Simon Khrustinov followed her stare. “Sonny,” he said, addressing the immense machine, “you remember Miss Camar?”
“Indeed I do, Simon. Good evening, Miss Camar. It is a pleasure to see you again. You look a great deal better.”
She cleared her throat, awed by the sound of the Bolo’s metallic voice and startled by its comments. “Good evening. Thank you. I am better.”
“I am pleased the bee-stings healed without scars,” the Bolo added. “I have studied the files posted on Jefferson’s planetary datanet detailing the habits and temperament of Asali bees. An excellent choice of weapon, under the circumstances. It is fortunate the swarm attacked the Deng, rather than you and your companions.”
Kafari stared, astonished. “Well,” she managed after a moment, “they pretty much go after whatever’s closest to the hive, especially if it’s a moving target. Aisha and I were moving, but we weren’t close to the hives when they broke open. The Deng were. And once those swarms got loose, the Deng were moving a whole lot faster than we were.”
It took a moment for Kafari to realize what the rusty, metallic sound issuing from the speakers was. It was the Bolo’s voice, chuckling. It sounded like a bucket full of rusted metal tossed down a steel stairway. She grinned, despite the prickle of gooseflesh. The Bolo had a sense of humor! Simon was grinning, too, openly delighted that she’d understood that gawdawful sound for what it was.
“Okay, Sonny, enough chit-chat for now,” the officer said, smiling. “I promised to make dinner for Miss Camar.” The smile vanished as a darker thought moved visibly behind his eyes. “Check the news from Madison, please. There’s an ugly riot underway. I want to know when it’s been contained and who to see about giving eyewitness testimony.”
When Kafari stiffened, he glanced into her eyes and shook his head slightly, reassuring her. “Your name won’t come into it. Mostly I want to know who the ringleaders were and what was behind it.”
Kafari sighed. “I can tell you some of that. I stumbled into a big crowd. Two, maybe three hundred people. They were listening to a guy about my age. He was ranting about tuition hikes and government aid to rebuild farms, but not factories and shops. It didn’t make much sense, not with the urban restoration package President Lendan’s asked for, but the crowd was eating it up.” She shivered. “Some of them were students, but there were a lot of factory workers, too. Laborers thrown out of work, men in their thirties and forties. Those were the ones chasing me.”
“And using racist vulgarities,” Simon added darkly. “Sonny, start paying attention to the chat boards on the datanet. I want to know a whole lot more about what’s going on, here. We won the war. I’d just as soon we didn’t lose the peace.”
“Understood, Simon.”
The Bolo fell ominously silent. Kafari shivered.
“Let’s get you inside,” Simon said at once, escorting her across the walkway to his front door. He palmed the lock open, then switched on lights in his private quarters. The room was heartlessly plain, new enough he hadn’t had much time to decorate. The furniture was military issue, sturdy and functional, but not particularly fashionable. It didn’t matter. It was quiet and unbelievably safe, probably the safest spot on Jefferson, guarded by the Bolo’s guns. She started to relax. Simon turned on music, something strange and unfamiliar, hinting at far-away worlds Kafari could only dimly imagine. It was beautiful, soothing.
“Can I get you something to drink while I start cooking? I’ve laid in a supply of local stuff. Ales, wines, some kind of tea that I can’t figure out what it’s made from, but I like it. Tastes kind of… tangy-sweet, like fruit with a kick. It’s great over ice.”
Kafari smiled. “Sounds like felseh. That would be wonderful.”
He poured two glasses from a pitcher in his refrigerator, then suggested she make herself comfortable in the living room. “Don’t be silly,” she said, downing half the glass in one thirsty gulp. “You do the steaks and I’ll do the veggies. What’ve you got?”
He rummaged, came up with several bags of frozen stuff and even fresh corn flown in from the one of the farms in the southern hemisphere. The southern harvests were small, given the limited amount of recently terraformed acreage, but they provided fresh food for those able to afford it. Kafari smiled. “How about corn and a Klameth Canyon medley?”
Simon grinned. “Sounds fabulous, whatever it is. I’ll light the grill.”
He vanished through a rear door while Kafari found the disposal bin and shucked corn. She found pans, switched on the range, got things started, and poured more tea, downing it thirstily. She found ingredients for biscuits and whipped up a batch, then popped them into the oven. A bottle of red wine she discovered in the pantry would go well with steak. She opened it to breathe and set the table, which had been tucked into one corner of the kitchen. Simon’s quarters were small enough to be comfortable and convenient, large enough to avoid feeling cramped. The more she listened to his music, the more she liked it.
He came in, sniffed appreciatively. “What’s that wonderful smell?”
“Biscuits.”
“I didn’t have any.”
She grinned. “You do now.”
“Wow! You can bake? From scratch?”
She grinned. “Some farmer’s daughter I’d be, if I couldn’t.”
“What else can you do? Besides kill Deng and rescue planetary heads of state and whip up a batch of biscuits?”
She blushed. “Not a lot, I guess. I can hunt and fish and I know every game trail through this stretch of the Damisi. I can sew, sort of. Nothing fancy, but I can fix damage involving torn seams and I can make play clothes. Simple stuff. I’m pretty good at psychotronic programming,” she added. “Nothing as sophisticated as your Bolo, but I’m qualified to handle urban traffic-control systems, factory ’bots, mining equipment, high-tech ag engineering systems, that kind of thing.”
“A lady with multiple talents.” Simon smiled, rescuing the steaks from a drawer in the refrigerator and dumping a bottle of some kind of marinade over them. He was stabbing the meat with a fork to let the sauce soak deep. Kafari wondered what the marinade was, since the bottle was a reusable one designed for something homemade, not a store-bought brand.
“What about you?” she asked. “What else can you do, besides defend worlds, run a Bolo, rescue damsels in distress, and cook?”
“Hmm… I like to read history, but I’m not what you’d call a historian. I tried learning to paint, when I was a kid, but I didn’t have much talent for it. Can’t hold a tune to save my backside, but I like music.” He grinned, suddenly and boyishly. “I can do a few Russian folk dances.”
“Really?” Kafari was impressed. “All those knee-popping kicks and stuff?”
He chuckled. “Yep. Even those. Mind you, it takes a bit of limbering up, but it’s fantastic exercise. Really gets the blood pumping. Do you dance?” he asked, tossing the marinade bottle into the sink and hunting up a long-handled spatula.
“A little,” Kafari admitted, following him outside when he headed toward the grill. The night was lovely, the darkness intimate, the stars brilliant despite the lights from Nineveh Base. The steaks sizzled when Simon dropped them onto the grill. “I learned a couple of traditional African dances from Dad, and Grandma Soteris taught me some Greek dances when I was a kid. There are always big community dances and fairs, once the harvest is in. Not only in Klameth Canyon, but in most Granger communities. Tradition’s important to us. Not just traditional ways of farming, but family traditions, too. Stories and dances, folk arts and handicrafts, languages and literature and music. Even a way of looking at things that’s tied to relying on the land.”