by John Ringo
“I’m okay,” she said, “and I don’t see why I had to leave school. I mean, it’s big news and all, my dad has to leave the planet and I don’t know if my mom is going with him. He has to go fight a war…” Her voice wavered unsteadily. Fight a war. She had never seen the Bolo in the back yard move. She’d talked to the machine a few times, but it scared her. It was huge, bigger than their whole house, and it had all those horrid guns and things on it. Her imagination failed, trying to picture what that thing must look like when it was moving and shooting at things.
She scowled again. Mrs. Gould, that horrible harpy, had lied to them about her father and his Bolo, all those years ago. She still hated her kindergarten teacher for making her miserable and sick, for saying things about her father that weren’t true, for making her feel like a dirty criminal. But Cadence had made everything all right again and she really hadn’t thought there would ever be another war, because they were so far away from all those other worlds that were fighting.
It didn’t seem real, that machines like the one in the back yard were shooting at living creatures who just wanted a safe place to live, when all was said and done. That was what her social dynamics teacher said, anyway, and Mr. Bryant was the smartest teacher she had ever had. She didn’t hate the Deng or the Melconians and didn’t understand why everybody in the Brigade thought the Deng and the Melconians hated them.
She backed up the recording to Ami-Lynn and started over. “Hi, it’s Yalena. I don’t know why Mom dragged me out of school, just to tell me Dad’s been fired from his job. President Zeloc is making the Brigade reassign him to another planet. He has to go off-world and command a different Bolo. He’s in town, I think, doing stuff at the bank, probably, a whole bunch of things before he leaves. I don’t want to get dragged off someplace horrible where I don’t know anybody. I won’t go. They can’t make me and I won’t. If my Mom goes, too, I’ll have to live in a government dorm somewhere in Madison, but I’ll get to stay at the Riverside Junior Academy and that’s the most important thing. So don’t worry about all the fuss, today. I’ll see you at school tomorrow, for sure, and I’ll send another message tonight, after Dad gets home and I find out for sure what’s going to happen with everybody.”
She pressed “send” and sat back as the message spun its way through the data-net to Ami-Lynn’s account. Her friend wouldn’t be home from school for another three hours, but Yalena felt better, having sent the message out. It steadied her and reminded her that even if she lost both parents to her father’s horrid war, she wouldn’t lose friends like Ami-Lynn, because POPPA cared enough to protect her from things like this off-world war that no sane person would want to fight in. Yalena sighed and stared through her window, not really looking at the landing pad or the police training center beyond the fence that surrounded their house and the Bolo’s maintenance depot.
She wished, for at least the millionth time, that her father was just an ordinary person, so they wouldn’t always be disagreeing on everything. She had tried so hard to tell him why POPPA was so important to her home-world, but he never understood and just got angry, so she’d finally stopped trying. This wasn’t her father’s home-world. He just didn’t understand how it was, to belong to a place the way Yalena belonged here. He didn’t know what it meant, to belong to a group of people the way she belonged with the people in POPPA, who were the nicest, gentlest people in the world, people who cared about everything and everyone. The only people POPPA didn’t like were the ones that made trouble for everybody else. Like the Grangers.
Her cheeks stung with an embarrassment she was afraid she would never outgrow. Her whole family was full of Grangers. People who wanted to keep guns in their houses, people who made trouble every time the Senate and House of Law tried to pass a law that everybody with any intelligence knew was a good idea. She didn’t talk about her family at school, or with her friends. If the subject came up, she just rolled her eyes and shrugged, writing them off as the crazies they were. Yalena would never understand them. And they would never understand her. And that made her so sad and so miserable, she laid back down on her bed, again, and cried some more, very quietly, this time.
It was sheer hell, being thirteen and all alone in a family that didn’t want her.
IV
Simon was gone for five hours before he checked in by radio. “Kafari, I’ve got the banking affairs settled, updated my will, set up a power of attorney for you, a whole host of details nailed down. I’m headed home.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
No tears, no hint of the grief in her heart that tore loose in a flood the moment he signed off. She wiped her face with brusque, angry gestures. No tears, Kafari, she ordered her obstinate heart. You don’t greet a soldier with tears, either, not when he’s going away in three days… Oh, God, how could she bear to face the long, empty months and years ahead, without him by her side every night or smiling into her eyes every morning? She sank down onto the bed, helpless to stop the flood pouring loose, then rolled over and cried into the pillow so Yalena wouldn’t hear.
Ten minutes later, a metallic voice boomed through the speakers on Simon’s datascreen. “Kafari. Simon’s aircar is losing power. It is unstable and going down.”
Time — and the breath in her lungs — froze, like the sudden cold sweat on her skin. For long, horrifying seconds, she was pinned in place. She couldn’t breathe. Almost couldn’t see. Then Sonny spoke again, a construct of flintsteel and electrons that contrived, somehow, to sound terrified.
“Simon has crashed. His forward speed was sufficient to sustain serious injury. I am picking up life-signs from his comm-unit. The likelihood of sabotage to his aircar is extreme. I have gone to Battle Reflex Alert. I am contacting emergency medical response teams in Madison. They have scrambled an air rescue team. ETA three minutes to Simon’s location.”
Kafari found herself stumbling toward the door, snatching up purse, keys, shoes.
“Yalena!” she screamed. “Yalena, get out here now! Your father’s aircar has crashed!”
The door to her daughter’s room swung open. Yalena, face white with abrupt shock, stood staring at her. “Is he — is he — d-dead?”
“No. Sonny says not… yet. They’ve scrambled an air rescue medical team. Get your shoes! We’re going to the hospital.”
Yalena ran, grabbing up the shoes she’d kicked off at the foot of her bed. Two minutes later they were airborne, in Kafari’s Airdart, which was fast and maneuverable. Once aloft, she hit full throttle and flew like a demon, screaming across the fences around Nineveh Base and roaring toward Madison. She fumbled with her wrist-comm.
“Sonny, talk to me. Is he still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Feed me coordinates. Where did he go down?”
The nav-system screen flashed to life, with a blip showing Simon’s location. The med-team would arrive before she did. “Find out which hospital they’re taking him to. University? Or General?”
A fractional pause ensued. “University has better emergency facilities. The rescue pilot has logged his intention to transport Simon to University Hospital. The medical crew is airlifting him now. His life-signs are weak.”
Terror trembled on her eyelashes, made it hard to see where she was going. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand. Tears were spilling down Yalena’s cheeks, as well, silent tears of fright and something else, something too deep to fathom, yet. Sonny spoke again from the speaker, causing Yalena to jump. “Simon’s airlift has arrived at University Hospital. He is still alive. I am monitoring.”
“Yalena. Call your grandparents.”
Her daughter reached for the controls, fingers trembling. “Grandma? Are you there? Grandma, it’s Yalena…”
“Hello? Yalena? What are you doing, calling from school?”
“It’s Daddy,” she said, voice breaking. She started to sob. Kafari said, “Mom, Simon’s aircar has crashed. He’s at University Hospital. I’m on my way there with Yalena.”
“Oh, dear God… We’re on the way.”
Ten minutes later, Kafari set down in the University Hospital parking lot. They ran for the wide double doors of the emergency room, silent and scared. Kafari fetched up against the receptionist’s desk. “I’m Mrs. Khrustinova. Where’s my husband?”
“They’ve rushed him into emergency surgery, Mrs. Khrustinova. Let me call someone to take you up to the surgical suite’s waiting room.”
A hospitality agent appeared, escorting them down a long, antiseptic hallway, into an elevator, and up to the third floor. They were shown into a waiting lounge that was, for the moment, empty. Kafari yanked down the volume on the datascreen, unable to bear the sound of the stupid game show in progress. Yalena sat down on one of the chairs, scared and very pale.
Kafari couldn’t sit down. She wanted to collapse, but terror was a goad that wouldn’t let her rest. She paced, frantic, staring at her chrono every few seconds until the ritual became so painful, she unbuckled the thing and shoved it into her pocket. She walked, ravaging her lower lip with her teeth, rubbing the empty place on her arm where the chrono had been. The volunteer brought them a hospitality tray, with cold drinks, cookies, comfort foods. Kafari couldn’t choke anything down.
When her parents arrived, half an hour later, Kafari broke down in her mother’s arms, weeping with exhaustion and fright. Her father took charge of Yalena, speaking quietly with her, reassuring her that the doctors were doing everything humanly possible to save her father’s life. More relatives arrived, not enough of them to be an abrasion against her raw nerves, but lending silent support at a time she needed it desperately. Surrounded by her loving family, all Kafari could do was wait. The volunteer returned periodically to update them, although the “updates” consisted of the same news again and again.
“Your husband is still alive, Mrs. Khrustinova. The surgeons are working to stabilize him.”
Yalena went for a walk with her grandfather, out into the hallway, then came back and curled up against Kafari’s side, shivering. Kafari wrapped one arm around her daughter. At length, Yalena whispered, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mommy. When we got home. I just can’t leave home and go somewhere strange. All my friends are here.” Her voice was breaking in a plea for understanding.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“Did — did the president’s advisor really try to kill Daddy? I can’t believe it. I can’t. Everybody at school says he’s a wonderful person. I just can’t believe that, Mommy.”
“You have no idea how much I wish you were right.”
Yalena bit one lip and fell silent again. Neither Kafari’s parents nor the other family members sitting vigil with them commented on the brief exchange, but knowing glances ran like spiders around the room. They were still sitting there, nerves jangled and eyes puffy, when the soft ping! of the elevators announced the arrival of what sounded like an entire army. The footsteps and voices heading their way were shocking in the hospital’s relative quiet. Kafari realized what that tidal wave of sound was seconds before the camera crews and reporters burst into the room. Bright lights half-blinded them. People were shouting questions at them, so many at once, she couldn’t even sort out individual voices, let alone questions. Yalena shrank closer to Kafari’s side. Her father and several uncles interposed themselves between Kafari and the news people choking the room.
Then one of the featureless faces resolved itself into a familiar pattern. A man Kafari recognized from datacasts strode forward, his acne-pitted face mirroring concern and sympathy. Sar Gremian! Kafari’s father and uncles exchanged distressed glances, then let him through the barricade they’d formed, not wanting to provoke a scene in front of half the press-corps in Madison.
When she realized that Sar Gremian was reaching out to touch her shoulder, making a show — a mockery — of offering comfort, Kafari went rigid. Then she jerked to her feet. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she hissed.
He checked slightly. “Mrs. Khrustinova, you have no idea how distressed I was to learn—”
“Get out!” Kafari snarled. “I have nothing to say to you! And if you ever come near me and mine again, I’ll by God finish the job Sonny left undone!”
The force of her rage — and his abrupt realization that she meant every syllable uttered before God and the planetary press — left him one shade paler than when he’d glided into the room. She could almost see the thought forming behind those cold shark’s eyes. Oh, hell, I forgot this is the woman who brought Abraham Lendan out of battle alive. I may have underestimated her…
You’re goddamned right, you have! And don’t ever forget it.
He recovered his poise quickly. So quickly, Kafari doubted the reporters had even noticed the silent exchange of threat and counterthreat between them, too delighted by the overt conflict to notice the deeper and far more dangerous one. “You’re overwrought, Mrs. Khrustinova, and little wonder. I simply wanted to convey my heartfelt well-wishes and those of President Zeloc.”
“You have conveyed them,” she said coldly. “You are doubtless more urgently needed elsewhere.” Kafari knew her anger was a reckless, dangerous thing to display so openly. But she could not just stand there and let him offer unctuous condolences when he had tried to murder her husband. Twice.
She was rescued from worse folly when a doctor in surgical scrubs shoved through the throng of reporters, demanding in angry tones that the waiting room be cleared. “Who let you in here? This is a hospital surgical ward, not a press briefing. Out! All of you, out!”
Orderlies were appearing, escorting camera crews into the corridor and back toward the elevators. Kafari — with her family standing beside her in a silent show of solidarity — stood her ground while Sar Gremian watched the exodus through narrowed eyes. He turned abruptly, gave Kafari a mocking little bow, and said, “My condolences, Mrs. Khrustinova, and those of the president. Miss Khrustinova,” he turned to Yalena, who was clinging to her, “I hope very sincerely that your father will pull through this dreadful accident.”
Then he strode out, nodding to the reporters with a dignity and concern he had pasted on like thin varnish for the benefit of the cameras. Kafari hated him with an ice-cold loathing that frightened her, it was so intense. Then he was gone and the reporters with him, and Kafari stumbled slightly, groping for the nearest chair as her knees buckled. Her father caught her and helped her down.
The surgeon tested her pulse, frowning with worry.
“Simon?” she whispered, finding and holding Yalena’s hand.
“He’s out of danger, Mrs. Khrustinova.”
Her eyelids sagged close and her bones turned to rubber. The surgeon’s voice reached down a very deep well, echoing strangely in her ears.
“He is still in grave condition, I’m afraid. We’ve stabilized the internal injuries and broken bones. The airlift crew said his aircar was built like a Bolo. Thank God it was or he’d have been killed on impact.”
She managed to open her eyes and focused with difficulty on the man’s face, which had gone unsteady and full of blurred edges. He managed a warm and gentle smile. “Hello,” he added with just a touch of wry humor. “I’m Dr. Zarek, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Kafari barely recognized the croaking of her own voice. “What else? What aren’t you telling us?”
“He is still in grave condition. To be frank, he needs to be transferred to a much better facility than University Hospital.”
“But—” She swallowed. “University Hospital is the best medical center on Jefferson.” Blood drained, leaving her dizzy. “Oh, God…”
“Easy, now, steady.” She felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. She felt like she was falling off a cliff or out the airlock of a freighter in free-fall. Then a sharp, pungent smell brought her out of a downward spiral. She coughed and the world firmed up again. Dr. Zarek was seated beside her, testing her pulse. A nurse was busy attaching some kind of skin patch to her wrist, probably an antishock treatment. H
er family hovered close-by, stricken. When the doctor was satisfied that she wasn’t going to faint, he spoke again, very gently.
“He’s at the ragged edge of critical, but his condition is not life-threatening. That much, at least, I can swear to you.” A look of profound respect came into his long, kindly face as he added, “I have not forgotten what you did in Klameth Canyon, Mrs. Khrustinova. It was one of the greatest privileges of my life, serving as a junior member of Abraham Lendan’s medical team. You may not remember me, but I administered one of your earliest antiradiation treatments. I had a little more hair, then, and a few less wrinkles.”
His smile, his genuine warmth, helped steady her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I really don’t remember you.”
He patted her hand. “Not to worry. I wouldn’t have expected you to, Mrs. Khrustinova. Now, then. Simon is going to need specialized recovery therapy of a kind that isn’t available on Jefferson. We don’t have nerve regeneration clinics or cellular reconstruction technologies.”
That sounded bad. Desperately so.
“As an officer of the Dinochrome Brigade, your husband is entitled, by mandate of the treaty, to emergency medical transportation and full access to the best medical care available. I would suggest,” and something in his manner shifted, subtly, taking on a subdued yet intense note of warning, “that we send him off-world immediately.” He glanced at the doorway Sar Gremian and that unholy mob of reporters had departed through, then met and held Kafari’s eyes. “There’s a Malinese freighter coming in tonight, I’m told. It’s due for departure tomorrow. I strongly recommend transferring your husband to Ziva Two’s infirmary the moment that freighter makes space-dock. We’ll send an attending physician and trauma nurse with him. What you cannot — dare not — do is wait.”
“I see,” Kafari whispered, feeling as young and scared as her daughter looked.