The crack of his rifle shocks the bright afternoon air. Almost simultaneously, Hart’s head jerks back violently, spraying blood and brain matter in a cloud of droplets that catch the sun, sparkling like summer rain. The bullhorn drops to rattle along the pavement as he falls. There is no sound, no movement, from the buildings across the road, nothing to give away the enemy that she knows is there.

“Ma’am! Inside!” The door behind her jerks open, and Andrews pulls her bodily back into the guardroom by the straps of the Kevlar vest she has buckled over her flight suit.

“Out! Now!” she snaps, giving him a shove toward the stairs and pounding down behind him, two steps at a time. Pulling a walkie-talkie from her belt, she thumbs on the transmit button and yell “Fire!” into the speaker just as they sprint out of the tower at ground level and into the waiting Jeep. Andrews guns the engine, zero to sixty in what seems less than a breath. A shell from one of the big guns hastily dug into makeshift bunkers that morning arcs whistling overhead to land beyond the gate with a burst of fire and a roar. The concussion sends a shudder through the Jeep and rocks them against their seats.

“With luck, that got a few of ‘em,” Maggie shouts. And into her com, “Hold your fire until we have the enemy in sight or incoming! Don’t waste our ammo!”

“At least we got that son-of-a-bitch traitor,” Andrews says, satisfaction in the straight set of his mouth as they speed down the Base’s main drag toward Wing Headquarters and the guns arrayed around it. “That ought at least to send a message to any other collaborators out there.”

“Yeah,” Maggie says, her voice grim in her own ears. “But the message they’re gonna get real quick now is that we can’t hold out against them for more than a couple hours, maybe not that, if they launch a massed attack.”

“Remember the Alamo, huh?”

“Remember the Alamo,” she agrees. “But remember something else. We’ve still got a few Tomcats with some fight left in ‘em.”

*

A small fire is blazing cheerily in the center of a tiny clearing just west of the river. Next to it, coals lie in a ring of stones, and on those coals, two plump chukar roast away; lucky finds that Koda was able to take with a bow after Asi had accidentally flushed them from their hiding place while sniffing around in search of a good place to mark his territory.

The hero of the food getting venture is sprawled on his back near the fire, eyes open and alert to every movement, hoping beyond hope that his hard earned work will earn him some of the catch.

The savory scent of cooking partridge sets Kirsten’s belly to grumbling, and she covers it with a hand as Dakota looks up from her work and grins at her. “Won’t be much longer.”

“Thank god for that. I’m starved!”

“Did you finish setting up what you needed on that thing?”

Kirsten’s blush is luckily hidden by the glare from the computer’s large screen. “Um…yeah, just now,” she replies, quickly clicking off the solitaire game, mid-hand. The computer beeps out a mechanical sigh—it had been winning—and obligingly shuts down.

“Good.” Nodding, Dakota returns to her task of sharpening the hunting knife she’s used on the birds. As Kirsten looks on, she experiences a sense of déjà vu so strong that she wonders, albeit briefly, if she’s undergoing an actual time transfer. The woman sitting next to her looks exactly the same, minus the hawk feathers and much of the clothing Koda now wears. The weapon she sharpens so carefully by the firelight is not a knife, but a sword, well used, and well loved. She looks down at herself, noting absently the similar lack of clothing, and sees, not a computer, but a flattened piece of parchment. A quill and small inkpot sit to her right.

The dark, glossy head looks up from its work, deep blue eyes meeting hers with the same look of total adoration and devotion, and Kirsten can’t help but smile until it feels as if her face is about to split in two.

A dark eyebrow lifts. “Are you alright?”

Kirsten blinks, and the déjà vu, or time travel, or whatever it is that she has experienced, is gone, and a perfectly normal looking Dakota Rivers looks back at her, a question in her eyes.

Taking off her glasses, Kirsten rubs her eyes. “Just…processing the day, I guess.”

“Mm.”

Taking a quick peek, she sees that Koda is already back to her sharpening, and lets go a small sigh of relief. Closing her laptop completely, she sets it to the side and stands, stretching out muscles pleasantly tired from their long hike. Simple physical tiredness, of late, has been replaced by bouts of emotional overload shot though with darts of adrenaline, keeping her on hair-trigger edge. Her body, though tired, thanks her for the respite, and she, in turn, thanks it for bearing up remarkably well under these changed circumstances. Her belly grumbles again, and she laughs, watching as her lover puts down her work and fishes the game birds from the coals, setting them on two camp plates already garnished with the fresh herbs she’s picked from the forest.

Not even using the spork provided, Kirsten rips into the stuffed bird with her bare hands, shoveling the food into her mouth as fast as it will go, and groaning, eyes rolling in ecstasy as the spicy flavor coats her palate with ambrosia. “Jesus!” she exclaims around a bulging mouthful, “this is fantastic!!”

Koda looks on in awe, decimating her own bird with more delicate motions while feeding several morsels to the raptly attentive Asimov. “Glad you like it.”

“Like it? I never had something so good in my life! You should have been a chef!”

“Exercise and fresh mountain air,” Koda replies, tossing another morsel to Asi. “Does it every time.”

“Huh uh,” Kirsten disagrees, still shoveling as fast as her hands can move, her mouth and chin liberally coated with grease. “You’ve got talent, woman. Ever think of opening up a Vet clinic with a restaurant on the side?”

“I…think that would give customers the wrong idea, don’t you?”

Kirsten thinks about it for a moment, then realizes the outcome of her suggestion. “Ew.”

“Ew is right.”

The rest of dinner is finished in silence, and after the leavings are buried and the dishes cleaned, Dakota sits back against an overturned log, Kirsten comfortably ensconced between her legs holding the arms crossed over her belly. Both are lost in the contemplation of the stars above. With no streetlights, no cars, no sirens, and only the wind for company, the night is profoundly silent. After a moment, Kirsten sighs.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Koda asks, pressing her cheek atop the soft blond hair of her lover.

“I…don’t know, really.” She laughs a little. “Maybe I’m getting an attack of the guilts or something. I mean, here I am…here we are…in…well…in paradise, while our friends are back home fighting for their lives, getting hurt, maybe getting killed.” She turns a little, meeting Dakota’s eyes. “What right do I have to feel so at peace, so happy, when people I care about are dying? Because of me?”

Dakota tightens her grip around her lover, settling Kirsten more comfortably against her and pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair. “It’s their freedom they’re fighting for, canteskuye. Theirs, ours, everyone’s.” She pauses for a second, then resumes. “Do you think, really think, that if Maggie had given you to Hart on a silver platter, he would have let everyone on the base just walk away?”

“Well….”

Koda remains silent, letting Kirsten think it through.

“I guess not. I mean, he’s lied about everything else, so why would he suddenly be telling the truth about that?”

“Exactly. Hart’s an opportunist. The androids cut him a deal, and he’s keeping up his end of that bargain. You might be the ‘prize’ at the moment, but every single man, woman and child outside of the control of Westerhaus and his gang is the ultimate target and he won’t stop until he has every single one of us under his thumb, one way or the other.”

“I know this,” Kirsten says, shifting a little. “In my head, I know this. It’s just….”

“Your heart. You feel because you’re human, because you’re a compassionate person, and because you love.”

“This being human stuff is hard,” Kirsten mumbles, snuggling further into Koda’s warm embrace.

“But worth it, don’t you think?”

Kirsten’s grin is hidden in the folds of Dakota’s shirt. “Oh yeah.”

*

“Isaac Asimov King, you get your furry, flea bitten behind out here this instant!”

Chuckling, Dakota opens the smallish two-man tent’s flap a bit wider and spies Asi lounging in royal splendor over their sleeping bags, his head daintily placed on Kirsten’s camp pillow. His tongue lolls as his tail beats a tattoo against the side of the tent.

“I mean it! Right now! I built a nice blanket nest out here for you to lie on, so get out here and use it! Now!”

Asi’s tail beats harder against the fabric of the tent, putting on his best ‘ain’t I lovable?’act.

“Don’t make me come in there and pull you out by your ears, son.”

Dark, doggie eyes roll over to Dakota, who smirks. “I think she means it,” she says, sotto voce.

Asi whines.

“Oh, believe me,” Kirsten replies sarcastically, “she does.”

With an Emmy-worthy groan, Asi rolls over and stands, then begins to slink, tail and ears drooping, toward the exit, like a convict on his way to the Chair.

“Save that load of bull for the fertilizer salesman and get your hairy butt moving.”

With a last, mournful look at them both, he exits the tent and sniffs at the blankets Kirsten has set up for him right outside the entrance. In a quiet flutter of wings, Wiyo glides down from her perch on a nearby tree to land on the tent’s support post.