A dweller-made water pot warmed on the hearth. She tested the temperature and, satisfied, poured water into a smaller bowl resting on the squat wooden table. She stripped off layers of fur and hide and stood near the glow of the fire, scrubbing her tough skin with a coarse cloth, noting with fascination the fine dark hair covering her body—thick and curly in places. She dried off with a clean rag. The humidity was low and her skin tightened in the dry air. Her fingers absentmindedly trailed across her cheek and too easily found the puckered line of scar tissue. She picked up a survival mirror and viewed the disfigurement. It could not be changed. Sighing, she pulled on an elkhide shift, just as a tentative knocking came at the door.
"Come in," she said, sitting on a stool and pulling on a pair of supple, pelt-lined boots that had been crafted by Tookmanian; the laconic weapons tech was teaching her how to work leather. The door opened and flickering firelight revealed Goldberg; the fur-clad female stood back from the entrance.
"Come in, Pepper. It's cold." Buccari stood. Though taller than the lieutenant, Goldberg seemed a child in Buccari's presence. "Sit next to the fire." Buccari motioned toward the fur-covered bench built into the stone hearth. Goldberg walked to the seat and sat down, eyes on the ground.
"Just washed up," Buccari said. "It's too much trouble to get warm water in the lodge, and besides, the guys all sit out by the fire and make fun… laughing and hooting."
Goldberg reluctantly smiled. "I know what you mean," she said. "You're lucky 'cause you're an officer. They actually behave around you. You should hear the crap that Nancy and I get, or Leslie even. Hell, they can be real dickheads, er.. excuse me!"
Buccari chuckled. "That's okay. Pretty close to my sentiments, too."
Goldberg drew a deep breath and made a choking sound. She put her face in her hands and began sobbing. Buccari sat and watched, perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I'm so sorry," Goldberg uttered at last, sniffing. "I've wanted to apologize for so long!"
"Sorry, Pepper?" Buccari asked softly; anxiety welled within her breast.
With great effort Goldberg looked Buccari in the eyes and blurted, "I told the kones about the hyperlight drives." Her crying exploded to a higher pitch, her body wracked by sobs. "I'm sorry," she choked.
Buccari sat heavily, shocked and speechless. Why? she wondered. Goldberg sat and sobbed. Buccari's emotions organized themselves and anger dominated.
"I don't understand, Pepper. What did you tell them? Why…?" she demanded, her voice raising in pitch and volume. She stood, fists clenched, and moved toward the wretched female. She wanted to strike the pitiful figure, but stopped and turned away, chewing on her knuckle. Goldberg's narrow shoulders sagged, and she bawled great tears.
"I–I wanted to hurt you," Goldberg gasped, finally. "I was jealous. You're never taken for granted or pushed around like the rest of us. You don't have to clean fish, or—or do other things. You aren't treated—"
"Enough!" Buccari said, steel in her tone. "I don't need to know. Not now. We can talk later. It's important, but later, okay? What did you tell them?"
"I was so wrong. You saved my baby's life. I'm sorry." "Enough. Pepper, what did you tell them?"
Goldberg straightened. She swallowed and glanced sideways.
"Grid generators and power ratios," Goldberg said, gaining composure. "I never understood the matrix relationships, but I explained—"
"Did you talk about hyperlight algorithms? The Perkins equations?"
"I don't understand them. They never taught us that level of math."
Buccari sighed with relief and pulled the stool closer to the fire. Relentlessly, she interrogated the technician. After an hour of punishing questions Buccari determined that Goldberg was exhausted and incapable of providing new information. Buccari moved toward the door.
"We may be okay," she said. "Power ratios and grid relationships are important, but they won't get far without the equations. Did you tell them who else knows? Did you mention Hudson or Wilson or Mendoza? To whom did you talk?"
"I told them you knew a lot more than you've been telling them."
"Who, Pepper? Who did you talk to?"
"Kateos and Dowornobb. Those other two guys, too. The new ones."
"Mirrtis and H'Aare?"
"Yeah, whatever their names are. I haven't talked to them since you rescued Honey. Honest! I've avoided them. Please forgive me? I'm sorry!"
Buccari grew implacably somber, pacing the confined floor. She turned on Goldberg abruptly. "I deeply wish that you hadn't done it, Pepper. It's serious, Pepper. I don't know if I can explain to you how serious it is. It's deathly serious. What you did is justifiably punishable by death—disobeying a direct order and providing classified information to a potential enemy. No, to a known enemy! Men—men and women—have died, have been executed for much, much less."
Goldberg whimpered miserably and dropped her head. Buccari collected her thoughts. She weighed the obligations and responsibilities of her rank and position and looked down at the dejected female.
"What's done is done, Pepper. It can't be reversed. You did the right thing to tell me, and I'll not punish you. Under the circumstances that wouldn't make sense. We have other problems to deal with, and your help is needed if we're to survive. I need your help, Pepper. I desperately need your help. Do you understand me?"
Goldberg nodded.
"Good night, Pepper," Buccari said.
Goldberg stood. "What next?" she asked. "With the kones, I mean."
"Let me think about it," Buccari replied. "There's no hurry, is there? Winter's almost here. We won't see a kone for five months, maybe longer. For now, just forget about it. It'll be our secret." She forced a smile and opened the door. Goldberg quickly exited, head down.
Buccari shut the door and slumped next to the fire, staring into the flames, a burgeoning sense of depression and helplessness displacing her former contentment. Her deep thoughts masked the passage of time. As the fire mellowed to a soft glow, the temperature dropped. Buccari felt the coolness and stirred to throw a log on the fire. She pulled a silky rockdog fur over her shoulders and yawned. A soft knocking brought her reluctantly alert.
She moved to the door and opened it. MacArthur, his skin burnished, hair and beard streaked by the sun, stood at her threshold, smiling shyly. His gray eyes, made all the brighter by his tan, reflected the amber glow of her hearth. His smile dissolved. The handsome Marine peered intently into her eyes. She saw her own concern mirrored in his sharp features.
"Missed you at evening meal, Lieutenant," MacArthur said tentatively. An aroma of cooked meat drifted in. "Gunner thought you might want a piece of mountain goat. Told me to bring it over."
She tried to respond, but her voice failed. She dropped her eyes.
"Wait until you see the rack from this monster," MacArthur continued, nervously. "Horns as thick as my thigh. We found a big herd up at the head of the valley. There's a glacier and a lake, higher up. Tatum and me found a cave, too. Big cave. It'll make a good hunting camp. We can store meat there, with ice, during the summer."
Her stomach grumbled, and she looked up, embarrassed. They laughed.
"Come on in, Mac," she said, standing away from the door. "Glad you guys are back. Tell me about the scouting mission. Mountain goats, eh?"