Something wooden, perhaps a chair, strikes the railing that divides the a well of the court from the audience; something else, not hard, strikes the floor. There is the sound of a brief, violent, struggle, grunts, blows struck. Turning her head to the other side, Kirsten can see only Andrews’ brightly polished black dress shoes, the line of his trouser leg, the muzzle of his M-16 as he stands between her and whatever is happening at the defendants’ table. “Manny,” she gasps, “let me up!”

“Not yet,” he answers. “Not until things are back under control.”

“The MP, Buxton—”

“MP’s fine,” Andrews says from above them. “Buxton’s dead.”

Above the rest of the noise, Harcourt’s voice booms out. “Remove the prisoners! Bailiff, clear the court!”

More feet, more rusling of clothes. Finally the weight above her eases, and Kirsten pushes herself up to her knees, then takes Manny’s proffered hand to rise to her feet. Except for Harcourt, themselves and one Bailiff, the courtroom is deserted. Only a spreading crimson stain on the floor marks the spot of Buxton’s death. Harcourt says, “I apologize, Madam President. I should have realized something like this might happen.”

Kirsten shakes her head. “He wanted to be found guilty and executed with the others; we all assumed he would be.”

“There are papers to be signed. I can bring them to you later if you’d rather.”

“No. Better face it and be done with it.”

Something that might almost be an approving smile touches Harcourt’s lips. “Come back to my chambers, then. The Clerk will have them ready very shortly.”

Quietly, still bracketed by her two guards, she follows him across the well of the court and through the door to the comfortable room beyond. The door closes behind her, Andrews still at guard.

*

The moon rides high in the west as the small convoy speeds back toward Ellsworth through the dark. Kirsten, leaning against the back of her passenger seat, has forced her mind to blankness. Shutting out the plain printout sheets that had been set in front of her, shutting out the scratch of her pen where she had scrawled her signature to the right of the Judge’s. Half turning, Manny says softly, “You okay back there?”

“Getting there.”

“We’re almost home. Hang in.”

It is a long almost. But when she walks through the front door, into Asi’s exuberant greeting and Dakota’s arms, she is as well as she has ever been in her life.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

“COMING!” KIRSTEN RESPONDS to a knock on the door, flinging the dishtowel over one shoulder and bumping her busily scrubbing partner with her hip as she slips from the kitchen.

Maggie stands grinning at the threshold, a suspiciously shaped bag in her hand. The smile slips from her lips as she takes in Kirsten’s strange look. “What?”

Kirsten sighs. “I know we’ve been over this already, but it still makes me uncomfortable that you think you have to knock on the door to your own home.”

Rolling her eyes, Maggie pushes Kirsten gently back and slips into the house. “Darlin,” she drawls, “I used to knock before going into the house I grew up in. My mama would have whuped me purple if I didn’t show respect, family or no, so just stop worrying about it, ok?”

Kirsten frowns, unconvinced, and Maggie takes gentle hold of her elbow. “Listen to me, my friend, and listen closely, because this is the last time we’re going to have this conversation, you and I. You did not chase me from my home. It’s mine. I choose what to do with it, and I chose to let you guys have it. No pain, no strain, and all’s cool, capiche?”

“I suppose,” Kirsten replies, grudgingly.

“Good,” Maggie replies, holding up the package, “and to seal the deal, a gift!”

Slipping the bottle from the bag, Kirsten squints at the lettering on the label. “Southern Comfort? Wow, I haven’t had this since college!”

“Madame President!” Maggie huffs, feigning extreme shock. “You actually admit to the consumption of spirits? Whatever will your constituents think?”

“My constituents can kiss my ass,” she retorts, breaking the seal with a quick twist of her wrist. “Where’d you get this anyway? I thought the base was dry?”

“I have my sources,” comes the smug rejoinder as Maggie moves off to the kitchen. “Now, where did I put those shot glasses?” She stops short so as to avoid running into Dakota, who smirks down at her, three shot glasses in her hand. “Well look who’s back from the dead! And looking damn good to boot!”

Koda lifts a brow. “Looks like someone’s started the party a little early.”

“Hardly. Can’t I be in a halfway decent mood once in awhile? Besides,” she adds, pitching her voice low, forgetting about Kirsten’s enhanced hearing, “I think someone could use a little cheering, don’t you?”

“I heard that,” Kirsten remarks, making her way to the kitchen, “and I’m fine. Really.”

“Mm.” Maggie looks at her with a critical eye. “Well, I suppose we can pass that unnatural pallor off to too little sleep then, hmm?” A saucy wink accompanies the statement, making Kirsten’s face heat. “C’mon. Let’s have a toast before the rest of our guests arrive, ok?”

The trio moves into the living room. As Maggie pours the liquor, Koda sits on the floor, her back against the couch. Kirsten settles behind her, stroking the black hair fanning over the tattered fabric of the couch. Maggie hands over the glasses, then holds up her own, her expression serious. “To lessons learned, hurdles overcome, dangers to come, and love and family, which makes it all worthwhile.”

Three glasses clink together, three arms lift, and three heads tip back, taking in the sweet, fiery liquid in one smooth gulp. “Ahh,” Kirsten exhales, slamming her glass down onto the chest that doubles as a table. “That definitely hit the spot.” The liquor spreads warm fire through her belly and limbs, taking with it the sharpest edge of grief and second thoughts she’s been dealing with since signing the execution orders. “Thanks, Maggie. I owe you.”

“What are friends for? Another?”

Kirsten holds up a hand. “Better not. I’d like to appear at least somewhat coherent while we hash things out this evening. Maybe later, though.”

“Suits me,” Maggie replies, capping the bottle and stowing it away just as the door sounds again. “I’ll get it. Be right back.”

Koda and Kirsten share a quiet look as Maggie leaves and returns with the rest of the group in tow. Tacoma, Manny and Andrews look sharp in their crisply pressed uniforms. Harcourt follows, impeccably dressed, as always, in a somber black suit and regimental tie. Wanblee Wapka rounds out the party, looking comfortable in his jeans and workshirt.

“Where’s Hart?” Kirsten asks.

“The General is, unfortunately, indisposed at the moment,” Harcourt replies, settling himself into the overstuffed armchair. “Quite likely for the rest of what remains of his life if the quantity of beer cans outside of his residence is any indication.”

“Great. Just what we need.”

“I think this little clandestine meeting of the minds is better had without him in any event,” Harcourt remarks, a slight smile breaking the stony planes of his face as he looks at Dakota. “It’s good to see you up and around, so to speak, Ms. Rivers. I understand you have an interesting tale to share?”

“In a moment,” Maggie interjects. “Let’s get the rest of our business out of the way first, if we could.” She turns to Tacoma who is crowded into one of the small kitchen chairs he’s dragged over. “Nice light show last night, Captain. Got any tally on the damages for us?”

“Two houses were completely gutted,” Tacoma intones. “Luckily, they were so badly damaged during the original uprising that they weren’t being used. Minor fire damage to twelve other houses. I’ve got repair crews working around the clock on them.”

“Damage to the power station?”

“Minimal.” He looks down at his hands, red and raw from wrapping copper wire non-stop. “We should be up and running again in a week, best guess.”

“Good. We got off a lot more lightly than we should have.” She holds up a hand to forestall Tacoma’s comment. “I’m not laying blame here. We all dropped the ball. Kirsten mentioned you’ve been pushing for a Town Hall, and you’re right, it’s something we desperately need right now. Communication with the civilians on this base is sorely lacking and it’s only going to lead to more problems in the long run. So…we’ll need to set up a Communications Committee. Say ten in all, split evenly between base personnel and civilians. They can meet once a week to start, hash out any issues they have and pass along whatever needs passing. Kirsten, I know you’ve got an overly full plate right now, but I think you’ll probably need to chair the first meeting, just to keep everything Kosher.” She smiles. “You should be able to pass on that honor to some other deserving soul once everything’s underway, though.”

“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?”