At length, her mother began to speak. Not about anything serious. Just little things. A time Yalena had skinned her knees. A favorite dress they’d chosen together. A school play in which Yalena had been inept enough to knock down most of the set, only to steal the show by improvising so cleverly, it had looked like a planned part of the play. She hadn’t realized there’d been anything happy for her mother to remember. But the biggest surprise of all came when her mother slipped a hand into a uniform pocket and came out with something carefully folded up in a scrap of velvet.
“I went back for it,” she said in a low voice. “That very night. While the whole city was still in chaos. There were a few things I couldn’t bear to leave. There was so much rioting, looters set fire to the building just as I was leaving again.” Her mother put the scrap of velvet in her hand. “Open it.”
Yalena unwrapped the cloth and her breath died in her throat. Pearls. The necklace she and her mother and her grandparents had made, together, for her tenth birthday. She couldn’t say anything. The words in her heart were too large to squeeze past her throat.
“Here,” her mother said, taking the strand, “let’s see if they still fit.”
They’d made the strand extra-long, so that she’d worn it doubled, as a child. Now the pearls lay quietly against her throat, a soft and perfect fit.
“You look an angel in them,” her mother said with a smile.
Yalena started to cry again. “You saved them,” she choked out. “You saved so much…”
“It’s in my job description,” her mother said, smiling again, wiping tears from Yalena’s cheeks. “Rescuer of presidents. Leader of rebellions. Savior of pearls.”
“You’re sure you’re not casting them before swine?”
Her mother’s eyes went wet. “Oh, no, honey, never even think that.” She was brushing damp hair back from Yalena’s face. “You forget, I’ve had your father’s reports, these last four years. I’ve cried, sometimes, I was so proud of you.”
She swallowed hard. “I can’t think why.”
Another smile touched her mother’s lips. “Try asking the friends who followed you home.”
“I can’t. I’m too scared of the answer,” she admitted.
“Ah. You’ve learned wisdom, as well. That’s good. You’ll need it,” she said quietly, reminding Yalena painfully of the reasons they were both standing in this windowless little room in the heart of Klameth Canyon Dam. “Now, then. Why don’t you tell me about these friends of yours?”
Yalena spoke quietly, outlining their skills, candidly assessing their capabilities and weak points, and reporting what her father planned to do, using them to wage an escalating guerilla campaign. Her mother listened quietly, without interruption, but with a ferocious intensity that would have been disconcerting, if she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on giving the best account she was able to give. She also handed over the gear they’d brought: more biochemical containment suits, antivirals and antidotes to the various war agents Vishnu suspected Vittori Santorini had cooked up, medical diagnostic equipment, battlefield medications unavailable anywhere on Jefferson.
They’d already delivered large loads to various rebel camps, by way of air buses that had come down with the Bolo’s lift platform. But none of those air buses had been able to get near Klameth Canyon, not with the heavy artillery the P-Squads had thrown against the defenders here.
“There’s more in Madison,” Yalena told her mother, “a lot more, but we couldn’t pack any more than this into the skimmer.”
“And you couldn’t risk coming in a bigger aircar. We had some gear with us, but this is a welcome addition, Yalena, believe me. Particularly the antivirals.” Her mother pursed her lips, thought for a moment, and finally said, “I think I can add a few interesting wrinkles to what your father has in mind. I want to talk to Mr. Fabrizio, though, before I finish making plans. Ask him to come in, please. Why don’t you go up-top and take a look around? I want you to familiarize yourself with our defenses, including the gun emplacements and artillery crews.”
“I’d like that,” Yalena said softly. “I’ve had four years of theory, but no real experience.”
Her mother gave her one last hug, ruffled her hair, then picked up the battle helmet that was her greatest defensive weapon. She gave Yalena a rueful smile before settling it into place. “You know, I’ve almost come to hate this thing.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Yalena admitted. “I couldn’t.”
A fleeting expression passed across her mother’s face, like mist drifting past the stars, and her eyes focused on something so distant, the sun it orbited was farther away than Vishnu.
“What you can do — when you must do it — is often a very great surprise. It’s also,” she added with a candor that wrenched at Yalena’s wobbling emotions, “lonely beyond endurance. Yet one endures. Sometimes, I think that’s the very essence of being human.” She gave herself a sharp shake. “But that’s not what we’re here to accomplish. Send in Mr. Fabrizio, if you please.” The helmet went back on.
Yalena nodded. She knew that she would think about her mother’s words, later, when there was time. She would think deeply, come to that. But for now, her commanding officer had issued an order.
“Yes, sir.” She saluted the commodore with a crisp snap of the wrist.
Then she turned on her heel and opened the door. “The commodore wants to see you now,” she told Phil. Then she headed topside, taking the stairs up to the access door that led out onto the top of the dam. The afternoon breeze was strong enough this high above the canyon floor to qualify as a stiff wind. It caught her hair and sent it streaming across her face, until she pulled the strands aside and stuffed them down her collar. The view from up here was spectacular. Far below, where the water from the spillway poured into the much-tamed Klameth River, she could see a base camp where her mother’s artillery crews bivouacked between duty shifts at the guns defending the gorge and the dam.
To her right was the volcanic outcropping of tough, dense rock that had deflected the Klameth River’s course. Around the bend she could see a small farmhouse that sat right beside the access road into the Gorge. Directly below was the hydroelectric power plant huddled against the foot of the dam. Beyond the farmhouse were other farms and what had once been orchards. Most of the trees had been hacked apart for firewood, doing God-alone-knew how much long-term damage to agricultural production. The wood was green and wet, but even a smoking, sullen fire to cook food over was better than no fire at all. Fresh fruit was going to be mighty scarce for a long time to come.
Between the high canyon walls were the people who’d chopped down those trees, thousands and thousands of refugees, all gathered into sprawling camps that had taken over pastures and fields. The nearest such camp was maybe two kilometers from Yalena’s vantage point. Ragged, makeshift tents had been formed from blankets, bedsheets, poles, and rope, providing minimal shelter. Yalena strained against the afternoon glare, trying to take in details. She wasn’t seeing very many animals in those pastures. Whether that was due to owners’ decisions to keep their animals penned in barns and farm-yards, or whether it was due to starving refugees slaughtering the herds to fill empty bellies, she wasn’t sure.
If the latter, Jefferson’s farmers would spend years trying to rebuild herds, because they sure as fire didn’t have enough cash to buy off-world breeding stock. Not even frozen embryos would help much, if there weren’t female animals in which to implant them. It was sobering, standing up here and looking down at the ruination of what had been Jefferson’s last remaining agricultural jewel.