easily seen." She brushed her thumb across his lips. "You remind me of my father. And that's a very good thing." She kissed where her thumb had been. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep tonight." She snuggled in as the fan whispered above them. "A good night's sleep is one of those things I value about you the most."

He ran his hand across her back, "Thanks for taking me in. I wasn't looking forward to my other options."
**B6.C28**

After a grand meal the night before, Frances woke expecting a full-course breakfast like at the Inn.

He was more than a little disappointed. Shela offered him a traditional glass of what looked like cold tomato soup and some thick crackers with a thin caramel coating. Anything else, he'd have to make for himself.

Since he was as bad at cooking as he was at making furniture, he sat quietly, nibbling and sipping.

He didn't know what to expect. He had expected parents, and there weren't any. Without parents, he was getting his cues off of Shela, and that was getting him nowhere.

"What, uh," he quickly chugged some juice, "nothing."

Shela held his hand at the table with the same look on her face she had that night at the Inn, just before they suddenly left to prevent Guar from ruining everything. "Guar's not going to be here for a few minutes. If you want to ask something, now's a good time."

He shrugged, but realized he had nothing to lose. "I came here expecting to meet your— Your brother doesn't like me and I don't have any idea what I'm doing here. I haven't a clue what you expect from me. Are you hiring me to help out around here? Am I here to help you handle your brother? Am I auditioning for something? I'm not going to be meeting your parents, so..." he shrugged again, more flustered than last night. "If I start guessing, it'll make — what'd your sister call it, 'Finch kissing' — look like an act of brilliance."

"You're someone I'd like to know better than I do, and meeting for a few days a month in town wasn't doing it." She rubbed her thumb across the back of his hand, "Help us out this year, and I think we can help your dad out next year."

He sighed. "So, this is business, then."

She kissed him on the cheek on her way to the bathroom, "Not even a little."

While the morning was still young, the two of them set to work on weeding and tending the closest field before the sun had a chance to make this much effort unmerciful.

After a quiet lunch of soup and sandwiches with just the two of them, Frances found himself by the pond, his fingers running across the paper-looking skin of Dawn's workshop. It looked odd that first day, but he didn't bother inspecting it closer, remembering that some paints had given buildings a similar look. But this wasn't paint, it squished like a thin layer of mud under his finger, yet returned to flat the second his fingers left. In a way, it felt like cold, dead skin.

When he walked inside, Shela waved him over to sit on Dawn's unmade bed while the sisters continued to talk.

Dawn pulled a notebook off the shelf and flipped it open. "See here," she pointed, almost in tears, "the latex base has to be full of impurities that I can't seem to account for. It's got fats, gums, resins, waxes, and possibly even poisons with milkweed." She flipped to another page, "I can account for some, even separating out the fats and waxes were a challenge. But the resins and— I can't—" she wiped her eyes, "I'm not smart enough. I can't—"

Shela kissed her sister on her red cheek and patted her on the back. "You don't have to figure anything out, Sis." She closed the book and put it back. "Let's get some food in you, ok?"

"What if one life is all there is? What would you make of it, if you knew what I knew?"

Shela held her sister and kept her from rocking. "All you have to be is my sister. That's good enough for any lifetime."

Feeling incredibly out of place, Frances got up and headed for the door... but stopped, walked over to the girls, and put a hand on Shela's shoulder instead.

"My parents held all this together," Shela whispered that night while they sat by the pond. "They made it look so easy. They protected us from the world, and I wouldn't be who I am without them. But we suddenly found ourselves without both of them, and none of us have been the same since.

Dawn and Guar aren't bad, either of them.

My brother was never tempted when he was at home. He thinks he wants to be a rebel, but in his heart he's not. He's filled with regret over the mistakes he's made.

My sister is the sweetest, kindest person I know. But she doesn't deal with being alone very well. Add lots of worrying over Guar and she's...

She's not crazy. She's the smartest person you'll ever meet. But sometimes I think that the sheer weight of her thoughts will be enough to break her.

A few years ago, I thought I could leave her alone, but now I'm not sure I ever can.

I don't think I can leave either of them alone. At least not for the foreseeable future."

He hugged her close as the breeze stirred the leaves. "Dawn still sleeping?"

"Yeah," Shela said, "last I checked. She blames herself for things that aren't her fault." She looked him in the eyes as frogs splashed at the edges. "If you were born with all the answers, if you could solve all the problems of man, but it meant you had to dedicate your life to it — it and nothing else — would you spend your life that way?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it." He kissed her cheek as the breeze gave way to its normal calm. "I think I could have a much happier life with almost no effort at all."

"I think that's the path tempting Guar. If you knew how much good you could do, wouldn't you feel obligated to?" She rubbed her foot against the dirt, "I think about it all the time. I'm not that smart. You're not that smart. We'll never have that choice to make.

She is.

And that's a hell of a burden. She thinks every moment she isn't trying to solve the world's problems is, well, more than just a wasted moment or an idle thought. I think in her mind it's, well, it's like that act we saw where someone kept spinning a dozen plates balanced on the tips of a dozen sticks, while the band kept playing faster and faster. He kept running from one to the next, giving each an extra spin. In her mind, it isn't plates spinning in the balance. It's lives. And every second she isn't running from one to another, I think she's hearing more than breaking dishes on the floor behind her. If she's happy, they all break and she feels guilty. If she keeps running, and fails, she feels guilty. I don't think she's found a happy middle she can live with yet."

He ran his hand down her arm as he tried to comfort her.

"I think I can help her find that middle," she got up from the pond-side bench, "with a little help."

He got up and they headed back to the house.

"I love that girl more than anyone in my life," she said as they neared the house, "but I don't think I'd give up my happiness to save the world." They walked inside. "I don't even think I'd give up my happiness for hers." She changed into her nightshirt. "I think I dragged you here so I wouldn't have to choose."
**B6.C29**

Guar and Frances spent most of a month clearing the woods around a second field of white oaks, while the girls tended other things. For the first two weeks, the boys hardly said a word to each other.

"Doesn't it just gnaw at you?" Guar said as they limbed separate sides of the same felled tree. "Here we are, far from the house, dwindling shade, swimming in our sweaty clothes, and those two just sit around chatting it up."

Frances paused, mid-stroke. "A little, sure. But I've worked harder for far less. I've picked cotton, beans, and dug potatoes on fields so big you couldn't see the ends. I've pulled carts with sacks and sacks of produce for four days from the farm into town to be auctioned. This isn't so bad." He gathered the chopped limbs and piled them around the nearest stump. "I don't know about Dawn, but Shela could make an easy living just cooking. People come from two towns over for her breakfasts alone."

Guar dumped an armload of his own. "Not the ones she makes at home, they don't."

"Maybe so. But—"

Guar threw his hatchet into the dirt. "A grand meal ain't worth all this effort. And she ain't done grand in a week."

"Didn't they come up with the telegraph system and a bunch of other—"

"I did my fair share of building those damned towers. Wasn't like the two of them toured without me." He pointed, "Shela quit to work at the Inn for months at a time. Ask me, she shouldn't have had a share after quitting like that."

Frances had seen this mindset before, the usual grumbles of expendable labor. He had thought them himself, but grew out of them early. "My father builds furniture. Famous for it. I did most of the hard labor for him. He selected the trees, I'd fell them, split them, and rough them into shape. Hard, hard work. Worked ten times as hard as he did. Once I got them into a rough shape, he did all the fine carving. All the precision work. I made them look like furniture, he made them look pretty. I made the stains, inhaled all that smoke and fumes, and he just brushed them on. Seemed totally unfair in every sense of the word. I did all the hard work, so I should get most of the money. Instead, I was lucky to get the crumbs.

But what little effort he invested accounted for 95% of the price, almost the entire value of the piece. A talent-less guy like me can drop a tree. Given enough time and practice, almost anyone can toss together something like a chair or a house about as good as what your folks made here. But only four people in town can make furniture half as good as his. And they work just as hard to make them. Some work harder, but each chair of his fetches three times what anyone else's can.

Don't seem fair.

Don't look fair.

But it's more than fair.

I can watch her make that sticky bread all day, but mine won't come out half as good. A hundred people, using the same ingredients could try, wouldn't none be anywhere near as good.

Anybody can chop down a tree, pick cotton, haul a cart behind 'em. We're interchangeable and easily replaceable. My dad makes one of a kinds.

Took me a lot of grumbling to come to peace with that hard fact." Frances adjusted his deerskin gloves, then returned to chopping. "Life don't have to be fair, to be right."

Guar kicked the handle of his hatchet. "I'm tired of chopping. Let's burn stumps the rest of the day."

"Organic latexes and rubbers vary too much from year to year, plant to plant. I even tried goldenrod and dandelions, but nothing keeps enough consistency to be reliable at the precision I need to have them to take this to the next level of material science. Without metals..." Dawn was visibly frustrated again as she wiggled her fingers near her temple and started rocking. "Up here, all of this knowledge is based on metals and a science that can't ever be again. Not under a sky like this." She pressed her head against the cluttered workbench, fists by each ear. "When I was seven, I invented and built an engine out of old plumbing parts in a single day." She flung a bunch of broken experiments off the bench and across the floor. "I'm twenty-one and I can't even reproduce the simplest of—"

Shela gathered the broken pieces. "You don't have to try this on your own, you know. I've never seen a working motor, never heard of one anywhere. Closest thing are those prattling windmills everyone complains about. Why don't you talk me through what's preventing your success?"

"Ceramic and glass crack too easily under pressure," she pointed to the cracked pieces, "and they can't easily be shaped with precision because they shrink when they cool. Which I thought I could factor in, but obviously I can't. And after a year of different rubber and plastic formulas, I can't seem to come up with one that's stiff enough or a good enough thermal conductor." She pointed to the warped and twisted chunks. "With an electron microscope or a mass-spectrometer, I could figure out what's going wrong in days. Hours maybe. But neither technology will ever exist again."

Shela slid Dawn's chair away from the workbench, with Dawn still seated on it. "Ok, let's take a step back and come at it from another angle. Is there a motor that doesn't have these pressures and temperature problems? Or is there another material—"

Dawn slouched toward the table filled with all her wrong turns, "I've been trying... and failing. These are all sciences in their own right. I know organic chemistry forward and back. This shouldn't be this hard, even without the toys and tricks that once made it child's play. But these are sciences I never had to deal with in my first life. They were abstract. I didn't have to make parts from raw, organic materials, I just ordered them. Thousands of scientists spent their lives refining these subtle differences. Besides that, I thought in terms of metals and alloys," she plucked one of the exploded pieces, "not raw plastics."

Shela slid the chair out of reach of the table. "Take a bigger look. You made a house out of plastics and rubber. That's not nothing. If that's all you did, that would be more than enough for anyone."

"A house is easy. If a wall isn't strong enough, just make it thicker. This is an elemental, a pivotal point in all societies. The industrial revolution wasn't sparked by the fickle wind, it was sparked by engines. Steam engines, then gasoline and diesels. None of which can be made in a useful size without metals. Just a tiny few could even be made of plastics, and they're a kind I just can't come close to without—" She tapped her temple with her finger. "I can even remember their formulas, just they were never made from this starting point. Engines are a key technology behind everything. Tractors, farm equipment, irrigation pumps, transportation. It's a transformative technology, and I'm failing at it."

Shela looked at the same table and saw success, not failure. "Maybe it isn't your part in life to play."

Dawn rocked faster, starting to cry. "Then why is it in my head? Why am I alive, over and over again?"

Shela slowed her sister's rocking with a hug, "Maybe you can turn these failures into a success. Maybe you can't get there directly from here. Maybe you can use these flawed formulas to build what you need to get the purer materials that you can use. The ones you have formulas for."

Dawn slid her chair back to the workbench, opened a new notebook, and started to sketch and write.

Dawn wouldn't let it go. The only thing left for Shela was to help her sister achieve her goal.

Fortunately, with someone with as much raw potential as Dawn had, it allowed Shela to cheat.

She read her sister's troubled future, and whispered some guiding words as Dawn scribbled on, oblivious to the world.
**B6.C30**

Shela held her finger to her lips as Frances came in from the field.

He closed the door as quietly as he could. When she pointed to the table, he immediately understood. Dinner was already out.

As he ate quietly, he watched Shela in bed with her sister.

Dawn was a little smaller, thinner, and darker skinned, but every bit as attractive as her sister. The sight of the two of them in the same bed sent his mind in some very wrong directions. That Shela was gently stroking her sister's hair wasn't helping dissuade his fantasies. But by the time he had finished his sandwich and soup, he saw the two in a new light.

He saw, first hand, how natural Shela would be with a frightened child, soothing away a bad dream. As he dug his spoon into the blackberry smoothie, he pondered a future he had never pondered before.

Not one of sex with sisters that quickly faded as fast as it came, but one of parenthood that only a very few in this valley would ever get to know. Maybe it was a real possibility with her. Looking around the house, it seemed little was impossible around these two.

Extended family often lived near or with each other. Sisters as close as these two took surprisingly little effort to get used to.

But how she would be with children had never been in doubt. Patience, compassion, understanding, he had seen an abundance of each long before he had met her family. What stunned him most was when he realized that how she was with her sister was almost identical to how she was with him.

After a shower, he slept in the other bed, the one by the fireplace that Guar refused to use.

Dawn stayed in bed for three days. Shela, never far from her side.

Termites were new for Frances, and farming them seemed absurd. But termites were beyond useful. First, they converted farm debris into fertilizer within months, not years. Secondly, it had an immediately useful byproduct of the termites themselves, which fattened the fish he so enjoyed.

But it wasn't until this year that Dawn remembered a third use, ready to exploit. One that just might help her solve her material problems.

The magic of milkweeds had limits. A house, yes. Engine, no.

But that wasn't the end of the story. Milkweed made an excellent house, and at the end of a few quick experiments over the following week, the sisters built an airtight tank of sorts out of Dawn's 'failed' materials that was big enough to hold two months' worth of termite poop.

As the poop continued to decompose in their crude digester, the natural gas that normally escaped was captured... and in this case, quickly put to use.

An earthen, gas-fired kiln was assembled nearby that maintained perfect temperature controls with no need for regular refueling and tending. The first items the sisters made in its even heat were windowsill gas lamps of a unique design. They could vent both the exhaust and heat outside during the summer, and could just as easily vent the heat inside during the winter (while exhaust still remained outside). Linking them from the houses to the digester was a simple matter of making their well-mastered rubber hoses.

As the boys worked the gardens, the girls expanded their expertise thanks to their first precision kiln.

Without the daunting chore of feeding a kiln with hand-chopped wood, experiments in ceramics took a quantum leap forward. Yet it all fell short of yielding critical engine parts.

Ceramics were strongest under compressive forces, which made for excellent bricks and pots and jars. But engines had to deal with rapidly changing forces in every direction, and quickly changing temperatures that simply made each design eventually crack and shatter. Extending Dawn's sense of failure.

But Shela knew how to press her sister on, without seeming like she was. Shela had memories of a tortured sister that never was, and a reality of one quickly turning each failure into future success, with the support of a sister with a knack for encouraging and inspiring words, weeks ahead of their time.

Their experiments with advanced ceramics, though failures at engine parts, made possible their next leap forward in plastics by making miniature high-pressure and temperature reactor chambers, dryers, and stirring vessels, as well as miniature refineries. Changing feedstocks from the inexact natural latex to natural gas led them to thermal cracking and into ethylene, then polyethylene, styrene, butene, and on down a well-established field, with each building on the previous success until the world of plastics Dawn remembered slowly became reproducible again.

By fall, the two had mastered manufacturing the simpler forms of plastic from natural gas, but Dawn had little doubt that even the most complex would eventually be within her reach, now that she was building on a remembered path, instead of blazing one anew from milkweed.

And the precision kiln was also a master at drying their surplus harvests, and this year's over abundance of acorns.

Frances sat at the table as the steady flame of the gas lamps chased even the most modest shadow from the room. He had become accustomed to the dim flicker and smell of the oil lamps everyone used. The smoke was inevitable as wicks slowly aged.

These were odorless, flickerless, wickless, and could be made far brighter than any oil lamp he had ever seen. But the design went far beyond bright, these doubled as small ovens and could get just as hot.

Guar had stormed off an hour ago. He saw the two as goofing off when oil lamps had always worked well enough, but Frances saw the hardest working sisters he had ever known.

He watched quietly as the two waged war with a kind of Japanese chess he had never seen before. Captured pieces could be turned and put back on the board? It had been explained to him several times, but he couldn't seem to follow.

When Dawn moved her piece, Shela instantly retaliated, but the brilliance of the move was lost on him. His only clue to its power was the stunned look on Dawn's face and her flustered long pause.

The girls could play for hours, and though they could carry on a conversation at the same time, he always felt like it was a distraction, so he rarely did, unless he couldn't help himself.

He grabbed a handful of dry-roasted nuts as he compulsively ate while he watched. "Never knew acorns tasted so good. But why do we need so many of them?"

"Dawn experiments with plastics," Shela said while Dawn pondered, "I experiment with food. Those smoothies, the cheese in my cheesecake, and all those fine forms of bread and pastry you enjoy, that's all acorns."

"There's no cheese in the cheese?" Frances said.

"No cream in the cream, no milk in the milk, no wheat in the flour," Dawn whispered, deep in thought as she touched a piece, but didn't move it. "Where would we get it?"

"Your cream-cheese bagel was all acorn," Shela said.

Frances stared at the acorns left in his hand. "Impressive. But even using it in everything, you've still got years and years worth, and that was with the patch you had cleared before I got here. That field your brother and I cleared this summer easily doubled that. Probably tripled by the time they grow out like them other ones."

Dawn made her move, "Acorns might taste like milk," she said, "but it isn't milk." It was now Shela's turn to stare and concentrate while Dawn talked. "Would like to catch a few deer this year and get the real stuff again." Both girls smiled with a shared thought. "We grew up with pet deer, have fond memories of playing with them. And acorns are the easiest deer food to grow. That and we could use another open field. What we've got is fine for four—"

"But would be tight for two more," Shela said as she moved, then winked at him while Dawn was distracted by the board. "Might want to get a few pigs from the Findicks, too. But I haven't decided on that yet. Don't know how I feel about all the effort they would take."

He popped the last few in his mouth as he looked around the room, bathed in as much light as any would want, yet far short of the enlightenment he needed to follow the action on the board. "I've never met two sisters as close as the two of you. If you had been born boys, you'd own this town by now." He ran his fingers across his new milkweed shirt, wiped his fingers on his new pants, then grabbed another handful of nuts. For some strange reason, he thought of the only one who wasn't there. "Guar still fuming over being cut out of the will?"

"He wasn't—" Shela started.

"He wasn't cut out," Dawn said, a little sadder about it than her sister. "He was saved from himself." Dawn tried the caramel coated ones. "We should—"

"Add popcorn to these," Shela finished with a shared smile. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Frances tried a handful of the coated ones. "I can't see it. Popcorn wouldn't make these any better, probably would bland out the taste. Besides, I like the roasted ones better."

A mere hour after the end of the game, he was eating his own words. Clumps of popcorn adhered to acorns with hardened caramel was indeed spectacular. As was the sisters' version of peanut brittle, with acorns.

In deference to his limited chess abilities, the sisters shifted the next game to cards.

During the summer Dawn had slept in her shop by the pond. But as fall transitioned closer to winter, she stayed in the house with them, sleeping on the bed by the fireplace for very practical reasons. Firewood was very labor intensive, and heating three buildings burned three times the fuel. Since only the house had been fitted with the gas lamps, they barely burned any wood at all. And by the time snow covered the ground, even a reluctant Guar decided to stay instead of hauling his own wood. Though he insisted on sleeping in the attic where he didn't have to 'look at someone sleep with his sister'.

Frances woke to the sounds of someone walking across the wooden floors, early in the morning. When he got the sleep out of his eyes he realized it was Dawn coming back from the bathroom.

She stopped by the edge of the bed, closest to her sister. She put her hand on his elbow and moved it ever so slightly. "She doesn't like that part of your arm touching her ribs," Dawn whispered, then adjusted how he was holding her hand. "She's the best friend I've ever had, my favorite sister, and the center of the brightest days of my life." She adjusted the sheet like she was tucking them in, then moved her sleeping sister's hair off her face and away from her ear. "You'd be a fool if you didn't realize, she could be so much more to you."

He watched as she quietly went back to bed.
**B6.C31**

"...You invented the optical telegraph system," Frances continued, "but you don't have one yourselves?"

Shela packed her travois, undeterred.

"How do you know Adora needs you? Are you reading their messages every night? I've never seen you." He looked out the window, "I've never seen any lights from here, except those high on the mountains for relays to another town."

Dawn threw a big hug around her and kissed her sister on the cheek. "Sure you don't want me along?"

Shela paused for a second, then looked at Guar acting a little guilty already as he tried to hide in the room. "No, it's better if you stay. You too, Frances. If I leave now, I'll make it to Adora's with two days to spare, and no more than a drizzle of snow to contend with." She paused again as Dawn fussed over Shela's longer hair. "Be back sooner this way."

"Shouldn't you signal them somehow? Someway?" Frances said, still staring out the window where the lamp blew hot air under his chin. "That's got to be a month of walking just to pay her a visit. Why now? What happens if you run across—"

Shela kissed her sister, "Two days from now, a little before noon, near the newly cleared field, you'll find some curious critter tracks. They'll lead you about a quarter of a mile. That's where you'll find a big buck." She kissed Frances on the lips, "Don't let Guar talk you into making any wine before I come back," she said, then left.

The buck was exactly where Shela said it would be, even though the tracks weren't his but instead belonged to an adventurous raccoon. The two stompsticks, in Dawn and Guar's hands, dropped the massive creature at well over a hundred yards. It was so big it took all three to drag its portions back to the house.

Butchering it, smoking it, then drying it filled out the remainder of the week. Though the skies looked threatening everyday, it never unleashed more than a few flurries, accumulations never reached an inch.

Dawn scribbled in the notebook, late into the night. Guar slept right through it, but Frances got out of bed and joined her.

Dawn seemed oblivious to his presence as she scribbled away.

She seemed so intensely focused that Frances made an effort not to interrupt. It looked covered in Cs, Ss, Os, and lots of Hs connected with little lines all over the pages, notes and figures drawn in the margins. Every now and then she'd stop, pen hovering over the page like she was writing more notes in the air above it, then she'd continue on paper again.

He could read English, but the words she used didn't make sense.

Neither did the drawings, for that matter. But since he didn't have anything to do the next day, he opened the shades on the nearest lamp and stayed up with her, best he could manage.

The next time her hand paused, poised above the page, he held it. "You tired?" he whispered.

Dawn nodded, but didn't look up.

"You want to go to bed?"

She ran her fingers across the page, seeming to linger on some of the harder words. "It's incomplete," she mumbled.

"It's ok, it'll still be here tomorrow. You can finish it then."

Her fingers seemed to underline the strangely connected letters. "But what if I'm not?" she mumbled. "Who would complete it then?" Her eyes never drifted from the page.

"Someone will," he said, but her hand continued to waver. "You will," he said, and the wavering slowed. "You will," he repeated with conviction, and her grip of the pen relaxed.

"I'm so tired," she mumbled.

"It's ok," he said, taking the pen from her fingers. "You'll finish it tomorrow." He helped her to bed.

Dawn woke a few hours later, just in time to see the sun rise, "You still think of yourself as a guest?" she said, sitting on Frances' bed. "You're not, if you don't want to be."

He rubbed his eyes, "Just a little homesick—"

"Feel out of place without her here, don't you? Like maybe you don't belong." She walked to the kitchen, but paused when she passed the open notebook. She straightened it, then inventoried the ready-made soups on the shelf. "Don't feel that way," she said. She selected one, pried off the lid, sniffed it, poured three bowls, then set them to heat in the hottest lamps while Frances walked around and opened the blackout covers on the rest so the light could flood in.

He lingered in front of the last one, rubbing his arms. The room was cool, but far from cold. The lamps had been in use for weeks, yet he was still surprised at how much heat could come from such little things, powered by termite poop. "Any bread left?"

Dawn looked. "I'll make more." She scooped some acorn flour into a bowl, then mixed in the water. "Won't be as good as—"

"Better than mine." He grabbed a handful of nuts from the table. "What do you do all winter? My dad works on furniture, it's almost his busiest time. But what do you normally do?"

Dawn poured a jar down the sink and started rinsing it out. "I killed the Herman."

"Who?"

"Shela always remembers to feed the Herman, I never do."

Frances looked in the sink. "I'll clean it out, don't worry about it."

Dawn was almost in tears. "I killed the Herman," she mumbled, walking away.

The bread didn't rise, was denser and harder, and lacked the flavor of Shela's. But it worked well to offset the soup that was a mainstay of winter. But Dawn seemed to take the failure to heart. A few days later she retreated to her workshop, and didn't come back.

Frances put the now second-nature circle pattern into the doorknob and walked into her shop. Without the gas lamps or a fire, the large room was cold, but well above freezing. "You alright, Dawn? Haven't seen much of you for a few days."

Dawn kept working at the desk.

"I brought you some soup when you didn't show for dinner." He opened it, then ladled her a hot bowl.

She didn't look up from the desk.

"What are you working on?"

She slowed, then stopped. "Do you love my sister?" she whispered.

He slid the bowl in front of her. "I don't know for sure. I remember this redhead girl, Sabrina. We went to school together and I lived six houses down from her. When I think of love, I think of her and that preteen love that has you doing any stupid thing that crosses your mind. Feelings so powerful they control you. Lightheaded whenever we parted, stomach always in knots. Almost killed myself when we broke up, must be ten years or more ago.

I was sure something that overwhelming had to be love. I've been measuring everything against that ever since. I don't feel that way about your sister. I'm rarely lightheaded, and I have flutters, but no stomach knots. But I care about her. I think about her. I worry about her when she's gone. But when I remember that kid from so long ago, every thought he had was about Sabrina. I used to practice writing her name for hours.

I've thought about Shela maybe six times today already." He put the lid back on the jar, then swaddled it in the towel to keep it warm. "It isn't the same kind of love, that's for sure. But yeah, I think I love her. More now than when we met. She's good people, and that goes much further than I ever thought it would." He looked over the melted parts cluttering the floor by the desk. "What are you working on?"

Dawn warmed her hands on the bowl. "Good people goes a long way." She stirred her spoon across the bottom, ensuring an even mix. "You should figure out how much she means to you, she's going to want kids soon." She blew on the spoonful as she looked him in the eyes. "And she's going to want a commitment from you, first."

"Yeah, she's talked about having girls a few times already." He shrugged as she sipped. "Don't even have a job, and my father basically fired me. I'm—"

"Did you know she was born by the very window you sleep beside every night? Different bed. Daddy didn't have a job, either. He just did around here, what you do. Seemed enough for them to have a very happy marriage."

He pushed at the floor with an idle toe. "What about you, you ever been in love? You got someone in town?"

She sniffled before wiping her lips on her finger. "Nobody in town."

"Not going to find anyone staying around here." He looked around the cluttered room, then looked over the girl. "Doubt either of you would have gone more than two days without being asked out to something somewhere, if you'd grown up in town."

Dawn stirred the soup, staring down into the ripples like fishing at the pond. "I think I want to be an aunt this time."

He walked over to the corner where a pile of molds for gears sat. Soft as skin, flexible, and just as stretchy. "Odds are against having kids anyway. Best you can ever really hope for is a happy marriage."

Dawn sipped from her soup.
**B6.C32**

Shela stopped first at Dawn's workshop. "Had a hunch I'd find you here," she said, travois propped outside the door.

Dawn dropped what she was doing to run and hug her sister. "How's Adora? I always liked her the most."

"A little nauseous right now, I'd bet. But happily so." She unbuttoned her coat, but left it on when she noticed her breath fogged the air. "Inspiration struck you again, I see."

"I'm so stupid sometimes," Dawn said. "I write for so long at times that I have hand cramps for days. I should have—" she walked her over to the desk and the modest little device, "It was so simple, really. The solution had been staring me in the face all along. Typing traditionally involves impact and inking and ribbons and so many— So many unnecessary things. Based on airbrushing and a movable miniature stencil, this is far simpler and the letters are crisp and perfect, page after page. I can even change the font size by altering the distance between the paper and the stencil. Caveman inkjet."

Shela leafed through the notes Dawn had already typed and bound. "The quality is impressive, almost as good as what we found inside the mountain." She looked around the room. "I don't know how you writing more is such a good thing, though."

Dawn's smile was not so easily deterred, "He loves you, you know."

Dawn's smile was as infectious as always. "How could he not?" Shela said, sitting on the bed. "Did you know Momma could help people get pregnant?"

Dawn sat beside her. "I felt my soul's warden last week, that little speck that keeps me here. It's like a grain of sand," she pressed her finger to her temple, "between my left eye and ear. It feels like lint on my mind's eye. If I look or think just right, but not directly at it, I can catch glimpses of what's inside. Nyin said there was a prophecy that he held the cure to the curse of the night sky. He couldn't have children, but he literally held Momma as we ran from his old army. Carried her in one arm as he kept pace with horses.

Held the cure.

I don't think she was the cure. I think the words drift and shift over time. She was cured. Like you.

Guar looks different every time, but I look very much the same, life after life. I think there's something about me that rejects too much change." She looked down at her feet. "Like a defective soul can only find home in a defective body."

Shela pulled her sister in tight, "Nothing defective about you."

"You're cured. I think that's what he meant. That ability you share with Mom is probably based on some sympathetic harmony or cellular resonance frequency that makes it more powerful on contact, living cells talking to living cells. But you'd need a sophisticated medical lab to confirm that. A simple trigger, like a cell whispering a word to its neighbor, is all it takes to turn stem cells into blood cells. The reverse is probably equally true, and just as easy when you know the secret words. That implies some sort of cross organism communication on a cellular level, and the reversion of blood cells to stem cells would mimic Mom's near spontaneous healing. Different words could easily have told Nyin's cells to die.

Might be purely statistical. Might be that eggs aren't even deformed by the EM fields at all, just confused by them." She smiled, then looked up. "Like drunks at a bar are easily picked up by losers. Your cells whisper the words that keep them sober, so they can find their Frances in the crowd."

"Just can't let it be magic, can you?" Shela kissed her sister as they both got up, "Let's get you cleaned up and fed, I'm starving... And there are people on my list of dearly missed other than just you." She grabbed a basket as they walked out the door. "I was thinking we might have crawfish again."

Frances lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. "That wasn't butter? I've only had goat butter six times in my life, and if I remember right, it wasn't half as rich as that."

"What's Guar been doing while I was gone?" Shela said.

"Nothing, far as I know." Frances rubbed his swollen belly. "Just goes for a walk two or three times a day. Hour or so each time, I guess. Been quiet, keeps to himself a lot. Winter blues I'd call it, if we were in winter. Mom used to get it every year.

Cheese-less blackberry cheesecake. Could have fooled me.

Mom bought goat cheese once a year as a treat. A little piece about the size of a sandwich. Good, but my slice was always tiny." He sat up, "I missed you. Didn't think I would miss you nearly as much as I did. Felt lonelier than I ever imagined it would."

Shela washed her hands at the sink before climbing in bed beside him. "That's more walking than I ever wanted to do this year. First Guar, now this. I think even my hair is sore, and an hour's hot soak wasn't near enough to get feeling warm again. I missed warm. I missed good food. I missed my family, and I missed you." She kissed him on the lips. "But right now, I miss the touch of your hands the most." She leaned past him, shaded the last lamp, took off her shirt, and laid face down on the mattress beside him.

Had anyone else done what she just did, he'd have known exactly what to do. And it would have been very different than what he did, as he leaned over her naked back... and started to rub. Within minutes, Shela was fast asleep.

"In their bed, Shela?" Guar yelled that morning, seeing more of his sister than he cared to in the big bed by the window as he came down from the attic.

"I'm not—"

But Guar staggered toward them and kicked the footboard, "Their bed, not yours! You making them a hell of a lot prouder than I ever will, huh? You think they wouldn't have put a stop to this months ago?" He shoved the bed askew, then stormed out the door.

Frances covered her in the sheets, but Guar was already gone. He couldn't tell for sure if Dawn was up by now, but it seemed unlikely anyone could have slept through that. "Maybe I should lea—"

"You're staying," Shela said, shirt on and out of bed, "he's kicking dust to hide his own—"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he ain't right."

Shela threw open the door. "You get back in here!" she yelled, but he was already too far away. She looked at the expression on Frances' face and closed the door. "It isn't the same bed they died on. We burned their mattress."

"Don't think that was the important part of his—"

"He's—" she looked away. "Yeah," she looked him in the eyes, then out the window, "maybe not."

He got out of bed and started gathering his few belongings.

She sat him back on the bed, "Listen. Half truths are easier to sell than full lies, and require twice the explaining. And that still leaves shadows and doubts everywhere, that much of politics I understand. My parents had lived together, in this house, on this bed frame, for years, without being married. Truth said, I don't think they ever were legally married. It ached my father like nothing else, because she wouldn't say yes. Might well have been the only thing they ever fought about. But she wouldn't go into town to say the words before people she didn't know, just so it could be written down in a book in a town that she cared nothing about. Her world was here.

Her world was us.

Momma, she... she had been married in her heart the whole time, I suspect." She put her hand on his knee. "I'd prefer to have gotten to know you differently. My mother would have preferred to get to know my father differently than—"

"The universe doesn't yield to preferences," Dawn whispered without getting up from her bed as she rolled to face their way. "They would have had a problem with a lot of these last few years, least of which has anything to do with Frances. Had they still been alive, you wouldn't have been here, and they wouldn't have known. Probably would have been married months ago, maybe even years ago." She sleepily smiled and stretched an arm their way. "My sister's very pretty this morning, don't you think?"

Frances looked Shela in the eyes as the morning sun highlighted her frazzled hair. He smiled as his hastily-gathered things dropped to the floor. "We could get ma—"

"After I just spent months straightening out this nightma—" Shela calmed before she accidentally yelled at Frances for daring to say the very words she most wanted to hear, "I didn't just fix one financial mess with my brother just to get into another one with you. I can't turn around and put this land in jeopardy again... just because he has a problem with us." She patted his knee and sighed. "Strange how events keep repeating."

Dawn crawled out of her bed to sit beside her sister, then straightened Shela's hair with her fingers. "They wouldn't have approved, you know. But that doesn't mean what you're doing is wrong. Mom didn't approve of how Daddy entered her life. But they made it work. I don't doubt for a moment you could too." She looked Frances over. "Might not be a right way to do such things. If he's staying, you might want to put curtains back up around the bed."

Shela nearly blushed, "I don't trust him that much."

"You scared of me?" Frances said.

"Terrified," Shela said, but more to her sister, "it's all I can do to keep my clothes on around him without one up. Put a curtain in the way, and I might not leave bed before summer."

He couldn't help but sit straighter.

"What if he isn't any good?" Dawn teased, slouching him back down.

"Figure it might take till spring to train him proper," Shela said. "But he's got promise, you know. He's got good hands."

Dawn patted him on the shoulder. "That can make the difference between mediocre and satisfying, any day."

"Might not be no good at shaping wood," Shela continued, "but he's just about mastered that magic spot between strong and gentle." She squinted his way, "Still acts a little like a starving man in a—"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said.

"A gourmet meal is wasted on a starving man who'll just devour it faster than his taste can keep up," Shela said, then leaned a kiss into his cheek. "Not entirely an unpleasant experience, every now and then. But savoring is the only real way to treat true flavors."

Frances got to his feet, "Well, a man won't starve if he has something to eat every now and then." He went behind the only curtain remaining, the one that framed in the bathroom.

Shela followed him in, acting angry. "You still starving from last night?"

"I'm trying to pee," he said. "And yes, all your talk about food has made me hungry."

Shela sat on the lip of the tub, her voice calm and quiet. "You mad at me for putting you through all this?"

With her not looking, he was able to go. "No. It's strange and odd, and seems backwards to everything I've ever known." He flushed, then washed his hands. "But what I've done hasn't exactly worked out thus far. And it—" he paused to dry his hands. "And it—"

"My dad referred to it like torture." She stood and watched. "And I have no intentions of torturing you." She stepped closer. "I'll put up the curtains, if you want.

I will.

But I'd like to leave them down, for now. I know it's odd. It isn't usual. But I think it was a magical ingredient in their marriage. I think it was what made up for all the awkwardness of how they met." She leaned into him. "It's odd. I'm odd. My drunk brother may well be the most normal of us all." She kissed him. "I don't trust myself, behind curtains, with you." She stepped back and sat again. "They may not have liked us living like this, Frances, but I have no doubt they would have liked you." She looked up, "Like I like you. You would have asked me just then, wouldn't you?"

He sat beside her. "I almost asked that first night at the Inn, when I found out such a pretty young girl made that meal... but was too tongue-tied. I wish I remembered how it tasted, but I gobbled it down too fast." He fastened a missed button on her shirt. "Dad and I had heard some good things about this new cook and had just stopped in for something other than that old loaf of bread we'd been eating for days. Never thought food could be that good."
**B6.C33**

Frances walked to the kitchen and took the plate from her hand. "How long have I been letting you do this alone?" he said, rinsing it in the sink.

Shela scrubbed another, "Minute or two. I think you were distracted by something." She leaned her hip into him. "I've done it by myself before, in kitchens much bigger than this." She held up one of the mugs. "See this one, those little dents emphasizing the lip, near the handle, and the way the base has little hints of closed eyes." She turned it upside down and the handle became a nose for its sleepy smile. "I made this one when I was seven, maybe eight. My parents did dishes together all the time, you know. Always thought it was romantic."

"Dishes is romantic?"

Shela smiled. "If you're good at it, it is." She scrubbed another. "Winter cabbage is coming in. It'll be time to go back to work again, all too soon."

He rinsed and dried, "Why such a big field of cabbage anyway? I mean, nobody eats that much cabbage, do they?"

"It's my personal favorite and the secret ingredient to everything. Sauerkraut. Know it or not, it's in a lot of my recipes. But what most people know it for is our wine."

"Sauerkraut wine?"

She laughed. "Nobody in town has ever come close to guessing, have they?"

"Never will, it's just too crazy."

"Mom and Dad perfected it decades ago. Not exactly wine, not exactly liquor. Distinctly different. Uniquely different. Unique is part of its charm."

"Flammably potent don't hurt none either."

She quietly scrubbed a stubborn plate, "You know, you can't tell any of the things you learn here. Not even to your dad. None of these things... the wine is a great example. Once you've mastered it, anyone can make it. And once everyone is making it, we can no longer get a good price for it in town." She handed off the plate for him to rinse and dry. "Every family has its secrets, some needing keeping more than most. Only one family even knows Momma is dead. I don't see a reason, right now, for anyone other than you to know our parents aren't alive."

He quietly rinsed the utensils, then dried them with the towel.

He pedaled the strange device as Dawn fed in the dry stalks. Paper-like flakes spit to one side as a pure cotton-like fiber emerged in a swelling ball from the other. "I don't get why you wouldn't just keep quiet about the how and what and just sell reams of cloth in town. Seems like you'd make a fortune that way, just like the cotton barons did."

"Cloth is heavy and awkward. How would we get it into town?" Dawn said, feeding in more stalks. "We're about as remote as anyone can get. You know the barons better than we do. What kind of reaction would you expect?"

His pedaling slowed, "They'd burn your house down, for sure." He paused while Shela cleared the piles around the fantastically productive little machine. "I guess your way makes more sense. It just seems a shame that you put all this effort into it and get so little out of it. The barons almost own the town, seems like there ought to be a way for you to get more than a pretty price for the machine and a tiny percentage, that's all."

"That's enough for me," Dawn said, feeding the next batch of stalks.

"What's all this 'cotton' for, anyway? You've got more than enough already, don't you?" He looked over the reams of cloth on the shelves.

"Got to do something with it," Shela said, setting up the spindle wheel with the new batch. "Milkweed's a green year crop, besides that, at the time we needed the milk for the latex. We can make stuff like paper out of the stalks without removing the fibers first, but leaving it in doesn't make it any better. Isn't like we can't use the cloth someday." She quickly got the wheel up to speed. "Who knows, might need some baby clothes next year."

Dawn stopped feeding while she smiled at the ground. "They used to get rubber from a tree, you know. Grows maybe a thousand miles south. I saw fields of them under my feet, once. They need hundreds of workers and constant tending, like turkeys, chickens, and pigs. They cut the bark on angles by hand and let it bleed into a cup." She looked up. "At least four times as much latex in every gallon as what milkweed yields. But they have to rest the trees every so many years, and can't be bled until they're big enough. Milkweed can be harvested a few times a year, every year. Or planted over with food, if need be. Not as efficient, but much more practical, if you ask me. Momma sure was smart to think of it." She started feeding the stalks again.

"She learned it from her mom," Shela said what Dawn already knew, but left out.

When Guar brought in another bundle of stalks, Shela stopped spinning and stared at him. She caught him by the arm before he could leave. "What's that smell?" She sniffed the hairs of his chin, then shoved him backward into the closed door. "Where are they?"

"Where's what?" he said, shoving her back.

"You know what, now tell me," she said, crowding him against the door again, this time hands off.

Dawn stopped feeding again as she stared at her feet while Guar refused to say another word.

"Fine, have it your way," Shela said, hand on the exposed skin of his cheek. He shook her off, but it was already too late. "Bread beer, Guar? Stinky, old, unfiltered, over fermented, raw bread dough drippings? What's wrong with you? You that—"

"Stop yelling," Dawn said, her voice on the edge of tears. "He's— He's just—" she put her hands over her ears. "They put it in his head. It isn't his fault. It isn't his fault." She started rocking slowly, "It isn't his fault..."

Dawn sat in bed, quietly typing, Guar already out for the night in the attic.

"Some people are, some aren't," Frances said. "I'm not sure you can change them." He wetted the blanket around the contraption sitting in the tub. "What'd you call this again?"

"Condenser," Shela said, checking the heat before moving it further from the chimney. "Alcohol boils at a lower temperature than water, so it turns to vapor first. Keeping that blanket wet drops it below its vapor point again and it collects on— Didn't they cover this in school?"

"No moonshine classes, sorry. No latex classes either." He stared at the gas lamp keeping the room warm and shadow free. "I'm beginning to think I've never learned anything."

Shela watched her sister silently type away. "We'll probably have to take shifts tonight, I doubt she's going to still be awake by the time this batch is finished."

Frances yawned, "Take your choice, I'm sleepy enough now to catch some rest. Or I can drink some hot tea and stay up with you. I'm right on the middle."

"I can make him stop, you know," Shela said. "It just doesn't last. Maybe she's right. Maybe just giving in until he figures it out for himself is the right path to take. Just seems wrong to me to give him the very thing he has such a problem with.

Just feels wrong."

Frances shrugged. "He's an adult, just like you. Just like the rest of us. If he wants to stay drunk all the time, doesn't seem like there's anything you can really do. Other than keep him from drinking — what'd you call it — bread beer."

"He'd have gotten sick for sure if he'd kept that up." She checked the temperature again. "Still feels all kinds of wrong."

"Still think you want kids next year? Wait until a daughter brings home a total loser, that'll redefine hopeless situation for ya."

She sat beside the fireplace and stared at the still in the tub. "Feels like I'm not helping him, but hurting."

He poured more water on the blanket, "Sometimes when you make a mistake, late in a piece of furniture, it has to get worse before it gets better."

She put her hand on his knee, "Stay up with me."

He dipped the bucket again, "Sure." He kissed her on her worried lips. "Could be worse. He could have been a mean drunk, instead of just a quiet one."
**B6.C34**

They trudged through the snow toward Dawn's workshop, late in the afternoon. "I doubt it's freezing in there. Seems like one of the warmer days, actually," Frances said, not really complaining about getting out of the house, just out of things to say.

Shela slowed her pace as the building came into sight through the leafless trees. "It's solar heated, and it's been overcast for the last six days. Better to check it than not. Besides, we don't have anything else to do right now." She pointed him to the woodpile as she opened the door and stepped inside.

Frost had formed on the inside of the walls.

"It was an experimental mix anyway," Shela said, tossing kindling in the tiny fireplace. "Don't get me wrong, Dawn's a brilliant girl, but she makes mistakes too. More than she thinks she does. We run a fire in here until it gets dark and it'll keep it from freezing tonight. She said freezing was its greatest threat."

He dropped the wood beside her. He had never taken a hard look at Dawn's fireplace before. It was not that different from the one in the house. Big on the outside, small on the inside, and set a foot away from the wall. It used four times the bricks of any other fireplace he had ever seen, but seemed far more efficient too. The one at the house burned a small load of wood at night, and even with the fire out, it continued to pump heat into the room well into the morning, even with the lamps turned down. The extra mass of the bricks radiated heat for hours and should let them, in theory, burn a big fire and let it go out with plenty of time left for them to hike back to the house before it got dark.

Since there wasn't room for two in front of the fireplace, he walked the room, stopping at the bound books on Dawn's shelf. He opened one, flipped through the pages, then put it back where he found it. To his eyes it looked like more gibberish.

"I like your sister." He folded the bench-like bed down from the wall and sat, trying to get warm. "She's a lot deeper than I gave her credit for. You look at her and see this cute, quiet girl, like a shy version of you." He looked around the room at the haphazard piles of half-finished inventions, gears, and bottles of goo. "First met you, I just saw a cute cook. Your family gets underestimated a lot, don't you?"

She leaned in and blew on the fledgling flames, then adjusted the wood as she piled it in.

He pulled the blanket off the bed and huddled beneath it, "I feel like I should maybe go home and tell my folks—"

"Snow's going to come down hard this month. You'd never make it." She closed the door and adjusted the vents before sitting beside him. "You're trapped with that strange girl that helped your dad evict you, sorry to say."

He opened the blanket and snuggled her in, "I'm not."

"My parents grew up a few years' walk from here in a village I've never seen. No homes, just huge buildings with rooms. Families didn't really exist like they do here, their children were raised by the village instead."

Frances watched the growing flickers behind the vent. "Your friend Sally ran an article about that some years back. She interviewed a handful of settlers that told a similar tale. Dad said the commune lifestyle didn't suit many in these parts. Said it sounded too much like breeding people the same way you do pigs, and that just rubbed folks wrong. But you can't argue with how prolific they can be, and it's a lot easier to build an Inn than it is to build dozens of homes." He looked down at his knees. "This town's numbers hardly ever grow. Struggle hard not to shrink too much, generation to generation. Them settlers tried to sell us on their ways, but none took a shine to it."

"Momma was just a little girl when they met... When she was just given to my Daddy like property. Was the way of things, back there. They grew up together, sharing the same room. Until she ran away, and he ran after her. And they found their way here." She put her arm around his back as her hip pressed to his. "I'll never get to know anyone as well as they knew each other. Whatever we'll have will be different. Sometimes I think I'm as obsessive as my sister, just about different things." She leaned back to the window.

He quickly followed. "My parents were arranged, in a weird way. While my dad was apprenticing from Grandpa, they built this well-to-do family a house, barn, and even fenced in a field for some pigs. That rich family had bought this girl from a poor family that couldn't pay their debts. Bought her as a baby, but got tired of playing with her when she grew up. Tried to make use of her as a servant, but were tired of that as well." He looked Shela in her big brown eyes, "That's a little more common in these parts than it should be. Gramps couldn't bear to see the girl treated like that, so he bought her from them and took her home... but she was too young to turn free in town, without ending up worse. She stayed in their home, helping out with what she could. A year later, Dad was in love. Year after that, I was born." Frances looked away, finding comfort in the flickering flame again. "I think Grandpa always saw Momma as something he bought, and never forgave Dad for falling for her."

She ran her fingers through his hair. "I knew there was something about you that connected our childhoods in some way." She slid her cold hand between the buttons of his shirt as she warmed her fingers against his skin. "I knew you shined for a reason." When he turned to her, she kissed him, in a room without curtains, but total privacy.

He woke that night on the tiny bench-of-a-bed in Dawn's workshop, Shela's naked body pressed into his side.

He had never seen her in a skimpy dress or sexy clothes, just loose-fitting pants and long-sleeve shirts. No earrings, necklaces, makeup or fancy lace. Yet he had always found her beautiful.

He had even seen her naked before, just teased with brief glimpses as she turned down the light.

Last night he had taken the full measure of her.

She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But that had always been true. His eyes told him nothing his heart didn't already know.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed just how warm she could be, alone together for the first time in months.

The starving man was still starving. But he had been given a taste of things to come, and those profound flavors still lingered on his tongue as he fondly remembered each of the seconds that brought him there.

He closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

Dawn sat at her desk, fiddling with parts when he woke up.

He adjusted the blanket, then quietly tried to wake Shela.

"Morning, Sis," Shela said before giving him a quick kiss. "Thanks for lending us the room."

Dawn paused, looked over her shelves, then dug a handful of tiny gears from a pile on the floor.

Shela pressed her smile to his cheek. "It's a little like sleepwalking, she doesn't know we're here right now. But when she wakes, she'll remember everything, so don't be rude."

Dawn fiddled with the pieces at the desk for a few minutes, stared at the ceiling for a second, then quietly left without saying a word.

"It'd be too easy to take advantage of her," she whispered. "It would take a special kind of person, for her. I'm not sure there's one to be found around here. But it makes me sad that she's decided to not even try." She sat, her hand glided across his chest in the most playful way. "Sad for what she's decided to miss." She sighed, ever so slightly, before leaving his warmth to stoke another fire into life.

He got out of bed and put on his clothes.

Breakfast was a long walk away.

Cabbage was reserved for paying customers and every drop of it was kept in kegs on the living room floor for all to see, where only the bravest would dare sneak a sip. They hadn't planted enough extra cabbage to handle Guar's growing drinking potential.

Guar, though going about it in the worst way possible, had stumbled on a reasonable idea. His daily supply of 'beer' came from an over abundance of fermented acorn flour.

Frances took the cup to his lips, gave it a sniff, then shot the whole thing back. He stared at the ceiling and shook his head as it warmed his throat and the top of his stomach. Even mixed with a spoonful of molasses, it still bit on the way down. But was it ever so flammably potent.

Guar shot back twice the glass and simply smiled, far more accustomed to the harsh bite. "She's—" he adjusted the glass on the table, "She's my sister, you know." He closed his eyes and wiped his forehead, then knocked over the glass in a hasty point to Frances, "You don't deserve her for a second, you... you frad— You frau— You fraud."

Frances nodded, "She'd have a very lonely life if she had to wait for someone who deserved—"

"Damn right," Guar said, slapping the table before pouring himself another glass. "Sweetest... Best damned cooo..." He lurched forward and bumped the table as he stood, "You cheat on her, she'll know. Little witch will know before you do." He downed his third glass of the night, then staggered backward into the ladder to the attic. "Do worse than slap you around some for havin' a good time in town, tell you what."

Frances went to the ladder as Guar went up, just in time to catch him when he slipped on the fourth rung.

Guar had gotten drunk most nights, but this was the only time that Shela asked Frances to stay up with him. He even remembered her words, 'make sure he gets up the ladder ok'.

He brushed his teeth, peed, changed for bed, then dimmed the lamps.

He stood at its edge and stared at Shela while she slept.

Why was she with him?

Why was he here?

Did it all really begin from just meeting eyes from across the room? Was that all it really took, to end up here? Just one look?

Why did she spend weeks fixing his father's house? Why would anyone do that? They had family and neighbors that wouldn't. Why did she?

What did she see in that glance that removed all doubt for her?

He looked at her as he slid the covers back. Simple nightshirt. Simple. He looked at her underwear on the shelf by his. He had never seen girls wear such things. The few he had ever seen were skimpy, lacy, and just as colorful as some of the fanciest dresses. Hers could easily be mistaken for boy's shorts or swimming trunks.

Yet on her, he had never seen anything sexier.

He climbed in and covered her again.

His attraction had never been about the clothes.

"I like winter," she whispered in his ear when he woke more than a little hungover. "Winter isn't winter without family. Dawn and I would spend summers down by the pond. Our parents complained about it just enough to make us feel guilty, about giving them so much time alone. But winters... that was always family time."

Guar's blanket and sheets fell down the hole from the attic a few seconds before he slid down and landed, flat on his bottom. Vomit stains on his shirt. With his usual grumbles, he made his way into the bathroom and a shower.

"I wonder how much of this life his little body can take?" she said before sitting up.

Frances admired his morning view as the sun lit her in all the right ways. "Some can drink like that for decades. Never can tell by size." He ran his hand down her arm.

"Get dressed. We have work to do this morning." She looked at Dawn's bed, head hidden under a pillow. "And be quiet about it." She got dressed in her heaviest clothes before checking two stompsticks.

"Hunting? At this hour?"

She shushed him until his voice lowered. "Not right now, but in the next ten minutes."

His eyes opened wide. "Ten minutes?" He quieted again after a stern glare. "Might as well be right now," he grumbled.

They snuck out in under five.

After nearly an hour of trekking without crossing a single track, they nonetheless stumbled across a massive buck. Dumbfounded by the unbelievable luck of it all, Frances nearly shouted at the sight of its enormous rack, and would have, had Shela not shushed him seconds before it popped its head up from rooting in the snow.

She pointed him to the left as she circled to the right. On her signal, they both unleashed.

Dropped, they slowly approached.

He looked at its tracks coming from further up the mountain. It was simply impossible for her to have seen, heard, or known anything about this fantastic catch. "How'd you know?"

Shela just smiled as she gently petted the creature on its face, near its huge brown eyes. "Thank you, brave steed, for choosing our family for your transition from this world to the next. I hope we made it as peaceful as possible." She petted its slightly torn ear, then readied her butchering tools.

"How'd you know it would be here? And how'd you know about that other one, months ago?"

"Same way I knew who you could be, the second I saw you." She worked her blade across its flawless skin like a tailor would work a fine piece of cloth. "Some things, you just know."

He stared at the tracks leading uphill. "It's the edge of improbability. We're a good mile from your house. How'd you even pick the general direction?"

"Help me pull back the skin," she said, working it off the warm animal like a coat.

He did as she requested, doing his best to keep the flap out of the way of her very sharp blade.

"We're going to be very happy together, you and I. We'll raise two children, right here in these very woods." She lifted one leg as she worked around it. "Two of the sweetest sisters you'll ever know. Twins. And Aunt Dawn will be a big part of their lives." She worked her magic around its backside. "I know you'll be happy here, Frances. I just know these things." She scooped out the guts, worked out the lungs, then handed him the animal's huge, warm heart. "I know, just like how I know I love you."

Winter had only just begun.
**B6.C35**

By midwinter, the gas lamps were petering out. On one of the warmer days, they decided to service the digester. In the cold, it didn't produce at the same levels it did during the warmer fall. But it wasn't like they were in danger of ever running out of termite poop. They had literal tons of it every year.

Before the lamps came into their lives, they never messed with the termites during winter. The stinky stuff had only been used as fertilizer, never as fuel.

Shoveling half-frozen, waterlogged poop into and out of the smelly digester was one of the most unpleasant chores Frances had ever done.

But it was done in well under an hour.

And within a few days, the digester was back to its fall production of that potent, flammable gas. And firewood could go unused again.

Except at Dawn's workshop.

Her lab was their little getaway.

They found a night to sneak away, at least once a week.

He ran his finger across her lips as he stared into her eyes. "I've never looked at someone for so long before," he whispered as the wood popped behind the thin door.

"I like the way you look at me," Shela said, not the least bit nervous to be so alone with him. "It's not entirely displeasing to look back upon you, either."

He laughed, "Not entirely displeasing?" He kissed her. "Sometimes you string together the strangest combination of words." He adjusted her hair before kissing her again.

Shela clarified her strangeness with playful fingers across his chest. "I find you entirely pleasing," she kissed him. "Patient," she kissed him again, "and all too often, thoroughly too pleasurable to have around." She ran her hand along his side. "Sometimes I think my mother was a genius. To be frustrated at every turn, yet be patient and understanding throughout, is perhaps the most desirable quality I've ever seen in a man." She kissed the back of his fingers. "Would you still ask me, if I let you?"

He ran his fingers through her hair, "Marry me."

She closed her eyes and savored the moment. "Ask me again."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

She opened her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "But not today. Not in town." She sighed. "And as wrong as this might sound, I think I want my daughters there, too."

He ran his hand across her naked back. "Only one way I know of for any of that to happen."

She leaned into him. "That's not happening today," she whispered, but pulled his hips to hers. "But even with that singular exclusion, that still leaves a lot we can do. And a very long night in which to do them."

"You've never had sex before, have you?" he said that morning.

She stroked his fingers with her thumb while they lay in Dawn's tiny bed. "Aren't you too?"

He leaned away from her. "No."

She let him keep the slight distance. "Sabrina?"

"No," he whispered. "We— She was the first girl I ever kissed. My first holding hands. My first time naked. But we've done much more than Sabrina and I ever did."

She eased the gap between them away. "Some things we leave in the past. Some things we carry with us, even though we should have put them to rest long ago. Burdens we carry, needlessly, because we can't let them go."

He looked her in the eyes, swallowed, then stared at the ceiling instead. "My dad tried to get me over my gloom... by, by taking me in town for a night. I think she must have thought me mad, when I cried when the clothes came off, and begged her to tell me what was wrong with me. Why Sabrina didn't love me." He covered his eyes. "That poor girl earned her pay that night for sure. I was a sad, sobbing mess, and it only got worse from there. I was terrified I was doing everything wrong and kept apologizing and apologizing." He wiped the corners of his eyes, sighed, then met hers. "But I doubt my story is that different than any boy you'll meet in town."

She was clearly a little appalled, but tried not to show it. "I don't see anything wrong with you. Some couples just aren't meant to be. Others, no matter how unlikely, simply are." She kissed him on the cheek this time. "From last night, I should have guessed you were much more experienced." She snuggled into him as the morning sun banded colors across the sky.

He laughed at his past. "I was so awkward and terrified back then. I think pity mixed with kindness in her heart. All she had to do was laugh and she would have scarred me for life." He looked at the rafters. "Dad had paid for an entire night... And I think she took the opportunity to make an impression." He smiled at her. "I'm still a little awkward, just hide it better now."

"You're a good person, Frances." She tried to reassure him. "If Dad had taken any of us into town for the same, I doubt we would have even thought to say no."

He frowned and stared at the ceiling again. "I went back a few times on my own. It's silly, but I thought she... I was so confused about everything back then. Confused about you a little now."

"Nothing so confusing about me. I like you. I see a future with you. You're good at cuddling, kissing, and holding. I like talking to you as much as I enjoy the quiet moments. I don't feel like I'm your host anymore. You feel like family to me. Guar's opinion of you doesn't matter, and Dawn likes you already. I don't know how good you are at keeping secrets, but I've seen nothing to make me distrust you yet." She rolled until her back was pressing his chest, then moved his hands to her belly. "Momma had scars right here," She lightly traced them with his fingers on her skin. "Dad used to rub her belly ever so slowly, most nights before bed." She moved his hands. "I always thought it was to soothe the pain from her scars." She let go of his hands as he continued on his own. "But it wasn't until you that I realized I like it too. You do a lot of things I didn't know I liked... I'm sure you'll do more things I'll like even more. The past is just the road that got us here. You only need it again if you're going backwards."

They explored a little more as the sun made a morning the whole town could enjoy. They were easily dressed and back up to the house before Guar sobered enough to safely come down and eat a late lunch.

Dawn stared at the still. "I can make a better one than this. Come summer, when we'll have more gas than we can use, I'll—"

"Don't bother," Shela said, pouring water on the condenser. "This one works just fine, it isn't like we could sell more in town anyway. And if we changed the design, wouldn't it change the taste too?"

Dawn ran her fingers across the warm pottery and the awkward wooden frame. "I could triple the efficiency—"

"We only use it in winter when the 'wasted heat' heats the house. Obsessing over efficiency doesn't mean anything that way."

Dawn looked at the ladder to the attic. "We'll need one that works in summer, too. One that doesn't need so much heat." She stared back at the still. "One that doesn't need so much tending to keep from going wrong. One that can be safely used while drunk." Dawn watched Frances as he washed the dishes at the sink. "You having sex yet?" she whispered.

Shela blushed ever so slightly as she poured more water on the blanket and it trickled into the tub. "Everything but."

Dawn sat beside her on the lip of the tub. "Is he as handsome without clothes as he seems?"

Shela dipped the bucket, but did nothing with it. "Oh yes. He isn't what I thought I'd ever fall for, but I've fallen all the same. He's so very patient with me, so much so I feel like I'm taking advantage of his good nature." She dumped the bucket into the tub, then filled it again with a smile. "Sometimes, I wish we were living in town where we could be all alone all the time. And sometimes the very thought of that terrifies me. It's all I can do to keep my clothes on around him as it is." She looked at Dawn's shy face. "And I'd miss my sister way too much."

Dawn ran her fingers through the water in the tub and watched the ripples echo around. "I remember being married, and in love. And I remember just how good it feels to trust a man. I've been married to the same one twice now." She looked up to the attic. "I'm a damaged person, but I'm not the only one." She watched Frances rinse a plate. "Guar's a good man, in his heart. But I think what's happening is frustrating him, in a way much different than how you're frustrating Frances." She held her sister's hand. "You going to relieve the poor boy anytime soon?"

"I want to try having children this May."

"That soon?"

Shela filled the bucket, then poured it on the blanket. "He should see his family again, parents aren't forever, and he needs to get a little distance from me. Perspective to make sure this is the life he wants. He needs to talk to his father too."

"May," Dawn whispered, fingers in the water.

Shela looked toward the sink, "I might not last that long." She shared a quiet smile with her sister as the dishes clattered in the sink. "Our parents had sex when we were asleep. I felt them. Sometimes it would even wake me, but most of the time it was just waves of feelings that invaded my dreams. It's odd that it's odd to think of doing that with someone else in the room. But it was odd being naked with him the first time too. It isn't anymore." She checked the temperature of the condenser with her fingers. "To want to have sex, and not. To want to get married, but not. It's very strange inside my head right now." She smiled, "I want to run home and hide away with my sister, but I just don't think it would help as much as it did last time."

Frances ended the clatter when he put the last of the dishes away on the rack and walked the few steps to the tub. "You want me to take a shift?"

"No," Shela said, "you don't have to. I think we'll stay up tonight and talk. It's got another seven hours before it's done."

"Ok," he said, but didn't leave. Instead he wobbled in an awkward way. "I, uh, I have to pee."

Shela pointed to the unoccupied toilet, "Don't let me stop you."

He swallowed hard, lifted the lid, and stood, his back to the girls. But did nothing more. "I, uh, I love your sister, but I'm not go— I'll go outside."

The girls giggled at the boy, but left him alone so he didn't have to brave that much cold.

"I can't undo all the damage I did," Dawn said as they sat at the table, late that night.

"You don't have to." Shela licked her spoon before going for another scoop of extra-thick cherry smoothie.

"I think this is all some sort of, vengeance, that I unleashed, for all the bad things that happened to me. She's been taken prisoner somewhere in Iran, I think. They have a religious rule that infidels can be taken as slaves. What they did can never be considered right. I think it drove her insane. Her meaningless thoughts drift in a thousand directions. Any direction away from what was happening." Dawn wiped her cheek. "So much hate and anger, bottled inside." She sniffled, then dipped her spoon too. "I'm afraid to see more." She put the spoon to her lips, but put it back, uneaten. "I'm afraid it wasn't an accident. I'm afraid I did it on purpose."

Shela smiled ever so slightly. "Do you notice how you talk? I mean, I don't always notice myself. But when something bad happened, it's to 'her', but when she did something bad, it's 'I'. The past is not your responsibility. And even if everything you've ever told me is true— I don't know her, I only know you. And vengeance just isn't in you."

The two quietly ate for a while before Dawn paused, spoon in the bowl. "I'm afraid to dream again. I'm afraid you might be wrong."

"Whatever your past, you're doing good today." She pointed to the lamps in the windows. "Do you know how just that one idea will change this valley? Do you know how much easier it is to shovel soft poop than it is to chop through trees with a hatchet? How much easier it is to push that gas through a tube than it is to haul firewood? That'll be bigger than the optical telegraph that has changed how news gets from town to town, home to home. You're—"

"But I can't bring back what's lost. I can't fix what went wrong. Electronics will never work again, not so long as the sky remains like this. And I can't—"

Shela quieted her with a hug, "You don't have to. You, do not have to. You never did." She patted her sister's back. "You just have to be my sister. Some day you'll realize that's enough."

Frances watched as Guar stumbled down from the attic, mid day. "Got some hot deer soup slow cooking on the lamp in the kitchen, and a fresh batch of cloudberry tea."

Guar headed straight for the fresh cask instead.

"Not that one, yours is the other one."

Guar paid him no mind. He knew which one was his, and which was the good stuff.

As warned, Frances had to step in and wrestle it from him. Difficult, but doable, since Guar was badly hungover and easily put off balance. The hardest part of wrestling it from his hand was keeping the boy from falling to the floor and cracking open his head. Frances set it behind him and poured Guar a glass of bread beer.

Reluctantly, he chugged it before plopping in the chair.

"They spent all last night nursing that last cask. Has to age before it can be taken into—"

"Ain't stupid, you— You know," Guar said, pouring himself another glass. "Been brewing before you ever, ever got here. Before Sis ever knew your stupid name." He downed this glass just as fast.

Frances got the soup out, ladled two bowls, and grabbed a basket of fresh buns. "Well, I'm starving. You tried these buns?" He gobbled one, its glistening skin melting like butter on his lips. "I don't know how she makes 'em, but they're succulent, flaky, and the crust is lightly crunchy without a hint of chewy." He gobbled another like a starving man. "I could eat them all day."

Guar grumbled to himself as he propped his head up, elbows on the table, and slid the bowl under his chin, nearly spilling it. He dipped in a bun, then followed it with several big spoonfuls.

"These are the kinds of buns I expected to have every day after that first day at the Inn. Don't get me wrong, haven't had a bad meal yet, but this— This is Inn quality soup and buns. Didn't think there was such a thing as fantastic soup and buns." He licked his lips, "But there is."

Guar grumbled as soup dribbled through the thick hairs of his chin.

Frances gave up the conversation and stared at the girls instead, sleeping together on Dawn's tiny bed.
**B6.C36**

They downed four more deer that winter, each hunt timed to coincide with Guar being passed out. And each hunt amounted to little more than a long hike and a quick kill, followed by a long hike back hauling the carcass. In Frances' mind, it didn't resemble hunting at all, though complaining about good fortune wasn't his nature.

Frances sat on the chair and watched the washing machine jostle and twist its dance down the wall. What a marvelous, simple invention. He couldn't help but think of his mom beating, scrubbing, rubbing and rinsing every article individually, bent over the tub like everyone else he knew. A weave of ropes, pulleys, and weights did all the work, once it was hoisted up into a pocket in the attic. A few minutes of hard work yielded twenty of scrubbing and jostling, freeing him to do other things.

His mom should have one, even if she was the only one. It didn't seem right to know of such a thing and not share it with his mom. It would save her so much time wrestling with his father's dirty, sawdust filled clothes.

But he dared not steal the design, not that he followed it enough to copy it anyway. It looked simple. The principle was simple. But making one that worked was usually anything but.

He would have to ask, but he would wait for the right time. It was a huge favor and it shouldn't just be asked willy-nilly. Timing was everything in a family that guarded their secrets and valued their privacy. But when Shela walked through his stare on her way to the kitchen and casually rested her hand on his while asking what was on his mind, he found the request spilling out, just like that.

"It's big and heavy as hell, there's no way to build one here and take it to her. No way at all. But Dawn could easily draw you up some plans," she said, continuing to the kitchen. "Just ask her when she gets up."

"Couldn't you just—"

"Dawn needs the distraction more than me. She's had a lot on her mind recently."

Over the next week, Dawn made six different versions, each a slight improvement on the one before it, often making changes in consideration of his father's limited tools and confining herself to mostly wood.

She even took a few extra days to make a small model to prove the concept to even the most doubting skeptic. Hers, though, was carved out of soft plastic.

When the last of the snow had melted, but before planting could begin, they each packed a travois and headed their separate ways. Frances headed home with Guar's travois and a regular bow instead of a stompstick. His pack included a heavy load of wine and teas for the auction. While he stayed to help deliver the furniture his father made that winter, the girls made deliveries of their own. They took the six pedal-powered stalk separators they had made years ago to the milkweed farmers they trusted the most. By the end of their first harvest, the cotton barons' grip over the towns would be gone forever.

But that didn't mean they weren't still rich, powerful, and soon to be very pissed.

Instead of dealing with percentages on the farmer's future thread sales, the girls decided on selling the efficient little devices for fat IOUs, knowing forms of the technology would eventually spread like fire and make even their own design nearly worthless within their lifetimes.

But for this decade and perhaps the next, those six farmers would tap a goldmine that only the barons had ever enjoyed.

The fire was lit, and it was a busy time for everyone.

Frances pulled the empty cart in tandem with his father as they made the long trip home. "What you need to do, Dad, is get into the cart-selling business too. That way we could dump this thing off on someone and carry home some slips of lightweight paper."

"This damned cart is older than you, boy," he said. "And making a new one every year ain't my idea of skillful labor." He pointed to a shady spot, "We're not going to make it home today. Let's stop over there. We'll give 'em hell tomorrow."

Frances was a lot younger than his dad, and it showed in moments like these. There was a time, and it wasn't too long ago, when his father employed people to do all his deliveries for him. But that was something he couldn't afford anymore. Frances looked at his father and saw him, for the first time, as the old man he was. As someone that didn't have the youthful energy to rebuild his business from scratch again. "Maybe you should think smaller, lighter stuff. Jewelry boxes instead of desks, tables, couches, and chairs."

The father climbed into the empty cart and stretched out, flat on his back. "Doubt there's enough of a margin in that, Son. Like there ain't no use selling fancy chairs if you don't make the tables to match."

Frances sat beside him. "I'm going to marry that girl, Pop. When we met her at the Inn, I thought I'd live in town, kinda like you did when you were in office, or at least a lot closer to home. Maybe we will, one day, but I think the town and cooking might have just been a phase for her." He looked at his father as the man tried hard to not look as exhausted as his sweat stains suggested. "I don't know how to ask you this, Pop, but, uh..."

"I was behind you marrying the girl before. Her father's account's got—"

"It's empty now."

The father sat up with a slight wince, "Nothing?"

"Well, they got land nobody wants. They got taken by the barons, same as us."

"Her and her brother stayed for a month to build the shop, when they were as broke as we were?"

"True enough.

They're good people, Dad. The sister you haven't met is smart as I've ever seen. She made that model for you and did those drawings. Listen, Dad, that brings me back to... look, there's a way you can help return the favor they did you. You ever consider getting back into politics? It would save you all this hard labor."

He stretched out again, flat on his aching back. "Takes more than just what's in me, Son. Takes a lot of clout and capital that I just don't wield no more. Besides, about the only people that make it into office anymore are bought and paid for by cotton. That's a hell of a machine to overcome."

"You remember when those soft toothbrushes came to market? And those combs and brushes and all them other little things. Those girls invented them. They talked those farmers into planting enough milkweed and sold them the machines they used to mass-produced them."

"Na, that was their Daddy what did that, I—"

"No, it wasn't. It was the two sisters. But they could have and should have made a whole lot more on it, but they got taken by the farmers because they were girls. They need someone with some clout, some standing in the community to fight for—"

"That's a losing battle. Sally's about the only girl ever come close, and if she didn't have her own paper behind her—"

"That's what I'm talking about. They were cheated out of their percentage by dealing directly with the farmers. They want you to do the dealing."

"That's a whole beehive I ain't willing to wear like a hat, Son. Representing women in a legal—"

"I don't think you're hearing me right, Dad. They don't want you to represent them, they want you to pretend their inventions are yours. Figure you've got proven skills with wood, so nobody'd ask too many questions when you branched out into other things. You'd get a percentage, of course, but you'd mostly make sure they weren't cheated. Take some mountain lion balls to cheat you to your face or take you to court. But them girls wouldn't stand a chance on their own. Not in this town, or any other. You know how hard a road it was for Sally. I don't know that either of them girls have that kind of fight in 'em."

"Lean it against the tree, like this," Frances leaned the travois against one in their yard, "then you walk up it like a ladder." He climbed it. "Lash it down, tie another knot as high up as you can reach, attach the pulley block, then winch it up until it's level. Dogs and such can't reach you, and sleeping up this high cuts the bugs way down. And it's got its own tent and mattress built in."

The father looked up, skeptical. "Not sure how any of that can't be copied, Son."

Frances stuck his head out of the tent, then collapsed it back and lowered it down. "True enough, maybe. Any chair can be copied." He reinstalled it much lower on the trunk, about table high. "Climb in and try it out."

After a few seconds, the father poked his head out, "It's more comfortable than my bed." He pinched at the thin mattress, "Quieter too. What is this stuff? It ain't straw or feathers."

"Know anyone that can copy that?"

"I could make a fortune on couch cushions alone. What is this stuff?"

"That's a sample of what those girls need your help with. They can make hundreds of them where they live, but can't possibly haul that much into town."

He gestured for his son to step closer. "You see how they made this?" he said at barely a whisper, even though nobody was within sight.

"Sure, it looks pretty easy."

"Why don't you just stay here this year. With this, the two of us can have this business back to what it once was by fall! We can keep it all for ours—"

"Steal it from them?"

"What's that matter? They're just—"

"Girls?" Frances yelled, shocked at how easily it came to his dad. "Remember those brushes and combs that fetched a high price that first year, but are so common now they're nearly worthless? That'd be the only card you'd leave them to play, give away the secret to everyone. Make it worthless. You'd never have thought of stealing it if I'd invented it, would you?" He walked toward the house, almost ashamed of his dad, but walked back. "Remember Jacobson when he was making imitations of your dining room sets? Copied every detail, didn't he? You sued him and won, almost drove him out of business. You burn them like Jacobson tried to do to you and, I swear, I'll never talk to you again. The man that chops down the apple tree just to eat the apples on the top deserves to go hungry for decades to come."

Frances walked away from his parents, with a deal.
**B6.C37**

He dropped the travois outside Dawn's workshop, looked in the window, then stepped inside. "My dad flipped over the mattress, it appealed to the furniture maker in him," he said while Dawn scribbled down notes. "The rest, well, might take some dragging to get him there." He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. "Shela at the house?"

Dawn paused, looked up at the ceiling, looked to her left, then smiled when she turned his way. "Garden, I expect. You know how she likes fresh ingredients." She looked him over. He was in desperate need of a bath. "Mattresses first?" She slid her work to the side, thumbed across a shelf of spines for the right book, and opened it to a page. "All foam is similar, but no two are identical. Each—" She flipped a few pages backward. "He make the washing machine alright?"

"Momma couldn't thank you enough, though she somehow kept thinking he invented it."

"They sell sheets of smoked latex at auctions yet?"

"Sure do."

She handed him the book. "You might want to read this and see if it's something he can follow, before you do all that walking back into town."

"I just got here!"

"Read it slow then."

He flipped through it. "Yeah, he can follow this. Probably. But, uh, I wouldn't give it to him. Don't know that I'd trust him with too much too fast." He looked around the cluttered room. "Be like sending Guar in town with a double load of wine. Too much temptation could break anyone." He handed it back. "Might do just mattresses, cushions, and pillows, and see what happens. That's all he's expecting right now, anyway." He stood up and headed for the door. "Invented the telegraph, but don't have one yourselves. Sure would save a man a lot of walking."

"Maybe," Dawn said, giving him pause with her smile, "but my sister likes the shape of your butt better this way."

He tried his best to look at it.

She turned back to the desk. "Might want to get cleaned up first."

He stripped off his dirty clothes and had the shower going when the curtain opened and a very friendly Shela walked in from the garden, just as naked as him.

Still months away from May.

Reluctantly, she stopped before things went too far. "Sorry, but Guar will be here for lunch." She leaned in a damp kiss. "We might not have much time today, but we still have the years to come."

They toweled off and got dressed.

Guar sat on the reclined chair by the pond. It was one of the ones Dawn had made some time ago to check the durability of several foam formulas. Structurally, it was the same as her workshop. But that hard surface was covered in a few extra inches of the soft stuff for comfort, then topped in thinner vulcanized rubber to protect it from the weather. It was holding up well.

It was the boy on it that was deteriorating before their eyes, drunk most of the time. Passed out by the afternoon.

Dawn kissed him on the cheek, adjusted the umbrella to keep him from getting sunburned, then walked up the path to the house. It was good that he was leaving Frances and Shela alone, just when they needed the extra time together. But she was starting to have the same doubts Shela had at the outset.

Breaking his bad habit would have been easier last year. It would be doubly hard now. Yet, deep inside, she knew it had to be something he overcame for himself, by himself. Much the same place her solutions would ultimately have to come from.

When she got there, no one was home. "Shela?" she said, looking around back.

Nothing.

Hungry, she went back inside, cut a slice of fresh bread, and smeared some strawberry jam on it while she waited.

The two were probably in the garden.

The poor boy had only been back for a few weeks at best, and in the next few days he'd have to hike back to his father's to deliver the instructions on how to make a handful of foams. She had also just perfected the precision pottery pieces he would also need. The rest of the device could, like the washing machine, easily be made out of wood. She straightened her notes on the table, then arranged the pottery around it. She stared at it for a moment, then straightened the notes again before sitting and finishing her snack.

She heard voices outside, but tried not to listen to the conversation. Their tone was playful and happy, and that was all of it she really needed to know.

"... then I told him that he wasn't the only one in town," Shela said, just before the two broke out in laughter as he swung open the door. "Sis," Shela tried to compose herself, but a few snickers snuck by. "You're just in time for a late lunch. You get Guar's little foolproof still working already?"

Dawn nodded while Frances took the basket of pickings into the kitchen and washed the delicate leaves in the sink. "Finished the other project too."

Shela had no trouble ending the laughs this time. "I see." She looked over the neat pile on the table. "Well, no point putting it off."

"Few weeks won't change anything," Dawn said, pushing it to the side.

"No, it won't change a thing." Shela smiled while watching Frances at the sink. "Won't change a thing, either way. That's kinda like the definition of destiny, isn't it?" She looked at her sister, blaming herself for finishing it too fast. "A still out of plastic? Doesn't it have to almost boil? Thought plastic melted when it got that hot?"

Dawn looked down at the table with a bashful smile, "Problems seem easier to solve now. Mind's less cluttered." She rearranged the pottery pieces. "I'm very close to a breakthrough, I think."

Shela wrapped her in a hug, "Well that's great." She watched Frances rinse the last basil leaf. "I think I'm on the verge of a breakthrough too."

Two days later, Frances was on another long hike back to town. His travois was just as heavy as last time, burdened with as much smoked latex as he dared so his father would have some free ones to use to practice and calibrate the equipment.

As heavy as it was, it only amounted to a modest sum. At most it could make one mattress, a few pillows, and a couch's worth of cushions. And that was figuring zero mistakes.

He spent weeks to get to his father's. Then spent weeks helping him build the foaming machine and all the other various pieces, parts, and specialized tools required for a quality job that could meet his father's high standards. Another few days passed just experimenting and adjusting his equipment until all his settings matched Dawn's charts. And eight days were spent going to auctions and carting home slabs of smoked latex before he could return to her, still a few weeks worth of walking away.

Grueling was an understatement, but worth every moment.

His father was now a believer, now convinced that the rewards of thinking long term far outweighed any quick gains from double-crossing that flickered through his mind.

Besides, the girls' terms were surprisingly generous. Any more so, and his father would have suspected they were incompetent at business altogether and would have been doubly inclined to take advantage.

Their generosity even surprised Frances and gave him something to ponder on his long hike back.

Something worthy of his thoughts on such long, exhausting days.

But as their mountain came into sight and the thoughts and concerns of town-thinking fell behind him, he slowly came to understand what his father never would.

Neither girl cared to dedicate their life to making mattresses or growing a number in some account. His father greedily would.

Neither girl cared about how much was in the account. Morally, they objected to being robbed. Their contract was mostly symbolic. Neither needed anything the account could buy. They built whatever they wanted or needed, often far quicker and nicer than anything they could have bought in town.

And as he trudged up the last, but steepest hill, he thought of the one thing both girls wanted the most, above any number in any account.

It only occurred to him when he put the town out of his mind and saw it the way they did. From a perspective that only came from living where they did. They wanted something from the town that even the richest account couldn't buy, but that maybe his father's efforts could.

A better future for his granddaughters.
**B6.C38**

"I don't think he's been sober this week, has he?" Shela asked her sister while Frances washed his hands at the sink.

Dawn scraped her fork across the empty plate, "No. But, I'm not so sure that's so unusual." She watched Frances pour a glass of chilled 'milk' and return to the table with a fresh plate of caramel chip cookies. "I remember a time when boys of a certain age spent every spring drunk, morning to night, and they'd do it year after year until they finally grew out of it."

Frances pointed a cookie at her with one hand, glass in the other, "Don't know too many that can afford to drink then, but I've known more than my share of guys that start drinking late fall and don't stop till spring. Might even say it's damned near the usual at some homes." He leaned back and bit in, enjoying the moist and satisfying chew. "Most stop when they run short of what they can afford." He chased the crumbs with a solid swig and turned to Shela. "These are fantastic, by the way. Nothing like eating dry grub and hard bread out of a trail sack to make you appreciate real food." He devoured another cookie. "My dad never let me indulge any at home, said it interfered with the work. That made it forbidden fruit when I picked fields and cotton that lean year. They tended to drink every weekend, and it wasn't but a few weeks that passed before I found myself joining in," he crammed in another cookie and quickly chased it. "Farm owner supplied all the alcohol. Wasn't anything as good as what you make neither, and they charged a whole lot more for it too. All said, farmer got all the labor for next to nothing, and all the labor got was a buzz. Good for him, bad for us. When I left as poor as I arrived, I realized right then there was some truth behind my dad's attitude."

Shela looked out the window by the door. She hoped, but knew her brother wasn't coming today. "Last time he stayed this buzzed, it nearly cost us everything. Least this way it just costs a couple hundred pounds of acorns." She grabbed a cookie, dipped it in his milk, and chewed. "Might try to get a deer this year." She washed it down with a sip from Frances' glass. "This stuff is close, but it still isn't milk."

He had eaten four more by the time she put his glass down. "Good enough for me," he said, then drank what little was left before going to the kitchen for more.

"Got any hunches?" Dawn asked.

Shela shook a no. "Probably too far away right now." Frances returned with a pitcher of milk and poured some for everyone. "Then again, I've been very distracted, lately."

Dawn grabbed two from this dwindling batch while the getting was still good. "If we just had a when and a where and could get there a few hours early, we might be able to rig some sort of non-lethal trap. Nets maybe. Snares might work, but I worry about breaking legs in the struggles."

Shela pondered the same thought crossing her sister's mind. "Could just—"

"Get 'em drunk," Dawn finished.

One hundred and sixty proof, it smelled like nectar and tasted as smooth as sweetened cloudberry tea. Getting the dose right was tricky. Too much would kill it. Too little and it'd just wander around buzzed. Frances offered his services, willing to sacrifice himself for the cause by subjecting himself to ever increasing doses with a smile, but the same luck that would give them a when and a where would also work on how much... just not this far away from the day in question.

"Hold still," Shela said, sitting on his lap as she held the sharp blade against his chin, "I don't want any scars on that pretty face."

"Yes Ma'am. Just don't like shaving this often."

She quickly finished the job and toweled off his clean face. "I thought I'd get used to it by now. But I didn't, so, it's got to go."

He rubbed his chin. "Had one all winter—"

"Made sense in the cold, summer just makes me feel hot and itchy just looking at you."

He was not looking forward to shaving this often. "Guar doesn't ha—"

"Husbands are different than brothers. Can't get rid of my brother because he won't shave." She pointed the sharp blade at him, wiped it off on the towel, then slid it back into its pocket on her leather ankle band. "Not the same rules for you. And I wouldn't try getting drunk every day either."

He ran his fingers across his chin again. It was an exceptionally sharp blade. "You'd kick me out over a beard?"

She studied him, head to toe. "I don't want to find out, do you?"

"I really don't like shaving. Never did. Something about a sharp knife and—"

"Doesn't have to come off with a knife."

"Really?" He scratched everywhere it had just been. "What—"

"My dad never had a beard, you know. Don't think he could grow one. Not a real one like you, anyway. Maybe Momma didn't want him to have one either, but I don't remember him shaving much." She walked into the kitchen and started dinner. "It's just that when I think of what a husband should be, I think of Dad, and I don't think of beards."

He stood by the bathroom, nearest to where she was without being in the way, "Never met your dad. Or your mom. Could you describe them for me?"

"Momma is easy, she looks like Dawn. Just a little lighter skin, faint little freckles, a little wider hips, and maybe fifteen pounds heavier and an inch or two taller. A few scars here and there. Daddy, he was about the same height," she looked him over again, "Few inches shorter than you, a lot thinner, but not skinny, smaller hands, skin as light as Guar's, brown hair and eyes, nowhere near your tone, muscles, or figure," she returned her attention to gathering ingredients, "and no facial hair."

"Other ways to cut hair?"

She added water to the mixing bowl and stirred, but stopped and pointed with the spoon, "Get that book over there. The one on the shelf by the bed."

He brought it with him to the kitchen and opened it in front of her.

"That's him, and that's her," she gestured with her finger as he flipped through the heavily illustrated pages, "and that little baby is me. And that was my stuffed bunny."

He flipped through the rest of the book while she mixed on. "You described them quite well. You know, these are— Who drew these?"

She lined the pan while she answered, "Daddy did. Except he didn't always draw himself. Most of the drawings of him, I drew."

He studied them for a few moments. They looked happy to him. "Shaving without a blade?"

"Oh yeah. You can always do what women do. Put melted wax on your face and—"

"No thank you!" He slammed the book closed and put it back while she laughed.

"Mom had a cream that dissolves hair. Use it the most for working with leather. Just shampoo it in, wait a few minutes, then it wipes off like pudding. Doesn't burn your fingers, though I've never thought to try it on someone's face." She slid the pan above the lamp and adjusted its flame before walking over to him. She ran her fingers through his hair, then across his smooth chin as she closed her eyes in thought. "Might tingle some, but won't hurt a bit. I promise." She kissed his lips before returning to the kitchen. "I'll miss holding a knife to your throat, though."

Thud!

He woke way too early in the morning to a horrible crashing sound. Worse still, he woke alone on a travois over two hundred yards from the intoxicating bowl. The absolute absurdity of it all had sparked their first major fight. He got the point of keeping the travois far away from the bowl to keep from spooking the creature, but out of sight made no sense. How in the world was he expected to watch the bowl and track the deer when he was so far away that he couldn't even see it or hear it?

They had hiked for an hour, mostly uphill, filled a bowl to her wild guess, fussed over the bowl's exact positioning like it was a bowl of fruit in some portrait, then set the travois up hundreds of yards away, completely out of sight. Total, complete waste of time and effort, and he was expected to do all the waiting while she went home and slept in their comfortable bed.

Absurd!

Yet beneath him, absurdity had just passed out with a thud. Right under the very tree she picked to mount the travois on.

The sheer odds of it all were mind blowing. He simply didn't believe it was possible to pick both locations with this kind of precision. But he stared down from the open flap at the heavily pregnant doe and remembered her parting words. Wait it out like any other kill. Down doesn't mean out. Out takes a few minutes more to be sure.

So he waited, early that morning, as he got out the rope and practiced tying the harness on his wrist.

He had two options. He could bind it up and lug it back on the travois, or he could put a harness on it and try to walk it back like a pet.

A rich farmer he knew bred a herd of deer on the outskirts of town. At any one time he had as many as two dozen, and they were very domesticated. Unlike the wild variety, they would come up to you, more curious than frightened.

But he had been raising them for generations, some were even trained to drag small carts, though it had proven impossible to train them to drag anything of meaningful size.

He'd settle for it dragging the travois for now, but he doubted that that plan would work either. This one was wild.

He lowered the travois and packed it up.

It was three times the work, but he managed to wrestle the unconscious creature onto what had been his bed, and started dragging it home.

Shela had thoughtfully wrapped yellow paper ribbons around the trees along the best path home.

Frances stood at the gate to the old field of oaks. It had been dedicated to growing milkweed at one time, but had never lost its abundance of wild strawberries, cloudberries, and clovers. A thick line of pines encircled the field, the minuscule gap between them filled with a dense mesh of blackberry thorns.

He had helped picking the field the year before, but had been too busy to notice the trees themselves. The pines had been woven into a living fence so thick that the deer had no chance to escape, and nothing bigger than a rabbit could get in. It must have taken her parents decades to train the trees to grow like that from saplings. He had never seen it done that way, everyone else just built normal fences, much like the simple construction of their gate, that had to be replaced every seven years or so. He had made his fair share of fences too. Everyone had.

Using blackberries and trees was ingenious. So much so he had entirely overlooked it before today.

Dawn pressed her ear to the doe's side, then again to her swollen belly. "They sound healthy. I doubt the alcohol will have any ill effects on them, not at this stage."

Shela petted the animal's face and neck while standing on its other side, soothing its discomfort at so much probing by her sister.

"What do you figure, a few weeks or more?" Dawn said, giving the doe a hug before letting it go.

Shela closed her eyes as she petted, "Closer to three I think." She let go and the doe trotted to the far side of the massive, living cage. "Twins, right?"

Dawn nodded.

"That means no extra milk until they're weaned." They walked back to the gate where Frances stood watch with a stompstick in hand. "Maybe we can feed the fawns the artificial stuff. What'd you call it again?"

Dawn walked through the open gate, "Soy milk. But there isn't any soy in it. Acorn milk, I guess."

"That'd be a fitting trade, don't you think?"

Frances latched the gate behind them as the doe paced the perimeter, looking in vain for a way to sneak out when the hangover passes. "Trade? If you want the milk, just take it all. No reason to keep some fawns alive—"

"Shhh!" Shela said. "That's not an honorable thing to do."

"Honorable?" he said, keeping pace with her as the three headed home. "We've got one on ice in that box in the back of the house. Two more in bags as jerky. You don't make deals with food."

Shela stopped as both girls looked shocked. "When a wild deer chooses us, we have to honor that choice as fairly and justly as possible. They honor us with their fate, their passage from this world to the next. That's no little thing. When we kill one, we're honor bound to make their passage to the afterlife as peaceful and merciful as possible. Anything else dishonors the faith they've placed in us." She looked at her sister and would have winked if she wouldn't have been caught. "Why do you think we can just walk out into the woods and get greeted with a deer, ready to die that day? Why us instead of a pack of dogs or another family elsewhere in the valley?" She patted her hand on his chest. "Because of our sacred agreement with these beautiful creatures. They honor us, and we honor them." She pointed to the distant, pacing doe. "She chose us, and we must honor that choice. For her milk we'll protect her from the wild, let her eat from our field, and provide a safe place for her fawns. That's what we're honor bound to do. When we're done milking her, we might even let her go." The girls kept a straight face as they walked away, leaving him there for a moment to ponder.

Math was never his strong suit, but he suddenly got the need for the second field of oaks Guar and he cleared months ago. He caught up with them. "Be easier to just find her a buck."
**B6.C39**

"Sorry," Frances said, sliding off to her side before covering his face with his hands as he turned to the ceiling.

"Was that it?" Shela slapped him on his bare belly.

"Sorry," he said again.

She rolled to her side, facing him, and pulled his hands away from his face. "That might get me pregnant, but it won't—"

He pounded his hand into the mattress, then covered his face with their pillow. "Sorry."

She ran her hand across his chest, then pulled the pillow away. "Frances, look at me. Sure, I'm disappointed, maybe as much as you. But do you see any anger in these eyes?"

He didn't look at her.

"There isn't." She kissed him on the lips. "When we first met, you said all the wrong words. Stumbled to even put together a coherent sentence. Could barely look me in the eyes. But did I pass you by? Was I perfect in everything I did? Our first kiss you bumped my nose hard enough I thought it'd bleed." She kissed him again. "I like our conversations now, and I'm very fond of your kisses too." She rubbed her nose against his. "Haven't bumped noses since." He opened his eyes. "If this was your worst, I think I can survive it."

He visibly relaxed, but still couldn't look her in the eyes.

"Now, I know you think this means you're done. But I'm not." She kissed him passionately this time. "And if I'm not, you're not."

He looked her in the eyes and couldn't help but be drawn in by her smile.

"Just because you can't still count to eleven, doesn't mean you can't still count," she kissed him, "to ten." She playfully bit his lower lip. "We practiced that first for a reason, you know."

By the time they had practiced enough for him to be acceptable, the doe was ready to have its fawns. The girls watched from a distance as first one, then the other came into this world. They watched quietly as the doe licked the two clean as the day grew on.

They wanted to be on hand in case something went wrong, but nothing did.

They watched as the doe pushed the stick-legged fawns to their feet and, just like that, they wobbled around on their own.

"That'll happen to you," Dawn said.

"Can't wait. Could you?"

"It is a beautiful thing." Dawn put her hand on her belly and closed her eyes. "To feel a life inside you. To be a part of that. To see them grow up." She opened her eyes and smiled. "Having a sister is nice too. And I love the idea of being an aunt."

"Adora will have her child any time now. I'm not sure how the rules of helping someone work, but I was a little afraid to try until after hers was born."

Dawn slapped her on the shoulder. "It's not like you're going to jinx her."

Shela winced when one fawn collided into the other and both collapsed into a pile of entangled twig legs. "Just want to be safe, that's all. Did I tell you Frances cried that first night?"

"That boy loves you, Sis. Like Dad loved Mom. It's very nice to see. Not everyone gets to, you know."

"We've turned loose our share of these little fellas. It always worried me that we might have killed a few over the years, and never knew it." Shela watched the two wobble to their feet, then attempt to scamper for the first time in their lives. "When you see them like this, they feel like family. I don't want to farm deer. I like the way Mom did it. Make a nice enough place for them to have babies, and they return to it, year after year. But I think that might have been part of Mom's magic, where things like that just worked out for her. Maybe that magic is gone."

"Only one way to find out," Dawn said.

First things first, they fixed their old milking machine and worked it into rotation, while shifting the fawns to a bottled mix of acorn milk and blended termites for added protein.

As the fawns packed on the pounds and the demands of the garden dwindled as the summer took root, Dawn kept to her workshop and pushed for a breakthrough of her own, with limited success.

Since the surplus gas during the summer couldn't be stored for winter, Dawn doubled her efforts to make use of the abundance while they had it. To that end, she experimented with ceramics and glasses with the gas kiln, and used the rest to manufacture batch after batch of bricks.

But within weeks she had more bricks than she would ever need, so she moved on to other uses for the precious fuel.

Synthetic rubbers, plastics, and her version of Plexiglas were first. Since her manufacturing designs suffered from their diminutive, almost toy-like scale, so did her production levels. It made tiny pellets at a slower rate than sand trickling through an hourglass as it transformed the gas into liquids and solids. It took weeks to generate enough pellets to make anything of any size, but the process ran on its own and required only minimal supervising.

Dawn buried herself in calculations, notes, and documenting her progress while her various inventions slowly ground out enough pellets to be useful in experiments.

She buried herself in distractions as she tried to ignore what haunted her every night.

Dawn had eaten dinner at the house, as she did most nights, and had retired to her workshop hours ago as Frances and Shela continued to talk under the fan, house comfortably lit with gas lights.

"You don't trust your dad, do you," Shela said, her bare legs across his lap as she leaned against the headboard.

He rubbed her calf up to her thigh, stopping just short of her underwear. "He's my dad. But he was also a politician for years. I want to trust him because he's my dad. That should be more than enough. But, he's a politician, and if they tell you it's sunny, you should still look out the window before you take off your raincoat. I've met more than my share of politicians, and they all have one thing in common. And it isn't a strong civic duty, it's a lust for power that goes right to the bone." He rubbed her leg again. "I want to believe him. I want to trust him. But it is what it is."

"I don't know him. Trust is a weird thing, I think. For someone to earn your trust, you have to trust them first. It's a wonder anyone ever trusts. Sometimes people who betray you become the most trustworthy. Sometimes those you found most trustworthy, later betray you. Our doe is starting to trust us. The fawns already do. They'll come running for the bottle the second they see me." She held his hand next time it roamed into range. "He has us listed as employees?"

"Yeah, he calls it a common bookkeeping practice. It causes less suspicion that way."

She let go and he continued to roam. "You happy here? You're not a captive doe, you know. You can leave, if you want. We don't have to have kids right away, just because I want to."

He ran his hand high on her thigh. "I've never been happier." He smiled. "I'll marry you any day you think you can muster a yes."

She leaned in a kiss. "They'll be lucky to have you as a father." She ran the back of her fingers across his smooth chin. "I'd be lucky to have you as a husband." She kissed him again, then turned down the light.

"What the—" Frances said, startled and barely awake.

Sobbing, Dawn had thrown herself into bed with them, several hours yet before sunrise. "They killed him, and, and, and as I was trying to keep him— They— they killed me too," she sobbed as Shela pulled her sister in for a hug and held her just as close as he was mere minutes ago.

"Shhh," Shela said, "it's all over now. It's all over now." She patted her sister's back as Dawn cried uncontrollably, arms trembling.

"I wanted them all dead," Dawn whispered. "Everyone. Everywhere."

Shela stroked her sister's hair and held her trembling body closer with one hand as she pulled the sheets off Frances with the other. "It's ok. It's over now. It's all over. Over a very long time ago." She wrapped up her sister.

Frances pulled on his shirt, then turned up the lamp. "What's wrong Dawn?" he said.

Shela gestured him away with the same hand that had stolen his sheets. "That's not you, Sweetheart. It's not you. It's not your fault."

But Dawn's tears didn't slow. Her trembles didn't ease. "I did it. It was all me. It was all my fault," she cried.

Behind her back, Shela swatted at him again, then gestured to Dawn's winter bed, still by the chimney.

Whenever the thought of Dawn in his bed entered his mind, it never began or ended like this. He changed beds and tried to go back to sleep. Difficult to do with Dawn's muffled tears.

When he woke late that morning, the two girls were still in his bed, Dawn still in Shela's arms. "She alright?" he said.

"The weight of the world is heavier some days than others." She pointed at the windows. "Put down the shades, would you? I'm going to let her sleep, she never gets enough."

"What was all that she was talking—"

"Shhh. Bad dreams don't have to make sense to be terrifying." She ran her hand across Dawn's back. "Don't bring up anything you overheard with her, ok? It'll only make the nightmares more real to her."

"Sure," he whispered, then put down the shades.

Dawn slept straight through breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It wasn't until after Frances had been asleep for hours that she finally woke, still in her sister's arms.

"Shhh," Shela whispered. "It's ok. It wasn't your fault."

Dawn sat up and rubbed her eyes. "It was. It was me, and no one else."

Shela sat up with her, "No, honey, it wasn't. And even if it was, she isn't you."

Dawn looked down at her hands, then turned away. "I felt him die, his blood on my hands. And all I wanted was revenge. The more brutal the better, I wanted their suffering to equal my own. And it wasn't just against those who did the wrong, I wanted the world punished for letting it happen. I was broken. Body. Mind. And soul." She walked toward the fireplace, ran her fingers across the bricks, paused, then returned to bed. "I know who Nyin was. He was the girl who sat on the couch, so I could go free. He was the brilliant engineer that nobody had ever seen, until after a burned body disappeared before she could be buried. He was right there, in my life. A friend that offered me a way out of the chaos the world was plunging into. But I felt responsible, even then, and never took his ample ways out. He was right there, the day I died." She touched the back of her head. "He carried me away, my tormented soul still tethered to that speck of a machine. Still consumed with hate, anger, and bitter rage." She looked her sister in the eyes. "He looked down at me, still in his arms, and he sat on the couch for me again. The memories I can't remember, the memories that filled me with such rage, he took them for me." She wiped her eyes. "In less than ten years, those memories broke me and drove me insane. He carried them for centuries, at a price I can never repay."

Shela kissed her sister on the lips. "It isn't you."

"All the vengeance he wrought was me, by proxy."

"No, it wasn't. Listen to me, what's the point of reincarnation if you don't get to start over with a clean slate? It isn't you, Sis. It isn't. It just isn't."

"I can never make this right. A thousand lifetimes can't change that."

Shela brushed her thumbs across Dawn's damp cheeks. "It's a good thing you don't have to, then. You just have to be my sister. That's all this life demands of you. And in that, you've never failed. Never fallen short. Never disappointed." She brushed her cheeks again. "Let's get some food in you. I'm in the mood for pizza."

Dawn followed her into the kitchen. "That poor man, tormented by my memories. Memories that were never his burden to bear."

Shela rolled a fistful of dough, "That poor girl, blaming herself for things that were never under her control." She sprinkled on the flour and added a handful of nutritional yeast. "Did you choose to live in that mountain?"

Dawn diced the fresh tomatoes. "I tried desperately to escape."

Shela sliced their smoked deer sausage as thin as she could, then spread it around. "Why is it you feel so guilty about him carrying a burden that isn't his, when you carry a bigger burden, that isn't yours?" She slid it into the tiny oven over the gas lamp and adjusted the heat. "I love you, Sis. I really do." She put her hands on Dawn's shoulders, then pulled her in for a hug. "But your shoulders aren't big enough for the weight of the world. Nobody's are." She kissed her sister on the cheek. "We're trying to make you an aunt, but you and I have to have a different talk than the one I had with Frances, or the one I'll have with Guar. I can't let our brother around the girls when he's like he is now." She kissed her sister again. "And I can't let them—"

"I won't," Dawn said. "I never would." She wiped her eyes and smiled. "I'm so happy for you." She kissed her on the lips. "I'd never do... I'd never," she wiped her eyes. "I... I just, she was the oldest one, and the last to die. And it hit me harder than any—" She stepped back and turned away. "I didn't mean to intrude. You must think I'm awful."

"This family has a wonderful tradition, you know. Shela was the name of Mom's best friend. Mom was named Dana after her mother's best friend." Shela paused when Dawn faced her again. "I'm thinking Sylia and Shadona would make lovely names too."

Dawn cried again.

Dawn spent the next week at the house, sleeping with her sister while Frances had her old bed. But her nightmare didn't return. In fact, for the first time in her life, she had no nightmares at all. When she dreamed, they were hers alone.
**B6.C40**

Dawn worked the calculations out on paper. Not because she had to, she could do it all in her head, but more to document her thought process. Milkweed had several advantages over plastics made from natural gas. A field of milkweed could be processed all at once with simple tools. The latex could be extracted and put to use almost immediately for large projects. And it yielded useful byproducts of paper, rope, and cloth.

But it had downsides too. Fields the size required to meet her expanding experimental demands directly competed with those needed for growing food. The two were mutually exclusive, and processing a field was very labor intensive.

The gas, on the other hand, was a byproduct of turning garden waste into fertilizer. It mattered little what the crop being grown was, so long as the termites could eat it. The equipment to turn gas into plastic pellets and precursors was complicated, the digesters required tinkering and came with problems of their own, and the yields came at a constant trickle. But most of the labor was in building the equipment, not in the production itself. And if her calculations were right, the volume of plastics was about the same, per acre, even doing it as inefficiently as she was.

For the town, milkweed latex was an ideal raw material. It was simple enough to harvest and use that any farmer could be taught all the techniques within a few hours or days. Most products made from it required little more than the skills needed to make a cake, once the recipe was written down.

But they were not living in town.

And there were limits to what milkweed latex could do. It wasn't as durable or as versatile. It rotted if it wasn't vulcanized or vacuum-sealed within a year. And it had purity issues that made accurate refinement calculations difficult.

The numbers she scribbled down didn't lie. She would shift priorities next year and only grow enough to meet clothing and paper demands.

And if she could master rayon, nylon, and ultimately Kevlar, milkweed could be dwindled down from an acre to a small patch just big enough for paper.

But for her, switching to gas meant starting over again, from scratch. Years worth of formulas and milkweed calculations no longer applied and had to be abandoned. Worthless after the transition.

It felt disappointing. But in a way, it was inevitable. She had pushed the natural latex as far as she could. Increasingly, her efforts were thwarted by impurities and variants she simply couldn't account for.

Dawn stepped away from her desk and walked outside her workshop and over to the chairs by the pond. "You going to eat dinner with us tonight?" She poked Guar in the arm. "Sis would love to see you."

Guar grumbled to himself.

"Come on," she said, nudging him up and pointing him to her workshop. "Go in and take a shower, then meet us at the house. It'll make her day." She could tell she hadn't received his attention yet. "Might even break open one of the spare bottles this time."

She waded out to the fish trap, netted three of suitable size, and walked up the path alone.

Four plates of pan-seared perch with fresh salad surrounded a bowl of her especially crisp snowflake rolls as they enjoyed a quiet meal together in the house.

The conversation didn't really begin until a dessert of carrot cake was served.

Dawn forked off a piece, dripping with icing. "You named the fawns yet?"

"No," Shela said. "But it's so difficult to resist the urge. They're so playful now. And they love that mix of acorn milk. The molasses really sold it, I think. Covers the taste of termites very nicely." She scraped some icing into the center of her plate, but did nothing with it. "I remember when we were kids and we used to play with the fawns by the pond. The look on their sweet little faces as they pranced at the water's edge, afraid of getting wet, but desperate to share in so much fun and attention. Those long, thin, weightless legs, it's a wonder they can't walk across the surface like bugs."

Guar hunched over his slice, much as he had eaten the entire meal. But he nonetheless shoveled it all down in record time, as usual, and was well into thirds when he finally showed signs of slowing down. "Best cake you've made in years," he managed to mumble.

Shela smiled, "Thanks. I knew you liked carrot, and had a hunch you might show. Tonight of all nights."

With little more than a bite or two left on his plate, he leaned across Dawn's plate and cut another slice.

Dawn ignored the rudeness as his sleeve dragged away most of her icing. "I dreamed of raising alpacas one time, did I ever tell you?"

Frances was the only one without food in his mouth, so he asked. "What's an alpaca?"

Dawn smiled as the word flooded her with memories. She closed her eyes and embraced them fondly. "They're about this tall to the shoulders," she held her hand about a yard off the floor, almost even with the table. "And they have these long necks and these big, beautiful eyes. And their fur is long and shaggy and softer and thicker than a bunny's."

"How do they taste?" Guar said.

Dawn opened her eyes. "They're not for eating. You raise them for their divine, soft fur, shave them when it gets warm every year." She closed her eyes as she rubbed her arms. "It makes the softest, warmest sweaters I've ever felt on my skin."

"Where'd you ever feel one?" Frances asked. "Never heard of them anywhere I've been."

Dawn pointed, "A farm about a hundred and twenty—" She opened her eyes. "Maybe it was just a dream." She smoothed what little icing remained with her fork. "They had emus too. They're big, flightless birds, some as big as a hundred pounds, and they lay about eight eggs a clutch, each so big they take two hands to hold." She cupped her hands like a big bowl.

Guar polished off his slice, but didn't have to reach across Dawn's plate. This time, she handed it to him. "You eat emus, right?"

Dawn looked sad. "Yeah, you do."

"Hundred pounds," Guar said, "Now that's a big bird."

Dawn forked off another piece. "I wonder how the world would have looked, if that girl had been real, and I was just the dream?"

"Not that past life crazy crap again," Guar grumbled.

"Leave her alone," Shela said.

"It's alright," Dawn mumbled at her plate, "I know it's crazy."

"It's not alright," Shela said, then pointed the tines of her fork at her brother. "And he knows it."

They ate quietly until the cake was gone. And with the last crumbs cleaned from his plate, Guar left before it got dark.

"It's very lonely inside my head now," Dawn said as the girls stayed up, playing chess. "Without her — them — my dreams are all my own. Just me. I dream about being a bird a lot. In one, I just lay flat on my back and stared up at the sky. Watching clouds all day. Why would I dream about that?"

Shela slid her rook across the middle. It was a bold move, but she knew she would lose. "Sounds like a peaceful change from reliving other peoples' lives."

Dawn sat back in her chair and took in the move. She touched three pieces, but moved none of them. "They seem to have no purpose now."

"I like dreams. They're like the dessert after a long meal. You don't need it, you've already eaten, and it might not have any nutritional value at all, but it's so good it's what you remember most fondly."

"I think I over analyzed them, searching for meaning." Dawn aligned a pawn with the board, but never moved it from the square. "Did I tell you I was able to talk to it?"

"It?"

Dawn looked at Frances, asleep on her small old bed. "I should leave. I should leave you two to—"

"You talked to it? What was that like?"

Dawn waved her fingers over the board like she was casting a spell. With her other hand she pointed at a finger. "I had a ring, once. A supercomputer of sorts. If it could ever be found, it probably still works. It was optical and didn't use electricity at all. Shouldn't be affected by all that's gone wrong in the world. I would talk to it by wiggling my fingers like this. Then I'd stop, and it would tickle back the answer." She closed her eyes for a second as she giggled quietly. "It just tickled me back."

Shela stared. "You don't have a ring on your finger."

Dawn smiled. "I know. It was once such a big part of her life, and I figured it was a related technology. The speck had to be made the same way, it couldn't have been made any other. It had to come with a way to talk to it. A way to interface with it. It would be too cruel not to. And too creepy to have its thoughts roaming my mind, like another voice in my head. So I took a guess, and it tickled back."

Shela looked closely at her sister's fingers. "Tickles?"

"Left, right, top, bottom. That's a hexadecimal digit and the foundation for— It isn't words so much as numbers. But numbers that I understand and are, when in context, just as good as words." She made a loose fist, then moved a piece. "It isn't as complex or as sophisticated as the ring that I remember, and it's dedicated to a single mission. But its understanding of genetics is impressive. Staggering, actually. It tried to fix me, did you know?"

Shela hopelessly moved again, delaying the inevitable as Dawn failed to fall for her trap.

Dawn leaned forward and studied the board. "The original me, she was haphazardly assembled from dozens of donors, like making a new puzzle from discarded and leftover jigsaw pieces. None of the pieces belonged together, and had to be hammered and bent into place. That's why she'd never live very long, cheated out of a normal life. It fixed all those flaws dozens of times and dozens of different ways, trying to make my pieces fit together. Trying to give me a life I couldn't have had before." She looked up from the board. "Souls are an odd thing it had no way of understanding. No way of fixing. The more fixed it made me, the quicker my soul rejected the body, and it just died." She made her move and leaned back in the chair. "It's odd that my soul will let me stay in a hummingbird for decades, but rejects a flawless me within months. A flawed soul needs a flawed body to call home. But, it came up with a way to cheat the rules of fate. It can't fix the genetic flaws, or give me a normal life, but it found ways to play within the rules, by turning on and off abandoned genes I already had." She looked down. "This is the longest I've ever lived, but I'll probably still die before I'm forty." She looked her sister in the eyes and faintly smiled. "But it won't be from dementia, heart disease, and dozens of cancers." She sighed. "It couldn't fix me, but it kept my horrible flaws from getting passed down." She made her move.

"You're not horribly flawed, Sis." Shela could tell this game was over, all she could change was the number of moves remaining, and whether to go down quietly, or swinging. She rubbed her fingers together and made a reluctant move.

"Those cheats it added to fight off my myriad of genetic diseases are still in you," Dawn took Shela's queen, "with nothing to fight. Probably responsible for that effect you shared with Mom. I'm close to making ammonium nitrate. Not sure I should, though. It's a fantastic fertilizer, but it's an even better explosive."

Dawn took the path of fewest, but boldest moves. "Explosives are useful. Could have used some to open those doors in the mountain. Probably be good for digging holes for holding tanks and septic systems. You know most people use smelly cesspools and outhouses? And it takes days to burn stumps into the ground. Would be nice to get rid of them in a few minutes instead. It's not like black powder is some secret anyway, what's another explosive matter? And if it's good for growing plants, all the better. Never heard of black powder growing nothing."

A few rapid moves later, Dawn mated Shela's king. "I second-guess myself constantly. It was easier to invent when I didn't try to figure out how they might be misused."

"Got some leftover cookies," Shela said. "I'm thinking of a way we should misuse them."

They sat over a plate of cookies and real deer milk as they discussed Dawn's list of pending inventions, or 'reinventions' as Dawn started calling them.

Dawn was feeling lonely and out of place, and Shela had a way of making her feel at home, even if it meant Frances had to spend some nights alone. She stayed two nights and helped in the garden before returning to her workshop, and self-imposed isolation.

Ammonium nitrate and methanol took Dawn three weeks to synthesize from her homemade digester, adding to her impressive list of accomplishments this year alone. But she wasn't the only one working on something special.
**B6.C41**

"...You can't just know you're pregnant," Frances said. "It's not like we've been— It's only even been possible for a few months."

Dawn touched her sister's flat stomach. "You guessing, or do you know?"

Shela smiled. "Don't I glow enough to know?"

Dawn stared. "You've been glowing for the last few months, but that could easily have been from all the trying." She stepped close enough to sniff, but didn't. "What have you quantum entangled yourself with now?"

"Seeing those two fawns grow and play, I couldn't want it more. I think wanting makes a big difference."

Dawn hugged her. "Congratulations," she said.

"You can't just get pregnant because you want to," Frances said, pacing the kitchen. "If that was so, wouldn't be no problems with it. I might not be as smart as either of you, but I know it doesn't work like that."

Dawn brushed her thumbs across the corners of her sister's smile. "For some, maybe it does."

"Look," Frances said. Done retreating, he left the kitchen to stand near the sisters. "I'll be as happy as anyone if it's true. But the last thing— It almost never happens this quick, and the vast majority of women get all worked up over false—"

"There was a pregnancy test that involved using frogs," Dawn said. "Inject one with urine and wait 24 hours. If it lays eggs, you are. If it doesn't, you're not." She looked at Shela. "You want, it wouldn't be that hard to do."

Shela shrugged. "No need. I've got no doubts."

Frances took a net to the pond.

Making injection needles out of history's most advanced plastics would have posed a problem. With the best Dawn could formulate, it was impossible, despite taking into account the thin skins of frogs. Wasp stingers provided a quick solution since suitable snake fangs were harder to come by.

Within two days they had more frog eggs than they knew what to do with.

Dawn abandoned her experiments and dedicated all of her time and attention to a sister that was showing fewer signs and symptoms than common amphibians.

"No, I'll do it," Dawn said, getting to the kitchen first.

"I'm, not an invalid," Shela said, joining her. "I don't mind— I love you, Sis, but don't you have more important things to—"

"Nothing's more important." She pulled bowls off the shelf and got out the knives.

"Dawn, I don't mind the help. Really, I don't. But your helping ends up with me watching." She put her hands on her hips as Dawn only worked faster, hogging all the counter space. "I cooked at the Inn for a reason, and it wasn't the hot kitchen or the hours." When Dawn paused, Shela moved into the opening. "I actually like cooking. It's my plastics and polymers, this is my workshop."

Dawn made room. "You excited? You feel her yet?"

Shela chopped off the ends of the peppers and scooped out the seeds while Dawn peeled the carrots. "I don't feel them yet, but it's changed my perspective, it's not just me anymore. It wasn't what I was exp— Her?"

"Girls." Dawn wiggled her fingers over the sink. "I asked it a few days ago. It puts odds of girls at 99.9% for the next twenty generations. Unintended side effect. Very fascinating, really, but it has to do with cell wall permeability and chemical signature differences. It described it in detail, but the egg walls simply won't accept male sperm." She dumped the shavings in the compost bucket. "No boys. Did you know you can't change the finger-hand-wrist ratios without changing intelligence? And colorblindness is linked, in an abstract way, to hair color and baldness. Genetics follow much stranger rules than they seem. So many inner traits reflect themselves in unusual outward ways." Dawn washed her hands, rinsed the knife at the sink, then gutted and skinned the massive catfish. "Maybe we should make a few small ponds to breed fish for fish eggs, like we do for crawfish. Taking a thousand eggs into town would be so easy. I don't know how hard it would be to find eggs in a pond that size, do you?"

Shela read her sister, briefly, "Not as hard as you think. Woven baskets from weeds or net pens in the pond would be a lot easier, if you wanted to experiment. I know you had your heart set on, what would you call it—"

"Above ground swimming pools." Dawn paused, fish guts in hand, then added them to the compost. "Pool liners could be easily made from thick rubber. Even milkweed-grade should last a decade or two." She shrugged, rinsed the knife, then prepared the fillets. "Would have been fun to test the process and run down all the variables, but I guess I should learn to trust my hunches as much as you trust yours. Ten or twenty years, thirty at the most, it's a far cry from the centuries concrete has held our pond together."

"Don't worry about reinventing better ponds," Shela said as she breaded the fillet passed to her. "It's just a hole in the ground. You're putting way too much thought and energy into a literal hole."

"But it isn't as simple as it seems. Aeration and filtration are important. With proper aeration you can double, triple, even go as high as ten fold the yields per acre—"

"How big a pond would the average family need to grow enough fish, without aeration, to have some once a week? Thirty, maybe sixty feet in diameter, four or six feet deep, right?"

Dawn nodded. "Four-person bath tub with enough air pumps and filters."

The fillets sizzled when Shela slipped them into the lightly oiled pan. "You do this every time, Sis. There isn't anyone in town that's willing to mess with air pumps and pool covers and green houses for fishponds. I'll be shocked if ten people in three towns ever dig holes in our lifetime. Doubt they'd even buy waterproof liners. What you're talking about is more change than anyone'd accept." She notched up the flame. "I'd follow you in a second, you know that, but I'm the only— We'll ask Frances when he comes in from the garden. I doubt he could get his father to push it, but we can try."

Dawn washed her hands for a fourth time, "Good ideas should be good enough."

"Town doesn't work that way. People don't work that way. History doesn't work that way."

She dried her hands with a towel, then set the table. "That's the saddest part of all."

Shela followed her to the table, "Doesn't mean it isn't brilliant. Doesn't mean you shouldn't write it down. Just, writing it down is probably as far as you should take it, that's all." She hugged her before Dawn went to the sink and washed her hands for a fifth time. "I'll always be here for you, Sis. You can't do it all, and you don't have to do it all by yourself." She patted her on the back, then returned to the sizzling fillets. "You're getting better at prioritizing, have you noticed?"

By the time they had the meal plated, Frances returned and the three had a pleasant, quiet meal, talking in length about her ambitious fishpond plans.

Frances' opinion mirrored Shela's, with one caveat. If someone had told him about fish and ponds, he would never have believed them. Much like his father would never have believed milk from a weed could make the most comfortable cushions he could ever sit on. It wasn't until he touched it that he could believe in it. Frances could only be convinced after his first catfish sandwich. He could only see the usefulness of a pond when it was close enough to touch. There were no rivers or ponds within walking distance of the three towns he knew. The few creeks in the area were barely big enough to support frogs.

If they built one in town for everyone to see, maybe then it would catch on. If fish was a delicacy at the Inn, maybe even faster. But it was doubtful Shela was going back to that kitchen any time soon.

Perhaps his father could be convinced or cajoled into installing one on his tiny parcel of land. But it was doubtful, since there was no obvious immediate profit in it. Digging took time. Filling took time. Going from eggs to adults took years. And even as delicious and easy as farming fish was, it would still be impossible to get anyone excited about doing that much digging up front.

By fall, Frances had carried his last load of teas and alcohol into auction and had returned home to an indisputably pregnant Shela. But he had seen lots of women get this far and still fail to have a live birth. That was the rule, ending in a live birth was the exception, so he didn't let himself get as excited as the girls.
**B6.C42**

Dawn stared at her sleeping sister.

Frances woke when Dawn sat on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong," he asked.

"Nothing," Dawn said. "Nothing at all." She brushed Shela's hair with her fingers. "Just can't believe she's going to be a mom so soon. I remember skinny-dipping in the pond when we were so young and skinny we could still run around topless without getting yelled at. Open my eyes and look at her now, breathtaking and pregnant. A few months from being a mom."

He wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Don't get her hopes up. Almost unheard of that a first pregnancy ends in babies."

Dawn pressed her ear to Shela's belly. "I can feel them, playing naked in the pond." She brushed Shela's hair again. "I hope she keeps those cheeks. I always thought she was too skinny."

"Well, I've just known a lot of women that get about this far, and fail, and it just shatters them."

"Optimism goes a lot longer with her." She lay on the tiny sliver of the mattress that was left between Shela and the edge, belly pressed to belly, forehead to forehead, arm around her sister's shoulder. "I can't imagine not being here for her. Can you feel how warm her love is?"

He stared at the ceiling, sighed, and sat up, pillow in hand. "You want to trade beds tonight?"

She kissed her sister's cheek and reluctantly let go. "I, uh," she stepped away from the bed, "I should..." she stepped to the door.

"Dawn, don't be—" he put the pillow back, "I'm sleepy right now. Haven't had a night's sleep in—" He yawned, "Of course you can— You don't have to leave, that wasn't— I don't," he yawned again, "I don't want you to, and more importantly Shela wouldn't want you to leave either." He dropped back into bed, hands over his face. "Just between the two of you and all this, I'm not getting a minute of— I've got the last of the squash that's coming in and all that cabbage to weed tomorrow." He sat again. "Sorry. I'm grumpy and not getting any sleep, you're not getting any sleep, she's not getting any sleep, and the babies aren't even here yet." He fell back again. "I just, nobody tells you about the not sleeping."

Dawn walked to her bed and stared at the disheveled sheets.

Frances sighed, sat up, grabbed his pillow, and left the bed. "I don't pretend to know what's between you two." He tossed his pillow onto her bed, grabbed hers, and put it in her hands. "I've never had a brother or sister, so I just don't know." He climbed in, adjusted the sheets, fluffed the pillow, and stretched out. "I just know there's no way for me to come between you two, and it isn't something I'm even tempted to try. I'll try to be more optimistic tomorrow, if you'll try to sleep tonight."

Dawn folded her pillow to her belly and patted it like Shela patted her pregnancy. She sat on the bed with him, and kissed him on the cheek. "You're a good man, Frances. You remind me a lot of our dad. I know I'm a pain right now, I just can't bear to be apart from— I'll make it up to you. You'll see, you'll hardly remember these awkward months." She patted him on the shoulder, then went to bed with her sister.

Fall traditionally meant loom work and new clothes. And with the shift away from a milkweed-dominance in the fields, they made quick work of what little they had, the vast majority of which got turned into spool after spool of raw thread.

And an enormous pile of disposable diapers.

But just because Dawn was spending every waking hour with her sister, didn't mean she had run out of ideas. Or original inventions either.

When inspiration struck, she retreated to her workshop for a few hours and returned with a fancy yardstick-looking device she was anxious to try.

The device clamped two pieces of cloth together along the would-be seam. A sharp blade pulled down its edge was followed by a hot thermosetting mild elastomer that was pushed through the half inch of remaining layers like thousands of liquid stitches being sewn, all at the same time. The excess was automatically wiped off and the flap folded over in one seamless motion by the contraption before it had a chance to cool too much to still adhere, tucking the flap away for comfort. It all happened seamlessly in a few seconds, and when cooled, her liquid stitches were nearly invisible. But unlike traditional methods, these were irreversible.

What would have taken hours to stitch and hem by hand was over in a few minutes as shirts, pants, and underwear piled up minutes after tailored measurements were made. They stretched enough to flex with comfort and were strong enough to be a worthy equal to needle and thread. They even cooled enough to be worn a few minutes after assembly. Only time would tell how long such stitches would endure. But they need only outlast the cloth they adhered to be practical.

Dawn was getting better about not obsessing over such things, but even Frances could see that if she took this thought another step and added a powered loom to her glue stitches, clothes might become as disposable as diapers... just for another reason entirely.

As they finished the last pair of pants at record speed, a smile crossed the sisters' faces, but Dawn was the first to put it to words. "Would love to have been at auction about now, when milkweed thread starts arriving by the cartful."

"Would have been nice." Shela smiled as she folded them and added them to the stack. "You know, if your glue stitches don't hold up to washing, we'll have to do this all over again next year."

"It'll hold." She yanked on a shirt seam. "It tested as strong as the cloth itself... but I never tested it by washing it." She folded it and put it back. "Doesn't matter if it stops adhering to the threads after washing. It passes through the weave, just like regular stitches do, and—"

"It'll be fi—" Shela pressed Dawn's hand to her belly. "Oh, they're up now. Can you feel that?"

Dawn pressed her ear to her sister's belly. "You get any bigger and they'll split you in two." She ran her hands across Shela's swollen mass. "I wonder what it's like to be in there. In the dark. With someone constantly touching you. To be born knowing someone already. To be born, never knowing loneliness. How will they decide who comes out first?"

Shela ran her fingers through Dawn's hair, "I doubt it'll matter to them."

Dawn waved Frances over.

"I've felt it before," Frances said. "They can be quite energetic, when they want to be. Makes me think they might be fighting in there."

"They're not fighting," Shela said. "Just crowded."

Dawn frowned at him, "Sisters don't fight."

He put his hand on her kicking belly. "My mistake." He kissed Shela on the lips. "You two ready for me to put this stuff up and get the still in here? The cabbage looks ready for a harvest."

Shela braced herself on the back of the chair and pushed her way to her feet, "You sure are handy to have around," she said, sneaking another kiss before he could get away.

He caught her moments later when her knees went wobbly, and the two of them kept Shela upright the few steps back to the bed.

"I'm alright," Shela said, rejecting the help, once she was safe on the bed. "Just got a little dizzy, that's all. Don't need all the fussing."

Dawn didn't back away. Instead, she helped her lay down while Frances unfolded a blanket.

"I'm not cold," she protested, but they tucked her in anyway.

She was shivering, after all.

Guar staggered in through the front door. "Gas is off at the cabin."

"I know," Dawn said, "I turned it off at the workshop too."

"What the hell for?"

"Shhh," Dawn said, finger to her lips, "Sis is—"

"Why the hell would you turn off the gas!"

"First, the line has a leak somewhere, so I had to." Dawn closed the door he left wide open. "Second, I don't have to explain everything to you. You can always chop wood if you're cold."

"Why don't you just fix it?" he said, then headed straight for the still.

Dawn stood in his way. "You have to find the leak first. To do that, you have to fill the line with water and walk it, looking for wet ground. That won't work when it's this cold out." He backed her into the bathroom, where she finally held her ground. "Your old bed is still in the attic. Why don't you go on up—"

"On an empty stomach?"

She poured him what she figured was enough to put him out for the night.

It did.

Later that night, Dawn and Frances went down to the cabin and brought back his foolproof bread-booze still.

Shela was just weeks from popping, when it happened. After two days of rain, she woke from blissful slumber and jabbed Frances with her elbow until he was sitting too.

He looked outside but saw nothing. It was pitch black with the lingering clouds keeping even the night sky from giving hints of what was roaming outdoors. He pulled back the shade on the lamp, throwing light into the corner. "What is it? Is something wrong? The baby?"

She panted as she pointed out the window. "Go outside... climb up... climb onto the roof... and tell me what you see."

"What?"

She gave him a shove. "Ladder is by the chimney."

"It's got to be freezing out—"

She winced, then shoved again. "Just do it, do it now!"

"What's wrong, Sis," Dawn said, kneeling beside their bed as she huddled under the blanket she dragged from her bed.

"They're burning Mr. Duncan's farm!"

"Fire?" Frances got to his feet, threw open the door, and took a hard sniff outside before closing it again. "I don't smell nothing but wet pine."

"When?" Dawn asked. "Now, or soon? What day?"

Shela grabbed Dawn's hand and closed her eyes. "Tomorrow morning, I think."

Frances stuck his head out the door and sniffed again, "Tomorrow? What do you mean by—"

"They'll be here soon," Shela said, firm grip of her sister's arm. "We're just a few weeks' march from the Duncan's farm."

"Few weeks?" Dawn looked to the black window, then stared at her pregnant, nearly immobile sister. "Weeks? How many are coming?"

"How many what?" Frances said, returning to bed. "What are you two—"

"Dozen maybe," Shela said. "Maybe more. Can't really tell right now."

Dawn sat on their bed. "Dozen." She stared down at her feet. "Dozen." She stared at the attic where her brother slept. "Just a few weeks to get him sober." She stared at Frances, then her sister. "Can we run?"

"Run from what?" Frances said, "Run from who?"

"No," Shela said, still holding Dawn's arm. "They'd burn everything and still go hunting after us. Maybe we could keep ahead... but I can't tell for how long we—"

"Tell what?" Frances said. "I don't mind when you two talk around me most of the time. Usually it's— This ain't one of those times. Burn what? Who? Someone tell me something, I'm either part of this family or I'm not. Now's a good time for—"

"She's quantum entangled—" Dawn started.

"I can see the future," Shela said. "Doubt it." She said before he could. "Whiskey, pant bottoms, turkey feathers." She beat him to each word.

He sat. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow if there's still smoke in the air."

"I'll climb," Dawn said. She dressed for the deed and several cold minutes later, she saw the fires that night, as they were being started.
**B6.C43**

Dawn paced. "We can give her a C-section and have them now," she paused by the foot of the bed, "I can probably do it without harming any of them. But I doubt she'd be healed in time to be of any help. We try to outrun them with her like this and she's a ticking time-bomb in our—"

"What's a ticking time-bomb?" Frances asked, pacing the kitchen nearly as fast.

Dawn sat on her bed, hands sunk to her lap. "I didn't want to kill anyone this life."

"Sixteen," Shela said, flat on her back, hands on her belly.

Frances looked out the window, smoke still rising from about where he figured the Duncan's farm to be. "Sure they're coming to kill us? I mean, how can you possibly—"

"Don't see them stopping short now, after doing that," Shela said. "Trying to frighten us wouldn't help them none."

"That's what I don't get," Frances said, staring outside, "what's the gain? What's—"

"Been worse done without gain to be had," Dawn said, shaking her head as she stared down. "Sixteen. Three of us, if that, against sixteen. If they're any good, we don't stand a chance."

"Leave now," Frances said, "we could be in town in two weeks, even if we carry her—"

"They'd still burn everything to the ground," Shela said. "We'd have nothing to come back to. Could never come back, really. We'd have to live in town, and live very public lives, all the time. Might be even easier to kill us in town, pending who all is involved."

"Sixteen," Dawn said, staring at a stompstick. "Can't be done defensively here, at best we'd get half and only inconvenience them. We have to meet them in the woods, pick them off two or three at a time, week or two before they even get here and it—"

"Wait a second," Frances said. "You planning on killing folks before they do us any harm? Weeks before they even get here? That ain't self-defense, that's murder!"

"Duncans might not see it that way," Shela said, struggling to sit.

"Yeah," Frances said, "but we don't really know what happened there. There's a fire is all we know. Might be their farm, might not. Might just be clearing a new field, or some stump burning might have gotten away from them. Could be some accident, we just don't—"

"I know," Shela said. "You find a group of sixteen, marching their way here, there won't be but one reason for it. Nobody comes to visit us. Not ever. Been a year since there's even been chimney smoke to find us with. Sixteen men don't just go hiking into winter for the fun of it."

"Hunting parties are—"

"They're hunting alright," Shela said, "just ain't deer."

Dawn walked over to the stompstick, but didn't touch it. "I didn't want this. Not this time."

"We could hole-up right here," he said. "These logs are thick enough to stop anything. Windows in every direction, we could—"

"We'd get maybe half, if that many, before they'd just set fire to the woods and everything," Shela said. "Flaming arrows, if nothing else. They have time on their side." She covered her eyes. "They have time on their side. Duncan's farm was just as defendable, and just as flammable."

"We make it into town, maybe we can get the sheriff involved," he said. "He's got deputizing authority and half the town behind—"

"Cotton sent them," Dawn whispered. "Cotton owns the town. Be a good bet you'll even know a few of them, when they come. Sheriff might even be with them, can't know for sure."

Frances walked away from the window. "Don't seem right killing folks that ain't done us no harm yet."

"Could set traps, I guess," Dawn said. "But no way of telling if that'd be enough to discourage them. First few, maybe. Still wouldn't stop them from burning us out, though. Can't take the travoises, the tracks would give us away."

Shela inched herself back to the headboard, swung her legs over the edge, then held out her hand, "I have to pee."

Dawn helped her to her feet.

With Dawn's liquid stitches, they quickly made three backpacks that unfolded into waterproof sleeping bags so they could sleep on the ground. And against his better judgment, the two boys and Dawn left Shela behind to fend for herself.

Dawn opened Shela's map in the drizzle, pointed out a landmark fallen tree standing before them, and once again they corrected course, much as they had done for the entire week. "We'll engage them tonight," she whispered. "If we can get them while they're all in one spot—"

"She said they'd have two lookouts," a grumpy, but sober Guar said.

Dawn flipped to the page, "I know. If she's right," she pointed, "they'll be here and here. Timed right, with clean shots, Frances and I can drop both without a sound. When we do, you light those sacks and toss them at the four tents." She pointed out the arrangement as drawn. "You know, same as me, that her drawings are not always exact. We can expect this, but not count on it. And if we don't get them all, we'll be on our own with whatever's left. We've got to account for all sixteen." She folded the paper up and stuffed it inside her jacket. "Can't afford to let any escape and get reinforcements."

That evening, they found the camp.

It wasn't that hard. The drizzle had stopped and the men were crowded around two campfires, enjoying a hot meal on a dreary day. The men talked as loud as they wanted, boisterously laughing every now and then and breaking out in an off-key song or two. Sometimes yelling, as if no one would ever hear. The trickle of smoke pinpointed them from a mile away.

Even so, the three stayed well away from the men.

So far away they had to take turns looking through Dawn's binoculars to count them out. But it kept coming up to fourteen, until two came back from a hunt with a string of rabbits and one dog.

Sixteen, on the nose.

Night finally fell and darkness consumed and concealed the moment as it started to drizzle again and everyone retreated into their tents.

The three waited until midnight to inch their way to the camp.

Frances and Dawn flanked in from the sides, while Guar took it straight down the middle.

Frances' hand shook as he aimed the stick at a man's chest. His only signal would be when the other man dropped. Guar's only signal would be when both were down, or when all hell broke loose.

The waiting was torture.

In a moment, he was going to become a murderer, and it seemed like he hadn't protested nearly enough. It seemed like there had to be another way. One of them should have stumbled in and posed as just another hunter, then talked them up to confirm everything. But it was unlikely anyone would accidentally admit to murdering the Duncans. And if they were just a bunch of murderers, whoever stumbled into them was unlikely to be allowed to leave alive. But without proof, these men were innocent until proven guilty. They had only Shela's word that they were going to do what she said they were going to do.

It seemed like a dream he couldn't wish away, or wake up from.

Thud.

Hers fell, but he found he couldn't squeeze his trigger.

His aim wavered.

It was all going— Any second now, his target would turn and notice his dead friend. Frances knew he had to do it, and he had to do it now. Right now! But the man was looking his way, and he just couldn't do it while the man was... was innocent.

He just couldn't.

His target turned... and fell with a thud.

He relaxed his hand, having never fired a shot, and dropped to the ground for Guar's phase of this ruthless assault.

Booooommmmmm!!!!!

Boooooooommmmmm!!!!!

KaKaboooobboooommmmmmmmmm!!!!!!

The four bombs were all Dawn had time to make, but they shredded everything in that camp. Branches and leaves were stripped from every tree around. Tents were flattened.

Frances sat up, stompstick aimed at the well-lit camp, fire and smoke everywhere. Screams and moans of agony came from those caught asleep, and not quite killed.

A figure covered in flames ran smack into a tree, his only remaining arm flailing as his agony only increased, pieces of flesh dripped to the ground.

Frances aimed at the poor man, wiped his face, steadied his hand, then squeezed.

The man collapsed to the ground.

Lying on the ground, he rested the end against a tree and cocked it with his foot, then reloaded it and scanned the carnage, picking off a few more in the most desperate need of relief. When no moans could be heard, he retreated back and met up with the other two.

He had not counted sixteen, but an accurate number might be impossible to get at night.

They had killed a hell of a lot of them, that was for sure.

He had never seen a fireball that big before, or known the smell of burning, human flesh and hair. Each pack Guar had thrown rained globs of sticky fire on everything, but the flames died down fast, burning only a few dozen trees on a night as cold and wet as this one was.

"Damn, Sis!" Guar said, "What the—"

"Shh," she countered.

"What was in those sacks?"

"Cousin of napalm," she said, then took out his ember bag and kindled a fire. Guar was rubbing his hands together over the fledgling flame when she tapped Frances on the shoulder, "Fall back to over there, keep going until you can barely see this fire. We'll join up with you shortly."

They lay in their waterproof sleeping bags, each aimed a different direction, two out of three watching a fire flicker for nobody to enjoy. Dirty clothes stuffed with twigs into crude scarecrows near the flames.

It wasn't until early that morning when they saw four rooting with singed coats that they knew it wasn't over.

Not yet.

Four— No, make that five. One had escaped unscathed.

Dawn kicked Guar awake, and when he crawled out of his waterproof sleeping bag, they got into position and simply waited for the five to track them back to the fake campsite. Bows and arrows downed the scarecrows as the men closed to confirm the kills.

It seemed almost too easy as they blindly marched into range.

But in daylight, pulling those triggers proved anything but easy. Especially when they were close enough to see their faces.

Dawn bravely moved in alone while the boys covered her from a distance. She had the unenviable job of making the first head count.

When she reached sixteen, she waved them in.

Those killed by stompsticks had an even more gruesome future in store, when the one-of-a-kind bolts had to be... retrieved... by the boys. Part of her deal for going in first.

Frances recognized two of the men as the more seedy kind from one town over. The kind that could be hired for just about anything, so long as the price was right.

One was badly burned, but still alive.

When Frances offered the man some water, the flesh of his lip stuck to the canteen. "You boys come from the Duncans'?"

The man shook no.

"I'm headed that way right now," Frances said. "Had a meeting with Mr. Duncan. Bet I'll be able to follow your tracks all the way there, won't I?"

The man shook a vigorous no.

"When I get there next week, I'll know the whole truth. Besides, these are the easy questions I already know the answers to. A test of your honesty, you might say. How do you want to meet your maker? With the truth, or lies on your lips? You boys come from the Duncans'?"

The man paused, but nodded yes.

"You leave anyone alive?"

The man hesitated.

"We can leave you alive in the woods like this, if you'd rather. There's plenty of cooked flesh to distract the dogs, for a while. I can tell you're blind, but you'll still be able to listen to them chewing on your buddies for hours, until they eventually get around to fighting over you."

The man shook no.

"You have one more stop on your route?"

The man hesitated.

Dawn showed Frances a singed map with two parcels clearly Xed out. It was land and a valley very familiar to them all.

"On this next stop of yours, there was going to be two women there," he said, lump in his throat, "one of them is pregnant. You supposed to kill them too?"

The man coughed blackened blood from his ruined lungs, then wheezed into spasms.

Frances offered him another drink to calm the fires within. "She's my wife. They're my kids. As you can imagine, I want you dead some kind of bad right now. But you're not dead right now, are you? I haven't decided if it'll be by my hand, or by them dogs. You answer this next question truthful, and I'll let you make the choice yourself. Was it just the twelve of you?"

The man stiffened.

"Twelve all of you there was?"

The man nodded yes.

Frances laughed, "Counted more bodies than that this morning! You're an awful bad liar. I was prepared to be merciful and end you quick, even let you call it when you were ready." He poured water on the man's burned legs, sending him into convulsions of pain. "Twelve?"

The man shook no.

"Thirteen?"

No.

"Fourteen?"

No.

"Fifteen?"

No.

"Sixteen?"

The man hesitated, then nodded yes.

Frances stood, stomped down on the stick, then loaded the bolts. "Let me know when you're ready, Mister."

The man fumbled with what was left of his shirt, forever seared into his flesh, straightened his posture, then gave a reluctant nod.

These passed cleanly through what little was left of the man's chest.

Every night of the hike back, Dawn crawled into Frances' bag, and cried herself to sleep.
**B6.C44**

"Oh my God," Dawn said, a big smile on her face, "you have to see this!"

Guar chugged another drink instead. He hadn't spent a single minute sober since they got home. "Seen too much of my sister as it is!" he yelled, glass empty.

Frances held Shela's hand as she pushed again.

Dawn looked up. "Ok, I have her little head, just relax for a second. You are doing just great. Let me feel in there and get her tiny little angel shoulders turned the right way." She looked down between her sister's legs and guided them with a careful finger. "Ok, push, nice and easy. There we go. Just one more. Just one more. There." She pulled the second one out, almost as easily as the first. "Wow." She smiled at Shela, "She's adorable, just like her sister." She cleaned her, tied off the cord, cut it, then handed the quiet little angel to the proudest father she had seen in a while, while Guar pounded another drink and sulked back to the attic.

A few more pushes and Shela was done.

Two babies, just like that. Her labor only lasted a few hours and was one of the easiest births Dawn had ever heard of.

"See the future, huh?" Frances said that night, everyone else asleep. "I was sure you three had talked me into murdering a bunch of innocent hunters over some sort of wild coincidences—"

"You would have murdered strangers for me?" Shela pointed at the door. "I think you need to leave if you can be so easily talked into—"

"Well," he said, not budging, "I didn't. I couldn't pull the trigger while I still had doubts. Dawn killed the first two, and your brother blew the rest to hell... I shot some poor, half dead man while he was screaming in agony, but that's it... wasn't until the next day when the remaining few were hunting us that I actually fired on anyone that could fight back. And I still didn't believe until that lone survivor confirmed everything you said." He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling. "Up till then, I was still prepared to walk into town and turn myself in. Never thought... never thought I could kill anyone. Thought it was something I would never, ever do." He closed his eyes and paused. "While I was frozen in indecision, Dawn took down both lookouts without hesitation. Never seen anything like it. Never be able to get it out of my head. I thought she... she looked so brave, like she had done this all her life." He looked her in the eyes. "I slept with your sister on the way home. She was a total—"

"That's not who she is, Frances. She isn't that girl you went on a killing with. She's the girl who delivered our babies, and no one else." She poked him with a finger, "What do you mean slept with?"

"Not what you... well, probably what you think. She hiked back fine. Quiet, but fine. We were all quiet. Don't think anyone said a word about none of it. During the day she looked just as brave as she was that night. But at night she was a trembling, sobbing mess. I just held her until she fell asleep, that's all. As close as you two are, she would have told you the second she walked through the door, had we done anything more."

"She's not a killer. That isn't who she is."

"Well, she 'didn't kill' half a dozen—"

Shela poked him in the chest, hard. "That wasn't Dawn. That wasn't my sister." She calmed her volume, but not her tone. "When you tell that story again, my sister didn't kill anyone, understand? You and Guar did, but she didn't. And you don't talk to her about that night, not ever. She's no killer." She poked him again, "Ok?"

"Ok." He rubbed his chest. "Just stop poking me." He looked over at Dawn's bed, right next to the crib. Her hand was still on it from where she rocked them to sleep. "Nobody would ever believe me if I told them. Don't make it a habit of confessing to murder in public, anyway. Just, this stuff sits heavy on me, and nobody says a word about it. Just thought you should know what happened, and what we all did."

"Oh, I do. I know who my brother is. And I know who she is. She's the sweetest girl I've ever known. She has the biggest, kindest heart I've ever seen. And she would do anything — Anything — in the world, for me. Without hesitation. Even if that meant becoming the opposite of everything she is." She kissed the spot she so viciously poked. "I know who she is, and she's not someone to ever be feared. She's my sister."

His chest suddenly didn't hurt as bad.

"And I know who you are. I know you're not a cold-blooded killer either. I know you're not easily talked into murder. I would never have had your children if I thought that." She gestured at her sleeping sister. "She's got these same moral misgivings you do, but she won't handle them nearly as well. Let her forget it. Let her move it to the side and go on with her life. Let her let it go. And don't talk about it ever again. Let her just be my sister. Let you be my husband, with or without the papers. Let my brother just drink it away, until drinking becomes a bigger problem."

"Not talking about it has only made it worse for me. I know I shouldn't feel guilty, I mean, I saw the map they had with this place marked for destruction. I just— keeping it inside just isn't me."

"It isn't anyone's way of dealing with things. Except hers."

He quietly looked at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames. The carnage. Every time the room grew quiet, he heard the screams and smelled the burning flesh. It wasn't going away. He wasn't forgetting. In fact, it was getting worse.

"I love you, Frances. Honestly, I do. But Dawn is— She's special in my life. She's never been just my sister. She can get stuck on things very easily, as you've seen. Even trivial things can sidetrack her for months, and this is by no means trivial. I'm glad she had you on the way home, but if I hadn't been pregnant, I would have gone instead of her. If I had had the babies in time, I would have left her here to watch over them. I would never have let her do what she did." She pulled him in for a hug. "But that wasn't the cards we were dealt. And life has never dealt her any cards worth playing." She pressed her forehead to his temple. "She's twenty-three. And yes, there's a side of her that could have, and would have, killed every one of them by hand, if she had to. And there's another side that is far more fragile than either of those two angels she delivered just a few days ago."

He worked an arm under her, returning the embrace.

"Let her be the aunt she wants to be, and don't tempt her to remember ever being anything else. She can't handle it the same way you do." She nuzzled in closer. "Had I gone in her place, would you be thinking the same thoughts about me? I would have slaughtered them to protect my family too."

Dawn sat in bed, both babies together, napping on her chest. "They reach out to each other in their sleep, did you know?"

Shela pulled back the blanket, the two were facing each other, shoulder to shoulder. "How long you been up?"

"Just a few hours. They're little angels." She wiped a tear from her eye. "They're so tiny. I remember when Mom was this size." She wiped another tear. "So helpless, so full of wonder. I think I watched them sleep for an hour. Just sleep. How could I let myself fall asleep? Just think of how much of this I missed?"

Shela covered them again. "We'll always miss moments of their lives. It is their lives, after all. Remember all the summers we spent by the pond?"

"How could we have done that to Mom?"

"I know," Shela said. "Seems so awful now, doesn't it?"

"I wonder who they'll be. They're not identical. Sylia's hair is reddish brown, Shadona's is black. And those huge eyes are different too. I remember Dana had blue eyes, at first. But they turned as dark as mine within a few months." She lightly stroked their tiny backs through the thin blanket. "You want to hold them now?"

"Very badly," Shela said with barely a whisper. "But don't move them if they're sleeping." She patted her sister on the shoulder. "They're going to need time with their favorite aunt too." Dawn smiled as Shela continued to the kitchen where Frances was already helping himself to fresh rolls. "Did you keep the map you found on them?"

"No," he whispered back.

She washed her hands at the sink. "You remember if the two locations were marked the same way?"

"No."

"It's kind of important," she whispered as she got out the plates. "If it was by the same hand, then whoever sent them had us on the list from the beginning, and the Duncans were first by mere convenience. If it was a different hand, then it means they got our names from questioning the Duncans."

He poured a big mug of hot tea. "I don't get the importance, but it wasn't something I remember anyway."

Shela leaned in close. "If they got our names from the Duncans, I don't know that the Duncans knew where we lived. Not exactly. So the map should be vague. My suspicion is that they questioned another farmer, perhaps the Hendersons, and that got them us. Then they looked us up on the city maps and just by luck we were last on the list. If that's the case, you showing up in town this spring would send more of them after us again."

He sat, unsettled in the chair. "I don't remember."

"If they got it from the Duncans, then came here, then whoever sent them doesn't know about us yet. If that's the case, we can come and go as we please, like none of this happened." She bit into a bun of her own. "If they knew about us from the beginning, then we should put on a show fire, make it look like they succeeded in wiping us out. But if they don't know, then a massive fire and henchmen not returning would give our location away for sure."

He moved the mug around on the table, but didn't drink. "I was hoping that all that unpleasantness was the end of it."

She held his hand at the table. "That depends a lot on that little paper. I'll know a few weeks in advance, but we can't always count on that. Not always. I know what I know, but I don't know what I don't know. And it's the stuff that I don't know that could prove especially brutal." She looked over at Dawn, blissfully holding the tiny two. "I really don't want to ask her."

"You might have to." He sipped from the mug. "She found the note, I just glanced at it."
**B6.C45**

By spring they had casks of wine ready for auction. But if they took them in, and they guessed wrong about the ambiguous marks on the map, they would be giving themselves away.

They had gambled on the virtues of being a no-show. Let those who sent the sixteen think their family had been wiped out in a mutual bloodbath. Frances' father was sending money into the girls' accounts as if they were employees. That should be enough to cover any taxes they might have on the land, so no great harm or investigation should come of their absence. But perhaps that practice should be ended too, to protect his father from the very questions that harmed the Duncans.

Frances had moved the heavy casks around, trying to find a place for the huge things in the tiny house for weeks. But everywhere he could think of ended up being in the way of something else. When Guar finally moved back to the cabin by the pond, Frances was able to move them all into the attic under the mattress. But that was a temporary solution, at best.

Without trips into town, wine wasn't the only thing that was destined to pile up.

What had only a year ago seemed like a family with detailed, long range plans and a bright future had turned into a family held together by endless temporary solutions, trapped under a lingering cloud, hiding from the world.

But for now, they were just thankful that that dark cloud hanging over them wasn't raining.

Dawn held little Sylia to her chest as the hiccups continued. "That's it, little angel," she whispered as she patted the tiniest of backs, "that's it, get it all out." Spittle soaked through her shirt, but Sylia never cried.

When hiccups subsided, the tiny child fell soundly asleep.

Dawn dabbed the little girl's chin with a dry part of her ruined shirt. "I don't remember it being this fun," she said, a smile on her face, joy in her eyes.

Shela nursed Shadona in the chair. "They double-team me every time. By the time I get used to being pumped dry by both of them nursing together, one of them decides to break the rhythm, which inevitably has me as a milk dispenser on duty every relentless hour of the day."

Dawn sat on the bed, facing Shela's chair. "They've had three months. We could start weaning them off you and onto deer mi—"

Shela covered Shadona's tiny ear, "And miss out on this?"

Sylia hiccupped a fresh bubble of dribble. "Six months as a minimum is preferred. Daddy's notes said he milked Momma for you. Kept her from getting too full at any one time. He used the deer milking machine, but we could fashion something better. Make you less sore, more comfortable. Shouldn't take me but a few hours." She dabbed Sylia's chin again. "If I can ever tear myself away that long."

Their father had to use what was available. Dawn was able to do much better. She used the softest, warmest materials for contact with her sister's skin, custom made for the most comfortable fit, and calibrated to gently suck at the most natural pace.

It made a big difference.

Shela could sleep through the night.

And Dawn could nurse the twins... just not the same way as her sister.

Dawn fastened the diaper's side, then kissed the baby on her belly, "There you go, little Shadona, you're ready to take on the world again."

Shadona giggled as Dawn tickled her tiny feet.

"How many is three?"

Shadona beamed as she confidently clapped her little hands, three times.

"What a smart little girl you are," she said, then kissed her tiny belly again. "If you have three, and I have two, how many do we have?"

Shadona hesitated, her little feet kicking just a little, as if fingers alone could never be enough. She grinned, blew a tiny bubble of drool, then clapped five times.

Dawn tickled her and kissed her little belly again, "That's my beautiful, brilliant niece again."

Frances came in from the garden, washed his hands, made a sandwich, and came over to watch while he ate.

"Who's your Daddy?"

The infant attempted to sit, but failed. Yet nonetheless she managed to clearly gesture his way.

"What a smart, brave little girl you are," Dawn said, tickling and kissing her again.

"Is his name Shela?"

Shadona paused, but nothing more came.

"Is his name Guar?"

Shadona paused, but didn't react.

"Is his name Frances?"

That elicited a fit of uncoordinated infant clapping.

"What a smart little girl you are," Dawn said, followed by kisses and giggles. "Is he your Mommy?" Dawn tried to trick her by smiling hopefully, but the infant didn't fall for it. "Is he your Daddy?"

The baby clapped, kicked, and flailed, and was rewarded in what she desired most at the moment, tickles and kisses. But even that wasn't enough to keep the little one up. She was nearly tuckered out already, and didn't manage to last much past the end of his sandwich.

"You're fantastic with them," Frances said while Dawn put the baby back in the crib. "You both are." He looked into the crib. "All I would ever think to do is peek-a-boo."

Dawn patted him on the shoulder. "That's a lot of fun too. They're learning every minute their eyes are open." She got up off her bed, "Learning their dad is fun is more important than you give yourself credit for, Frances." She went to the bathroom and changed her shirt. "Shela ever tell you, our father was a lot like you?" She lay down on her bed by the crib. "It isn't that much of a coincidence." She closed her eyes, just as exhausted as the tiny child, and just as much in need of sleep. "The side of you you show those girls will be the same qualities they'll be looking for in husbands of their own. Patience, love, and understanding is all you need to show them," she patted him on the shoulder, "and that comes to you naturally. I know things are a little awkward right now, but Sis could use a little patience, love, and understanding too, if you two can ever find a moment."

"Is it painful?" Frances said, watching Shela attach the cup and turn on the quiet device, early in the pre-dawn morning.

She thought about it. "I guess it's like having to pee, but you have to hold it in until one of the little one's are hungry."

He sat up in bed with her. "No, that wasn't... The, um, contraption. Does that hurt?"

She smiled. "Oh. No, not at all. It's actually very pleasant. It's like little, soft kisses, I guess. Kind of reminds me of you in a way."

"That bad, huh?"

She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, "Not that bad, that good." It quietly kissed another squirt away. "Dawn knows what she's doing with these things." She sat back. "I could probably have made something, but not nearly as nice as this. I don't know what it is about having children, but I can't seem to focus my thoughts like I used to. Thoughts seem to disappear like the flickers of a flame." She paused. "Oh, Frances, what are you thinking?" She held his hand. "Listen, I love you. I do. More now than before. I just haven't felt like me since I gave birth to the twins. I'm overweight, my boobs are huge, and no matter how much I try, I can't find a bra that I'm comfortable in. I love you, don't ever doubt that I still do. But honey, I haven't felt like me in months." She ran her fingers through his hair, then across his smooth, shaved face. "Don't feel so neglected, it isn't intentional. It isn't that you're the last thing on my mind, it's that I can't seem to keep a thought in my head."

He kissed her fuller cheeks. "I think you look sexier like this."

The little cup matched him, kiss for kiss.

"I just don't want you thinking my feelings for you have ever changed." He ran his hand across the very flabby belly she tried so hard to hide. "And I'd like to remind you of that, on occasion, hopefully in ways you find hard to forget." He kissed the underside of her chin and down her neck, carefully avoiding her uncomfortable breasts as the little hose whisked away another tiny, future swallow.

Shela smiled with so much adult attention. "I think we can find something that works for both of us."

"Always have in the past."

"Let him sleep in today," Shela said, stopping Dawn from opening the shades.

"Ok," Dawn said, fiddling with its edges until it settled right, blocking the most possible light.

"I, uh, I don't want to ask this." Shela paused as they walked to the kitchen. "I think I should read you again, just to make sure everything is still fine and we're well forgotten."

"Ok."

They held hands. "You, uh, you have to be willing to leave the house for this to work. Otherwise all I get is what happens in here. That'll tell me if we suddenly die, but won't give me a clue what's lurking in the woods."

Dawn stared at the crib, the windows, the door, then her feet. She sighed and closed her eyes.

Shela tried again. "Better. Would you be willing to sneak into town and catch up with Sally?" She tried again. "Oh..."

"Oh what?" Dawn asked. "Oh what?" She broke the contact.

"It wasn't just the Duncans' farm. And it wasn't just in this town. That might mean we have bigger problems to contend with. Though Sally doesn't seem to have any indication it was us. I think we have to come up with a strategy to diffuse this much quicker. The markets in all three towns were flooded with the new thread, but none of the farmers advertised it was milkweed. And unlike the toothbrushes, they guarded the design this time."

Dawn stared at the crib. "Time is the important factor in this equation." She walked to the kitchen window and peeked out at the rising sun. "They weren't dealt as decisive a blow as I thought." She walked to the bathroom. "They lashed out thinking that if they could crush the people, the idea would die with them. They need to learn people come and go, but ideas are immortal."

Shela's mind was too filled with worry and thoughts about how awkward she felt in her own skin to contribute original thoughts of her own, but that wasn't the only way she could be useful. She touched her sister as she paced by and jumped to the end of a very long peppering of ideas and a dazzling array of pros and cons. "Leaflet the towns. You'll call it a long-range confetti cannon. If we can build one quickly, make it real, I can read you again and see if it'll work."

Dawn walked to the crib, then back to the kitchen. "I don't want to see anyone else hurt because of me and my—"

"Bad people have never needed an excuse to do bad, Sis. All they've ever needed was a victim."

"We leaflet this town, Sally is going to send it to the next. You know she will. I don't want to see her caught in the middle of this."

Shela grabbed her hand, "It's too far in the future for me to see. We'll make two— Hell, we can make three if you want." Shela sketched out some of its final dimensions so Dawn would get the scale right. "I think you plan on making them part rocket, which will take a delicate mix of black powder, or something you call a solid-fuel cylinder." Realizing she was talking too loud, she stopped, then read the babies. "Let's go talk this out in your workshop. We should have until noon."
**B6.C46**

What would have taken Dawn a solid month of difficult calculations and experimentation was accomplished in little over a week, while still spending plenty of time with the babies, timed perfectly with when they were awake.

Parts from a discarded version of her printing press made making hundreds of copies easy. The design they printed was also well calculated to be one of the more primitive, least efficient versions. Somewhat difficult to use, temperamental, and subject to easy jamming. But by selecting it, they would retain the option to later sell their more advanced designs for a modest profit. But protecting profits had nothing to do with this mission.

This was all about ending bloodshed.

The rockets were no little items either.

Each easily weighed thirty pounds, a good deal of which was paper.

Hot air balloons had been another idea that would have proven far easier to manufacture, but a far less reliable delivery system, and Shela had bad feelings about depending on the weather.

Dawn's winged rockets could be launched from nearly two miles away from a suitable clearing and were surprisingly accurate.

Unfortunately, Dawn was the only one qualified to properly assemble and aim one, besides Shela, and even then, Shela would have to cheat to even have a chance of making them work.

It was a long, difficult month for Dawn and Guar as they lugged two of the heavy rockets near the two more distant towns, chosen specifically to best protect Sally from her own gossiping habits. Done this way, their town would be the last to know. Calculated another way, it should look like it 'came' from one of the other two towns.

But only time would tell if that part of the deception would work.

Dawn looked in the tiny crib at the sleeping two. "I swear they've grown since we left."

"Of course they have," Shela said. "They've grown to miss their aunt. They've been pouting ever since you've been gone." She ran her fingers through Dawn's hair, bits of pine needles stuck in knots, cemented in by weeks of dirt and sweat without a shower anywhere to be found. "They know your shining face is supposed to be a big part of their days."

Dawn reached in, but stopped short of touching either of them. "Pouting?"

"Well..." Shela hesitated. "Pout probably isn't the right word. I don't think I've seen true pouting from either of them yet. But pouting just sounds a lot better than 'not quite as enthusiastic' does."

She grabbed Shela's hand instead. "Tell me this made a difference."

Shela closed her eyes and read. "I think so, but it's hard to tell. Daddy could push it further than I can. Said he had visions that went out a decade on occasion, but I'm not that strong. I've never been able to break the rules. The weeks I see are as clear as ever. My gut says it does, but I can't be sure."

Dawn grabbed some clean clothes and headed for the shower. "That's good enough for me."

Guar shoved open the door, but caught it before it had a chance to slam and wake his nieces. Door wide open, he quietly climbed into the attic and came down with a full keg of their best wine, and left. Payment for his efforts.

Paid in full.

Dawn's payment was waiting in those happy flails, kicks, and giggles when the last two to wake this day would finally welcome her home, in the long hours yet to come.

"Oh my, aren't you a big girl," Dawn said as Sylia sat up on her own, then clapped as her sister quickly did the same. "You two big girls want to play a game with me?"

They clapped and giggled in unison.

"Your Daddy accidentally dropped all these cards on the floor," she spread them out before the infants. "Now they're all out of order. Can you two help me put them back? It'll really help him out if we can."

The girls quickly pitched in, and with a few early corrections and hints to get them started, they finished it easily on their own, and were very eager to help with the next fun game.

Disposable diapers were a godsend in the beginning, but with twins they went through the massive pile before the tiny duo reached six months and their first summer.

But summer brought other treats for fresh new eyes.

It brought a tour of the pond, and butterflies.

Shela opened the door to the workshop, walked inside, and stopped near the desk. "Everything alright?" she said.

Dawn continued to fiddle with the parts on the desk, scratched some figures down on a pad, then pulled a notebook from the shelf and leafed through it.

"Dawn," Shela said, taking her sister's hand, "you alright? You haven't been to the house in a few days. Thought I'd check in on you."

Dawn paused, stared at the desk, then pushed the items to the side. "Lost track of time." She stuffed the figures into the book and shoved it back on the shelf, "I didn't mean to— You must think I'm awful for not helping out."

Shela stopped her sister from getting up. "I could never think you're awful. You're my sister, not their babysitter." She gestured to the pond, "Guar spends his days drunk or asleep, and I'm not upset with him. How could I possibly think you're awful? If you want to spend the summers down here, that's fine with me. Can't say I blame you, really. It has one of the best views I've ever seen. I just figured I hadn't seen you in a few days, and, before I brought the kids down, I should stop in and see you first, that's all. Frances and I can handle the gardens just fine, it was never all that hard anyway." She sat on Dawn's bed. "I just think about that path not taken every now and then. That me that was still working in the Inn. Married Frances a year earlier. Maybe even had kids earlier. I wonder if that me would have been able to save you from those men. Save us all, really. You ever think things happen for a reason? Bad things too?"

Dawn washed her ink-stained hands at the sink.

"Above Sally's press is a painting of a tiny ant carrying a stack of books on its back, the one-word titles read 'God Never Gives You More Burdens Than You Can Carry'. I think about that painting from time to time."

Dawn dried her hands, "I keep working the figures, but I just can't find a way to make them work anymore." She sat beside her on the bed.

Shela put a hand on Dawn's knee. "I can't carry the same number of books as you, Sis, but I can help you carry a few of yours. I should try to read you once a week at least, just to be sure that there isn't some sort of surprise headed our way again. I can make those readings more productive for you too. You don't have to struggle to do it all yourself. I'm just a little walk up that other path." She held her sister's hand. "Now, let's talk about those misbehaving numbers of yours."
**B6.C47**

By the time the fall harvest rolled in, the twins were walking on their own and capable of getting into anything, though they rarely did.

Reading children was an exercise in disorienting confusion. Everything from a child's perspective seemed so disproportionate and enormous that they took on a dreamlike, surreal quality that made them hard to take seriously. And at this age they chattered to each other constantly, drowning out the normal sounds of trouble she cued into. Compared to children, adults nearly never talked, and so much noise was numbing in its own way.

Even as jarring as it was, Shela made sure to read them every day, just to make sure they didn't get into anything harmful.

And every time she read them with a casual touch of the hand or a kiss on the cheek, she remembered all those casual touches her father gave her, probably for the same reasons.

She had never worried so much about something so tiny and vulnerable before. Even knowing they would be fine, it was nearly impossible not to worry every second they weren't in sight.

Frances carried Sylia in one arm, the basket of shucked peas in the other. "Our budding green thumb needs a nap," he said, then dropped the basket beside her. "How's your expert doing?"

Shadona looked up with a smile, ran over, and slammed into his knee, "Luked aid e, ipe icked thy smany." She looked up at him and wiggled all her fingers at him, then fell on her bottom.

"That's very impressive, honey. You're a big help to Mommy, aren't you?" He helped her to her feet. "You want to go back to the house with your sister? You two have helped us so much that we can finish it ourselves now."

Shela picked up the little girl and handed her to Frances' waiting arm. She brushed the girls' tiny strands of hair and kissed each on the cheek. "Read them a story before putting them to bed." She kissed Frances on the lips, knowing Dawn had typed him a book of educational stories just for such occasions. "They need a little Daddy time." Shela looked at the cloudless sky, "I'll be in before it rains. Think I'll check in on Aunt Dawn too."

Dawn smiled when she realized her sister was in the room. "You're just in time," she said, handing Shela her newest invention. "I was worried that if something unexpected should happen, you'd only have stompsticks to defend yourself with against overwhelming numbers. These would have taken weeks longer to make and perfect than we had for that crisis before the twins were born." She pointed to a box of what looked like giant apples on fat sticks with fins, sitting beside two simple tubes. "Non-metallic barrels that can take the pressures and heat from bullets still remains elusive, but rocket-propelled grenades were another story entirely. They're not as accurate, but they don't have to be. Should be able to hold off an army with that little box, should the unexpected arise again." She pulled another device from the shelf, "These weren't efficient enough to use in my time because it wasn't lethal for the first thirty feet, but by making the ceramic bullets into tiny solid rockets, I sidestep all the heat and pressure limitations of the barrel." She picked up a bullet the size of a finger. "Even managed to make some of them explosive tipped, painted those red." She looked her sister in the eyes, "I thought the world was better off forgetting such things, but some hands in this world can be trusted."

Shela ran her fingers across the items, then inspected the very child-proof lock on the box. But she still didn't want it in the house. "Hope it never comes to that."

Dawn went over how to use each item and their strengths and limitations. And how to use the much simpler box of hand grenades.

But a modern arsenal in a time of arrows wasn't the only thing Dawn managed to assemble in what little was left of her time when not spent playing with the children.

After a good, hard rain had soaked the valley, Dawn set up a different box by the pond as the entire family gathered around, dusk setting in. She lit the fuse and ran back to sit with the rest, gathered at the picnic table. In mere seconds the first rounds went off, tearing miles into the sky with muffled, smokeless whooshes, then exploding into showers of brightly colored sparkling embers of the town's first fireworks show.

The twins were mesmerized for nearly an hour, and didn't stop talking about it for days.

The storm waged outside as lightning flashed and thunder rattled the glass in the house. But instead of crying, the twins sat by the window and clapped at each, waiting for the sparkles that never came.

Pretty all the same.

Shela read Frances, late that night. "You should sneak into town tomorrow, see your father. See your parents."

"I thought we were in hiding?" he whispered back.

"We are, and we aren't. They're your parents. They should know about their granddaughters. It's too far of a journey to take the twins into town to see them, but Dawn and I drew a lot of pictures you can show them. You might want to warn your father about what had been aimed our way, and why we're keeping out of the town for now." She read him again, and, as far as she could tell, nobody spotted him if he left in the morning, even if she convinced Dawn to go along.

"You sure?"

She frowned, "Yeah, I am. I'd rather you never left. The twins will be devastated that their Daddy isn't around, and at this age it's impossible to explain it to them. I'm going to have to hear the cries, and somehow find a way to not cry myself. But as painful as it'll be for us, it's the right thing to do. Might as well bring in the wine too. Let your father hold it, maybe sell it a little at a time over the next year. Add it into the price of each couch and mattress, maybe. Let him call it a dowry if he wants."

"You all going to be fine while I'm gone?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. A little sadder, but fine. Dawn's made sure of that, in her own special way."

"Tomorrow morning, then." He settled back to bed.

She took off the lid of a jar by the bed, then dipped her fingers in. "But tomorrow is more than a handful of hours away, and right now, we're the only ones in this crowded little house still awake."

He smiled wide enough to be seen in this much dark, knowing full well what her simple words meant.

Early that morning, he told the twins one of Dawn's stories that explained taxes and parental duties to minds as young as these. It helped. But they still fussed and cried when their Daddy said goodbye. Goodbye was always for forever and ever, when you're that young.
**B6.C48**

"Hey Dad, Mom," Frances said after he snuck in their front door under the cover of darkness. "You two still up? Saw the lamp was still on."

"Son," his father said, dressed in long johns, "What's it been, years?"

Frances pulled in his travois and closed the door behind him, "Months, Dad, only months."

"Is that Frances?" his mother said, tightening her robe as she came from the bedroom.

"Hi, Mom," he said, giving her a hug. "Or should I say, Grandma."

"Grandma?" his father said.

"Sure thing, Grandpa," he said, slapping him on the shoulder before digging in his pack for the booklet. "Here you go, twins." He opened to a page, "This one is Sylia, and her sister's Shadona."

"What odd names," his father said. "Why on earth did you pick such strange names?"

"Well, I didn't—"

"Surely you could have at least named one of them Alicia after your mother," the father said.

"Well, actually—"

"Well nothing. You get a—"

"Now hold on, Dad. I didn't walk for a week and a half to argue names with you. Names we've been calling them for months. What's done is done. Now, maybe I should have put a foot down or something, but it didn't seem like that big of a deal to me. It was a huge deal for her. Daughters in her family get named after the mother's friends. Usually a best friend or a pivotal person in their life. It's kinda a tradition for them. Boys I could have named, no argument, I suspect." He flipped the pages. "You get used to the names, anyway. They actually match the children's personalities. Sylia is the more silent of the two. Shadona is a bit more the shadowy rebel." He laughed, then pulled up a seat at the table and adjusted the oil lamp so his parents could better see. "They're smarter than I've ever seen. Dawn, Shela's sister, has taught them how to read, add, and subtract already. They're quite something to see."

"When can we see them?" his mother said, no longer interested in the drawings, no matter how well done.

"Well, that's the other thing I came here to say." He lowered the lamp, and his voice. "You know what happened at the Duncans?"

"Yeah," his father said, "horrible accident that, whole family died. Got distant nephews working it now."

"Wasn't an accident, Dad," Frances said, still debating how much to tell. "Cotton barons had him worked over for all that fake cotton they brought into town last year. They burned him down, Dad. But I think they asked him some questions first, and he told where that little device of his that spun worthless milkweed into cotton gold came from. Same place you learned about those cushions." He cleared his throat. "They came for us next. Barely escaped with our lives."

"Son," the father said, "I think you're all twisted around, there. Know all about that milkweed machine. Hell, whole world's liable to know about it next year. And it came from one or two towns over, not from here. And not from them girls, no matter what they've been selling you."

"Bunch of papers fell from the sky in them towns, right?" Frances continued. "I watched Dawn build the thing that spread thousands of copies in a single night. I helped her crank out all those copies with the drawings on them. I even made a few suggestions on the wording to make them easier for folks to assemble. And I watched her and her brother drag it all off to those two towns."

"When can we see them?" his mother repeated.

"That's my point," Frances said. "If the people that burned down the Duncans are still walking free with money in their pockets and vengeance in their hearts, we aren't safe. Right now, they probably think we're all dead. Probably best you two do nothing to discourage that wrongful thinking, at least until this all blows over. I think it might be another few years, Mom. Dad." He pulled out another book. "Dad, these are some more formulas and ideas you might make use of, same royalty percentages as before, of course. She's got rubber tubing and pipes for irrigation and such. This one makes a kind of milkweed glass for windows. It's not exactly clear as glass, a little yellowish green, but it really cuts down on that draft feeling. She has designs for a big production loom, as well as one that hangs out of the way on the wall like a picture. And this, which I think is the jewel of the bunch, is how to make a device that can cut, trim, and sew together a pair of pants in just a few minutes, with liquid stitches."

"Liquid what?" his mom said what was clearly on his father's mind.

Frances pulled a pair of pants from his bag. "Liquid stitches. It's fascinating stuff, really it is. Remember when you'd have to work for a week to buy enough cotton to make a pair of pants, or a shirt?" He closed the book and put it in his father's hands. "None of these are as controversial as what got the Duncans burned. All of these work on cotton just as well as they work on weed."

His father thumbed through the book.

Frances turned to his mom. "Give it a few years, Momma. I promise, if worse comes to worst, I'll find a way to sneak you up there to see them. But I'm counting on this turmoil to die down and grudges to be forgotten... soon as the money runs short. Ain't like they're tripping over friends, made more than just a few enemies with their lending practices too. Money's all that's holding them together."

His mother steered the conversation back to the children, while his father studied the impeccably 'typed' book, nearly as fascinated with its letters as he was the meaning behind the words and images he saw.

His stay was unavoidably short. He had to get back by Shela's timetable if he hoped to avoid the first heavy snow. A light snow followed by a melting morning shower would erase two days of tracks like nothing else, rendering his tracks nearly invisible. The deep snow a few days later would obliterate anything that was left.

Besides, after a year away, he found that a few days with his dad was more than he could bear.

He returned home, right on schedule.

And the meaning of his world was turned upside down when two of the tiniest, happiest-to-see-their-daddy girls slammed into his legs the second he came through the door.

He never thought he could have so much joy as the twins battled for his attention as they excitedly tried to fill him in on all he had missed while he was away. Only every now and then was he able to make out the occasional word.

Winter was packed with snowy adventures as seen through the eyes of two mesmerized one-year-olds, educational games and stories, and a lot of family time as six crammed under one roof again, when Guar's mysterious 'gas leak' returned.

The more Guar was around his nieces, the less he tended to drink. And by spring, he was down to two glasses before bed, and just a stiff shot at sunrise.

He even pitched in around the garden.

And the deer they had captured and released last year returned, just as pregnant as before.

It was one of the rare occasions where a good deed was followed by a reward, instead of punishment.

But then, maybe it was their dry-roasted acorns and sugar beets that had it coming back.
**B6.C49**

They waited for an approaching thunderstorm to mask the sounds as they used ammonium nitrate explosives to clear a field of stumps and fine-tune her yield calculations. The stumps were ripped to splinters long before the first drops of water touched their heads. Dawn even had time to perfect her shape-charge designs while fracturing rocks around a rich deposit of quartz nearly a quarter mile away, excavating a deposit she needed for her next experiments.

Moving thirty pounds of explosives and blasting boulders out of the way was far easier than chipping away tons of solid stone for months to retrieve the hundred pounds of pure quartz she needed.

Dawn sat on the floor of her workshop, flanked by the twins. She turned to Sylia next. "Would you want a tricycle too, or do you think you two can share?"

Sylia paused as she played with her toes, then slapped the soft rubber floor.

"If you two can share, then you can get twice as many toys to play with. But that's only if you can share. Like your Daddy and Mommy share all their things," she said.

Sylia released her toes and slapped the floor with her palms. She crawled closer to her sister, then sat and stared at her aunt. "Eye one tib lock sand g ears."

"Ok," Dawn said, then gave each a kiss. "But I need both of your help making them. Ok?"

The girls clapped at the thought of helping their aunt.

They started on Shadona's tricycle first since it had the most fun shapes like big tires, seats, pedals and parts to be made out of papier-mache molds while Dawn supervised and helped with things tiny hands would struggle on.

By the end of a fun-filled day with their favorite aunt, the tiny duo were returned to their parents, pleasantly and completely exhausted. Dawn deposited them in the crib, already asleep. "You two have a nice time?" she asked while Frances and Shela quietly finished their dinner, a third place set and waiting for her. She washed her hands and joined them.

"Thanks for helping out with them," Frances said. "They really love spending time with their aunty—" he looked at Shela, "No, I said it wrong again, didn't I?"

"Awe N tea," the sisters said.

"Yeah, that's it," he said. "It's like a language all their own. Sometimes I hear the words, but most of the time I don't. Just have to try to guess and pretend like I do. Don't know how you two get every word."

"It's English," Dawn said. Fork in hand, she straightened the vegetables before her. "The syllables are mostly right, they just don't put the pauses between the words. Most of their pauses are in the middle of the words. It's not like Mandarin, or Russian, or..." She looked up from the plate. "They'll figure it out soon, you'll see. They figured out toilets just last month." She forked a piece of fish, dragged it through the mashed potatoes, then scooped up a tomato chunk. "They're so very bright. They have to have a bright future, don't they?"

Shela patted the back of her sister's hand. "Eat your food before it gets cold."

The girls adored their aunt, but nothing could tear them away from the new toys for the next few weeks. The two would sit on the floor for hours building one thing after another from the plastic blocks that locked together and came with interesting gears, wheels, and joints that let them play workshop like their favorite aunt. And usually, when excitement built too high for sitting on any floor to contain, they'd run outside and ride the trike down to the pond to play. Usually to the terror of turtles too slow to get out of their way.

Nobody complained.

Not even the unlucky aunt or uncle that received a pounding on the door when the tuckered-out twins needed to be carried uphill and put to bed. Never once having the energy for such a long walk themselves.

Nobody complained.

Summer was right around the corner and everyone had gardening and other chores ahead of them. And children needed play that was just play too. And they did it well, all by themselves.

Dawn didn't let such free time go to waste, either.

By the time the children had worn the new off the toys, she had finished refining another of her adult toys.

She added the stiff foam box to the end of the kitchen counter, then bored two holes through the log house to the outside, where the rest of the device sat. Within the next two days, one if she hadn't had so much help from the twins, she completed the upgrades.

She had, at last, found a plastic with the right characteristics to build her stirling engine. And from that she could pry open the doors that were holding back the world. It started with a tiny refrigerator barely capable of making ice and a motor to run the ceiling fans, both of which ran off of less gas than a single lamp normally consumed. Not that they didn't have an abundance in summer anyway.

Dawn spent the whole night running over ideas with Shela, searching for the next big direction to take her latest reinvention. Transportation was her most ambitious goal, but every time Dawn worked the numbers, her designs always fell short. Steel could withstand thousands of PSIs and a thousand degrees. But steel couldn't be used under such a magnetically pulsating sky without becoming electrically charged and killing someone. Her finest plastics could stand a few hundred PSIs and barely tolerate boiling water. The math thwarting her was simple and unyielding. A tenth the PSI meant plastic had to be ten times bigger to yield the same power. The same ratios held true for temperature, compounding the problem.

Every way Shela could foresee Dawn's mathematical struggles, it always ended the same. The maximum power achievable from a plastic motor was ten horse.

In Dawn's world, ten horse was an abysmal failure, utterly incapable of bringing back the cars, trains, and planes that made societies blossom in the past. It had no hope of bringing harvests hundreds of miles from fertile fields to the starving masses.

Yet the hardest part of Shela's late-night conversations wasn't the daunting math. It was convincing her brilliant sister that the past that saw a ten horse failure was gone forever, and a world waiting to celebrate a one horse wonder sat just outside their door.

By fall, Dawn turned failure around in her mind and managed to manufacture her first 'toy' tractor. A far cry from the GPS self-driving behemoths she remembered, this was little more than a naked motor over a big barrel-sized rolling pin wheel for the most possible traction and the least possible ground compaction. She described it as a lightweight steamroller that couldn't crush a daisy, though she later had to describe what a steamroller was, and why she insisted on calling her invention a tractor even though she thought it looked like a steamroller, which Frances had endless trouble with.

It had a maximum speed of fifteen miles an hour and could easily drag logs through the woods at what Dawn calculated was a disappointing one and a quarter horse.

Intentionally a mere three feet narrow, it was capable of maneuvering down even the smallest animal path.

Still a failure to Dawn, it was a miracle to Frances.

And what astounded him the most was how quiet it was, no louder than a pack of panting dogs.

But more important than the labor it promised to save them in the garden next year was what it could do for them today, as the leaves left the trees and before the weather turned bitter cold. They loaded a cart behind it, late that night, and nestled in the sleeping twins.

Within eight short hours, the quiet little tractor emerged from the woods behind Frances' parents' house and rolled across the yard without breaking a single twig.

It stopped in front of the workshop doors as Frances got out, went inside, and opened the door while Shela backed it inside.

When dawn broke a few hours later, the kids woke to a new room and new people they had never seen before, but were desperate to be introduced to, now that the twins were nearly two.

They brought forty pounds of tea, a load of wine, and a fake cheesecake with a real blackberry topping for their two-day stay. It was one thing to see drawings of grandkids, but it was something entirely different to have a little girl stand on your lap and kiss you on the cheek. When that happened, it suddenly became real to everyone.

They left at night just as silently as they came, and under a similar cover of peaceful darkness.
**B6.C50**

Winter welcomed them to the terrible twos. But even doubled like theirs was, terrible proved anything but true. The twins loved playing with each other, adults needed to only get them started on a new game and the two would continue to play for hours. And when they tired of a particular toy, Dawn could quickly make another from her memories in just a few hours, even with her primitive, 'inferior' plastics. Often coming with some hidden lessons for the twins.

Winter was family, and Guar's attitude had completely changed when the gas got shut off again and he moved back to the attic. This year he wanted an excuse to move back in and could often be found on the floor playing Chinese checkers and blocks with the kids. And a nightcap that neither twin ever saw was all he had for the entire day. Being an uncle was changing him too, faster than even the harshest punishment ever could.

There was just something about seeing himself, reflected through a child's eyes, that changed who he wanted to be. To them and to himself.

The adults sat at the table and played cards, late into the night, as snow pounded down outside and the last of the wine was distilling over the tub. It promised to be a long night, but nobody seemed willing to join the children with a reasonable bedtime.

And for the first time in nearly two years, the topic of that night came up.

"Raise you six caramels and three mint patty cookies," Guar said, adding his wager to the tray in the center of the table. "It's been a few years already, if something was headed our way it would have been here by now." He put his cards face down in front of him, "I say we go back in town like nothing happened." He turned to Frances, "I'm just dying for a little action, you know, look at people I ain't related to again. I say their plans turned to ashes right before our eyes, and nothing more need be said or done."

Frances counted out three cookies of his own, "We've got those two to worry about, Guar. I feel your pain, Man, really I do. It's easy enough for Shela and me to play dead and hide, our lives keep going on like nothing happened. It's you two that are hit the hardest, having to stop moving forward." He leaned back, "Believe me, I feel bad for asking it of you two." He ate one cookie, put the other two back, and folded.

Dawn put down her cards, walked away from the table, and stood over the crib. She stared down into it, wiped her cheek, then came back. "I miss talking with Sally, and I wouldn't mind seeing Adora again, but there isn't anything else in town that I'd ever miss."

Shela stared her brother in the eyes. He was bluffing, but it hardly showed. She had him beat, but only knew it through her cheat. "Give me one more year, Guar. One more year to make sure all that violence has played itself out. Give me until they're three, ok? Just to be safe." She folded and let him win.

When Frances woke, he saw Dawn pacing in front of the fireplace, one of the twins in her arms, her tiny head on Dawn's shoulder. He walked over, "She alright?"

"Sylia had a little case of the hiccups, that's all," Dawn whispered as she slowly patted her tiny back. "Just got her back to sleep a few minutes ago. I thought I'd put her down when she got heavy." She stopped by the crib, but didn't put her in. "Just can't seem to. She'll never be this tiny again. Never be this age again. I'll never get to help with hiccups like this again. I put her down, and this moment is gone, forever." She paced back to the fireplace. "I would have woken both of you if it had been anything worse than hiccups." She walked to him. "A grandmother shouldn't be deprived of such simple things as hiccups in the night. You should take them to your parents more often than you do."

"We discussed that. It's possible now, thanks to you. But Shela says not every night is ideal. They have to be really really tired to sleep through a trip that long, and that's getting harder and harder to do."

Reluctantly, she tucked the little one in, right next to her twin. "I could probably modify it to go faster, but it would be a more jarring experience and a real wrestling contest to weave it between the trees. I'd have to add shocks, torsion bars, independent suspension, then you have to get into a hydraulic version of transfer cases and differentials. Without open roads, I never considered... It would have to be completely redesigned to—"

"Don't bother. It's fine just the way it is. Ain't no roads to be used between here and there anyway. Don't know what I would do with faster. Faster would be a disaster with gardens the size of ours, anyway. Don't worry about it, we'll go as often as we can. Getting there the same day is plenty fast enough for me." He sat on the bed with her. "Momma was crazy about those two. Probably never hear the end of it if we didn't see them as often as practical." He held back a laugh. "Think Dad's a little more interested in sneaking peeks at that tractor, to tell the truth." He couldn't hold it back. "But he's coming around."

Dawn rubbed her palms against her legs, rapidly at first, then slowed to a stop. "Haven't thought about that night in years. I don't like that girl that went with you. It scares me to see her so close to those little angels. Think she should be forbidden to come within a mile of such innocent babies." She rubbed her hands on her knees again. "She's far more dangerous than any of those sixteen ever were."

He put his arm across her slumped shoulders, "That wasn't none of us, that day. But that sure was who they were, every day. Those thoughts pass through my mind every now and then too. It is what it is. It was what it was." He pulled her closer, then patted her on the back. "Shela had a phrase, see if I can remember it. If you try hard enough, you can change the future, but no amount of trying can change the past." He got up, "You're the best aunt those two will ever get, not even the worst past can change that. Your sister's a smart girl too, you know." He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, and returned to his bed.

By the time spring rolled around and the last of the snow had melted, they loaded up the tractor for another midnight visit and delivered another load of wine and tea to his parents.

The girls woke in a strange home that wasn't nearly as mystifying and magical as it was last time. Nor were the girls anywhere near as shy. And for the first time, his father took a true shining to the twins when they dragged him to the workshop and begged to learn how furniture was made, much like they did with their aunt and her magical toy-making house by the pond.

But this time their visit was a day shorter than before, mostly due to weather.

They tried for once a week, but were lucky to visit once a month. But it was still far more often than most folks that lived that far apart got.

And by the time the first snows of fall came around, the girls carried back tiny chairs of their own, made with a little help from their grandpa.

As the twins turned three early that winter, Frances marveled at how uncluttered their lives were. Dawn spoiled them with new toys whenever they wanted them, if they provided the prerequisite help of course. It amounted to several toys a month. He should be hip deep in them by now, yet the floor remained bare. Their little building blocks and a few games were kept inside, everything else had a habit of finding its way outside. And once outside, they usually found their way down to the pond.

By the time winter was blowing its hardest, Guar decided he was going to spend the next few years in town. He felt like his life was stuck in nowhere, and nobody there could blame him.

It wasn't exactly fair to keep him there against his will. Besides, they now had the means to out distance most things, short of a horse, and if what Dawn said was accurate about that tiny locked box, they could holdout against an army, if worse came to worst.

That spring, when the last of the snow had melted, they said their goodbyes and let Guar take in this year's casks of wine. By travois of course, but just the last little bit of it as they kept the tractor secret for now.
**B6.C51**

"But when is Uncle Guar coming home to play with us?" Sylia said.

Shadona plopped down by her side, "He plays Chinese checkers the bestest."

"It's just best, sweetheart," Shela said, "and I'd love to play a game of checkers with the two of you. And then, maybe, we can check and see if our favorite deer has come back this year. Would you like that?"

"Yeah!" they screamed as they ran and got out the board, then quickly set it up and played a few games.

Shela knew nothing bad would happen to her brother for the first few weeks. But those weeks had already passed and now she was a little worried too. Perhaps that was starting to show and the kids were picking up on it? Shela decided to test a theory before going outside. She shuffled the deck of cards, then fanned them out, face down before the girls. "Can either of you find the queens like this?"

The girls bashfully shook no.

Shela slowly ran her finger across each one until the expression changed on Sylia's face. She flipped over the first queen, then did the same while watching Shadona. "It's ok, I've got it too. But we're the only ones in this family that do. The grandfather you've never met, my dad, is where I get it from." She put the cards up. "We'll talk about it some more, but if you ever get a bad feeling in your gut, you should always trust it." She scooped Sylia up into the air and kissed her on the belly, much to the child's screaming delight. Then she did the same to Shadona before they put on their shoes. "Know how I found your Daddy?" She whispered like it was a secret. "First time I saw him, he was all shiny, like the ripples on the pond, and it just felt right in my gut." She helped Sylia with her laces before the excited girl tied the two shoes together. "Of course, I still made him earn it." She gave Shadona a quick peck on the cheek before they ran out the door and, to none of their surprise, found their wayward deer had indeed picked this day, of all days, to return.

Dawn burst into the house late that night, smiling ear to ear. She pushed her way through the curtain and crawled across the bed. "Shela." She shook her sister, "Shela!"

"What's wrong, Dawn?" Frances said, waking but realizing a little too late he was naked.

Dawn threw a hug around him, "I did it! I was able to crack Kevlar!" She let go of him, "Well, actually, it probably isn't Kevlar. I don't have any of the equipment needed to verify an exact match, but it behaves like Kevlar and that may be as good as—"

She was already talking entirely too fast for him to follow. He should have been more upset at the intrusion than he was, but the twins had broken him of that already. "What— I don't have any idea what Kevlar is, Dawn. I'm sure it's as impressive as a steamroller—"

"It's not a steamroller, it's just configured like one. It's a tractor and there's no steam involved in— Doesn't matter. Kevlar is a key aramid. With it I may be able to replicate the pressure characteristics of steel without sacrificing the thermal conductivity of—"

"Honey," Frances said, patting Shela on the back, but she didn't wake. "Dawn, I have no idea what you're saying. But I can see you're excited, I know it's a breakthrough for you. But unless you can scream like a three-year-old, she's probably not going to wake. She's gotten so she can sleep through anything, and we did a little celebrating of our own last night." He gestured drinking.

Dawn sat back and stared at him. "You're naked," she said, then covered her mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright," he said. "I can't believe that it is alright, but it is. When two kids catch you enough times, you get over some things." He gestured toward the kitchen. "I'll get dressed and we can get something to celebrate your success with. I think we have some real cheesecake left in that ice box of yours."

Dawn got it out while he tried to clothe what Dawn had already seen. They talked until the sun rose, but he wasn't able to follow much of her hexagonal benzene rings or terephthalic this and polymer that. He did understand her reason to celebrate. It took plastic to another level, out of the limited realm of toys she had, nonetheless, managed to change his world with already.

As the morning light filled the room, Dawn touched a shiny spot on the back of his hand, then rubbed it between her fingers. "You two use up that jar yet?"

"What's in that jar?" Frances asked, having never gotten a good answer from Shela.

"Momma's recipe. It prevents pregnancy, but it does it in a very special way, the only way that will work for Sis, by preventing them from swimming. I can make some more, if you're out. Judging by where it is on your hand, you're near the bottom of the jar."

He was almost mad, but kept his voice down. "You know how many people in town would pay anything just to have dozens of kids? Populations nearly collapsed down to nothing because people are struggling to— And she's preventing it."

"She wants two kids. No more, no less, Frances. Always has, always will. She wanted to be pregnant just the once, then focus on being a mom. She wants to raise them here. In this house. The same house she grew up in. Now, you might be able to talk her into moving back to town, but you're not going to talk her into more kids. And this isn't in town. And your kids aren't like other kids." She leaned in like it was a secret. "None of her kids, or their kids, or their kids, will have fertility problems. None of them."

He slapped the table. "You can't possibly know that."

"I might or might not have reinvented Kevlar. I'll never know for sure. But if it isn't Kevlar, it's very close. I know my sister. I know my mom. And I know those sweet kids of yours." She gestured to the tiny, one-room home. "Besides, where would you put more children?" She paused while he fumed. "She loves you, but she'll probably leave you before she'd have more kids. I wouldn't have this fight with her. Besides, the town's math is all wrong anyway. It doesn't apply."

She calmly went over the equations for him over the next few minutes. The town and school had distorted his views, placing a high value on boys that carried on the family name and a disposable value on girls. With a simple example, she proved how flawed that thinking was. Everyone raising pigs or hunting deer knew that if the deer population was low, you hunted only the bucks until it rebounded again. But if populations were too high, you hunted does too. As long as there were some bucks left every year, the number of bucks killed each year could stay the same for centuries without harming the population. The total number of next season's deer was determined, almost exclusively, by the number of does. Generally speaking, you could kill boys with impunity or leave them entirely alone and it would have no impact on the population available for next hunting season. However, killing a large number of does every year would quickly drive the entire herd into extinction.

The same math worked for wars as well.

She recounted the hundred-year war for him and showed, with math, that it could have casualty rates as high as 95% and still last for thousands of years, so long as it only killed men. In fact, the populations could continue to grow, even in the face of such staggering losses, so long as all the women survived.

But that had always been the strange math behind wars.

A war was where you kill men.

A genocide was where you kill women.

Even explained, the couple still had their biggest fight later that day while the twins played down by the pond with Aunt Dawn. It was nearly criminal to prevent pregnancies, the worst sin anyone could do, and he wanted no parts of it. For him, it was worse than murder.

And it kept coming up for the next two months, until he finally realized what Dawn had told him from the beginning, and Shela bluntly drove home at the end of their last argument. He could have sex and no more children, not have sex and still have no more children, or leave and do whatever he wanted without her. But Shela's mind on the matter was not subject to change.

He had to change his, and a decade of bad schooling was difficult to overcome.

But eventually he did, later that fall.

Their arguing overshadowed all the attachments Dawn made to the tractor, now capable of digging rows of potatoes out of the ground, breaking up the soil with ease, spreading fertilizer, and delivering carts of produce to the gas kiln for drying. The biggest problem was the way they gardened wasn't optimized for being mechanically worked, and in the mountains that wasn't very likely to change. Mechanical means required long, straight rows that their place couldn't provide. But what it could provide was proof that her designs worked in the dirt as well as they worked on paper. The garden was another lab to Dawn.

But the tractor and implementation market was small, even in these parts. Because of the long distances, most grew all their greens in small gardens that couldn't benefit from her designs. The few big farms, like the Duncans', grew the surplus for those that didn't garden at all and lived within a short walk of town.

People like Sally, that busied themselves selling inedible things, were dependent on farms like the Duncans' for food. And the Duncans were dependent on large influxes of seasonal labor to man those farms. It was potentially another nest of bees, just without such lethal stingers.

As wonderful as her invention was, it had drawbacks. First, hers ran on methanol. Methanol was easy for her to make as a byproduct of the digester, but to Frances' best guess, their digester was the only one he had ever seen, and methanol was just another new word to him. Dawn could adapt it to run on wood and kindling, but it wouldn't be as efficient and would be much harder to operate. Methanol could be easily made from stalks and other things commonly found on a farm, but that added another layer of complications to using and owning one.

And the tractor took a solid twenty minutes to warm up to full power and could be temperamental.

Ease of use and ease of repair often ran contrary to each other. This was no exception. Dawn could spend another few years refining this design and make it easier to use, but by the time she'd be done, the machine would be so complex that it might be impossible for anyone else to repair.

With enough encouragement, Dawn declared tractors a victory and moved on to other things.

And as fall was around the twins birthday, that something was toys.

Shela walked into the greenhouse and picked six fresh tomatoes and two cucumbers.

She soaked in the warmth as she looked out the Plexiglas at the snow. Some panes gave it streaks of yellow, others gave it a slight greenish brown tint. A few panes had bubbles and ripples, but almost half were as clear as the best glass she had ever seen. Dawn had tried and tried and tried again on the processes and chemistry of this glass until at last she had nearly perfected it, though still short of 'optical grade' as yet. Most windows in town were composed of panes no wider or taller than a common sheet of paper. These were three feet wide and nearly eight feet tall, a marvel in itself.

The all-Plexiglas building she stared out of was breathtaking. It was like a little oasis in the snow.

She finished filling her basket with bell peppers and fresh oregano, then braced for her quick run across the snow and back inside.

Fresh vegetables in winter was the best gift she had ever received and had revolutionized the meals she made. Gone were the soups and breads of old. And sprouts, as good as they were, were no match for the real thing. She paused, hand on the door, still in her oasis of summer in the middle of winter, and pondered the other oasis around her. She had the life her mother had cherished, two fantastic little girls, and a husband that loved her. And a sister, best friend, and grandmother all rolled into one.

She left this Plexiglas oasis for another one, just as warm.

The twins, however, were enthralled by a small, transparent, working version of Dawn's engine and other interesting devices of educational significance. At just barely four, the twins could explain every mysterious move transpiring inside each of the various boxes. Often with some of the same relentless enthusiasm Dawn exhibited over such things.

Winter play took on a more educational underpinning when Dawn moved back to the house again.

Kevlar, as excited as Dawn was about it last year, failed to live up to expectations. It proved to be a most temperamental material to work with and was only capable of compacting the size of her engine by seventy-two percent. A staggering number, to be sure, but it still left her best Kevlar-enhanced version at a modest twelve horses and as big as a barrel.

It was as far as she could go with the materials at hand, and it simply wasn't far enough... yet.

So she changed strategies as she aimed for the sky, next summer.
**B6.C52**

At four, even the most well behaved twins in the world didn't tolerate an eight-hour trip to anywhere without turning the experience into a nightmare that would punish everyone around them for days.

Trips to the grandparents were out for the foreseeable future.

Shela lit the fuses, then ran to the brick bunker to hide with the twins.

Whoooooooshhhhhh!!

Whooooot

Whoooot

Whooot

Whoot

Whoot

WhoWhoWho...

The twins peeked through the missing block in the wall, then poked at Dawn. "It's working," they said.

Dawn pulled the string, and leaves and twigs plastered the outside of the brick bunker.

"It's working, it's working!" the twins yelled, hardly able to contain themselves.

Dawn relaxed the string and the sudden burst of wind subsided seconds later. The girls jumped to their feet, but Dawn grabbed each by the waist and kept them from leaving the safety of the bunker. "Every experiment has risks. We have to assess the risks of this one. Sylia, what's the risk here?"

Sylia put back on her safety glasses and looked through the missing block. "Flying debris?"

"Sure, that's one," Dawn said, turning to Shadona.

Shadona looked. "Fire, it's still sparkling."

"Good," Dawn said. "Both right answers. Both are obvious answers. But there are hidden dangers too. Whoever can tell me the worst hidden danger can take a turn pulling on the string."

The twins smiled at each other, then looked out the blocks. "Catastrophic failure!" they yelled in unison.

"Very good," Dawn said. "Now, what do you imagine that might look like?"

Sylia sat back and went "Booommmm!" as she flailed her arms in the air.

Shadona swung her arms like flying hatchets.

Dawn smiled at them both, "How did your mom ever find such smart girls?"

The twins bashfully looked down.

Dawn handed Sylia the string first. "How could we figure how big of a boom?"

Sylia paused. "By how thick you made this bunker?"

Dawn laughed. Of course that was right, but still the wrong answer. "That's cheating off of me figuring it out first. How would you figure it out if you needed to make a bunker for your experiment?"

Sylia tugged the string and it revved a windy ruckus again. "By how much fuel it burns?"

Dawn kissed her on the forehead, "Very good. Explosive nature is best guessed by how much fuel and air are present. But for safety, you should always multiply that. Being further away, like by controlling it with strings, will also give you some protection too. But some experiments, like this one, have a lot of unknowns in them. For example, there could be a lot of nitrogen molecules or hydrogen bubbles in the plastics that might add to its explosive content." She turned to Shadona. "And how would you make your calculations?"

Shadona looked puzzled, but it didn't last long. "Rotation speed?"

"Right," Dawn said, giving her a turn with the string and a kiss on the forehead. "And we can make some good guesses there too. The weight of the blades is a big factor."

"Centraptical force?" Sylia said.

"Centrifugal, but very good," Dawn said as the wind roared under Shadona's tug. "Now, knowing those two dangers, how did I make this experiment safer?"

Shadona relaxed the string. "The spinning blades are aimed away from us."

"Very good," Dawn said. "As long as it stays aimed like it is, the worst that should hit this bunker is leaves and twigs. A broken blade should never be able to hit us here, but it's always better to have the bunker, just in case."

Sylia gave the string a tug. "Tiny fuel tank."

"Very good," Dawn said as the twins continued to play, revving and relaxing it until it ran out of fuel just a few moments later.

They walked over and the lesson continued. "Now, how is this different than the fans in the house?" Dawn asked, hand on the blade.

"It's plastic," Sylia said.

Dawn giggled with them, "Sure, that's one way. But how is it functionally different?"

Shadona plucked it with her finger. "The blades are hollow."

"That's right. But why are these hollow?"

The twins looked puzzled.

Dawn pointed them to the tiny carburetor connected by a pipe to the axis of the blades. "The blades in the house are driven externally by belts and a motor and can't spin nearly as fast as this just did. This design builds the motor into the blades themselves. This is a primitive version of what was once called tip jets. When the blades turn," she gave it a spin by hand, then gestured toward the opening on the carburetor, "air inside the blades is centrifugally pushed to the tips. That sucks air through the carburetor where a tiny bit of fuel is added and carried out to the tips, where a small jet engine is mounted on the blade. You can feel it pulling air, can't you?"

The twins nodded and giggled.

"Now, a traditional tip jet vents hot exhaust through the blades. But plastic doesn't handle hot very well, so we can't do that."

"It'd meltify it," Sylia said.

"That's right," Dawn continued. "These suck cool air and a little fuel through the blades, that's all. I built the hot jet part on the blade tips, and not out of plastic but a foamy ceramic. These are a few horses at best and each weigh less than a pound. Anything much bigger and it would be too heavy for the blade to support. And this design requires a kickstart to a minimum speed of thirty miles per hour with those solid rockets before the jets can even start to function. It's a difficult balance to get started, but once started, as you saw, it works really well."

"Yaaa!" the twins yelled and danced around the test stand as they celebrated the victory. Dawn had a way of making them feel a part of every solution, and a part of the team.

Even if they were actually slowing her down.

But that was only important if all she was doing is inventing.

They went through six small-scale prototypes during the summer. Each conventional variable-pitch design she remembered failed, one catastrophically. Only the fixed-pitch blades proved rugged enough to rely on, and only one jet engine produced enough power to meet her minimum needs, while still being light enough to sit on the blades.

The calculations were difficult, but the sums were inescapable.

Weight to lift ratios were universal, with or without metals, and she simply didn't have the power to build the conventional. Her best Kevlar engine was fine for a tractor but too slow, bulky, and heavy to get in the air. Airplanes needed landing strips to take off and land. That left only one practical application for her evolving technology.

Just like her blades weren't a true 'tip jet' design, neither was her tiny helicopter a true helicopter. Her main blades were configured more like the autogyros of her past, and it could land like one if the main rotor ever failed. But her main rotor was capable of generating what she guessed was a modest twenty horses, enough to slowly lift its tiny frame and about five hundred pounds of people, fuel, and cargo into the air.

The tail rotor was of a similar 'tip jet' design and added another ten horses to the equation. Vastly oversized to fight counter rotation, it, again, went against typical helicopter convention and leaned heavily on the autogyro. Since she had reached another inherent limit of plastics, she redesigned the tail rotor to pivot (yaw) 180 degrees. On takeoffs and landings it idled slowly and worked to fight counter rotation like the traditional helicopters of Dawn's past. But once in the air it throttled up and shifted to blow out the back and drive the craft like a typical autogyro, or a Wright brothers' plane.

It wasn't fancy, but it was the best she could do with what she had. A traditional airplane would have been easier to build, but far less useful considering runways were required on both ends. This, more difficult to build and operate design, just needed a clearing on both ends, no bigger than the average yard.

Dawn circled the pond at two hundred feet, then took a leisurely pass over the gardens before drifting over the house and landing by the pond within inches of where she started.

The twins came running down from the house, screaming with joy at what looked like a flawless maiden flight.

Shela intercepted both before they could even get close, "Where do you two think you're going?"

"Aunty Dawn! Aunty Dawn!" the twins yelled, jumping up and down.

"She's your aunt, I'm your mom. Now, it's very exciting to see someone flying in the air, but there's no way either of you are going for a—"

"But Momma!" the twins cried like she had just administered a sound beating to both of them.

"Honey, I know you helped her build it," Shela said, squatting to be on their level. "My sister can risk her life all she wants. But I'm not going to let either of you risk your lives. That's not what mommies ever do. You can swim in the pond, you can help her build things, all that is exciting and fun too. But it isn't death defying. I don't even let you pet the deer unless one of us adults is there. That's because a deer, even one as nice as ours, can still kill you if they lose control. My job is keeping you two safe." She grabbed each by the hand as they slowly walked down to the pond, giving Dawn plenty of time to stop the blades. "Just because I'm not going to let you ride, doesn't mean we can't go down and congratulate your favorite aunt on her great success."

Shela read the children, read Dawn, and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was perfectly safe and no harm would come to any of them. But nonetheless, "No. I don't care. My babies are not going to float hundreds of feet off the ground on wings made from termite farts."

The twins, hearing those words, cried themselves to the verge of tantrums.

Dawn tried to put herself between Shela's ear and the screaming, 'unfair' of pouting twins. "I was a pilot before, you know. Maybe even the best in the world. I would never let anything happen to them. It's actually a very safe design."

"Don't care, Sis. The idea—"

"It should be able to take two adults, or one adult and two children, to their grandparents in less than an hour. Maybe even three adults, but that might be pushing it."

There was just something horrifying about that idea to Shela that she couldn't let go of. "Bring the grandparents here, then. But my babies don't fly. Not until they're old enough to understand the consequences of falling from that high."
**B6.C53**

Sylia sat in the tiny chair. She fastened the belt around her lap, then one across each shoulder. She checked the stick and her foot pedals, then pulled the release.

The helicopter started slow, blades twirling, but it quickly picked up speed as it shot down through the woods. Sylia wrestled with the stick, but she was already in an uncontrollable spin! Left pedal, right pedal, the helicopter thrashed left, then right, now she was whizzing backwards at breakneck speed!

She cut through the trees so fast the branches blurred like snowflakes in a bliz—

Booom!

Splash!

She crashed in the pond.

Waist deep in water, she unfastened herself, then waded to shore.

"My turn!" Shadona proclaimed as the two each grabbed a rope and pulled the crashed bird out of the water and along the zip-line path back up through the woods.

The controls, though a toy, were designed to give 'some' training and responded very similarly to how the actual aircraft would handle, if it lost power. The rotors, though real looking, were made like the rest of it, out of a soft, flexible, buoyant foam. And if they managed to work the controls right, they were promised that it would actually generate enough lift by the time it reached the pond to land on the other side.

Neither had accomplished that lofty feat, not that they lacked the trying.

The girls had dragged it up and ridden it down a dozen times every day since the line was installed. Both dripping wet in excitement and getting better with each attempt.

Even out of control was loads of fun, to them.

Unlike the slow-moving tractor, a helicopter, or Dawn's version of it, could not be used during foul weather or low visibility. That ruled out night trips. Even living as remote as they did, somebody was sure to notice her flying around eventually.

An appearance was inevitable.

It might as well be spectacular.

Dawn did one lap around the town at five hundred feet, a second at seven hundred with everyone crowded out into the streets, and a third at a thousand before she broke off to follow one of the paths down to the grandparents' house, where she cut the thrust and drifted down in the center of the yard, first thing that morning, last month of summer.

As the rotors spun to a stop, she cut the fuel from the tank, then unstrapped a terrified Frances in the passenger side. "You alright?"

His hands wouldn't unclench the seat.

"It's all right, Frances, we're on the ground again. We're at your parents house." She patted him on the trembling knee. "You're going to be fine. Lots of people are afraid of heights and flying. Both at one time can be a lot to take in. There's even words for it, aerophobia, acrophobia, and vertigo, just to name a few." She patted him on the shoulder. "Most people get over it with a little practice. Can't think of anyone that isn't a little afraid that first time. A couple hours under your belt, you might even start to like it." She patted him on the shoulder again. "Come on, let's go meet your parents."

He unclenched, then rubbed his sore hands enough to remove the goggles from his eyes. "Give me a minute." He tried to straighten his posture, then noticed the grass inches under his feet. When his heart stopped pounding in his chest and he could finally catch his breath, he took his first step on solid ground. His parents, of course, were already out of their house and standing a safe distance from the strange contraption parked in their yard. "Mom, Dad, this is Shela's sister, Dawn." He gestured with a shaky hand, "Dawn, that's my dad, William, and my mom, Alicia."

Dawn shook both their hands.

"Shela said you built that tractor," William said.

"Built this too, with a little help from my nieces," Dawn said, then grabbed a bag out of the basket and walked toward the house.

"Yes, well, I wouldn't know about that," William said, "haven't seen them in what seems like years."

Dawn paused when she walked inside, opened her jacket, then took it off and hung it by the door. "Babies can sleep through an eight-hour bumpy ride through the woods in the middle of the night. Not even possible at this age." She pulled off her gloves and shoved them in her jacket pocket. "But I can leave Frances here and fly one of you there."

"Why not fly them here?" Alicia asked as she closed the door behind Frances.

"Well, Mom," Frances said, "Shela won't allow them to fly." He plopped down on the couch and put his head in his hands. "And I can't say I blame her. It's an adult choice. Adults understand the risks in being that high off the ground. Kids don't."

"Risks?" Alicia said, "What risks?"

"Well," William said, "it's a mechanical thing, like all mechanical things I suspect. Like working with tools, there's always a chance you'll get cut, lose a finger or hand."

"It's as safe as I can make it," Dawn said as she looked around the room at all their fancier, intricately carved things. "Falling from a tractor would hurt, might even break some bones, but falling from that would be much less survivable. It's not the odds of something bad happening, it's the consequences if they ever do that gives Sis pause. I can take one of you back, but I have to let it cool down first. Take twenty minutes, maybe." She straightened some of the items on the shelf. "You like the washing machine?"

"Oh yes," Alicia said. "Doesn't always do as good a job as doing it by hand, but you just run it through again. Anything beats the old way of doing it."

"We can be there in an hour," Dawn said. "Whichever one of you wants to go, Sylia and Shadona are growing like weeds and will be glad to see you. Taking you to them is the only way Sis is going to allow it." She leaned her back against the wall. "Don't have to go today. I know it's a lot to take in."

"I'll go," William said.

"It have room for three?" Alicia asked.

"It doesn't right now," Dawn said. "By the math, it should be able to handle the weight of three people, but it's getting it balanced that's the problem. The third person would have to ride in back, and there isn't really a back right now, just a basket for cargo." She handed over the package of teas, a big block of deer cheese, and a bottle of their house wine.

Dawn did a large circle over their property from the air, then landed by the pond where there was the most room without crushing crops. Within feet of the passenger seat, William got pummeled by twins yelling "Grand-Pea!" Each grabbed a separate thumb of his and dragged him along on a tour of what he obviously came to see, their toys. And their toys were everywhere, taking hours.

When the twins were tuckered out, Dawn introduced him to the usefulness of the tractor and her attachments that could separate a row of potatoes and beets from the dirt quicker than he could walk beside it.

And he immediately saw how to convert it into profits.

Selling them was a market of just a few rich, big farmers. None of the smaller farms could ever hope to afford such a thing. But rentals, deliveries, and a town-to-town shuttle service could make ten times as much because they could get a little money from everyone, not just an awful lot from a very rich few.

Dawn didn't much like the greed on display, but it also had a benevolent side, however unintended. For a modest amount, a minuscule fraction of what buying one might cost, someone could benefit from using it for a few hours without the burden of owning it for years.

But she would have to make more. William figured two for each town, so a total of six to start.

Building tractors all day for the next few years was not what Dawn had in mind. She was done frustrating over tractors and had no interest wasting her time making more. If she was going to invest the next few years into anything, it would be into her nieces or the air, not something she had already abandoned.

Unfortunately, her workshop was the only one capable of making the raw materials needed. Termites had yet to catch on, and digesters were even more rare. And Kevlar proved especially tricky, but was key to making the engines reasonably sized and powerful enough to meet his needs.

After arguing well into the night, they came up with a plan that should work for both parties. Dawn would make the precursors and other exotic raw materials and specialized engine parts from the 'termite farts', as the twins and Shela called it, and deliver them to William where he would make the rest of the tractors and equipment from more conventional milkweed latex and wood.

His business, after all, had blossomed since he added mattresses, pillows, and cushions to his inventory. He had even become prosperous enough that he could buy back a failing business closer to town, the very one he had been swindled out of just a few years ago. Should he 'invest' their royalty percentages instead of depositing them, he could buy it and hire a crew specifically for tractor manufacturing, saving Dawn an enormous amount of labor.

Unfortunately, as it was nearing fall and would soon be winter again, they wouldn't have the excess 'farts' to make the volume of plastic he needed for six tractors. The yield numbers simply wouldn't allow for it. Even switching back to burning wood for heat, they'd only make enough plastic to build two or three tractors a year. Taxing their digesters and equipment to their fullest, they maybe could make enough raw pellets for one come spring, should winter prove to be mild instead of brutally cold.

The math just wouldn't allow his more ambitious plans.

When he flew home the next morning he had two business partners with actual shares instead of just royalties and percentages. And a fondness for fish.

As fall got colder and colder, Dawn put away her helicopter. The wind chill of flying in the open, like it was, would have been so brutal as to make even the shortest hop nearly a lethal experience, not to mention that plastics in general had a tendency to get brittle in that much cold.

It was really only a warm-weather craft.
**B6.C54**

With the return of spring, Frances made his first delivery to his father's newly reacquired, old workshop near town, stopping to drop off this year's wine and teas for auction along the way.

To manufacture the engine cylinders required specialized skills and equipment that woodworkers simply wouldn't have been familiar with. Not to mention working with Kevlar was more difficult than she trusted them with. So critical engine parts came from Dawn prefabricated and more or less ready to assemble.

But since it was expensive to staff and train a crew for the several months it would take before even the first tractor — and its profits — rolled out the door, Frances had to leave theirs behind and find another way home.

William had it booked for weeks already delivering the furniture they made over winter, not to mention the custom-made mattresses to people who were ready to pay a little extra for same-day service.

Dawn landed in the street beside William's workshop, but didn't shut off the blades, idling them instead. Frances crawled across the ground, strapped himself in, and they slowly climbed back into the air and headed for home.

A week and a half of walking had turned into eight hours with the tractor, and turned again into a few terrifying minutes with her helicopter. He kept his eyes closed this time, and it wasn't nearly as bad.

Dawn apologized for how slow it was, but explained she simply couldn't get more out of plastics.

Faster than this his heart couldn't take.

Their first year of building tractors saw Dawn flying into town at least once a week and staying for most of the day, making sure the tricky assemblies and fabrication processes were followed precisely. Her notes and instructions were highly detailed, but important and obvious aspects tended to get overlooked or ignored by others.

She was learning the hard way how much, and how little, the town's schools taught, and would have to adjust future manuals accordingly. She had used William's level of woodworking skills as her benchmark. That had proved to be an overly generous estimation of the talent pool the town had to offer.

But as the cold of fall threatened them again, she had another mission in mind. She flew the helicopter to the mountain that had always haunted her past.

She had made a detailed map of the underground complex, as much of it as she had remembered, and had several key areas she wanted to explore.

This time she came prepared with explosives that weren't improvised from the rusting junk of their surroundings, but tailor made to blow open reinforced doors.

She blasted away for two exhausting days before flying home.

But never spoke of it to anyone.
**B6.C55**

By the time the twins were ten, Dawn was entering her early thirties and the world around them had drastically changed. William's business was thriving so much he had opened stores in two other towns. His line of milkweed processing equipment was second to none and more desirable than even his most popular bedroom set.

His rental tractors had kicked dozens out of the hardest, sweatiest work around, but had at the same time nearly cut the price of food, and the cost of living, in half. Trade and travel between towns had never been better, and thanks to his tiny fleet of tractors, they now had well-maintained, actual roads, thanks to lucrative contracts with the three governments.

He had contracts with pig farmers to run their poop through his digesters first. The farmers got free gaslights, winter heating, and fertilizers. William got his much needed supply of methanol and assorted precursors to add new products to his ever-expanding plastics lines.

Dawn inserted the four specialized rockets into the jet engines on the blades, then lit their fuses and hurried back to her seat. "You two ready?"

The twins grinned, goggles pulled down.

"Don't open your mouths," Dawn warned as she fastened herself in, then flipped on the gas. "Bugs can fly pretty high, and you don't want to accidentally swallow one at sixty miles an hour."

The twins laughed and made yucky spitting gestures as the rockets lit in random order.

The blades slowly nudged to life under their furious, short lives. But it was always just enough thrust to get the jets going. They puffed smoky pops and sputtered at first as the air they sucked through the carburetors was overly rich until the tips of the blades reached the minimum thirty miles per hour, dozens of long seconds later.

The sputtering hesitation smoothed to a strong, confident wind as the miniature jets breathed new life.

Dawn throttled the main rotor and dozens of seconds later the rails inched off the grass and they had officially left the ground. Rising just a few inches per second at first, it slowly rotated counter-clockwise as it climbed and Dawn struggled to keep the two throttles synced.

"This is the most difficult part," Dawn shouted over the wind. "Even I struggle with it from time to time. As a helicopter, it's way underpowered. Relying on just the main rotor to get you out of a clearing will take you a frustratingly long time, inches per second is the best it can do. And you have to manually moderate both throttles to keep it from rotating. On the ones I grew up with, they used one engine and a transmission that synchronized both blades automatically, and we had better control with variable-pitch blades, none of which I can do. But this isn't a traditional helicopter, and we can cheat with this design and treat it more like an airplane." She waited until they were six feet off the ground and aimed out over the wide-open pond before straightening the tail rotor and thrusting them forward.

The spinning stopped and the climbing rate doubled as both motors were now working together. But even climbing this fast, it wasn't going to be enough to clear the trees. Dawn tossed in her final trick, putting it into a gradual spiral over the pond, like it was climbing some invisible staircase into the sky.

Within a very long five minutes of giant circles, they had finally cleared the tallest tree and started building speed toward the town.

"The main rotor's twenty horses is just barely enough to get it off the ground. To really work as a helicopter, it needs more like fifty horses. And that's just something I can't do," Dawn yelled as her primitive speedometer climbed over sixty miles per hour, and still accelerating.

The twins were not like their father. They showed no fear and screamed with joy as they took turns elbowing each other and pointing out points of interest they had only seen from the ground.

This was their first trip in the air.

Their first trip over town.

And their first week spent with their "Grand-Pea".

Shadona opened the icebox and stared, "Grand-Pea, where do you keep the milk?"

Sylia touched the tiny dripping block of ice. "What's wrong with your refrigerator? Did it slip a ring?"

Alicia walked into the kitchen and closed the door. "It's not broken. We don't have any milk, it's way too expensive. All we keep in the icebox is meat, some leftovers, and an occasional bottle of cold tea and eggs. Would you like some tea?"

Shadona looked incredibly disappointed, on the verge of throwing a pout.

Sylia pressed her ear to the door. "I can't hear it. Is it on a reset? Usually you can at least hear something, like a pulse. I think it's broken, Grandmamma."

"It's not broken," Alicia said. "Come, I'll show you." She led the twins out back to a large box on the shady side of the house. She opened the big doors, "See, that's our icebox. On the coldest evenings of winter, I come out and pour buckets of water into that trough, where it freezes over by morning and I break them out and chunk them into that box so we'll have some of winter's cold to fight summer's heat." She grabbed a block, closed the doors, and carried it back inside where she added it to the dripping sliver in the icebox.

Sylia looked puzzled. "Mommy's runs off of gas and just sits there, making cold all day." She looked at the windows. "You don't have gas lamps either."

Alicia dried her hands on the towel. "Don't have gas."

"Where's Grand-Pea?" Shadona asked after coming back from the living room.

"He's at work by now, his shop in town."

"Can we go?" Sylia asked.

"Why didn't he take us?" Shadona asked.

"He left very early in the morning," Alicia said, "long before you two woke up."

"Can we play in the shop?" Sylia said.

"We know how to make rocking chairs!" Shadona cheered in.

"Those tools are very sharp and dangerous," Alicia said. "Grandpa is always coming in with nicks and cuts and scratches and bruises. Pretty girls shouldn't have those." She got out the fixings for some sandwiches. "I thought after we eat we could go into town and take in a band. You two ever seen a band before?"

Alicia had their full attention as she went on to describe something they had never seen, but were excited to learn more about.

They couldn't stop talking about the band or singing the songs the rest of the day.

And after some pleading, the twins got to work in his new shop, where it was grandpa's turn to learn just how handy the twins could be.

They knew how to build everything he was building, most out of memory. And they knew how to read Dawn's drawings, and how to work with all the plastics he had been using, as well as the Kevlars he was not. They knew all the tricks to making molds, and how to keep the plastics from sticking to them.

They even knew how to make molds from molds to make mass-production really zing along.

By the end of their stay, he had changed his opinion of what little girls could, and couldn't, do.

He had thought bright girls like Dawn were rare.

He had thought independent women like Sally were unusual.

But he was finding that his expectations had colored years of his thinking. His granddaughters were raised with high expectations, and they came to him filled with wonder and much smarter than he would have ever conceived.

If given a chance, girls could invent. They could do advanced math. They could even build rocking chairs, and quite skillfully so. He was beginning to think he had misjudged quite a many things, least of which were girls.

And now that he had seen so many preconceived molds shatter before his eyes, by girls in his own bloodline, he was finding it difficult to cling to his old positions anymore. Positions he had been raised on, trusted all his life.

There were just some things girls couldn't do.

Or were there?

The men in the shop had resented taking orders and instructions from Dawn and it had taken years of resentful stubbornness before they came to consider her a peer.

It took only one summer for the twins to garner that same level of respect from the very same men.

Men that were easily twice their age.
**B6.C56**

Shela walked into Dawn's workshop and looked at the dizzying array of books consuming an entire shelf, floor to ceiling, while Dawn typed away on yet another. "You ok, Sis? Twins haven't seen you all this week. Just because they're newly teenagers doesn't mean they don't like seeing their favorite aunt."

"I know," Dawn whispered without taking a break, "I just have to get this down before my mind drifts away to something else. It's an awful lot to forget, and never be remembered again."

Shela skimmed the titles. Most looked like courses, some had grade levels. Organic chemistry 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Genetic plant manipulation corn, milkweed, peas, pinto beans, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, honey melons, rice. She pulled corn and leafed through it, mostly illustrated. "What is this?"

Dawn paused, then looked. "I'm not as smart as I once was." She left the typing to look over her sister's shoulder. "Once I could predict the traits and mutations a plant would exhibit all the way along a forty-generation evolutionary journey to something nature never intended it to be. I can't anymore." She wiggled her fingers, then tapped her left temple. "But it can. It's been manipulating my genes for generations. Designed almost perfectly to do just that. Those little tweaks are why I'm just a little dumber instead of nearly insane now, like my genes would have preferred. I was able to hack it, and tasked it to cure these things for me. Cure them from the green night sky, give them bigger yields, more nutritious, need less water, tastier." She smiled at the floor like the shy little girl of their past. "Rice that can bloom during winter, thrive in two feet of snow, no greenhouse required. It's more a matter of tricking it into turning some things on, and turning off others, than it is writing new code. Rearrange the words it already knows." She looked up. "It tickles back the answers. But it takes a lot of time to turn tickles into drawings that detailed. Takes a lot of concentration, too."

Shela flipped to the back, "It's a hundred sixty generations for corn. That'll take centuries of dedication to see it through to the end."

"Longer than that, I'm afraid. Ironically, breeding a plant to be resistant to green years can't be done during green years. So you have to add ten or twenty years to every hundred plant generations. Greenhouses add another complication, too."

"We're having a green year this year."

"Yeah, I know," Dawn said, pointing out her sunspot tracker in the corner. "I predicted it last spring." She flipped through her sunspot notebook, "See here? I gave it a 96% chance. I thought for sure I told you when I discovered the telling flares and sunspot pattern of the new cycle. I have some theories on why it didn't come sooner than—" She shook her head, "Doesn't matter. I can predict them almost a year in advance, that's the important part. I'll never live long enough to see these cures bred into plants." She pulled the one labeled milkweed. "Ten fold as much latex and twenty-two times the stalk fibers per acre. Says it'll grow to be ten feet tall in a single season. I'd love to be around to see that," She put it back. "But I should pass within the next five." She paced back to the table and the typewriter. "There's so much useful information that will die with me. I just don't have the time. There's not nearly enough time." She looked down. "Where did it all go? There isn't enough time to write it all down, not all of the thoughts crowding my head. It would take dozens of lifetimes. There isn't enough time with my nieces, I remember delivering them like it was yesterday. Teens, overnight. There isn't enough time with my sister. There isn't enough time to invent, to feel ideas become real in my hands. They aren't real on any of this... this paper of pretend. There isn't enough time—"

"To just have fun. To enjoy your life. Dawn, this isn't your duty to fix these things. You're under no obligation to do anything like this, no matter how noble or helpful it may eventually be." She put the book back. "When was the last time you took in a play or listened to a band, or just spent the day fishing?"

"Last year, or maybe the year before."

"Let's you and I go in town tonight. We'll go see whatever's playing. We'll eat what someone else cooked for once, let them do the dishes, and we'll get drunk off our asses and sleep it off in the Inn. Then catch up with Sally the next morning, or whenever we drag ourselves out of bed."

Dawn ran her fingers across the keys. "What if I forget?"

Shela stood beside her, "Go ahead and forget it. Lets go remember you."

Dawn flew the helicopter in and landed it in the street near Sally's store, where the two rolled it out of the way before going inside. Sally had aged and no longer bothered dying her hair. Not that white didn't suit her.

"What's the latest with the twins?" Sally said. "They going to be pilots like their aunt?"

Dawn smiled. "Their mother insists on taking it extra slow, no more than ten feet off the ground for now. But they're very promising. They have excellent reflexes and good instincts, just like their mom."

"What's playing tonight?" Shela asked.

"You picked an excellent time," Sally said, flipping open her notebook. "It's a comedy by the traveling Endsters, and tomorrow is the band Perry, two brothers and a tiny sister with the biggest voice I've ever heard, one of the most popular tours around." She closed the notes. "I guess congratulations are in order. Your brother's getting married."

Dawn sat, hand on her stomach.

"He had asked the girl to marry him," Sally continued, "hasn't been confirmed yet, of course, but it's from a reliable source. I expected that was what brought you two in."

"To who?" Dawn whispered.

"One of the retired town girls. Moved to Bestoms, last I heard." Sally opened the book again, "Emily Astone, but her father disowned her years ago. Funny that. He accepted years of her wages to save his farm, and shuns her with the other hand." She sighed, "Strange, sad, familiar tale that is. Interviewed a few of the girls back when it was newly legalized. Most were doing it to help out a family that disapproved of them."

Shela put her hand on her sister's shoulder. "Explains why we didn't hear much from him these last few years. Bestoms isn't that far by air. When was the wedding for?"

Sally shrugged, "Doubt it was going to be anything more than signing their names before a judge. At least, that was my impression."

Shela pulled her sister in for a hug. "It's good he found some happiness, isn't it?"

Dawn returned the embrace. "Of course it is. Just wish he had sent word somehow."

Sally pointed to the other room. "You have a best seller, kid. Your green year farmer's handbook has gone into its twentieth printing, finding a new market in two other towns, now that we're better linked. Heard a rumor that they have six ponds in the digging, now that so many good farm laborers suddenly found themselves with extra time on their hands."

"Can we leave that thing outside?" Shela asked.

"Sure, brings people inside by the dozens. I'll get that handsome young apprentice to push it inside before we lockup."

They continued to talk up Sally, who pretended she wasn't interviewing the two of them while she busied herself with another in an endless number of papers and articles that occupied her every moment.

Sally managed to uncover more controversial theories on sunspots' control over the weather and other such juicy tidbits with her ever-so skillful nudging of their casual conversation.

They stayed for the band and danced past midnight with what seemed like half of the town as the best band they had ever heard couldn't quite bring itself to stop, encore after encore, after encore.

On the morning of their third day, they flew to Bestoms and looked up a brother neither had seen in years.

Emily was a charming woman who kept her past firmly behind her and her future ahead. And Guar seemed none the happier. He had a job at one of William's new stores as a salesman and delivery worker. It wasn't challenging, and it didn't pay all that well, but it was more than enough to cover the rent on their tiny, one room shack. He was happy, the rest didn't matter to anyone.

They filled him in on the latest news of his nieces, then left in time to fly home before dark.

Flying had its advantages.

The twins took to the air like it was second nature. And for them, it really was. They had grown up with it most of their lives, had watched Dawn fly it countless times, and had helped take it apart every fall and overhaul and inspect every piece.

They knew it so well, they could probably make one in their sleep.

And they took to it like it could keep no secrets from them.

Yet even with their proven skills, Shela wouldn't let them fly it alone. Dawn or herself would have to go with them. Teen didn't mean adult, much to the disbelief of teens everywhere. Exceptional twins were no exception.

Dawn stared at her workshop, typewriter inside going unused for the moment. Sylia lit the fuses after Dawn had verified their correct placement. "Ready, Aunty Dawn," she said, jumping to the pilot seat and strapping herself in.

Dawn joined her, passenger side. What she was working on could wait.

As the rockets fired and the jets came up to their minimum speeds, Sylia throttled it flawlessly. Unburdened by a head filled with years of experience on machines that no longer existed, Sylia had known only this. And this she had mastered without flaws, without the un-learning of more sophisticated machines.

Her spiral staircase over the pond was symmetrical and smooth, an elegant climb into the air before leveling out and zipping down into the valley. The new helmets, now that Dawn had mastered optical grade Plexiglas, gave them superior visibility as the airspeed climbed over one hundred and fifty, even as underpowered as this lightweight was.

Sylia was calm and skillful and avoided the reckless behavior that could get her in trouble. Its limitations went beyond its plastic construction, it simply couldn't do stunts or quick maneuvers. Such feats were well beyond its primitive construction. It barely flew as it was. But what it could do was invaluable. It flew very fast in straight lines and gradual arcs and could be in the furthest town in under an hour. It saved them days, weeks, or even months of traveling time on foot, and could land almost anywhere.

Sylia had more respect for it than her sister, the more daring of the two.

For Sylia, it was the greatest toy she had ever known, and one she wanted to take the most excellent care of. The kind of toy she had always cleaned before putting it away. Shadona tended to try to push it, to come as close to branches as she could without clipping them, or try to pluck leaves off the trees with the runners. For her, it was just another toy that had found its way down to the pond, sentenced to stay outside like all the rest.

Dawn watched the expression on young Sylia's face. The teen couldn't help but smile. A smile she would walk around with for hours, even after they landed. It was heartwarming to see the joy of flying on her niece's face.

When they landed minutes later at William's workshop in town, Sylia ran in with the delivery of precision Kevlar parts, still made at Dawn's. Kevlar wasn't like the methanol or other precursors that the average farmer could make with clones of Dawn's equipment. Kevlar wasn't foolproof.

Not yet.

And Kevlar had many delicate grades that were nearly indistinguishable, until they broke.

To master it, William's shops would need digesters of their own. And that was a smelly business that, as of yet, he couldn't be talked into. He was making plenty enough on his many other products already. He didn't need Kevlar just yet, or the headaches that came with it. But Dawn would be glad when he'd finally come around. She hated wasting her precious time with it.

Sylia ran back out. "I'm going to stay for a few hours and help out Grand-Pea, ok?"

Dawn nodded, "And just how did you know he would be here?"

Sylia shyly looked down at the ground, then double-checked that the gas on the helicopter was turned off. "Just a guess, I guess."

Dawn held the child's hand. "How far can you foresee?"

"If I try really hard, a day or two, but that's it." She nearly blushed. "Travis Handstone, one of Grand-Pea's new apprentices, he's all shiny when I look at him. He's working today. He... He isn't here yet, but he will be, soon."

Dawn had foolishly thought this smile was all about the ride. "Sit with me a second."

Sylia climbed back into the pilot's seat.

"Does your mom know?"

Sylia looked terrified.

"I bet she does. I bet she knew before you did. I bet she's just waiting for you to find the courage to tell her. To talk with her."

Sylia fiddled with the controls, then straightened the straps on the seat. "You ever date someone?"

Dawn held the nervous girl's hand. "Not this lifetime. But I was married a few times before. I know those awkward moments that seem to last forever, when you just think you'd rather die. They really don't last all that long. And the guy rarely remembers them anyway. You're cute, my little angel. He can't help but fall for you. You're one of the most charming, sensitive children it has ever been my blessing to know." She patted the hand she held. "But your mom needs to hear this from you. She needs to help you with this. She's good at it. Far better at it than I am. Your mom knows things I'll never know. She knows the secret to a long, loving marriage. She has one that I never really did. I know she doesn't look it all the time, you look at her and just see mom, but she's brilliant in her own ways too. She didn't invent a helicopter, but she invented the two of you. And that's a grander achievement than I've ever made."

Sylia fidgeted with the pedals.

"Travis, huh. Your grandpa pays you for working in the shop, right? You don't have to wait for him to ask you, you know."

"Shadona's the one that's that bold."

Dawn put her arm around the child and pulled her in for a hug. "You've got some boldness of your own, you know. Sisters are never exactly alike anyway. Not even twins. But they're usually more alike than they're different. You can borrow her boldness, if you try. It's as easy as pretending to be her for a while. But, my relationships with men never turned out like they should. You should talk to your mom. Hers worked out beautifully." She let go of the girl and looked at her with pride. "You're bolder than you think you are. You're one of only two girls your age to ever fly, probably anywhere in the world."

Sylia awkwardly fidgeted like any other normal teen, then ran back inside.
**B6.C57**

As the twins turned sixteen, Dawn helped oversee the final assembly of their very own helicopters. It was the end to a project that had taken the twins nearly a year to master, made harder by having to make all the intricate parts, pieces, and specialized machines used to spin Kevlar from 'farts' themselves. The two built everything entirely by their own hands, totally from scratch. Digesters and all.

They nearly had their own lives and were tired of sleeping on the bunk beds of a tiny, one-room home. They reveled in the freedom that life in town offered, and the steady jobs both had working for their grandfather.

They were highly respected in any of his three shops, and it was rubbing off on the towns in most beneficial ways.

But their growing freedom also meant they traveled into town most summers and spent time with children their own age, often without being supervised, as they expressed more and more control over the direction of their own lives.

As the twins were learning to blaze their own paths, Shela braced herself for a day she knew was coming, but hoped would never arrive. She was forty, Dawn was thirty-nine. She opened the door to Dawn's workshop and looked at her sister on the bed by the window. Her hair was knotted, hadn't been combed in days. She had spent the last four feverishly typing, trying to finish what nobody could ever accomplish.

Dawn could barely open her eyes. But she managed to smile, all the same, as Shela sat on the bed with her.

"I still have that old hummingbird feeder that Mom made, decades ago," Shela said, climbing in beside her sister.

"Are the twins back?"

"They're spending the night at grandpa's. They'll be back tomorrow, before nightfall. It's best this way, believe me."

Dawn tried to lift her arm, but could only gesture to the typewriter with a finger. "There's so much left to do."

Shela put an arm around her best friend, "Frances mentioned he'd still like to have more kids. I don't think I'd be opposed to raising another girl, maybe even a boy, if someday some should come along."

Dawn pressed a finger to her temple. "I had nieces. I never thought that would ever happen for me. Never thought two children could make me so happy. Or so proud of how they take after you. How they want a happy marriage like the one you showed them." She swallowed hard. "It says I have a few minutes more, if I want them. I think I do. I can feel everything getting slow. All the voices in my head have finally faded into the background. They're like a room of scientists, yelling out ideas. When they all work on the same one, there's no limit to what they can do. But when they disagree and all go in different directions, it's madness." She smiled and turned her head. "I had a feeling you'd be here, so I didn't have to go alone."

Shela ran her hand across her sister's hair. "Of course I would. I love you, Sis. I wish you weren't—"

"Be careful not to touch me, not with love in your heart." She looked at the sadness on Shela's face. "I'll be back, no need to try to save me. It isn't goodbye forever."

Shela moved her hand to Dawn's sleeve. "I just wish you had found love in this life."

Dawn faintly smiled. "I've never felt such love in all of my lives. The love of a mother. The love of a sister. The love of nieces, and a brother."

Shela nearly kissed her out of reflex.

"It's ok, Sis. I'll see you again." She closed her eyes. "I'll see you again. At the end of a long hall, there's a... I'll be... sitting... couch."

Shela quietly cried on her sister's lifeless shoulder.

The fire burned for three days, and just like the one with her parents, Shela found she couldn't leave its side. She closed her eyes and pretended the heat was the warmth of her sister's love.

But unlike her mother, Dawn's body burned as easily as the seasoned wood she rested on.

"Why didn't you tell us she was dying?" Sylia demanded, still upset over not getting to say goodbye.

"It came over her suddenly," Shela lied. "She's your aunt, but she's my sister."

Shadona came from Dawn's workshop, "Momma, what are we supposed to do with all her things? Should we burn them too?"

Shela raked the coals into a pile. "That's up to the two of you to decide. It's the world's inheritance she's left in your hands." Shela stared at the smoke as it rose from the charred dirt. The myth was a phoenix would rise from the ashes, but she expected a hummingbird.

"Momma," Shadona said, papers in hand, "what does this mean? It's a page wondering if someone named Nyin would ever forgive her for the madness she gave him. Then it talks about never asking this of anyone, and that it was her turn to sit on the couch? What couch is she talking about? We've never owned a couch. Is it Grand-Peas' couch?"

'Sitting on a couch' was what the clone had done, to save the girl trapped inside. A chill crossed Shela's mind as she realized, she would never see her sister again. 'Sitting on the couch' meant she found a way to turn it off. To let go of the soul that tethered her to this world. There would be no hummingbirds next summer. She wiped her face as she started to cry again.

Sylia walked her to the chairs by the pond, while Shadona finished raking for her.

Frances and Guar walked down the path from the house.

Guar put his arms around his sister, "She had you in those final minutes, and that would have meant the world to her." He kissed her on the cheek, then turned to Sylia, "Honey, you think you could give your uncle a ride to Bestoms before it gets dark?"

Sylia patted her mom on the shoulder, "Sure. We'll have to drag it to one of the gardens, to keep it from blowing ashes everywhere."

It was light enough that Frances and Guar managed to roll it up the path by themselves in just a few minutes. Both had trudged heavier into town on the back of a travois, more times than either could count.

Shadona skimmed the books in Dawn's workshop, while Sylia attempted to read them cover to cover.

"Have you seen all these inventions before?" Sylia said.

"No. But I know where all that paper went. She only typed on one side of the page. Seems wasteful. Could have used half the pages and half the shelves."

"No, it's brilliant. It was for us. The inks might not last forever, this way if they bleed it won't obscure anything important. The worst that will happen is it'll make a mirror image. And when she switched to that gas dryer, she was able to make five hundred pages a day, easy. Effortlessly."

"Barely enough to keep up, if you ask me." Shadona sat with her on the bed. "You think about us dying? What if we don't live to be forty, just like her?"

Sylia put the book down. "She has books on inventions that would take decades to build. Decades. Maybe even a century." She looked at the shelves. "You know how much dedication it must have taken to do all of this, and still find time to play with us. Teach us to fly. You think she knew she would be dead by forty? Have you seen her jet plane designs? With runways to take off from and land, she has designs that can take a dozen into the air at a time. And if her predictions are right they can travel three, maybe four times faster than a helicopter, easily. But she was never going to live to see the first runway built."

"Think we should tell Grand-Pea about these?"

Sylia put the book back on the shelf and selected another. This one was red with the word Waffen on its spine. But the pages were stuck closed, glued to each other as solid as a block of wood. She remembered a game they played once with pages stuck together just like this. It had to soak in a precise blend of 3-methylbutane-1-thiol at a specific temperature to remove the adhesive without destroying the ink. Anything else would render it unreadable and absolutely useless. It was the only book like it on the shelves, and neither the bravest man nor hungriest wolf would ever mess with that particular, nearly lethal formula, if they didn't have to. "You remember what Waffen means?"

Shadona paused. "German for war, isn't it? Luftwaffen was airforce, so, maybe weapon or weapons. I'm pretty sure luft was air."

She put it back and selected again. "We should see what they say first, some of this could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. There's books on lasers, optical computing, and fiber optic communication. Hydraulic programmable controllers, automation, centrifuges. There's so much here, it seems impossible to even read it all. How did she find time to write it?"

"Maybe she never slept," Shadona said. "Puts last year into perspective, doesn't it? I wondered why she insisted we had to make our own digesters, forges, kilns and such when she had all the tools already. She always stressed the importance of how to build the underlying tools first, then the machines that could come from them. So we'd be totally prepared, when she wasn't here. Maybe she knew for a very long time."

Sylia picked a book and held it to her chest. "There's a lifetime of work and discovery in each of these." She put it back. "We should help Uncle Guar build a house. He and Emily are living in something smaller than the cabin, and just as near falling apart."

Shadona shrugged. "Be easier to just work the summer at Grand-Pea's and buy him something."

"He'd never let us do that. But I think he'd let us help him build something. Settle somewhere not too far from work."

"Well, that's the patch of sticky grass you don't want to get caught in. Anything close enough to work would be incredibly expensive, tax-wise. He'd never be able to afford to stay in it. Besides, I don't think he'd accept the help, either way."

Sylia sat at the desk, her fingers poised over the same worn keys Dawn used to fill the shelves. "Their life is much harder there. Not like the life he had here. I wonder if he'd ever consider moving back?" She smiled. "They're so happy there, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe being happy is all there really is."

"Travis?"

Sylia smiled at the sound of his name. "He's terrified of flying, but he put on the bravest of faces when I took him up for a spin. I think you can still see where he gripped the seat.

He brought me flowers.

Deformed sunflowers.

He remembered me talking about them and thought they must have been my favorites." She ran her fingers across the small library. "Inheritance. It's not our inheritance, it's her legacy. How are we going to treat her legacy? We could take these in to Sally, she's the only one I know with a thirst for reading that could ever be the match for this."

Shadona nodded no. "Doubt Sally'd be able to make sense of it. Some are highly technical, I don't even follow all of it."

"Some are on teaching children. I even remember some of her educational games she played with us. A whole shelf is written like they were courses she probably wrote while we were growing up. I remember most of them. They shouldn't just be divided up, like stingy children's toys. I think maybe they're all one book. The book of her, and meant to be read that way."

Shadona slapped the mattress with her palms, "Take the children's courses in to Sally and let her print them by the hundreds, no harm in that. But keep the ones on inventions and such. Maybe pass them down to our kids. Grand-Pea farmed out the making of methanol, maybe we should do something like that too. Termites were pooh-poohed back when Aunt Dawn tried to get the town to farm them decades ago. Maybe they'd be more receptive this time. Takes a lot less space than farming pigs, but makes more meat and poop. Gas lamps. The deer milker if we want cheese and milk in town at a reasonable price."

"Would be nice to get methanol everywhere. Five gallons goes a long way by air, but goes twice as far if you don't need to save half a tank for the trip back."

"Saw a design for a plastic extended-range tank with baffles to keep it from sloshing and throwing you out of balance just a minute ago. Notes on the side said it'd have a thousand-mile range." She flipped to it. "No, make that eighteen hundred, one way. There's a lot someone could see with that kind of range. But I take your point. Would be nice to be able to refill at any farmer's or any store instead of just Grandpa's shops."

The two, now past the overwhelming weight of the task, started to formulate a plan. A plan that was shaped with years of experience dealing with the town. Experience that their mother and aunt never had.

"Momma!" Sylia said, running into the house. "Did you know Aunty Dawn had calculated that the fertility problem could be cured? Or at least temporarily neutralized. Said a way to test her theory was in the mountain."

Shadona presented her with a book on milkweeds. The preface had an innocuous paragraph about mammals and shielding them from EM fields and the role the mountain could have in testing just that. "What mountain is she talking about? She has an elaborate cave-digging plan if the mountain experiment works, but it involves using water as EM dampening doors and sixty feet of dirt. That's a lot of dirt to dig and involves months of building pumps, lamps, and riggings and such. Figured the mountain—"

"What mountain, Momma?" Sylia said.

Shela pointed out a window. "It's the one with an unnaturally flat top. You'll know it when you see it, but it's almost impossible to see from the ground, except maybe near the pond. Get up over the trees and you'll have no problem seeing it."

The twins looked at each other. "We should get some pigs from the Findicks—" Sylia started.

"One's he knows can't reproduce—"

"No—"

"They'd be too heavy to take by—"

"By air—"

"Rabbits!" The twins said in unison. "We need to catch a few dozen live rabbits."

Over the next month the twins fashioned crude holding pens for their dozens of live captures, then paired them up, one boy with one girl, and waited for the results.

Those that had babies, even deformed as was the trend in green years, were left in the pens. But those pairs that couldn't have anything at all were caged and flown on the last days of summer to a mountain neither had ever been to before.

It took dozens of trips by helicopter for the twins to transport the 'experiment' and use Dawn's maps to find the most ideal rooms.

When the twins returned next spring, it had proven Dawn's theory correct. Over 80% of the rabbits had babies, where the norm above ground was well below 20%. All that was needed was sufficient shielding from the EM fields to protect the rapidly dividing, highly vulnerable cells from mutation.

The experiment proved Dawn's theory, the only question facing the twins now was what to do with the information. Especially with towns so victimized by charlatans over just such infertility cures.
**B6.C58**

Shadona paced outside the office, paused to stare down the streets, then paced some more across the damp ground. "Momma!" she yelled, then ran down the street. She threw a hug around each of her parents, "They wouldn't let me see her! I know she's terrified and they— They wouldn't let me see her!"

"It's ok," Shela said, "We're here now. They'll see us."

Frances swung open the door and marched up to the sheriff. "What the hell is my daughter doing in—"

"Calm down, Frances, the law's the law," the sheriff said, his two deputies standing behind him.

"Don't give me that crap, John. We went to school together, that's my daughter back there and you'd better—"

"I've gone to school with damned near everyone in the damned town, Frances. Your daughter's no different than anyone else's."

Shela walked straight for the deputy standing between her and the cages in back. "I'd like to see my daughter now," she said while the men yelled at each other.

He didn't yield.

She put her hand on his forearm, "I just want to see her for five—"

"Against the rules, Ma'am."

She closed her eyes and sighed, "Please. It would mean the world to me."

He wavered.

"Please," she said again.

This time she walked past him as he stood to the side, befuddled over his sudden change of heart.

"Momma!" Sylia said, her arms stretched through the cage.

Shela reached inside and gave her an awkward hug. "What are they charging you with?"

"They won't tell me. They just grabbed me at Grand-Pea's and arrested me. Been here for two days, Momma. They say the trial is this Friday, I guess they'll have to tell me then."

"Murder!" Frances yelled from the other room. "Just who in hell is she accused of murdering!"

The girls got quiet as they tried to hear the answer, but it didn't travel that far. "Who could they possibly mean?" Shadona whispered.

"I don't know," Sylia said. "I was at work all day. Oh Momma, they arrested me in front of Travis. What must he be thinking of me now?"

Shela frowned, "You've got bigger problems." She brushed her daughters puffy cheeks, but couldn't see a happy ending to this horrible turn in their lives. She read harder but couldn't see a future that didn't end in Sylia hanging, not even when she opened Dawn's most dangerous box and unleashed the horrible carnage it contained. Hundreds, even thousands dead in a matter of hours, but no one freed. "Jimmy Estine, does that name mean anything to you?"

"Should it?" Sylia asked.

"That's who they think you killed." Shela read further, then broke the touch. "Were you giving him— Did you let him fly your helicopter by himself?"

"Of course not, Momma. It takes hundreds of hours of practice and training. Where would I find that kind of time? I don't give rides, let alone pretend I can— I've never even heard of the boy before. I gave Aunt Sally a ride to Bestoms and Grand-Pea one every now and then, and Travis a couple of times, but that's it." Sylia's face went pale. "They're going to hang me." She backed to the corner of the cage. "They're going to hang me, Momma! I don't even know the boy, and they're going to hang me." She started shaking.

"I'm not going to let—" Shela said.

"What the hell are you two doing back here?" The sheriff yelled, then grabbed a hold of each and dragged them out. He turned to the befuddled deputy, "You know better than that."

Shela stared at the sheriff's hand on her wrist, "Who is Jimmy Estine?"

"I don't have to tell you," he said with a gruff. But he didn't release her as she closed her eyes. "He's that spoiled brat of the Estine's. The only heir to whatever's left of that bastard's fortune. Still owns the town bank, but he's pissed away everything else." He broke the touch. "I've got a busy day, ladies, and it doesn't include clucking gossip with the two of you."

"Now you just hold on, John," Frances said, poking the sheriff in the chest with his finger. "I'm bloody well going to go back there and see my damned daughter. I can either start pounding on you until you cage me back there with her, or you can walk me back there, peaceful like and bruise free. Which'll it be, John?"

The sheriff kicked his chair into the wall. "Take him back there, Steve."

Shela'd have to get behind the counter to have contact with any of the men. But she didn't need to. She knew as well as Shadona where to go for gossip.

Probably where they should have stopped first.

"...Jimmy Estine," Sally repeated as she flipped open her notes. "Knew the name was familiar. He's no good. Few years back they nearly gave him a dozen lashes for harsh treatment of one of the town's girls. But his Daddy gave the girl a pretty sum to recant and move away. Girl was covered in bruises and said she fell."

"What do you know about the charges against my baby?" Shela said.

"Well, it'll be formal tomorrow, but they're going for murder. Prosecutor's name is Henry Estine, and your judge goes hunting on their family farm just about every winter. But that isn't your biggest problem, his family name ain't as sunny as it once was. Your problem is three of Jimmy's friends, all boys, claim that your daughter was giving him lessons when he crashed. Everyone saw the thing come down like a stone, burned down the Johnstone's place when it hit. Your big problem, as I see it, is the only people that can testify that your daughter was nowhere near it when it crashed, well, they all work for William, her grandfather. No matter what they say, it's going to look like they've been bought. And buying alibis will be on every jurors mind, 'cause the Estines just about invented the practice."

Shela's shoulders sunk as she stared at the ground.

"It's going to be a hell of a story, I'm afraid. That'll cut you two ways, as I see it," Sally went on. "First, that jury is going to be a little extra honest, 'cause their names will all be known. Already made sure of that. That's good for you, but not as good as you might hope. William is a powerful man too, nowadays. If this had been quiet, and the boy not been an Estine heir, bet the rumor would have been 'boy steals more than he can handle'. But that ain't the way most see it today. They see old spoiled kid they know get killed by the spoiled kid they don't know. I know your family," Sally said, closing the book, "but you're not a name anyone other than me is familiar with. Frances and your father-in-law, that's a different story. Pops ran for mayor once. Lost, but people know him. Respect him for his furniture, and like him for the reasonably priced shipping and rides he offers to Bestoms and the likes. People like him.

Too bad he's not a lawyer."

Frances had heard enough, "Let's go see my father."

But Shela was more patient. "He'll be at his shop in town in an hour."

Shela shook hands with the best lawyer in town, and knew instantly that he wasn't up to the challenge. "William," she said, "can I talk to you outside for a second?" She leaned into Frances and whispered, "I don't have a good feeling about this guy, but keep him talking for a minute." Then she left to discuss things outside with his father.

"What?" William said, "I'll foot the bill if you don't have it in your account. You needn't worry about that."

"I'm not." She patted him on the arm, then held his hand and closed her eyes. "I think Sylia needs you, the persuasive politician you once were. That jury isn't going to be sold by some complicated legal talk, they want it campaign plain, right down the middle. You might not have gotten the votes for mayor, but here you don't need half the town, just twelve. Your granddaughter needs you, not your money."

William looked sick. "There's a big difference between law and politics, Honey. They ain't as interchangeable as some might think."

Shela needed to persuade him. She could almost see Sylia going free, and it sounded like his words were what got her there. "That man in there doesn't know our little girl like you do. He can't be her voice in this fight. I can see you're afraid that if you fail, her fate will be forever on your hands. But I'm telling you, her fate is already in your hands, not that man in there. He can't do it. He may have a feel for the law, but he can't sell the truth to people. He doesn't know the politics that ties the judge to the Estine's and weaves their way throughout this case. This isn't a law case, Dad, this is a political vote. And that calls for a different kind of man, entirely."

They didn't have but a few days to decide and plan.

William paced in front of the judge, "Your honor, I object to my granddaughter being—"

"The defendant," the judge corrected.

He pounded the bar in front of the jury and pointed to Sylia, "That child is my granddaughter, your honor. One of the sweetest girls I've ever known. She weighs a half a sack of potatoes in a driving rain, and I see no reason, other than sheer theatrics on the part of the prosecutor, to have her hogtied in a chair!" He turned to the jury, "Are any of you strapping men afraid of that scrawny girl?"

"Objection!" The prosecutor yelled.

The judge gaveled, "You will refrain from directly questioning the jury!"

He turned to the sheriff, "You have any problems arresting her?"

John paused at the unusual inquiry.

"Did you have to assemble a posse of dozens of men for the manhunt?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor yelled. "The sheriff is not on trial, is not listed as a witness, and has not been sworn in!"

The judge gaveled. "Take this as a warning, Counselor, the last question shall be stricken."

William paced before the jury again, hand on his chin. "So, your honor, when may I ask the sheriff how many men it took to capture this 'vicious' hundred-pound fugitive? This girl that is so dangerous, even now, that she must be hogtied in a courtroom packed with two deputies, a bailiff, two guards at the door," he pointed his finger into the crowd, "two dozen men, a full jury, AND the bloody SHERIFF! Did we need the full might of The Emperor's army just to capture one little girl?"

The judge gaveled again, but he had already lost the room. "That's one count of contempt."

William walked over to Sylia, "Stand back, Gentlemen, I'm taking my life into my own hands just by being this close to such a dangerous fugitive. Have the bow at the ready, Big John." The room broke into laughter as the judge attempted to gavel them down while William untied his granddaughter.

The judge pounded the desk, "Bailiff, take them into custody!"

"Watch out, Bailiff, we don't know how big that posse was! John hasn't told us yet. Might be too much for one man, such as yourself." The jury was laughing, but it was anything but funny. This was deadly serious. William held up a finger, "I'll risk it, your honor. I'll brave the heights of danger to bind such a 'vicious' predator that has struck fear in the heart of our honorable judge, even in a room packed shoulder to shoulder with armed and burly men!" He loosely laid the rope across Sylia's wrists with no attempt to make it even look like a knot. "Wow! I don't know about all of you, but I feel much safer now."

The judge ordered the room cleared as he dressed down her grandfather in private. But what had been done, was done, and not likely to ever be forgotten by anyone.

When the court opened a few hours later, Sylia was not bound and everyone in the jury paid notice. Even without William's reminder that she occasionally rub her wrists atop the table, where everyone could see.

The trial continued for two long, loud days, as two out of the three boys testified about seeing her giving Jimmy lessons.

It was the third boy, the youngest of the three, that looked the most promising to William's line of questioning.

William leaned against the questioning box. "Come on, young Phillip." He looked over at Sylia. "A pretty girl offers to teach a bunch of young, handsome men like yourselves to fly. You have to know why a girl would make such an offer."

The boy blushed.

"How many does it seat?"

"Two," the boy said, quiet as a mouse.

"Two," William said loudly. "They sit far apart, or right next to each other?"

"Touching," the boy said a little louder.

"But Jimmy wasn't the only one she was courting with free lessons, was she?"

The boy blushed again.

"Did that cute girl give you lessons too?" William said. "Come on, look at her. She did, I can tell it just by how bashful you are right now."

"Objection," the prosecutor said, "he's putting words in the boy's mouth."

"You're just as handsome as Jimmy. Sure, you didn't come from such deep pockets, but you weren't left short on looks. She had to have taught you something too, didn't she?"

The boy nodded.

"There you go, I knew if Jimmy got some lessons, a handsome young man like yourself had to have taken a few for yourself. You sit in it?"

He nodded yes.

"Did she have to get it started for you, or did you do that yourself?" when the boy paused, William pressed. "When Timmy was on the stand yesterday, he testified that she let him start it and showed him how to work the stick."

"Objection!" the prosecutor said, "The testimony—"

But William wouldn't stop. "Surely a more handsome young man like yourself was shown at least that much?"

"Yes Sir!" the boy said, loud enough for the back of the room to hear.

The same room that heard no such testimony from Timmy.

William smiled at the jury, then over to his granddaughter. "Bet you even know more about how to fly it than Timmy too, you look the smarter of the three. Are you?"

The young boy unwittingly nodded.

"You know all about how to start that complicated thing. You've seen it done dozens of times, even done it once or twice, haven't you?"

The boy nodded.

"Know all about how to work the stick and pedals. Seen it a dozen times, even did it yourself more than once, haven't you?"

The boy leaned forward and nodded.

"Bet a bright boy like yourself could start one and fly one right now, couldn't you?"

The boy nodded.

He leaned in close, "How do you start it, Phillip?"

The boy tensed, then looked around the room and noticed everyone staring at him. He sunk back in the chair.

"It's a simple question, Phillip. You've had lessons, just like Timmy and Jimmy. You just testified that you had started it. Just kindly tell us now, please. How do you start it?"

"I, um, you rub it under the thing at the top and you gives them a spin."

William walked over to Sylia. "Is that right?"

Sylia shook no.

"Objection!" the prosecutor said. "The accused has not been sworn in and cannot testify out of the witness box. And even if she did, the counselor knows its diminutive value."

"Is that how you started it, Phillip, or is that how you saw Jimmy start it that day?" William said, then pointed to the sheriff standing by the door. "John wasn't able to find witnesses to that early morning event, but I was. While my granddaughter was inside my shop, at work around a dozen witnesses, they saw you, Phillip, and Timmy, and Jimmy playing with her helicopter. Jimmy sat in the chair and told you to give the blades on top a spin while he fiddled with the controls. Timmy was spinning the other blades around back." He grabbed the boy's hands, pulled back his sleeve, and showed his arms to the jury. "You've got big bruises on the backs of your forearms up to your wrists. That's a mighty odd place for bruises." He twisted the boy's wrists to show the jury the undersides, "But no bruises on the bottoms. It's almost like something swung around, real quick like, and whopped your hands right below the wrists. Like those blades starting to spin on their own. You're lucky it didn't cut them thieving hands off."

"Objection!" the prosecutor yelled.

"I've never seen either of my granddaughters with such bruises in my life. Weren't you boys just playing around, pretending to fly, and just accidentally got it started? And weren't you just plain lucky that it didn't kill all of you?"

The boy started to cry, "No!"

"Tell the truth!" William yelled.

"Objection, asked and answered!"

The judge gaveled. "Move on!"

"I'm done with this thieving little liar," William said. "I'd like to call Mrs. Elfton to the stand."

They swore her in.

"What did you see on that morning while you were making breakfast for your family?" William said.

"Yonder girl landed in the clearing, like she do most mornings, and went on into the building by way of the back door. It sits there for a while, then the next thing I see, those boys were playing on it. Weren't my kids, so I didn't pay it no mind. A few minutes later, I hear this awful racket of branches breaking and getting thrown against the side of the house, like a sudden hailstorm or something. By the time I gets to the window, I see the boy crash into my neighbor's house and them other three running the other way, likes they'd been caught stealing candy."

"Objection!" the prosecutor yelled.

William rolled his eyes so only the jury could see, then continued. "Did you see anything that looked like lessons?"

"Lessons on stealing! But it won't yonder girl, she wasn't nowhere near them boys."

"Thank you," William said, having a seat next to Sylia.

"Your honor," the prosecutor said, "I don't see the relevance of this. Three boys have already testified that the accused gave Jimmy lessons. In the time you've been a judge, has a woman's testimony on anything but recipes ever been deemed to carry the weight of a man's, let alone three men?"

"Boys, your honor," William said. "The learned prosecutor has just referred to them as three mischievous boys—"

"I never said mischievous—"

The judged gaveled, then turned to the jury, "Remember the two thirds rule, Gentlemen. Boys or men, testimony counts the same. Girls or women is two thirds."

It would come down to closing arguments.

William paced in front of the jury, quietly, for more than two, very long, pensive minutes.

"Gentlemen. You've heard the testimony of witnesses that my granddaughter was inside my shop at the time these boys attempted to steal her helicopter. Many of you have seen it flying overhead from time to time." He pointed at a juror, "Would you think that something that takes you hundreds of feet in the sky is a toy to be played with?"

The man couldn't help but shake no.

"And how about you? You've seen one up close, have you not? Be honest. Looks real complicated, like a lot could go wrong with it. Would you assume that you would know enough to fly one?" William paused, "Of course not. Clearly someone is lying here. So what you have to ask yourselves is what is most likely to be the truth in all of this. We know it's a two seater. All three boys have testified that it was a two seater. Anyone who has ever taken a look at it knows it's a two seater. It had two seats. Yet only one person died. Only Jimmy. We have a woman's testimony that she saw Phillip, a boy that has mysterious bruises on the tops of his arms at about the same height as those blades off the ground, Sammy who said he only watched, and another boy playing with the blades in the back, while a fourth boy was sitting in it. Playing. So you need to decide. Is it more likely that some boys saw an opportunity for mischief and indulged with tragic consequences? Or was he somehow getting lessons from an empty seat and a girl hundreds of feet away, inside a building, surrounded by witnesses?" He pointed at Sylia. "I want you twelve honest men to take a look at that girl. Maybe she is guilty, but it isn't of murder. You've seen those complicated controls. Foot pedals, a hand stick, and two throttle things tucked between the seats. Four gauges that I must admit don't make a lick of sense to me, and I've ridden in it before. Left foot, right foot, both hands. It's like trying to write something different with both hands and both feet, all at the same time. I don't have a clue how she does it.

But she does.

And what's worse, she makes it look easy.

Effortless.

Smooth and graceful.

That's what she's guilty of.

And yeah, some boys thought that if a girl like her can do it, anybody could." He sat on the table to the side of Sylia and stared with her at the jury. Stared from a position that forced them to see her too. To see her as tiny and small, sitting behind the desk he was towering on. He put a hand on her shoulder. "But she isn't just anybody. This girl built that helicopter, with her own two hands. She's the only one I trust to assemble and build the complicated engines that go in my tractors. Her arms may be too small to chop down a field of trees in a day, like any of you men easily could, but those hands work magic with those delicate engine parts. The men in my shop, they look to her when they have a problem. Not because she's my granddaughter. And certainly not because she's the youngest one there. But because she's proven time and time again that she knows the answers.

Yeah, a boy died. A boy who, while stealing a helicopter, crashed it into a house and burned it to the ground, nearly killing everyone inside.

If he had stolen someone's cart, it would be his neck they'd be fitting for a noose. And if he had stolen a cart full of food, and it got away from him and rolled over him and crushed him to death, we wouldn't be measuring the neck of the cart's rightful owner, would we?

Would we?

We are today.

Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is. It's a rich man's son, his only heir, and all the legal vengeance it can buy. A boy that's had everything he ever asked for, and never heard no in his life. And it's about a granddaughter of a big employer in town, unaware that something she spent years building and learning to fly was being stolen, just outside.

When my son was three, he used to watch me working, building pieces of furniture one at a time. I told him repeatedly that my tools were not toys. But like any boy that age, he wouldn't listen. And eventually, he found a moment when my back was turned, and he played.

And he got cut.

This is about a boy and a shiny new toy that wasn't his, that wasn't a toy, but was the sharpest tool in the house. It was a toy that he wasn't allowed to play with, for some very good reasons. There's about three people I know that have the talent and skill needed to keep such a complicated thing in the air. Two of them are my granddaughters. The other is my daughter-in-law.

They're all women.

That's something to think about."

The jury stayed out for six days before coming back with a verdict.

Not guilty.
**B6.C59**

As a green year, jobs were in short supply, and their bread and butter rentals to farmers were scarce. Few could even afford his modest prices for shipping and travel. Hours were cut across the board at every shop William owned, but he managed to keep the doors open while firing almost no one.

"Mom, Dad," Sylia said, "this is Travis. I thought while we were in a green year, and he needed something to do, that I'd, uh, hire him to help me rebuild my helicopter while Shadona is helping out in Bestoms."

Shela stared at the boy. She was actually surprised to see him and hadn't expected this at all. "You really thought I'd be ok with this?"

Frances couldn't hold back the snicker. "I can imagine a more awkward situation for a boy to find himself in, can't you?"

Shela slapped him on the arm, harder than any punch. "He can stay in the attic, I guess."

Sylia rubbed her toe across the floor. "I was thinking we could—"

"I know what you were thinking, Child. And that was never going to happen. But, he can stay." She pushed the two together, then stepped back and squinted at the couple. She could almost see it, if she tried hard enough. "Did you see her while she was in jail?"

"No, Ma'am," he said. "They wouldn't let me. But they couldn't keep me from wishing her good luck..." he looked down, "as, as they threw me out the front door."

Shela looked him over, eyes opened wide this time. "It counts."

Sylia smiled. "Yes, it does," she whispered.

"Termites are, like, the most awesomest insects ever," Sylia said while they harvested the termite towns as a team, easier as a two-man job. "We've been growing them and farming them as long as I can remember. Fantastic fish food and animal feed. And there's nothing better or faster at turning worthless stalks into fertilizer. My aunt called it a trifecta of synergy. Food, fuel, and fertilizer."

They slopped the sludge onto the fields and reloaded the digesters for her first few weeks free from jail.

The digesters needed the refill and a few weeks to build back into full production, and nothing short of full production could make her another helicopter.

But a helicopter wasn't why she was home again.

It was her best excuse to find out if Travis had the patience for fishing.

"Well, Travis," Frances said that night as the four played cards for sweets, "How old did you say you were again?"

"Eighteen, Sir," he said, folding quickly.

"You know Sylia is only sixteen, right?"

"I'll be seventeen this fall, Daddy. November sixth is just a few months away." She tapped Travis on the arm, "Tell him when you turned eighteen."

"April, Sir."

"I guess that isn't so bad." He added two sweet potato chips to the pot — or rather — plate, in this case.

"You the youngest apprentice at William's shop?" Shela asked, matching Frances' bet.

"Yes Ma'am. Uh, not counting your daughters, I guess. My brother got me in. He's twenty-three."

Sylia folded, though it may have been to hold something other than cards under the table.

"How's the bird coming?" Frances said, raising two caramel-coated cream mints.

"It's going faster than last time. Three months, maybe," Sylia answered, then snuck a mint cookie from Travis' plate.

"How do you plan on getting him home in the middle of winter, Hon?" Frances said.

"She doesn't," Shela said, calling them both, but only winning against her husband.

Travis had turned in early for the night and was already asleep in the attic on Guar's old bed by the time Sylia fell asleep on her old bunk bed, just a few feet beneath him.

"How long you think this is going to last?" Frances said as he held Shela that night.

"Few months. Maybe more. She surprises me, and that's really hard to do. She probably could have done what Shadona is trying. Thinking if it's out of sight, I won't know. I think this is Sylia's way of asking first."

"Feels like yesterday when they were trying on their very first bras."

"I think she has good instincts. She's not impulsive. I think she's looking for a little guidance in all this. Permission, if you will." She adjusted his arm around her waist, then patted the back of his hand. "Our daughter impressed me during the trial. And she's impressed me even more over these last few weeks of her new freedom. She always was the more serious of the two. A little more cautious. He might even be the right guy for her, but it's hard for me to tell." She pulled his hand tight to her chest. "Took months to know for sure with you. I think she's here to get to know him, and use us for an excuse not to sleep with him too soon."

"Sounds a little familiar." He pulled her tight. "Who knows, it might even work, again."

Sleeping in separate beds was a courtesy. They spent hours alone together in the fields, by the digesters, and by the kilns or in Dawn's workshop, all places where mischief would go completely unsupervised, and without consequences.

But they rarely even kissed.

The few times Shela caught them stealing a moment, it was usually by the pond on the rare warm day, just sitting in chairs, holding hands, watching the ripples crisscross the pond.

By the time the helicopter was complete, snow had already trapped them in and even test-flights would have to wait until a warm day in spring.

But Sylia wasn't done with her hired help.

She had looked through Dawn's library of inventions for one that spoke to her. She needed a project she could work on with Travis, and Dawn had provided her thousands from which to choose.

Sylia wanted to test the theory first, before building anything as big or ambitious as what she saw.

She pulled a fiddle off Dawn's shelf, one of three Dawn had bought in town to teach the twins to play.

She set one across the room, propped up in a chair. Holding another to her chin, she repeatedly played the same string... and was not terribly surprised when the identical string vibrated on the one, unplayed, on the chair.

They plowed into building Dawn's fictional device, a project big enough to last them their remaining months until spring.

Sylia woke in the tiny workshop bed, Travis' arm around her as they cuddled in the chill. "They work close together," she whispered, "I wonder if they work far apart."

"Everything works better close together."

She elbowed him, playfully.

He cuddled her closer, then adjusted the blanket in an effort to better tuck them in. "Unless you want to haul that big thing around, by hand, we'll have no choice but to wait. Even then, it's too big to fit in the helicopter, isn't it?"

"Probably too heavy too. I think we have time to build a third one before the spring thaw. Should be able to fly in to grandpa's and borrow one of his tractors, then drive it back here and pick up all three."

"Why three? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But you haven't sold these two yet. Why make a third right now?"

"The three towns are within range of each other, if the middle works as a relay. Aunt Dawn's notes say they should have a range of twenty or thirty miles."

"They're further apart than that, aren't they?"

Sylia kissed him on the lips as she smiled. "Walking it, they're probably fifty miles apart. Maybe even further than that, depending on what path you take. There's a lot of turns and twists in even seemingly straight roads. Each turn adds extra steps, and all those steps have a way of adding up. When you can see them from the air, it's even more obvious. I trust Aunt Dawn's gauges on the helicopter. That puts them at close to twenty miles apart, by air. Going straight. Their old optical telegraph was brilliant, for its day. But you have to maintain line of sight to use it. Takes over a dozen relays to get messages from one town to another, and even then you have to wait for a clear night, can't send nothing during the day."

"If she had this sitting on the shelf, why didn't she use it first?"

Sylia warmed his cheek with the palm of her hand. "The telegraph system anybody can use, by the hundreds or thousands without getting crowded or interfering with each other. It's even heartwarming to see how many neighbors freely relay for other people to get around its line-of-sight limits. It's brought a lot of people together that way. This one uses sound. Near infrasound, specifically. And it shouldn't be limited to line-of-sight. These sounds should hug the ground. But too many of these voices would crowd any room, so it's really only good for direct communication between towns with a limited number of what she called channels. But it works day or night, cares nothing about the weather, and doesn't depend on dozens of relays to work."

"Guess that makes sense. Could never have sold it to towns two decades ago, without seeing how well the other works."

She pressed her smile against his cheek. "One of us is going to have to get out of this warm bed and turn up the heat."

He kissed her smile. "Wonder who that'll be?" he whispered, but already had one foot on the floor.

Frances tightened his coat and handed the boy the stompstick. "These are like everything else you've seen here. You don't brag about them to your brothers or your family or your friends. But this is especially so." He stomped on the knot and it flowered open into the weapon it was. "To everyone in town, these are just fancy walking sticks, so nobody takes them seriously. The surprise with bad guys works only once. Once it's seen like this, it'll surprise no one ever again. And with two daughters, you might understand why I want this secret kept most of all." He showed the boy how to work it before they trekked out in the snow on a hunt, following one of Shela's timely hints, of course.

The deer was massive and downed at an impressive distance with ease. Travis was as shocked by its accuracy and how true its blades flew through the woods as Frances was over a decade ago.

It was one hell of a lethal system with many times the range of arrows, especially in the dense woods that were commonplace here.

Deer steaks and potatoes on a bed of fresh collard greens, dried onions, fresh spinach and canned tomatoes, with grilled-cheese finger sandwiches made for one of the finest meals of the boy's short life, but was a yearly occurrence for the others.

Travis leaned his chair back against the fireplace and stared at the ceiling fan as it slowly churned away. "I've never been this full in my life," he said, patting his belly. "What'd you call those, greenhouse greens?"

Shela nodded. "If it wasn't a green year, we'd be having fresh tomatoes and cucumbers right now. But they don't grow right in green years, not even in a greenhouse."

"And what was in those incredible tiny sandwiches?"

"Cheese," Shela said.

"Extra sharp," Sylia said, still savoring hers. "The other use for deer, but just the does." She licked the crumbs off her fingers, then paused before another bite. "I think I want something like this, Travis. I think I want a place with a pond, far away from town, but just a few minutes away by air. I like how quiet and calm life here is."

He patted his belly, "I never thought of it before. Grew up able to walk to town in a day. Truth said, thought that was all there was. Families like the Findicks were talked about like strangers where I come up."

"You heard anything about Adora's daughter?" Shela interrupted.

Sylia looked at Travis, "Think she married—"

"Jason, I think," Travis said. "But they're kind of outsiders too. Growing up in town, it feels like there's this wall of us and them. Us was all those within a day of town, and them was everyone else. Like you people were outsiders too, just a little better than people from Bestoms or elsewhere. No offence." He sat up straight. "Obviously, that isn't really the case, but Jimmy lived in town and, uh, Sylia didn't. Added too much weight to his words, and not enough to yours and the obvious truth. Most think people this far out are unfriendly hermits and live in tiny shacks, outhouses, and stuff like that. Crazies and whatnots. Nothing like this. And nothing like all of you."

Sylia tried to hide behind the rest of her tiny sandwich. A squirt of cheese dripped on her thumb. "Was thinking I saw a perfect place not too long ago. Haven't seen it from the ground, but it looks flat enough for a garden and maybe a pond, if it's not all rocks. Not a big pond, but one of those smaller ones Dawn had drawings for." She licked her thumb. "Momma, I was wondering if we could use two of your fields for milkweed next year. I figure, if Travis is up for it, we could harvest enough latex to make a house like Dawn's workshop. Maybe even have it done by winter next year." She turned to Travis, "Course, I'd have to stop paying you."

Travis almost blushed as he rubbed his belly. "Was here for the food, anyway."

It was understandable that Sylia had changed her mind about living near town. They nearly hung her, after all.
**B6.C60**

The ultrasound transceivers were a big hit across the governments of the three towns, mostly used for synchronizing ballooning schedules, crop plantings, and trading accounts. The tractors had brought commerce between towns to an unprecedented level, and with that came more complex bookkeeping, legal issues, and governmental coordination. What was especially useful was how Sylia had intergraded Dawn's stencil typewriter into the devices so they could receive and print messages unsupervised. She had designs for unmanned transceivers that could receive a page worth of information, then automatically retransmit it, relaying signals an infinite number of miles in twenty or thirty mile increments. Adding solar power, they could be left entirely unmanned. But as she had no idea how to contact anyone outside of the three towns, she figured on waiting for them to contact her.

Besides, as spring took hold Sylia found she had more important things to do.

They landed her helicopter a full mile from the parcel of land she wanted to claim. The hike was unavoidable, since nothing closer was suitable.

Travis wrestled the travoises from under the helicopter as soon as the blades came to a stop.

"We have to wait for the engines to cool before we can leave it. Don't want to take the chance of setting off a fire," she said, hand near the warm jets. "Leaf or something would be all it would take, this grass is too dry as it is. Momma packed us some bread and crackers, figured we could eat while we wait."

He sat in the comfortable chair, then looked over the controls. "How'd they get it started?"

"Well, it's something I never would have thought of. We always used rockets to get them start—"

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Apparently, if it's still hot, like now, all the blades need is a strong enough spin and some fuel to light again. But it's so dangerous to try to start it that way that that boy was lucky it didn't break his hands. Near as I figure, it misuses a kind of a safety feature that keeps the jets from flaming out. Glow plugs is what Aunt Dawn called it, though it doesn't really glow. It's designed specifically to stay hot enough to light fuel for at least ten minutes. Unfortunately, fuel isn't that hard to turn back on." She gestured at the valves. "You interested in learning how to fly? It took me over a year, but I'd be willing to teach you."

He bit into the bread instead.

"Daddy, he's terrified of it. Well, he was. He rides fine now, but he's too scared to fly it. I'm not going to lie, it's hard. It isn't easy." She leaned her shoulder into his, "But I'd teach you, if you want. So long as you promise not to get me hanged for it."

He chewed another slice, "You make it look fun, but I'm a little afraid of it too."

She put her hand on his knee. "He had no lessons from me. You're the only person I've ever offered lessons to. Probably the only one I will ever offer them to, unless we have kids."

She twisted the hollow stick into the ground as she drove it feet further beneath the roots of the tree, then pulled up a plug of clay and earth. She poured a mix into the thin, thumb-width hole, shoved in a black-powder cap, then sprinted away and covered her ears.

Fwaooommmm!

Dirt showered the area and the hole was now wide enough to accommodate an arm with ease. She repeated the process, with more of the mix this time, and the tree, roots and all, was thrown from the ground as easily as a weed was yanked from a garden.

Within a few hours they had toppled enough trees to have a garden of their own, next year.

And more importantly, they were now out of her magical mix.

But it was too late in the day to fly back for more. Travoises set, both up on opposite sides of the same tree, they only used the one.

Within a week, they had cleared enough room for a garden and a house, and had used explosives to dig several massive holding tanks for each of her favorite fish varieties. The lay of the land wouldn't support a single, picturesque pond, but any land could support fish. Especially if she added thick rubber liners, like she planned to with these.

It took the new couple dozens of flights back home and months of backbreaking effort from spring until fall to pound that rocky, tough parcel of land into quiet submission. But it was something they did, together.

When Frances and Shela arrived for their first visit, they were stunned by all the two had accomplished.

Dozens of Dawn's plans were incorporated into its radical design.

The long south-facing side of the house was perfectly aligned and integrated with a Plexiglas greenhouse that, by itself, was calculated to be sufficient most winters to heat the entire home. But during summer, when the leaves returned to the trees, the entire house fell into the shade and it should thus trap no heat at all. But in case of mathematical error, the greenhouse portion could be fully vented and an interior wall could shut its heat off from the rest of the house entirely. Gas-lamp cookers had a prominent place in all the windows. The kitchen was compact, but fully equipped to take advantage of gas as well, and had the added convenience of a massive walk-in pantry. The ceiling fans and tiny refrigerator mirrored the ones they had at home, as did the single bath with its tank-less hot water heater, all powered off of digester gas. But unlike what she had grown up with, this bathroom was noticeably bigger and had real walls and a door.

Sylia had taken living to another level of convenience and had little nostalgia for her modest upbringings.

It also broke from tradition with actual bedrooms. Rooms, with thin foam walls and doors.

Two were already set aside for kids.

Since milkweed wasn't strong enough on its own without being reinforced with wood to support an attic, Sylia's house went without one. Yet it felt far more spacious, with high ceilings and ample additional rooms that easily offered twice what their attic of old could ever have stored.

Sky blue paint covered the walls.

Rain tanks were hidden underground, filled with filtered water. And uphill there was a strategically placed deep channel, dug with explosives and lined with rubber, that collected a year's worth of water in a few hours of runoff. Covered, it was kept safe from critters, bugs, and even evaporation.

Every aspect of it was brilliant.

Of Dawn's ten theories on tricking termites into cloning new queens, two of them worked flawlessly and had let them jump to full termite production in a single year.

They expected to harvest fish within five.

And as the proud parents toured the grounds of the new couple, Shela smiled as they came on a cluster of oaks, painstakingly fenced in by felled, interwoven, and grafted-into-a-living-fence pines. Blackberries planted along its edges, just like at home.

They planned to domesticate a doe.

A tradition her daughter seemed intent on keeping.

Perhaps their best tradition of them all.

Shela put an arm around her girl as they walked the short distance to the helicopter clearing, nestled amidst the in-ground fish tanks with their individual greenhouse windows to keep them warm in winter, and slow evaporation during summer. "Your Aunt Dawn would sure be proud or you. You've really picked up where she left off."

Sylia leaned into the hug, "I would hope you're proud of me too. We're planning on going in town and do the paperwork next year. Nothing fancy, just enough to make it official. It's important to his family, you know how boys can be about that sort of thing. If you want, you're welcome to be there, but we'll be dropping by your house right after. I think I want to make you a grandmother soon."

Shela patted her on the shoulder as the boys rolled the helicopter out of the mini hangar that protected it from the sun and weather. "Of course I'm proud of you."

Sylia squinted at the boys. "He's still shiny, Momma, like the ripples on a pond."

"I'll be the proudest grandmother in the world, if you can find a way to pass that on."

The boys had it out and were ready to start it up. But unlike by the pond, their new place on the mountain was specially picked for Dawn's underpowered brand of helicopters. A short path was cleared through the trees that led off a sheer cliff. Gone was the difficult task of hovering and climbing invisible stairs, as soon as it lifted five feet off the ground, they drifted down the path and over the edge.

"I'll do my best, Momma," Sylia yelled as she waved and watched her parents gracefully fly across the sky.
**B6.C61**

A helicopter landed by Dawn's workshop and a twenty-one-year-old Shadona ran up the path to the house on the first warm day that spring. "Momma!"

But Shela met her more than half way, not surprised at all by her sudden arrival. "It's good to see you," she said. "What brings you by?"

"I wanted to ask you and Daddy for a huge favor," she said. "You know about grandpa getting elected last year, right? Well, he was still pissed about what happened to Sylia. I think it's been festering with him all this time. Well," she paused as they walked back to the house. "He's got six years in this term, and I thought I'd try to help him out. But, you know, in my own way. I'd been running his shop in Bestoms, but it's kind of boring now. They don't need me there as much now anyway. And that got me thinking about Aunt Dawn and all those books she left here. I thought I might want to settle down some, like Sis did." She hesitated again. "Not getting married, but I want to open a school in town. I want to teach from some of Dawn's books. And I think with grandpa in office, I can teach with half the class being girls without, well, without what almost happened to Sis happening to me. It was kinda her plan, but I understand why she abandoned the idea of living near town."

"I think that's a good idea, Honey," Shela said as they went inside.

"I was thinking of teaching the way we were taught, by hands-on experimenting, building things as a team project. Half school and half apprenticeship, maybe even ten percent business. But that takes a lot more funds than what I've been able to save. Sylia said she'd let me borrow from her, but I'm still way short. Grandpa just added two more stores, so he didn't have much left."

Shela poured a glass of cold tea from the refrigerator, "I think your father and I can get behind that, but I have no idea how much is in our account."

"Well, you and Dawn were still getting deposits on the telegraphs, and when Dawn died, you got her half of however much of grandpa's business you own."

"Thing about owning part of a business is, you really can never get those funds without selling it out from under your grandpa. We can't really do that to him. Frances can fly in tomorrow and we'll see what's really there in the kinds of funds you can use without hurting Grandpa." She pulled a cheesecake from the refrigerator and cut three generous slices. "It isn't like we need it for anything, Honey. We've had a good life here without it. Just like to keep enough to catch a play or a musical every now and again, don't have a clue what to do with the rest. Might as well let your grandpa or you kids put it to some use."

Shadona got out the forks and plunged one into her slice. "I was figuring as a class we could make some of Dawn's more ambitious projects, starting small at first, then building up. If it works like I'm thinking it might, we could be self-funding in a decade, probably start paying you back after that. I didn't really give her books the hard read they deserved. Wish we had taken them in to Sally when Sylia suggested it, but do you have any idea how many trips that would have taken by air? Books are heavy. We just took in a few on reading and writing and math and stuff. They're big sellers, by the way." She shoved a forkful in her mouth, then slapped the table with her hand. "Dat's good, Momma," she mumbled with her mouth full.

"Take your time, Sweetheart, got all day."

Frances had been eating quietly the entire time. He knew how good it was, more than worthy of his undivided attention. "Eat slow, Hon, Momma's cooking has earned it."

Shadona ended up spending three days reading while the rain kept her grounded. There were almost too many divergent ideas there for anyone to take in at one sitting, perhaps not even in a lifetime. Dawn seemed like an expert in dozens of disciplines, each seeming like they were written by a slightly different person. The way she phrased sentences changed slightly, topic to topic. It took Dawn years of dedicated, disciplined typing to put it all down. And it was quickly apparent it would take much longer to read and understand it all. Dawn may well have been an expert in everything, but Shadona didn't want to be. She quickly narrowed her field, settling on mechanical engineering as it spoke loudest to her and seemed the easiest for her mind to grasp.

Shadona's plan sounded sketchy and a little haphazard, as she was prone to be. But her gut was just as infallible as her mother's, and by fall she had opened a school and was teaching classes, half of which were filled with girls.

It was difficult to compete with the town's traditional ways of teaching, but this was where Shadona's reckless side shined. She taught the first year for free and only charged for the more 'advanced' classes, and only accepted the students with good enough grades. And, unknown to the boys, since a girl's testimony was valued at a fraction of a boy's, she taught girls at half price, payable five years after they graduated. That practice was risky and took a lot of faith on Shadona's part, but she believed in her ability to teach. She believed in the strength of Dawn's books. And, most of all, she grew to know and love the girls that showed up, day after day, rain or shine, and just gave it their all. She knew, even if she lost it all, betting on the town's girls would never be wrong.

She even kept the school open, year round.

Sylia ran up the path to her mother's waiting arms, last warm morning in fall, "I've never seen so many frogs lay so many eggs in all my life!"

Frances held the monster catfish by the gills, level with his shoulders, while its tail nearly dragged the ground. "I have. Must have been about twenty years ago."

"Congratulations!" Shela said, then gave her a kiss. "I knew you looked different."

Sylia patted her flat belly, "Only missed one period, Mom. I can't be showing yet."

She ran her fingers through her daughter's hair, "It shows, Hon. It shows." She kissed her again.

Travis wasn't far behind her, "Let me give you a hand with that, Sir."

Frances about dropped it. "Don't have to keep calling me sir. You're part of the family now. We were there when she said yes and signed the town's book."

"Momma," Sylia said as they walked, "does Sis have the genetics books with her? I figured while I was farming, and since we had such a nice greenhouse built into the house, that I'd give some of her manipulations a try."

"I've looked at them, Hon. It'll take generations. Well over a hundred years. Much beyond your lifetime, I'm afraid. You'll never get to see the finished product."

Sylia patted her belly, "I might have generations. Been years, but I seem to remember them divided into chapters of a few decades or so, where the mutations reached a point where the changes became significant enough to be useful. Chapters of 'economic viability' was what she called them." She stopped at the door and took down the hummingbird feeder. "You still keeping this thing outside your window? Have you ever seen a hummingbird? I never have."

Shela smiled as she held it in her hands. "Yeah, when I was just a few years old, two used to play right outside that very window. I was hoping I would see some again. But I haven't." She took it inside and washed it out in the sink. "I like to keep it out, in memory of your Aunt Dawn." She put it on the counter to dry. "How are your fish ponds going?"

"Fantastic, Momma. Dawn's calculations seem spot on. Setting them in the ground with a little bit of foam insulation, rubber liners, and the little greenhouses over them keeps them from freezing in the winter. It's almost warm enough in them to go swimming, even with snow on the ground, when you close them up tight. That lets them spawn and grow all year round, like a regular greenhouse does for plants. It's fantastic, never seen them get this fat this fast." She held the wet feeder up to the light, then put it back. "That solar pump keeps them aerated all the time. All we've got to do is feed them termites and net the ones that are big enough to eat. Takes all the fun out of fishing." She stared out the window and down the path to a pond they were too far away to see. "It's fish, but it ain't fishing. And it's water, but it ain't a pond. But it is the best we can do with where we're living."

Shela pulled a box from under the bed. "Give a listen to this," she put a record on. "Shadona used her classes this year to make a few dozen of these record players and recorders. Got the theater and Sally to join together. Every record Sally sells in the store, the band gets a cut, just like with authors. The theater almost doubled their revenues selling records after the show, and a few of her students have gone into business with a recording studio and making players and records cheap enough that anyone can afford them. Said she hadn't seen you in town in years." Shela gathered up a box of records. "We don't go in all that often either. Had a hunch you'd be stopping by, so she gave me these to give to you."

Sylia huddled close as it played, in stereo. "Thanks, Mom."

"I know you and your sister aren't going to live next to each other like Dawn and I did. And that's ok too. I know your life is busy, God knows hers is. But you two should see each other more often than you do." She ran her fingers through Sylia's hair again. "Promise me that you won't just depend on chance to bring you together."

"Ok, Mom."

The boys just about had the fish filleted by the time the first song ended.

Shela spent two nights reading in Dawn's library before taking home seven books, and her parents' best blessing.
**B6.C62**

By the time the twins turned twenty-five, William was in his second term in office and life in town had radically changed. But it wasn't entirely due to their grandfather or the reforms he pushed through. Shadona had graduated dozens from her school, and the impacts they were having were sending ripples through the community that were just as strong.

Fifteen had gone on to open their own businesses, easily employing a hundred all told. Laborers displaced by the tractor were finding new value inside their doors, far greater than what they ever could have earned on the sweat of their brow or the aches of their backs.

And with her students' unexpected success, Shadona's school was paying her parents back, far ahead of schedule.

But as impressive as all that progress was, it wasn't what had Shela waiting by the pond on this warm spring morning.

She stared in the distance as the helicopter came in, circled, and landed.

Travis un-strapped the two little tikes, then set them on the ground as they scampered to their beloved grandmamma.

"Dawn, you're such a pretty, big girl," Shela said, pulling the oldest in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "And Ruth, how is my little angel today?" she said, then kissed the youngest as she stood, both hugged to her hips. Ruth was named after Travis' mother.

"Oh, it was the longest winter yet, Momma," Sylia said, taking the children back.

"Your sister get a chance to see you?"

"Yeah, she and a guy named Ben came for a visit, fall of last year."

"He's new, but isn't the one, is he?"

Sylia shook no as she handed Ruth off to her mom.

"I'd love to see her settled down too."

"Don't Mom. She's happy. She is. And she knows he isn't right, but he's fun. He makes her laugh, and she likes the attention. And for now, that's enough for her. It isn't easy for everyone, you know. That special guy for her might not even live in this town. Or they might not have met yet. But I've never seen her happier than she is teaching those classes. She's really making the most of Aunt Dawn's books." She kissed her daughter on the forehead when she looked up, "Yes, Aunt Dawn is who you're named after. She was my mother's sister that you never had a chance to meet."

Dawn snuggled her head on Sylia's shoulder. "I know what an aunt is," Dawn said.

"Of course you do."

Dawn looked up again, "Aunt Shadona is your sister, and Grandmamma's daughter."

Sylia justly rewarded her with another kiss. "Shadona's added a class on journalism in her school, inspired by Sally."

"That's great, always thought we needed more papers to read. You know Aunt Dawn made her printing press and revolutionized her store?"

"I know, Momma," Sylia said, putting an arm around her mom. "You still miss her, don't you?" She noticed the feeder, still outside the window. Still unused.

"She was a big part of my life," Shela said, setting Ruth down to play.

"She was a big part of everyone's life. Just, most don't even know her name. You know her name's not in a single book of hers?"

The girls used the bathroom, washed their tiny hands, then ate the snacks that made a trip to Grandmamma's the highpoint of any childhood.

Playing at the pond wasn't a bad time either.
**B6.C63**

As the years continued to slip by, Shela and Frances stayed at home more than ever before. It was every bit as peaceful to them as her parents must have found it. Basking in its infinite tranquility was something they both had grown to cherish, more and more as time moved on.

But a sudden sadness broke the spell and woke Shela one morning, early in the fall.

She got out of bed before the sun had a chance to kiss the sky.

"You alright, Hon?" Frances said.

She wiped a tear from her eye, "I think Sally just died."

"Oh, Hon. You can't know that for sure." He patted her on the back. "You've had bad feelings that were wrong before."

"Yeah," she whispered, but she had already confirmed it through his touch. She fixed a quick breakfast, got dressed in her best dress, and took a walk down to the pond in time for a thirty-year-old Shadona to arrive by helicopter to deliver the bad news.

Sally didn't have anything in the way of family, but she did have her share of friends. They had a quiet funeral later that day, and nearly a hundred attended.

Sally's will left the bookshop to Dawn, who had left all her things to the twins.

Shadona took over its daily operations, let the patent on the printing press go public, and had no trouble finding a dozen eager journalists to take her paper to an entirely new level where it, within a year, became the envy of the three towns. Not that Sally's wasn't well respected to begin with.

As they blossomed over the months and years, Sylia took her growing children into town more regularly to see relatives and spend a month every summer with their aunt Shadona as they explored the possibilities her school had to offer, and the simple joys of playing with other kids.

Ruth showed an instant attraction to journalism with its way to reach hundreds through the written word. While the oldest, Dawn, was mesmerized by the infinite ways plastics could be used to improve peoples' lives.

By their third summer at their aunt's, Sylia added another daughter to her family. Named Alicia in memory of her grandmother that passed the winter before.

Frances held his left arm to his chest as he leaned back in the garden, then stumbled to his knees.

"You alright, Hon," Shela said, quick to sit by his side.

He panted a little, beads of sweat on his brow. "Don't mind me. I think I just pulled a muscle. My arm's all tingly, like I slept on it wrong. That's all."

But Shela was more than a little concerned. She helped him to his feet, got him back inside, forced a few aspirin down his throat, and put him to bed.

She was pretty sure it was a stroke. She was sixty, and hadn't expected it this soon. She sat on the bed and watched him sleep, pondering the very choice her mother faced so long ago, now that it was confronting her.

Dawn. Nyin. Her mother. Be it the science of stem cells, engineered benevolent viruses, or magic, there was something in her blood that gave her a choice others never got.

To do nothing came with consequences too. It meant having to watch him die. She looked at her reflection in the glass. She didn't look sixty. She looked maybe forty, with just a few strands of gray.

Her mother faced this same choice. Live a long, long life, and watch a loved one die. Or add years to his life, while cutting hers short.

And it wasn't a choice that had to be made just the once. It got asked, again and again, day after day, until that day when there wasn't enough of her life left to share.

It was the hardest choice she would ever face. She stroked her husband's cheek as her arm started to tingle. It was the hardest choice, but the easiest to make.

The same one her mother made.

She just hoped she could wear it with the same amount of silent grace.
**Sitting Gracefully**

Sylia and Shadona sat with their mother by the pond on the first warm day of spring.

"He had his first stroke five years ago," Shela said. "He had his last, a few months ago. It took me three days to find the strength to finally cremate him."

Sylia rubbed her mother's shoulders, "Oh, Momma, you shouldn't have had to do that on your own."

Shadona stood, then paced at the water's edge, "I felt it when he died. Oh, Momma, I did. I cried for two days, and I just couldn't stop." She knelt before her mom. "If it hadn't been in the middle of winter, you know we would— If there was just any way to get here in time to have been of any help." She hugged her. "Oh, Momma. You just shouldn't have had to do that on your own."

Shela returned the embrace. "It's ok, Honey. I cremated my parents. And my sister. Been to too many funerals, lately. Guess that's how you know you're getting old."

"Don't joke about it, Momma," Shadona said. "I feel just awful we weren't able to be here for you. You should—"

"It's fine, Honey. I love this place. I love this land. This pond. I love the memories here." She closed her eyes. "I can still hear your father casting his line between the chirps of crickets, and the flops of frogs. And two little girls playing with fawns. I wouldn't change a thing about my life." She opened her eyes and smiled. "I'm blessed that I got five more years with him. Five wonderful years I never should have had. We couldn't fly, anymore, but you kids dropped by from time to time, and that was more than enough for us."

"Momma," Shadona said, kneeling again, hands on her mother's lap, "Come stay with me in town. I'll drop the night classes and we can have a wonderful time. You'd be amazed at how much has changed in just the last few years. Gas lamps are everywhere, and the night no longer comes when the sun goes down. It's—"

"It's not for me, Honey," Shela said. "I was born here. It's where my heart is. It's where my heart lives. I can't imagine spending my last days anywhere but here." She leaned into Sylia. "I'm not as well as I may seem. My arm tingles most mornings, I doubt I could survive the thrill of flying again." She patted Sylia's knee. "Or walking, or riding that far. I just want to enjoy this place that I've enjoyed all my life. I've made my peace with all of this, years ago."

"I'll stay with you, Momma," Shadona said, "Sylia's got a family, I can just close the school for a while and come back home. You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm not alone, Honey." She closed her eyes and heard the splash of a line, in her mind. "You can spend the month, if you want. I always have room for you, you know."

Shadona was sound asleep in the bed by the fireplace, when Shela woke to feel her heart slow, and her breath go shallow.

She thought about her two beautiful twins, and how proud she was of all they had done.

Her whole body tingled, then suddenly she felt warm all over, like basking on a sunny day. Her tingling went away as her heart took a slow, lazy beat.

In the last moments of her life, she worried about Shadona, her only unmarried daughter. But worried wasn't the right word. Sad was perhaps a better choice. Sad.

As sad as she had been that Dawn hadn't had love in her life, and perhaps just as wrong.

Last beat.

Last exhale.

She felt it all slip away in that quiet sigh.

But death had never frightened her. Curious that. With the few embers left of her life, she read a future in transition.

A life, infinitely small, opened infinitely wide before her closed eyes.

Sylia would have one more daughter, born two years and a month from this day, and would share her name.

Shadona would find her shimmering man nearly four hundred miles away, and have twins when she was forty-five.

She felt the roots planted in this house slowly spread and remake the world. Generation after generation, as far as her eye could see, generations of girls. A tiny few would face the choice she and her mother had to bear. Even fewer still would glimpse futures with a casual touch. But all would see a whispering shimmer, when they met that perfect match. And all would have hunches, nearly as profound.

Prouder than this, she had no right to be.

To be.

...to be.

To have been.

The room was so very bright and warm, as if cold and shadows had never existed. She opened her eyes and saw Frances' smiling face, shimmering in silver with splotches of brilliant green across his chest and down one arm, like a light rain had made it wet.

Her father was a brilliant golden yellow, speckled with splotches of sky blue, and her mother was sky blue, lightly mixed with golden speckles.

And then she saw her.

The bashful little girl, trying to hide behind the rest. Ashamed of her multi-colored patchwork soul, with its occasional empty hole, still blaming herself for a world destroyed... a world she single-handedly saved. Little Dawn tried to hide her shimmering colors as if they were proof of her tainted past, when Shela saw the same millions of sparkles as the world of lives that shy little girl's love had spared. And a faint little smile she couldn't hide, that outshined the stars.

[The End of book six]
Author notes:

Special thanks to my sister, without which none of this series would have ever been possible. Invaluable in my writing, irreplaceable in my life.

Thank you, Sis.

T _R Nowry_

As with all books, but especially so with inde authors like me, word of mouth is very important. It's the only advertising we ever, ever get. So if you've liked this series and want to see more, don't keep it to yourself. Tell someone and even write a review on the evil Ammo Zahn. They blacklist indie authors by default, so reviews mean more to us.

Believe it or not, it really helps.

Now, what did I do with that Waffen book?

Hmmm...

It had a red cover. I had it just a minute ago. I couldn't have lost it already : )

Waffen

by TR Nowry

Since sunup that morning, she had been straining to follow the paths that wove between the trees along the valley, disappearing and reappearing seemingly at random. Unlike the adventures of her youth, she didn't find this exciting, but taxing and tiring instead.

It taxed her failing eyesight. Eyes that were easily good enough to find her way amidst the familiar were failing her now as they looked upon the new.

The different.

The strange.

It taxed her coordination to fly this slow and low, as she tried to follow a tiny footpath that would have been hard enough to see on the ground. From two hundred feet in the air, it was nearly impossible.

But the hints and flickers she glimpsed were enough.

In her thirties she would fly for hours, a thousand miles a day was nothing to her, but now, spending so much time wrestling controls and sitting in a chair was wearing her down. This would be her last such adventure, the last path she would ever strain to follow, the last village she would visit 'for the first time', and the last leap into the unknown in a very long life of trying to honor the legacy she had been born into.

Her eyes and body may be failing her, but she still had luck on her side. Her hunches had never failed her before. And they wouldn't now.

She circled the area above the very spot where she had lost the trail.

She looked north, "No".

She looked northeast, "No".

She looked east, "Yes," she whispered, then leveled off in that direction.

Flying for six long minutes without a glimpse was nerve-wracking, but the path finally reappeared, bigger and clearer than ever before.

She glanced at the horizon and knew she had six or seven hours of challenging flying still ahead of her.

She was exhausted already, and her day had barely begun.

The sun was falling fast, but she knew she was close, she could feel it in her gut. She was flying over clearings, barns, pastures and crops, she had to be within an hour at most of the village proper, though which direction it was from here was still unclear.

What was clear was she wasn't going to make it there.

Not this time.

Not before dark.

She had ten or twenty minutes of flight left. Her fuel was fine, but she could only land under sunlight. Her eyes simply weren't as good as they once— she broke hard and circled left as a man looked up from his modest garden.

She was five hundred feet in the air, but she knew what she knew.

She saw what she saw.

She circled his modest clearing, just to be sure, now slower and lower at two hundred feet.

It had been decades since— It was a part of her life she had put behind her, a part she had dared not think about. But such opportunities didn't offer themselves very often. Only once before had she glimpsed what she stared at now. Only once in her very long life, as a matter of fact, had she seen this before.

It wasn't something she could afford to pass by.

She put down on a patch of weeds just a few feet past the edge of his garden, nearly clipping the branches of trees as she did. He cautiously approached, hoe still in his hands, poised like a weapon. When she let go of the stick and held up her hands, he paused. She pointed up at the swinging blades, then gestured for him to stay back before she removed her helmet.

Unbuckled from the seat, she crouched along the ground as she got out from under the slowing blades. She straightened, smiled, then squinted at him, just to be sure. "Hi," she said, then took off her glove and thrusted forward her right hand, "My name's Shadona." She shook his hand as he lowered the hoe. "Sorry about putting down in your garden, but I was—"

"No worries, Miss, you, uh, missed— no harm but to them weeds, I expect. Could be called a favor, I guess, in another light. No, uh, har— I— What the hell is that?" He gestured with the tip of the hoe.

She smiled. "It's complicated. Lots call it a helicopter, but that's not really accurate, but it's not really an autogyro either. It's a hybrid mix of a tip jet and a gyro. Been flying them since I was a teen, and none of the names really fit. Tipgyro is the one I like the most, think it sounds the most accurate, but that hasn't really caught on. Most call anything with rotary wings a helicopter or a gyro, even when they're not, so I've stopped trying to correct them." He finally let go of her hand. "I hate to impose, but, I didn't catch your name."

He stopped staring at the strange device, still unclear about what name to call it. "Sorry, Miss. Name's Frances."

"Frances?" she said. "Frances," she repeated softly, then smiled. "What are the odds? My father was named Frances." She squinted at him again, the urge to touch his scruffy chin was difficult for her to resist. "This, uh, is always awkward to ask, but do you mind if I stay here tonight? I can't fly at night, you see. Or, more accurately, I can't see at night well enough to fly."

He looked uncomfortable and took a backward step.

She gestured to the gyro, "I have a tent. I can sleep outside on the—"

"No Ma'am, that wouldn't be proper of me to—" He pressed the handle of his hoe on the ground, then used its clay-caked tip to point to the modest house. "Got's room inside, and wild dog tracks trampling all what's left out here. Tent ain't no safe place to spend a night 'round here." He looked up from the ground, "Been more than a few years since I had a guest, but I'm remembering my manners, Ma'am. Wasn't born this rude." He dropped the hoe to the ground.

She couldn't stop smiling. "That's very generous of you, Frances. Thank you." She returned to the gyro and retrieved her pack of food and clothes, now that the blades had come to a stop, and walked with him into the house.

It was dangerous to meet strangers in such a way. More so to go into a stranger's house so quickly. But she could tell a lot by simply shaking someone's hand. Far more than most ever could.

And she trusted her gut.

It never steered her wrong.

