“Being the top dog really sucks sometimes,” Kirsten grumps, but nods her acceptance of yet another duty.
“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the press.”
The group laughs, then quiets as all eyes turn to Dakota. Maggie raises an eyebrow in silent invitation.
Nodding, Koda straightens and pulls up her legs, crossing her arms over them and looking at the group evenly. “I’ll spare everyone the background details, since I’m sure you probably know pretty much all of them anyway.” Receiving nods, she closes her eyes and calls up the images from her Vision. They come to her easily, though thankfully she feels a sense of detachment from the emotional backlash they convey. She senses that that detachment is helped along by the feel of Kirsten’s warm hand on her shoulder, and she smiles her thanks inwardly.
“Dakota?” Her father’s smooth, kind voice filters into her consciousness. “Where are you?”
She is standing in the middle of a killing field. Red is all around her; sunk deep into the earth, running in rivers across her unclad feet. Even the air is red, as if she is viewing the world through crimson silk, and the stench of burning and death is overpowering. Overhead, carrion birds circle endlessly, waiting for the chance to feed.
“Just outside of the base,” she replies, voice deep, words slow and carefully measured. “To the south, fifty yards beyond the gate.”
“When?”
A listless breeze flutters the leaves on the trees. A blood drenched flag flaps wetly, sullenly, like mud covered sheets hanging from a clothesline.
“Mid spring, early summer. It is difficult to tell.”
“Are you seeing the past?”
The whole room holds its breath.
“No.”
Kirsten’s hand tightens involuntarily on Dakota’s shoulder, but the distraction is minimal. The group exchanges grave looks, and Tacoma turns away, fists clenched, jaw set, as if he’s ready to take on the entire droid army by himself.
Maggie shoots a silent question to Wanblee Wapka, who nods.
“Dakota?” she asks.
“I am here.”
“What do you see?”
There is a brief pause. Then, “Death.”
The room is filled with hissed breaths.
“Death.” In her vision, she lifts hands dripping with gore. “All around me.”
“Are there androids?”
“Yes. Many hundreds.” Her vision body turns in a complete circle, red gaze lancing out over the carnage. “More than I’ve ever seen before. They come from the south, and from the west, in tanks….”
“Tanks?” Maggie asks, startled.
“Yes. Many tanks. Many bombs. And death. So…so much death. All around. All around.”
Kirsten looks over at Wanblee Wapka, in her eyes, an anguished plea. His face set and grave, he holds up a hand. Maggie interjects, softly, “Kirsten, we must know.”
“At what expense?” Kirsten demands, voice shrill. “You’re hurting her!”
“Kirsten—.”
“Canteskuye, please, let me tell it all. I must speak this. Please.”
Dropping her objections reluctantly, Kirsten draws an arm along Dakota’s own and squeezes, pressing a kiss to the crown of black hair beneath her chin. Koda grasps her hand and holds it lightly between her own. Wanblee Wapka nods at Maggie to continue.
“Dakota, the androids…are there humans with them?”
“Yes. Many men. Strangers all. Wearing red. Red death.”
Running a hand through her close cropped hair, Maggie sighs, then puts forth the one question she doesn’t want to ask. “And the base?”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Gone.”
As one, the group stiffens, none having expected such a final answer.
“Gone?” Maggie asks finally, when she’s recovered her voice. “Can you explain?”
“Gone,” Koda repeats. “All gone. No buildings. No life. Only death. Death, all around. The earth weeps for her children.”
“Alright,” Kirsten says, her tone brooking no argument. “That’s enough. You’ve got what you came here for, now end it! Now!”
Wanblee Wapka nods and shifts forward, but Dakota breaks herself from her trance unaided, and gathers Kirsten in her arms as her lover scrambles from the couch and to her side. “It’s okay, my love, it’s okay,” she whispers into fragrant hair. “I’m alright. It’s okay.”
The rest of the group members exchange grim looks. After a long moment, Koda lifts her head and eyes those around the table. “This was a warning. The androids are coming. I can feel them closing in. But how the battle ends will be up to us, in part, to decide. Ina Maka has seen fit to help us, to warn us of what is to come. The rest is up to us.”
Gripping the arms of her chair, Maggie lets go a long breath, and nods. “Tomorrow, then. In my office. All of us.” The smile she gives Dakota is grim, but a smile nonetheless. “Thank you, my friend. Your gift has given us a fighting chance.”
“Thank the Mother,” Koda returns.
“I will.” Standing, Maggie gathers the others with a look. They rise as well, and with soft murmurs of thanks and goodnight, they file from the house, leaving the lovers alone.
*
Maggie raises a hand to shield her eyes against the late afternoon sunlight that pours through the blinds of her office, casting strips of glare on the large map of South Dakota and surrounding states spread out on her desk. Its brilliance strikes blue sheen like a raven’s wing off Koda’s hair where she leans on her elbows, tracing the thin black lines of state roads feeding into Rapid City and from there onto Highway 90. “Here,” she says. “For the ones moving in from the west, their best bet is to come up 85 to the Interstate, then make the loop back east to Ellsworth. Troops moving up from Offut could use 183 or 87, then march west on 90.”
“If they’ve got heavy armor,” Tacoma adds, “they’ll want to get onto the Interstate as quickly as they can.”
“Isn’t there still a lot of wreckage on the highway?” Kirsten asks. “Is it enough to slow them down?”
“Minimally. Things like mobile Howitzers can just push other stuff out of the way. It won’t take but one advance party to clear the way for them.”
“We need aerial recon. Rivers,” Maggie addresses Dakota’s cousin where he leans over Kirsten’s shoulder. “Put a couple birds up and have them scout the roads. I want reports by evening. And no,” she adds quellingly, noting the gleam comes into his dark eyes. “Not you, and not Andrews. You have your assignment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning on his heels in the cramped space between Koda and the door. Dakota jerks her foot out of his path, almost kicking Kirsten’s ankle where she sits to her left. “Sorry, cuz,” he murmurs, then, “We gotta move these meetings into a conference room or something.”
“Scoot,” says Maggie, and he does. The half-dozen bodies surrounding the desk shift, taking advantage of the greater space.
“He’s right,” says Kirsten, flexing shoulders that are no longer jammed against her neighbors’. “Why don’t we use one of the big meeting rooms?”
“Hart,” says Maggie succinctly. “Territory.”
“He doesn’t seem—well,” Wanblee Wapka offers from his place beside Tacoma.
Maggie gives a small, exasperated snort. “Make this man an Ambassador when we’re out of this mess,” she says to Kirsten. “General Hart hasn’t been—well—since the uprising. According to his secretary he comes into his office every day, drinks his coffee, and looks at reports in triplicate. Then he goes back to quarters and waits to do it all again the next day.” Her voice softens. “He’s a manager, not a field commander. Losing his family has been hard on him.”