Written by:  Susanne Beck and Okasha 

Disclaimers:  In chapter one.



Kirsten becomes immediately disoriented as the howling wind whips the snow around her face and body, blinding her completely, and stinging the exposed areas of her skin like a studded whip.  “Dakota!”


“It’s alright!  You’re safe!”  Koda shouts to be heard above the shrieking wind.  Reaching out blindly, she manages to capture Kirsten’s arm and she pulls the other woman forward and tight against what little shelter her larger, longer body can offer.  “Don’t let go!”


“Not on your life!”


A massive bolt of lightening splits the sky, and the resulting crack of thunder shakes the earth around them with brutal force.  Kirsten’s implants howl in outrage and she lifts her free hand to her forehead, trying fruitlessly to numb the spike of pain chiseling itself into her skull.  The air stinks of burning rubber, and she can taste metal in the back of her mouth.  Thunder?  In the middle of a snowstorm?  What the hell??


“Manny!  Get us out of here!”


“Any suggestions?  I’m blind here!”


“Shit!”  She turns her head slightly to the side.  “Kirsten, can you move?”


“Yes!  I’m fine!”


“Come with me, then!  Manny, stay close!”


“Like flies on horseshit, cuz!”


With determined steps, Dakota leads her small group forward, eyes straining to see through the lashing snow.  It’s absolutely useless, and the only thing she can rely on are the instincts she’s honed through her life on this land. 


When lightning again splits the sky, she uses that same instinct to pull Kirsten to the side and shield her with her own body a split second before the scraping, brittle branches of a giant tree crash down, dealing her a glancing blow on the shoulder.


“Jesus!” Kirsten shouts. “What was that?”


“Tree!  Keep moving!” 


“Tree?!?  We’re in a whole forest of trees!!  What if we wind up running into them?!?”


“We’ll all get bloody noses!  Now move!”


Not moving isn’t really an option as Kirsten feels herself being pulled forward by the strength of Dakota’s inexorable grip.  Her mind rebels against the less than gentle handling, but her body knows a good deal when it senses one, and moves her along complacently.


A chant to the Mother soft upon her lips, Dakota continues to use blind instinct to lead her party out of the dangerous woodland as lightning and thunder continue to do battle around them.


Then comes a flash of light and a loud coughing sound that is neither lightning nor thunder.  “The mines.” Koda remarks, still moving them through the thick grove of trees with uncanny precision and not a little stealth.


“Hoo yah!” Manny yells from his place glued to her right side.  “Die, you motherfuckers!”


A second, third, and fourth explosion follow in quick succession.  With a soft cry, Kirsten falls to her knees, arms wrapped around her head as the feedback of the dying droids—sounding amazingly like human screams—sears through her implants, robbing the strength from her body and the thoughts from her mind.


Koda stops immediately and squats down on her haunches, barely able to see the other woman’s pain wracked face even from scant inches away. She grabs Kirsten’s shoulders tight in her hands and barely keeps herself from shaking the young woman like a rag doll. “What is it?!?  What’s wrong?!?”


Kirsten’s mouth is frozen in a rictus of absolute agony, and Dakota divines the problem immediately.  “Turn them off!” she all but screams.  “Turn them off!!”


If Kirsten can hear her, she gives no sign.  A keening moan continues uninterrupted from the very back of her throat as her body rocks in an instinctive attempt at self-comfort as old as time.  Squinting through the hard-driving snow, Dakota unwraps Kirsten’s arms from around her head and, praying silently that she’s doing the right thing, feels for the tiny bumps behind each of the young scientist’s ears.  With deft, gentle pressure, she presses inward.  Relief flows through her in a tangible wave as Kirsten’s body begins to relax almost immediately, slumping weakly against her.  Pulling off a glove with her teeth, Koda raises a warm palm to Kirsten’s chin, tilting the other woman’s gaze up to meet her own.  Her mouth carefully forms one word.  “Better?”


After a moment, Kirsten nods.  “Much.  Thank you.”


Koda can’t help the smile that spills out, and Kirsten responds with one of her own, all the more glorious for barely being seen, like the tantalizing flash of a deeply desired gift. 


Another moment goes by, the sounds of exploding landmines slashing through the air around them.  Releasing Kirsten’s chin almost reluctantly, Dakota slips her glove back on and looks carefully at Kirsten, asking a question in her eyes.  Kirsten nods and, with a deep breath, Koda rises, pulling the other woman up with her and holding her until Kirsten is more or less steady on her feet.


Kirsten moves up to turn her implants back on, only to be stopped by Koda, who catches her hand and curls it firmly around her bicep.  Understanding the silent message, Kirsten gives another nod and begins walking forward in step with her companion.  Effectively blind, and now completely deaf, she has no choice but to trust the tall Lakota woman who has, for the second time this day, saved, if not her life, at least her sanity. 


Trust is the one emotion she has never, truly, felt able to give anyone.  But in the end, and with this woman, she relinquishes the fetters in her soul without a second’s hesitation.  There is something very freeing in this simple, if profound, act, and in this giving, she finds herself changed in a way she could never have predicted.




When the explosions start, Tacoma immediately clicks his comm. unit, then winces as static crackles directly into his ear.  Undeterred, he clicks the unit again and again, willing to hear his sister’s voice through the interference.  “Tanski, come in.  Dakota, if you hear me, come in.”


As more explosions rip through the night, Tacoma looks over at the Colonel with wide eyes.  She holds a hand out. “Let me try.”


Slipping the earpiece from his ear, Tacoma hands the unit over to Allen.  She situates the piece, then clicks to open transmission.  “Allen to Rivers. Allen to Rivers. Do you read me. Over.”  Static answers her, and she tries again.  “Allen to Rivers.  Dakota, Manny, damn it, if you’re receiving me, answer.”




She shoots a quick look over her shoulder.  “Mendoza, do you have a fix on their position?”


The young corporal looks at her with a hangdog expression.  “No, Ma’am.  Nothing but interference across the board.”


“Shit.”  Allen’s epithet was softly spoken, but Tacoma’s sharp hearing picked it up, and he shared with her a brief look of concern and commiseration.  “Allen to Rivers.  Dakota, can you read me.”


Another moment passes in silence.


Tacoma shoulders his weapon and straightens his jacket.


“What are you doing?” Allen asks, eyes narrowed.


“I’m gonna find them.  Now.”


“Wait.”  She doesn’t back down from the tall man’s fierce glare. Swallowing her Colonel’s pride, she deliberately softens both face and voice.  “Please, wait.  You don’t even know where they are!”


“She’s my tanski.  My sister.  I don’t need a map.  I just need this.”  A meaty fist thumps against his heart.  “I’ll find them.”


Static crackles.  And then….


“…ta he…rea…u.”


“Dakota!  Dakota, can you read me?  Come back.”  She knows her voice has a note of rather obvious desperation in it, but she can't seem to dredge up the will to care.


Tacoma freezes, turns, and looks back at the Colonel, who nods and beckons him back while listening through the static to Koda’s broken words.




“Dakota, you’re breaking up.   Listen to me.  We can hear explosions coming from your last noted position.  Are you okay?”




Allen’s eyes widen.  “Excuse me?  I didn’t copy.  Did you say ‘mines’?”


The static clears for one miraculous moment.  “I said mines, Colonel. Anti-tank mines.”


“But where?  How?”


“From the supply sergeant at the base.  Now if you’ll excuse me….”


“Wait a minute!” Maggie yells as Tacoma hides a chuckle behind a faked cough.  “You’re saying you took anti tank mines from the base?  Do you know how dangerous that was?!? You could have been killed!!”


Dakota’s return transmission is succinct.  “I do, we weren’t, they worked, and with all respect, Colonel,” Dakota deliberately emphasizes Maggie’s title, “yell at me later.  We’re in the middle of a white-out here and I need to get my team to safety.  Rivers out.”


Allen looks down at the dead comm. link in her hands, then up at Tacoma, whose dark eyes are shining with mirth.


“Do you find this in the least funny, Sergeant?” she snaps.


Tacoma sobers slightly.  “Respectfully, Colonel, this is Dakota we’re talking about.  No one commands her.”  A slight smirk curves his lips. “Unless she wants them to, of course.”


Allen simply glares.




Dakota continues forward as she clicks the comm. link closed.  Manny, who has heard the entire conversation, turns his head in her direction, though the snow is still far too furious for him to clearly see her, only half a foot away.  “Ooooh, she’s not gonna like that, cuz.”


“Let her fire me if she wants to,” Koda mutters in return, trying fruitlessly to peer through the swirling snow.  “I just want this damn squall to stop.”


As if only awaiting those very words, the snow does just that.  It doesn’t just taper off. It stops completely, vanishing as if it had never been.


Manny comes to a halt and blinks.  The abrupt end of the storm reveals their APC not more than ten feet away, blanketed in at least eight inches of newfallen snow.  “Holy Mother,” he breathes before turning to his cousin, eyes wide as saucers.  “I can’t believe you just did this.  I knew you were half Hupaki glake.  I fucking knew it!”


Koda rolls her eyes at him.  “You’ve got the ears for one.”


Blushing slightly, Manny instinctively reaches up for the aforementioned appendages.  “Not fair.”


“Take that up with Makha Ina.  Right now, I just want to get home.  You drive.”


“You got it, cuz.”


She looks to Kirsten, who is staring at her with an odd expression on her face.  “What?  What is it?”


Reaching up to turn her implants back on, she removes the ear bud from her ear and takes a step closer to Dakota.  “You’re bleeding.”


Koda looks down, for the first time noticing the red stain covering much of her left chest.  Her cammo suit is raggedly torn and fresh blood oozes slowly from the hole.  “Oh.  It’s just a scratch.”


“How did it happen?”


“From the tree that fell.  I think.”


Their eyes meet.  “The one that would have hit me if you hadn’t shielded me with your body.  Why did you do that?”


Koda shrugs.  “Because I could.” It is a simple reply, and the truth of it shines through in her words, and eyes, leaving Kirsten to look at her in wonder.


Manny ends the moment with a quick toot of the horn.  “Come on, guys!  Time’s a’wasting.” 


As Koda starts forward, more blood flows from the wound, soaking her cammos.  Kirsten stops her with a touch to the wrist. 


“That’s more than a scratch.  Sit in the back with me.  I’ll tend it as we’re driving back to the base.”


“It’ll be fine,” Koda demurs.  “It can wait.”




One simple word, so softly spoken, opens up a side of the young scientist that Dakota had long suspected was there, but had never really seen.  Until now.  She smiles, a cockeyed half-grin that Kirsten privately finds rather attractive.  “Okay.”




“Geez, Manny!” Koda hisses as the APC hits yet another deep rut, bouncing its occupants, particularly the ones in the back seat, around like rag dolls.  “We’re not at the local tractor pull, you know.”


“Sorry, cuz. The roads are a bitch out here.  I’m doing my best.”


“It’s alright.  Just…try to be a little smoother.”


“You got it.”


Kirsten pulls up the heavy first-aid kit from its place bolted to the floorboards of the armored vehicle.  Popping the clips, she opens the metal lid and peers inside.  Her hands set upon a pair of bandage scissors, and she pulls them out, then looks up at Dakota.  “If you can unzip your cammos, I’m going to have to cut your thermals away from the wound.”


Nodding, Koda unzips the suit to just above her navel. 


Kirsten quickly averts her gaze as she gets an unexpected view of Dakota’s small, firm breasts, clearly outlined against the thin, skin-tight fabric. She can feel her face go a flaming red and guesses Koda can likely feel the heat of it from her place against the opposite door.  “I…um….”


“It’s ok,” Koda replies softly, smiling.  “Like I said, this can wait.”


“No.”  Kirsten clears her throat and tries again.  “No.  I can….”  Forgoing any further attempts at talking, she grabs the proverbial bull by the horns, reaches for the neckline of Dakota’s thermals, and gently cuts down to mid chest.  Peeling the blood-sodden fabric away, she exposes the deep, sluggishly bleeding cut.  She then tracks up to meet Koda’s eyes.  “It’s um…it’s….”


“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.”




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?”


Maggie’s own face has gone grey.  But her voice is steady when she answers.  “I will be happy to accept whatever assignment you or Dr. King gives me , Sir.”


“All right.  You’re in command of this operation.  Just be sure of your targets this time.”  Hart pushes out his chair and rises.  “Half hour break.”


The Colonel remains standing by the holo screen as the other officers and civilians file out.  Koda is the last to go; just short of the door, though, Maggie calls her back.  “Dakota.”


Koda stops and shuts the door. Her voice is soft.  “What’s wrong?”


“Hart.”  Maggie lays down her pointer, making an oddly pleading gesture toward the General’s now empty seat.  “There’s something you need to know.”


Be sure of your targets.  It had been a threat.  Missed targets.  With a sudden sense of conviction, Koda knows what Maggie is about to say.  Damn the bastard


Aloud she says, “No.  There’s nothing I need to know.”


“Yes, there is.  Dr. King needs to know, too.”


Koda speaks levelly, acknowledging what she knows is coming, denying nothing.  “You hit the wrong target once.” 


“Oh, not just the wrong target.”  Maggie crosses the room and opens a pair of the grey-on-grey curtains.  Thin grey light shines in, muted by cloud cover and dirty snow.   “I hit the wrongest target there is.”



“A village in the Panjir.  Farmers and goatherders.  Old women.  Kids.”  Her voice hardens.  “Half a dozen five-hundred pounders right on top of them.  No goddamned excuse at all.”


Koda says very carefully.  “It’s not the first time such a thing has happened.  It won’t be the last.”


“No, it’s not.  But those other times I wasn’t responsible.  This time I was.”   Maggie turns to meet her eyes.  “I should have left the service after that, but I didn’t.  I still loved it too much—the flying, the feeling of power.”


And you’ve demanded perfection of yourself ever since.  “Maggie?”




“I’ve seen you in the field.  I trust you, and so do the troops.”


“Thanks.”  A small smile twitches at Maggie’s mouth.  “You have the talent to be one of the best fighters I’ve ever met.  If I’ve taught you anything, I can be proud of that.”


Koda opens the door.  “Not just that.  Would you like me to tell Kirsten you’d like to speak to her?”



Koda nods, steps into the corridor and, very softly, closes the door.





Koda slips quietly out of her sleeping bag, careful not to disturb Maggie or Kirsten, still stretched out on the floor of the troop carrier on either side of her.  Kirsten does not wake, but murmurs in her sleep, reaching out toward the now-empty space where Koda had been a moment ago.  She misses Asi.  With the thought a twinge of—what?  Not guilt, exactly, not quite regret either—passes through Koda.  The dog had howled and flung himself against the gate of the clinic kennel when they had turned to leave him not quite  day ago.  Hidden behind her darkened lenses, Kirsten’s eyes had been red and swollen for the next twelve hours.  “Allergies,” she had claimed, but even with a warming breeze from the south, it is still too early for the spring miseries of blowing pollen.

In the light of the small ceramic heater, Koda begins to pull on her battle dress over her thermals.  Because she and Kirsten will be stationed with the com unit back in the woods that crown a rise behind the intended battle line, her Arctic white camo is streaked in the grey-brown of bare branches, the spider tracery of dead grass.  She is not sure, exactly, of the time, but even here in the enclosed warmth of the truck, she can smell the changes that come with the wind that rises before dawn, bearing with it the hint of far places where the snow has loosed its grip on the land.  Places, even, where ice never clamps down upon the earth at all, and winter means relief of pounding heat. 




The thought comes to her with  the vivid urgency  of a child’s wish.  If I live through this—if any of us live; if there is anything human left at all—someday I want to go back to Crete and lie on the beach in Heraklion.  


She can see it still, the white sand and the thousand-year-old Byzantine domes whitewashed to perfect brightness under the white glare of the sun; the white wings of gulls dipping and wheeling above the impossible deep blue of the water that stretches on and on to the horizon. 


For an instant it seems to her that time slips, and she is looking out over the curling breakers at strong brown arms and legs flashing in the surf as a dolphin arcs above the water’s surface and the spray off its sleek form catches the light like a shower of falling stars. The angle of the sun shifts, and the swimmer is no longer Tali, but a fair-haired woman whose face she cannot see.  The  ancient monastery that broods down from the sea-cliff has acquired fluted columns and a marble altar that smokes with incense, the sharp smell of myrrh sliding along the salt air.  And the sun  dips again, and there is nothing but the white beach and the woman whose hair gleams like cornsilk, calling to her from the water where the dolphins leap under the endless sky.


Koda shakes her head to clear it, reaching for her sidearm and cinching down the straps that hold the shoulder holster in place against her side.  The images carry the feel of truth, but she cannot spare the attention now to sort past from future, desire from fate. 


Carefully she steps between the two women and lets herself out the insulated flap at the back of the truck.  The plastic sheeting clacks softly behind her as she steps onto the rear bumper, then jumps lightly onto the  snow beneath.  The night is clear.  The moon rides high above the bare limbs of beech and sycamore, its reflection on the snow casting  ghost light about her feet.  The light wind creaks among the branches, unfurls the frost of her breath in streamers.


In an hour or a little more, she knows, the sun will rise, and the quiet woods and fields in this lonely corner of South Dakota will explode with the noise of battle.  The thought does not frighten her; she has spent the last weeks with a gun scarcely out of her hand.  She has condemned men to the slow death of thirst and starvation in the Mandan jail; has blown gods know how many androids into electronic oblivion; killed a man with her own hands.  There will be nothing new to her in the violence to come.  The difference tomorrow will be in her assigned role as communicator to the divided wings of the troops gathered here to close, at the appointed time, on the enemy force. 


And there is Kirsten, whose safety will be her primary responsibility, on whose skills their survival beyond tomorrow may well depend.


Without sound, two shadows separate themselves from the trees behind the line of trucks and move toward her.  One, tall and bareheaded, is her brother; the other,  shorter and stockier, is Manny.  “Hau, tanski,” Tacoma greets her.


“Han, thiblo.  Shick’shi.”


Tacoma draws a small leather bag out of his jacket.  From it he takes a bundle of dried sweetgrass and sage  tied with  a red thread and  half a dozen packets of folded buckskin. Carefully he lays them out on the truck’s wide bumper.  “I’m glad you’re up.” A grin lights his face.  “Or did you already know we were coming?”


She smiles in return.  “I should have.”


“Other things on your mind?”  Manny nods toward the truck.


“Han.  It’s not good for so much to depend on one person.”


“No,” her brother agrees quietly.  “But she’s our best bet to stop the droids.  You’re our best bet to keep her alive to do it.  That is not in question.”


“It ought to be.”


“No.  It shouldn’t.”  Manny gestures back toward the stretch of highway where a squadron of Black Hawks and Apaches are parked.  “You’ve got to know that my orders are to get you two out of here safely if it all goes to hell when the sun comes up.”


“Damn it, Manny—“


“And I don’t want any argument from you or Dr. Ice Maiden if  it comes to that.  There won’t be time—oh, damn,” he says very softly.


Silhouetted by the faint glow of the heater, Kirsten stands holding the open flap above them.  There is no chance at all that she has not heard Manny’s reference to her, and Koda can almost feel the heat of embarrassment radiating from him.  But Kirsten speaks evenly, looking down at the small packets on the bumper.  “I’m sorry, I’ve interrupted you.  I’ll go out the other way.”


“No.”  It is Tacoma, his voice firm.  “Please join us.”  He reaches up to hand her down, and after a moment’s hesitation, she accepts.  “You’re a warrior, too.”


Kirsten  stands motionless for a moment, then says softly,  “Thank you.  I’m honored.”


Tacoma hands Koda the sweetgrass bundle, and shielding a match with his big hands, carefully lights it.  Smoke billows up from the herbs, and, closing her eyes, Koda waves it toward her, over her head and shoulders, breathing in its fragrance.  Calm settles over her, a stillness that begins just under her heart and ripples outward until mind and body alike are quiet.  She passes the smudge stick to Tacoma, who repeats the ritual before handing it to Kirsten.  Her face pale as the snow, Kirsten follows their example, bowing her head in reverence as the peace of the ritual takes possession of her.  When Manny has  completed the purification, Tacoma gently opens the small leather bundles.  Five packets hold finely ground colors: white an black and red; red and yellow ochre.  In the sixth is a knob of rendered buffalo fat. 


Tacoma dips a finger in the tallow and mixes it with a sprinkling of the red ochre.  Carefully he draws a blazing sun on his forehead and the pug marks of a large cat on either cheek.  Manny follows suit, marking his face with black arrows tipped in red. 


Kirsten, who has watched with a look of rapt attention, accepts a bit of the fat from the bundle as Manny offers it to her, together with some of the red and black pigment.  There is unexpected certainty in her movements, and Koda stifles the impulse to offer help.  Deliberately, precisely, the other woman traces a double spiral in red on the back of each of her hands, a black lightning bolt down her cheek..  When she has finished, she turns to offer the paints to Koda.


Tacoma’s hand intercepts them.  “Let me.”


Koda opens her mouth to protest, but Tacoma says, very gently.  “No, tanski.  Tshunka Wakan Winan.  Let me.”


A tightening in her solar plexus sends alarm along her nerves, something near panic screaming down her blood.  The calm of a few moments before is shattered, its fragments falling about her in brittle shards.  All unexpectedly, she has arrived at a moment of crisis, something she knows she is not prepared for, something there is no way to prepare for.  Her mouth goes dry as cotton, and her tongue feels thick and unwieldly as she forms the simple word she does not want to speak and knows she must speak.  “Ohan.” 


No sound carries her consent, and she repeats, whispering.  “Ohan.”


“Washté,” Tacoma answers quietly, and begins to mix white pigment in his hand.


Koda feels the pressure of h is finger as he draws a jagged lightning bolt from her hairline to her chin.  She swallows hard against the fear that rises in her, knowing somehow what is coming.  When her brother begins to dot the paint onto her cheeks, she grabs his wrist.  “Tacoma, no!”


He makes no effort to resist her, but says quietly, “It is right.”


The night has begun to fade around them, and she can see her brother’s eyes.  They are  a warrior’s, deep brown and steady, but there is a spark of the shaman’s gift in them as well.  He says again, “It is right.”


She submits, then, allowing him to paint on her face the symbols that Tshunka Witco of the Oglala, Crazy Horse, saw when he cried for a vision.  Ina Maka, she prays silently as a weight settles across her shoulders, a weight that now only death  will lift from her.   Mother of us all, help me to carry this burden and not to fail.


Above her in the fading darkness she hears the high scream of a hawk.  Just as the sun clears the horizon, a red-tail settles in the bare sycamore above her. Crazy Horse had worn  a red-tailed hawk in his hair. Wiyo, though, looks down at her with a clear golden gaze that is somehow both loving and pitiless.  It is validation of her office, and completion. 


Tacoma follows her gaze as she looks up at the hawk.  “Hoka hey,” he says.  “It is a good day.”


“It is a good day,” Kirsten echoes him.  “A good day to fight.”




And here, once again, we come to the end of another episode.  We hope you all enjoyed!


As we did after episode 7, we are going to take another two week hiatus.  Real life has caught up with us, and you, the reader, have caught up with us as well.  We need a couple weeks to get ahead of you once again so you’re not left hanging—pardon the pun—for an indeterminate amount of time.   We hope you’ll forgive us, and in so forgiving, stick around.  Much more angst, adventure, and, yes, love and passion to come!  Thanks for all of your support. The letters you guys send in weekly are amazing and a wonderful pick-me-up.  Keep em coming, if you so desire.  See you in two weeks!


Continued - Chapter 15

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