“On my breast. I know.” She smiles again. “If you can wet down a bandage, I’ll get some of this blood off, then tape a pressure dressing to it. It’ll hold until we reach base.”

“I’ll do it,” Kirsten replies firmly, trying desperately to rein in her professional demeanor, which seems to have fled with the rest of her common sense. God, you’d think I was some giddy schoolgirl. Get your act together, Kirsten. You offered to help. So help. Think about her breasts later.

And she would. Of that, she was sure.

Forcing her hands to remain steady, she uncaps a bottle of sterile water and wets a dressing sponge with it. She begins to blot at the wound, though the task is made harder by the fact that she has nothing to purchase on. Manny driving them like he’s riding a steer in a rodeo doesn’t help matters any.

Finally, blessedly, most of the blood is cleaned away. Kirsten then unwraps a sterile 4X4, doubles it, then doubles it again and presses it tight against the wound. The APV chooses this moment to hit its biggest rut yet, and in pure instinct, Kirsten lifts her free hand and cups Koda’s entire breast in order to maintain pressure on the wound.

“I guess this means we’re married now.”

The amusement in the low voice causes Kirsten to realize the positioning of her hands, and she looks up at Koda with something very akin to horror blazing from her features.

Dakota can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. “Relax,” she soothes. “You’re doing a good job.”

Kirsten’s fiery blush deepens.

Koda rolls her eyes. “Breathe,” she orders softly. “I can’t have my nurse passing out on me like this. What would people think?”

The vehicle hits yet another rut and Kirsten, already off balance, falls forward, diving nose first into Koda’s warm cleavage. Dakota’s arms come around her instinctively, protecting her from further jostling as the APV stutters and bucks its way down the unplowed road.

“Could this possibly get any worse?” comes the plaintive wail from between her breasts.

Koda laughs out loud. “Well, we could be walking.”

*

Wearing a freshly pressed jumpsuit she got from the base hospital, Koda steps quietly into the darkened, cool house. Her head is lightly buzzing from the four or five shots of pure octane that her brother and cousin had all but poured down her throat in celebration. Of what, she still isn’t quite sure, but their good spirits and warm companionship was a fine enough inducement to stay. Her wound is neatly stitched and dressed, and quite complacent beneath the numbing weight of the alcohol she’s consumed.

The light from the fireplace leads her through the darkened kitchen and into the living room. Asi’s tail thumps against the tattered rug, but he doesn’t remove his head from its resting place atop Kirsten’s thigh. The woman in question is sprawled along the couch, her head lolling against one ragged arm, a thick—and doubtless dry as dust—robotics tome resting, spine up, on her chest. Her glasses hang askew on her face, and she is lightly snoring, obviously deeply asleep.

Coming closer, Dakota squats on her haunches and lays a hand in Asimov’s warm fur, stroking it as she gazes down at Kirsten, watching the firelight as it plays over her spun-gold hair. She follows one tendril that lays across one twitching eye, caught up in thick, dusky lashes. The face she looks upon is that of an innocent untouched by the ravages of war or time. It is a kind face, a compassionate face imbued with an innate goodness that the young scientist tries so hard to conceal.

With infinite tenderness, she gently sweeps the tendril loose of its confinement, smiling as Kirsten’s nose twitches briefly, before relaxing once again beneath the weight of her slumber.

A soft footfall sounds, and Koda looks up to see Maggie, her well-worn robe casually belted at the waist. Her face is solemn, brown eyes intent on Koda’s face.

“She’s getting inside, isn’t she.”

Though the words carry with them a faint accusation, the tone itself is soft, perhaps even warm. Koda chooses to keep silent, well knowing that her face speaks a truth mere words can’t convey.

“Thought so,” Maggie responds in a whisper, walking over to the foot of the couch and staring down at the almost fragile looking woman taking up its length. “Sparks like that don’t fly for nothing.”

“Sparks?”

Maggie’s smile, when it comes, is wry. “Yeah.” As she swallows, a brief look of sadness crosses her features, and is gone.

“Maggie, I….”

Allen lifts a hand. “Don’t say it, Koda. Don’t say that you’re sorry.”

Rising gracefully to her feet, Dakota grasps the upraised hand and pulls it gently to her chest. “I wasn’t.” She pins Maggie with her eyes. “I’m not.”

That brief, sad smile flashes but a moment as Maggie lifts her free hand and tenderly trails it against Dakota’s warm cheek. “C’mon,” she intones softly. “Let’s go to bed.”

*

The General’s conference room is still grey, but this time, at least, the coffee arrives promptly. As steam curls up from the mug before her, Koda is pleased to note that it is also hot. Kirsten’s sudden status as possible Commander-in-Chief of whatever is left of the armed forces may not make Amtrak run on time—has not made the trains run at all, in fact— but it has had an immediate and positive effect on the Base’s coffeemakers.

Kirsten has taken her seat at the head of the table without question this time, Hart claiming the second-ranking chair at the foot. Otherwise the seating arrangement reflects the tension that has been building in the room for the past two hours. One side is wall-to-wall brass: Air Force Light Colonels, Majors, a stray Captain to fill out the line. Like Hart, they are all in formal uniform, all of them bristling with theatre ribbons and good conduct medals. Studying the decorations surreptitiously as she sips her coffee, Koda counts the presence of only one pair of pilot’s wings and zero Purple Hearts. Desk jockeys and rearguards. Facing them across the table are the scouts who have just returned from the prospective battleground, Tacoma and Manny in unmarked and rankless fatigues, the rest in an assortment of jeans and work shirts. One of the Majors—Grueneman, H., according to his name tag—darts his eyes repeatedly from Koda to Tacoma. She has no need of her shamanic talent to know what he is thinking: they look just like identical twins, but they can’t be. There is, too, something of the offended grade school principal in the down-the-nose-on-a-long-slalom look that lingers on Tacoma’s hair, caught back like her own with a beaded band at the nape. Definitely not regulation.

Live with it, asshole. If you want Lakota allies, accept Lakota customs. Koda sips at her coffee and winks slyly the next time Grueneman, H. allows his eyes to wander to her and her brother.

The Major averts his gaze instantly, and Koda turns her attention back to Maggie Allen. The Colonel stands at the front of the room, marking the positions of enemy units on a holographic topo map. Its contours are dotted with small red laser x’s that show a clear pattern of convergence upon Ellsworth, troops grinding south from Minot, north from Warren and Offut. A scattering of green circles represents possible disposition of Ellsworth’s own assets, mostly ground and mechanical forces with a couple squadrons of Black Hawks and Apaches to back them up from the air.

“That’s an extremely conservative strategy, Colonel,” Hart observes. “We do have an operational fighter squadron. Counting Lieutenant Rivers and yourself, we have a good dozen pilots. Why not simply bomb these columns?”

Maggie turns from rearranging red and green marks on the screen to answer the Base commander. “It is conservative, General. ‘Conservative’ as in preserving our assets. I would prefer to hold our air power back to use as a last resort.”

‘What aircraft do the droids have, Colonel?” Kirsten’s question is quiet, but it draws the immediate attention of the entire assembly. “It’s my understanding that they have no fighters and no air transport. And they would have no one to fly them if they did.” Her attention shifts, then, and her green eyes flash, for an instant feral as a hunting cat’s. “I can tell you for certain, General, that no military droids were ever programmed to operate aircraft or airborne weapons systems. I fought your own Air Force Chief of Staff over that in the House Armed Services Committee.

“I won.”

“All the more reason to take advantage of –well, our advantage.” Grueneman, H. has found his voice. “There is a limited time remaining in which we can expect our satellite-guided systems to continue to function. We might as well make use of them while we can.”

“What about outlying civilian communities?” asks Lorena, the redheaded Ms. Tilbury-Laduque. “The jets are the only way help can reach them in time if they’re attacked.”

“Risk them—waste the ammo—waste the fuel—and they’ll be entirely on their own.,” her partner adds.

“Ma’am, we’re at war,” says Hart. “Under these circumstances, the armed forces’ first duty is to preserve itself and the government.”

“No1” Kirsten is on her feet, hands flat on the surface of the table. Her mouth is straight and tight,; the effort the other woman is making to keep her voice even is almost palpable. “Don’t you understand? There is no government at the moment. By itself Ellsworth”—a wave of her hand encompasses the base—“is not a viable unit. The population is skewed in half a dozen ways that mean it can’t survive except as part of a wider social spectrum. Protecting those outlying communities has to be our first priority, not our last.”

“I agree with Dr. King, General,” Maggie says quietly. “Let’s use our planes if we need them, but only if we can’t get the job done otherwise. The droids do have SAMs; we don’t’ want to risk a shoot-down unnecessarily.”

“All right.” Hart leans back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table. “Let’s game it out without the air cover.”

Maggie turns once again to the holoboard. “We have enemy units coming in here, here, here.” She highlights the red X’s with a pointer. “From what we’ve picked up from their communications and can guess by the routes they’re taking, they’ll converge in force here—in the foothills just north and east of the base.”

“They’ll have to cross the Elk Creek branch of the Cheyenne,” Tacoma observes. “There’s only one bridge.”

Maggie flashes him a grin. “There’s only one bridge. We split our forces. One party waits for them here, on the south bank. The land is rough, with plenty of cover, including some wooded areas. The other party—“ she pauses, a good teacher waiting for her students to supply the answer.

“The other party,” Koda answers slowly, “gets into position behind them before they arrive. We squeeze them between the two forces and the river. Dr. King can monitor the androids’ communications. Manny and Tacoma and I can relay the information without worrying about interception.”

“Classic pincer,” observes Grueneman.

“Not quite,” Manny counters. “When do we blow the bridge?”

“On my order, Lieutenant,” says Hart. He gives Allen a nod and a complacent smile. “It’s a good plan, Colonel, assuming we can get by without committing our air superiority.”

An awkward silence falls in the room. Kirsten breaks it. “You mean to command the operation personally, General?”

‘Why, yes.”

“After your brilliant success at Minot?” she spits. “General, your leadership is what got us where we are now.”

It seems to Koda that the temperature in the room drops a good ten degrees. The silence that follows is glacial. The muscles around Tacoma’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly; Lorena Tilbury-Laduque coughs sharply and covers the lower half of her face with a well-faded bandana. Without sound, Manny’s lips form the words, “Holy Ina Maka, Mother of God.”

The quiet stretches out interminably. Finally, Hart draws a long breath and says quietly. “Very well, Dr. King. Allow me to recommend Lt. Colonel Frank Maiewski.”

Maiewski, Koda notes, is the one pilot. He turns an unattractive shade of fuschia, bright pink scalp showing through thinning hair. “General, thank you, but I don’t believe—“

“Colonel Allen has rank,” Kirsten observes quietly.

“And experience,” adds Manny. “We spent the first week after the uprising fighting these things out in the countryside.”

The General’s mouth curves upward in an expression that stiffens Koda’s spine and sets off alarms all along her nerves. That’s how a snake would look if it could smile. Beside her, Tacoma has picked up on it, too; he turns to stare straight at Hart. His fingers, spread flat on the table, twitch as if trying to form themselves into fists. But Hart says only, “Colonel? Are you up to the job?”