“The droids?”

“All destroyed but one. We’re taking it back to Dr. King to see if she can get any information out of it.”

Martinez’ fists clench once and unclench. “You know, Ma’am, sometimes I wish they were human. It just doesn’t seem fair that they can’t feel anything.”

“I know,” she says quietly. Images of the last week tumble through her mind: the dead Hurley boys; the women from the Mandan jail; the quiet desperation she has sensed in Kirsten King. “We’ll find out who’s behind this. And they will pay.”

“I wanna help collect Ma’am.” Larke adds, just as quietly, and Martinez nods.

“Me, too.”

“There will come a time, I promise you.” Then, more sharply, “For now — Stay. Put. It’ll be maybe half an hour.”

As Koda sprints once again for the central hub of the prison, a speaker over her head crackles a couple times, then sputters fully to life. “It’s on? Yeah, that’s got it. Good.”

Then Allen’s voice comes through, clear and strong. “Attention. Attention, please. This is Colonel Margaret Allen, United States Air Force. A combined services tactical force has destroyed the prison’s android guard contingent and is now in command of this facility. Evacuation of prisoners will begin immediately on a corridor by corridor basis. If you have immediate medical needs, please inform the soldiers who will escort you from your cells to the dining area to await pickup.”

The microphone clicks off, and there is perhaps a second’s silence. Then the prison erupts in sound once again. This time, though, the roar is a cheer, starting deep and sliding up the scale until it pierces the air with the sharpness of a hawk’s cry, the scream of a hunting eagle.

Koda finds the Colonel in what appears to be the central guard station. The intercom equipment occupies one long counter, together with a couple computers and a bank of monitor screens that placidly record the undisturbed snow in most of the prison yards. It is still, strangely, only twilight. The entire operation has taken perhaps an hour. Allen looks up as Koda enters. “Larke?”

“Holding on.” she reports. “Tried to get up, with Martinez aiding and abetting. He’ll be fine, once we get him into a real hospital.”

“Good. The locks here are electronic, and while we don’t have the codes, we do have the emergency switches. I want you to be there as each group comes out, in case we’ve got anything medically urgent on our hands.” Allen pauses a moment, and her voice softens. “You did pretty damn good today, you know. You’re a natural at this.”

“I know,” Koda answers in a voice so low that it is almost a whisper. “It’s something that’s just been—there—all my life. Like a memory, almost.”

“We’ll talk when we get back to base and can have a little quiet,” Allen mumurs. “Meantime—“ Her voice sharpens, and she is once again a line officer. “Andrews. Take a couple more troops and accompany Dr. Rivers to A Wing. Give her a hand with anything medical if she needs it. I’m going to go ahead and call that other, overly creative, Rivers of ours to have those birds here in another half hour.”

Koda extracts her emergency kit from her pack and follows Andrews, Ramirez and Hanson as they make their way down Corridor A. The women who come streaming out into the hallway here have little about them of the beaten and terrified prisoners of the Mandan jail. It may be only that they have known for an hour that their rescue is underway and have done what they can both to defy the enemy and to put heart into the soldiers facing the actual battle. One woman, her skin pink with excitement, grabs Andrews by the arms and kisses him soundly, then proceeds to reward Ramirez, Hanson and Koda with equal enthusiasm. When a second makes for the startled Lieutenant, he fends her off gently but firmly as he shepherds her toward the dining room with the rest. “Ma’am, please, time is limited. We appreciate your—ahm, we appreciate your appreciation—but we need to get you the hell out of this place. If you’ll pardon my language. Uh, Ma’am.”

Koda is pleased to see that the women are, superficially, largely uninjured. Most have bruises, some yellow-green with age, others newly crimson. One prisoner has a long but shallow cut down her forearm, and Koda takes a moment to wrap it in Kurlix to await stitching when they reach base. “It’s mah own fault, Doctah,” she says, in a delicate voice that sounds of the Georgia peaches and cream that match her red-blonde hair and ivory skin. “Ah broke the leg off mah stool bangin’ it against the doah. Ah wish it had been ovah one of those bastahdly thing’s heahds.”

Despite herself, a thread of amusement winds its way through Koda’s anger. Move over, Miz Scarlett. Like her own people, the South has always bred its women tough. It is a breeding that will help this woman survive, as it has kept the winan Lakota alive through a century and a half of attempted extermination.

She leaves the latter-day Scarlett with the Colonel and the rest of the troop in the cafeteria, where the soldiers have located clean cups and are passing out water and juice. Allen makes the rounds, speaking with each woman in turn, reassuring, comforting those with haunted eyes, answering what questions she can. One woman, pale and agitated, asks over and over again, “Where are the children? What have they done with the children?”

Koda pauses on her way out to evacuate D Wing as Allen answers, “Ma’am, I’m sorry. As far as we can tell, the droids have killed all the boys they found and kept only the girls past puberty. Were your children with you when you were taken?”

The woman is close to hyperventilating, and Koda kneels down in front of her with the Colonel, capturing her wrist to check her pulse. “Yes! Christ, why is so hard to make you understand!” She chokes for a moment, gasping for breath. “They took my kids with me! Why haven’t you found them? Where are they, damn you?” Her voice rises to a shriek. “Where are they?”

One of the other prisoners comes to sit beside her, putting her arms around the now- weeping woman. “It’s true, Colonel. Deb’s kids were with her when we were caught at the K-Mart. I haven’t seen them since that first day, though.”

“Deb?” Koda asks softly. “We’ll look for your children. We won’t leave, I promise, until we’ve found them or know for sure they’re not here. Can you tell us how old they are? Boys? Girls?”

“Two boys,” the second woman answers. “They were about four, five.”

“Right,” The Colonel rises, motioning to two of her troops who are foraging behind the serving counter. “O’Donnell! Markovic!” she shouts. “Start searching the place for kids. Not the cells, we’ll get all of those—try the garages and offices and tool sheds! Move it out! On the double!”

Koda returns to her task of evaluating the women as they exit the cells. On Wing D, they find a woman together with her young daughter, thirteen at most. The woman’s clothes have obviously not seen the inside of a washing machine in days, perhaps more, but they are intact—no rips, no bloodstains, and her arms and face are equally unmarked. Unlike the others, they seem almost diffident, with none of the lava-hot undercurrent of anger Koda has sensed running thick and murderous below the bravado of the rest of the prisoners. Fear and bewilderment, yes, but no hatred. “I’m Millie Buxton,” the woman introduces herself hesitantly . “My husband is here, too. Have you found him, yet?”

“They never touched you, did they,” a dark-haired woman sneers in passing, before Koda can answer. “Bitch! ‘Droid lover!”

Andrews blocks the speaker as she moves to spit at the other woman and hustles her along the hallway. Koda says slowly, “No, we haven’t. Was he an employee?”

“A prisoner. Erin and I were visiting when—when—it happened.”

“And you haven’t been harmed?”

“No. Not—I know what she meant, you see. I’ve heard when—“ Millie glances back at her daughter—“things happened to the other women. But they left us alone. I don’t know why. I’m just glad because—because of Erin, you see.”

Koda does not see, not quite, but an idea has begun to form. “We’ll find your husband if he’s here, Ms. Buxton.” And to Andrews, more quietly, as the woman falls into step with the rest, “That last wing’s been pretty near silent. All along.”

Andrews nods. “Gotcha. We’ll pick up a couple more guys before we go over there. That’s where we dropped down, isn’t it?”

“That’s where I saw what I’m pretty sure was a man, one time when I lifted up a tile to see where we were. We’d better go cell by cell, there, not spring them all at once.”

“Better see how the Colonel wants to handle them. I’m all for leaving them to starve, but she may have other ideas.”

In the end, there are four. Three are much like their counterparts from Mandan, foul-mouthed and full of bluster. The fourth, though, will not answer them when his cell is opened, remaining curled tightly on top of the blanket with his knees drawn up to his chest. Only the rise and fall of his ribs shows that he is still alive.

”All right,” says Andrews after the prisoner has ignored him three times. “Let’s haul him out.”

“Wait a minute.” Koda walks silently up to the bunk where the man remains unresponsive. “Mr. Buxton?”

Nothing.

“Mr Buxton?” she tries again. “Millie and Erin are worried about you. They’re safe. Whatever deal you made, the droids kept it that far.”

A sound that is not quite a sob, not quite a groan comes from the huddled form on the cot. “Just leave me, please. Or shoot me. Just don’t tell them—please, I don’t want them to know— Tell them I’m dead, please?”

Andrews reaches forward and hauls the man into a sitting position. Unkempt hair falls over a forehead pale with lack of sun and eyes that water with the dim light enters through the half-open door. “Look here, Buxton. You just might get your wish. I don’t know what the Colonel’s going to want to do with you—maybe shoot you on spot, maybe not. If I were you, I’d still want to see my wife and kid one last time. And I sure as hell know they want to see you.”

“Mr. Buxton. Millie and Erin will find out exactly what you’ve done from the other women.” Koda takes a deep breath and forces her voice to remain neutral. “Now, I don’t know whether they’ll forgive you; God knows the rest of these women won’t, and shouldn’t. But it should count for something that you bought your family’s lives. Whatever happens, you can take that with you.”

In the end, he comes with them, still half-unwillingly, his head down. Allen meets them just outside the entrance to the cafeteria and rakes the four men over with fury in her dark eyes. “Just like the other jail. Hold them in that office over there for now.” She points to a small cubicle with a desk and computer and what seem to be endless piles of invoices. “Hanson, if one of these motherfuckers turns a hair wrong, shoot him.”

Buxton raises his head and holds her withering gaze for a moment. “Ma’am, they tell me my wife and daughter are here. Whatever goes down, I’d like to know they’re safe.”

“Hostages for his performance,” Koda says quietly.

“I see.” There is what may be a minuscule softening in Allen’s expression. “We’re taking them back to Base. They’ll have a trial. Andrews, Rivers, come with me. Hanson, you sit on ’em, and sit on ’em tight. They go out on the last chopper where these women won’t have to see their lousy faces.”

“Ma’am.”

Koda and Andrews follow the Colonel back into the cafeteria. From overhead comes the steady whup-whup-whup of approaching helicopters, the noise intensifying until it becomes an unholy clatter as the great blades beat the air. From the doorway, Koda can see their noselights growing larger and larger, finally sweeping the snow before her as the pilots check for obstructions before easing in to a landing. There are at least a dozen; most are Black Hawk and Apache gunships; one is a carrier. The lead bird is another Black Hawk, a red cross painted prominently on its side. The rotor wash kicks up little eddies of snow, sending it spraying outward as the great, grasshopper-like hulks settle, wobbling, into the snow. Just as the high-pitched whine of the engines becomes an almost physical pain, it stops.

“Load up,” yells Allen, and with that the former prisoners are running for the helicopters, clambering in with the help of their crews and the rescue unit. Two corpsmen from the Medevac fetch Larke from the kitchen, Martinez trotting alongside the litter. They load the remains of Johnson and Reese, too, decently wrapped in blankets for their last journey. The captive droid goes with the living prisoners, trussed and hauled along by the manacles that bind him hand and foot.

When all the rest are loaded, Allen hops aboard the Medvac chopper, Koda inches behind her. “Get us in the air, Rivers,” she shouts as the engines once again begin tow whine. “And give me the mike.”