Dakota shoves the kitchen door open, Kirsten on her heels. Tacoma stands at the table, stuffing a backpack with MRE’s and various more palatable items; Koda’s quick glance takes in oatmeal, a plastic zip bag of sugar, salt, what must be the last of their meager stash of coffee. Her brother looks up from his task for a second, smiling. “I packed up some clothes for you. Not much, but I figure you can get more on the road. Go check if I’ve missed anything.” To Kirsten he adds, “Asi’s done his duty. You just need to get his leash on him.”
“Thanks,” Kirsten says, bolting for the living room and the seldom-used lead hanging on the hall tree. Koda follows, veering off into the bedroom where a small rucksack stands open on the dresser. A quick inspection shows that Tacoma has packed a pair of jeans and a shirt apiece, all their socks and underwear, extra boots. A Colt .45 automatic and its ammunition belt lie on the bed, with her bow and quiver. A soldier’s choices. She adds toothpaste and brushes to the pack—no need to go without until they have to—a couple bars of soap, a bottle of aspirin and an elastic athletic bandage from the medicine cabinet. They will have to be prepared to go on foot at least some of the time; a pulled muscle or a turned ankle cannot be allowed to slow them down. She straps on the gun, shifting its weight to lie comfortably against her thigh.
She zips the bag and hoists it onto one shoulder, testing the weight. She slings her bow and its arrows over the other. Not bad. Not bad at all. In the hall, a sharp bark registers Asi’s protest at being collared and leashed, together with Kirsten’s murmured, “Sorry, guy. But we’re gonna have to strap you in when we get to the chopper.”
“Ready?” Koda emerges from the bedroom, shutting the door carefully behind her. The house is no one’s home now, but her memories, and Kirsten’s, deserve a kind of privacy. Say goodbye.
Asi whines again, this time plaintively. He knows something is not right. “Easy, boy,” Kirsten says again, “easy.”
In the kitchen, Tacoma stands ready with their provisions. Koda reaches for the pack, but Kirsten forestalls her. “I’ll take that,” she says, and slips quickly out onto the carport, Asi tugging on his leash.
Tacoma’s face is solemn, but a glint in his dark eyes betrays a flash of humor. “You’re marrying a tactful one, tanski.”
Dakota takes his hands in her own. “Promise me—”
“I’ll be careful,” he says quietly. “That’s all the promise I can make.”
“I know.” She looks away for a moment. Then, “When we went to scout the battleground, Igmu Tanka spoke to me. She said that we must do what we least wish to, when we least wish to. That victory would follow.”
The lines around Tacoma’s eyes deepen, and the smile spreads to his mouth. “She’s a warrior spirit, with a warrior’s honor. If she says you will be successful, then you will.”
“She said we would come back, that she would be waiting.”
He touches her cheek lightly. “Then you must be careful, too, and not only for Iktomi Zizi.”
Koda raises her hand to cover his, not willing to lose the contact. “I will.”
“I dreamed last night. I saw all of us back at the ranch, with Ate and Ina. You and Kirsten. Me and—” He breaks off abruptly, a dark flush spreading across his face.
“Darius,” she supplies, smiling.
“Hau. Darius. And a little black-haired girl with green eyes. It’s not hopeless for us here, tanski. It only looks that way.”
She pulls him close, holding hard for a long moment. “Well then,” she says. ” We’re off. Come on outside and say goodbye to your sister-in-law.”
*
“What the—”
“Hell is that?” Koda finshes the sentence for Kirsten.
“That” sits on the tarmac in front of the apparently off-limits until now Hangar 22, an aeronautical engineer’s nightmare of a craft. Roughly the size and general shape of a Chinook, its slate-blue belly and tail have been sleeked for speed behind a pointed nose like a bomber’s. Wings protrude from its flanks, a jet engine underslung from each, each sprouting double co-axial rotors from a mast that holds their drooping blades up and away from the body of the craft. A smaller engine, and a tail rotor, adorn its rear. Its forward door stands open, with a short flight of boarding steps leading into its dark interior.
Manny, flight-suited and helmeted, grins at them from behind the half-loosened oxygen mask that covers most of the lower half of his face. “It’s your taxi, ladies.” He relieves Kirsten of their provisions, pausing a moment to ruffle Asi’s fur where he dances at the end of his leash. “Now haul it, and let’s get the hell outa Dodge.”
The interior of the craft is configured for MEDVAC, with brackets for stretchers and half a dozen jump seats, hardly more than round steel stools, cantilevered out from the wall. Manny pulls down two for them, then clips Asi’s leash to a D-ring in the floor, crossing a pair of safety belts over his chest. “That’ll hold him. You two okay?”
“We’re fine,” Koda answers, clipping her own belt in place. “Where are we going?”
“I’m gonna try to set you down a couple hundred miles into Wyoming. She may look weird, but this baby’s a true VTOL. We can put down any reasonably flat place that’s wider than the wingspan, even in the middle of the woods.” He looks around him, apparently satisfied that they and their gear are safely stowed, then pulls two pairs of earphones down from a rack above them. “Wear these. They’ve got mikes attached. Yell if you need me; we’ve also got autopilot.” With that he disappears into the forward cabin, and a moment later, the rotors set up a steadily increasing racket. Out the port, Koda can see them gradually lifting, then standing straight out from their masts as the spin faster and faster. The turbos cut in, their whine rising octave by octave into a steady scream. Asi howls in sympathy.
“Oh man.” Kirsten grins at Koda, rolling her eyes. “And to think how I used to bitch about the morning red-eye out of Washington,” she shouts.
Koda flashes her a smile in return. “The Concorde champagne flight it ain’t! Put on your earphones!”
Koda slips on her own, and blessed quiet descends. Beneath her, the floor of the craft seems to lurch forward. Then they are up and airborne in a surprisingly smooth sweep, lifting straight up into the bright morning. The shadow of the rotors flashes across the port as she watches the hangar and the base recede below her. A part of her life remains there, a part she may lose in spite of dreams and visions. Silently she takes Kirsten’s hand.
“Jesus,” Kirsten whispers, looking down at the long line of droids laid out below them like a malignantly sparkling river. Her hand clenches on Koda’s to the point of pain. “How can we leave them to that?” she demands, eyes sparking fire of their own. “How?!?”
“Because we must,” Dakota replies, voice soft, sad. Her right hand comes up to curl over the one in her left. “Because we must.”
They turn west toward Wyoming and the beginning of the quest before them.
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
GRINNING, KODA PULLS away from Manny, giving his short braid a little tug. “Get back safe, and good luck.”
“You too, shic’eshi. Be careful. Be safe.”
“We will.”
Stepping around her lover, Kirsten smiles at Manny. There is a trace of uncertainty in the expression. Though things between them have warmed considerably over the months, there is still a subtle distance between the two that, quite suddenly, Kirsten doesn’t want to be there anymore. “You’re a brave man, Manny. Good luck. Fight well.”
Reaching for her stiffly extended hand, he gives her an ‘aw, what the hell’ grin and pulls her against him in a tight embrace, kissing both of her cheeks soundly before pulling away. “You take good care of my shic’eshi, understand?” he teases.