The mess tent had long metal tables at one end and twenty cots at the other. Con quickly assessed the situation: four commissars cooking and attending and generally lounging around, and twelve other refugees, eight men, two women, two children. Didn’t look too threatening, but the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. Though it galled him, he was somehow glad that they thought he was a scared civvie.
Mitchell Day said what seemed to be an overlong good-bye to Victorine at the entrance to the tent, while Con and Dancy went inside. Dancy’s nose wrinkled. “That soup doesn’t smell too good,” she observed. “Mom’s was better.”
“You haven’t even eaten any yet,” Con chided her. “You don’t know that.”
Gravely she told him, “Your sense of smell is very important, Captain Slaughter. You should always pay attention to what it tells you.”
He looked surprised, then said, “You’re right, ma’am. You sound like a soldier. You’d make a good one.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she retorted spiritedly, “and if you don’t quit acting like one, I’m going to pinch your hand again.”
“Can’t help it,” Con said defensively. “That’s what I am. That’s who I am.” He stared closely at her, then asked quietly, “Dancy, what difference does it make? I mean, we’re assuming that these people don’t have anything to do with the military situation in the West, right?”
She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just— better if they don’t know about you.”
He nodded. “Smells funny, doesn’t it?”
“Guess so,” she agreed, shrugging. Victorine finally joined them. Dancy took her hand, looking up at her, and said mischievously, “Wow, Mom. You can sure turn it on when you want to.”
“Be quiet, Dancy,” Victorine blustered. “And you, Mr. Ainsley. I’m not going to do that for you again.”
“You’re not?” he said with wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?
Like Dancy said, you’re sure good at distracting men when you want to.”
“I’m not having this conversation,” Victorine declared. “I’m going to go eat something, and then rest. You are, too, Dancy. You, Mr. Ainsley, can go take a flying leap off this bridge for all I care.”
“Mom,” Dancy protested.
Con Slaughter watched them go, the light of appreciation plain on his face.
No more refugees arrived that night. Victorine and Dancy slept soundly for the first time since the blackout. Con, who was still weak from his wounds, even rested quietly. Though Dancy had been right about the soup—it was watery and had no meat at all, only Proto-Syn canned vegetables—the breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast was pretty good. Con was a little surprised at just how good he felt. He seemed to be recovering from what were serious, though not life-threatening, wounds very quickly. Dancy prayed for him again at breakfast. The other refugees stared when she bowed her head and took his hand. Two of them, who were sitting down at the other end of the table, got up and moved.
They left at dawn. In the truck, all twelve of the others, even the two children, sat as far away from Victorine and Dancy and Con as possible. One of the men and both of the women kept giving them dark, suspicious looks. Victorine either didn’t notice or, in her own self-possessed way, didn’t care. Dancy pretended not to notice. Con did take notice, though, and glowered back at them.
Dumb heathens, he thought uncharitably. I’m no saint, but it always riled me when people treated Mitchell like that . . .
But it was more than just the widespread disdain people had for Christians in these times. They would find that out at Pensa-cola Naval Air Station.
They had their first hint that something was wrong when the truck reached the guard shack at the main gate. It was manned by commissars, not naval men. As they drove through the base, they saw commissars and civilians everywhere, but not a single man in a military uniform. They were in the back of the plain gray truck, which was like a military transport truck with a canvasette flap top and benches along the sides. Con raised the end flap and took in the surroundings. One of the men murmured darkly that he ought to sit down and not be so nosy. Con suggested that he mind where his own big nose was pokin’ before Con adjusted it for him. Dancy almost, but not quite, stifled a giggle, and Victorine shot her a foreboding look. But the man didn’t say anything else.
The truck pulled up in front of one of the big hangars, and Con jumped out before the truck stopped completely. The pain that shot through him from the jarring almost took his breath away, but he wanted to look around as much as he could before some busybody commissar hustled them inside.
Lines of planes—fighters and transports and surveillance—all neatly parked. More commissars driving— I knew it! Those are Vulcans! German vehicles! Not a single seaman in sight . . . so where are the Goths? Man, I don’t believe it! I walked right into it!
Con was seething, but he knew there was no place to run and no place to hide. He’d never get off the base.
And he had to consider Dancy . . . and Victorine.
He squared his shoulders, shook himself loose from the commissar trying to herd him, walked inside the hangar, and finally found the Goths.
About twelve of them were walking around in their arrogant way, shoulders thrown back, eyes cold and narrowed, mouths and jaws hard. They seemed to be merely observing the commissars who were processing two lines of refugees. And they were observing the refugees themselves.
Two of them, who were standing by a table containing a coffee urn and pastries, stopped talking and looked hard at Con Slaughter as he came striding in. Con stopped dead still and stared back at them, his gaze as cold as frozen steel, his stance tense. The two German officers started toward him.
Dancy slipped her hand into Con’s. He almost, in his fury, shook her off; but her hand was icy cold, and somehow that made him ashamed of himself. He looked down at her and made himself smile. Her eyes were wide and wary. “Please don’t,” she said through gritted teeth.
He took a deep breath and made himself not look back up at the Germans. “Okay, baby, I’ll try.”
She nodded tremulously. Victorine, standing slightly behind them, said in a low tone, “They’ve stopped. Please, for my daughter’s sake—for my daughter’s life—don’t start any trouble, Cap—Gerald.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll be good,” he said rather ungraciously. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
“Let’s get in line,” Victorine said with great relief. “Just— slouch a little, can’t you? You look like you’re standing at attention all the time.”
“Don’t push it, Victorine,” Con muttered. “I’m not going to walk knock-kneed and lisp, you know.”
“I know, but you could try to look less like a captain of the Screaming Eagles.”
“How the—oh, forget it. Ladies first.”
Con estimated there were about eighty refugees in the building. Some of them had already been processed and milled around, talking and drinking coffee and asking the commissars questions. They made a wide swath around the Germans, though every once in a while some woman would simper at one of them, or a hail-fellow-well-met would try to talk to them. They apparently answered any questions or comments that such fools directed to them in a courteous manner, but no one carried on lengthy conversations with them. And they looked like hawks guarding a nest of field mice.
The lines weren’t too long. About fifteen people were in front of Victorine. But they did seem to be taking a long time on each person, even the children. Three or four Germans stood behind the commissars on the drones at all times, watching the screens, watching the people, watching the commissars.
No Cyclops II, Victorine observed. That means they’ve downloaded some information to the drones . . . but they must not have physical ident capabilities like thumbprints or retinal scans or vox scan . . . no one’s being scanned. That’s good, or they’d catch Con for sure . . . Wonder if a captain of the 101st Airborne would be a valuable prisoner? Wonder
what they’re talking about? Guess they’re trying to figure out the best way to place people . . . at least, I hope that’s what’s going on . . .
They moved up slowly, and Victorine strained to hear what the commissars were saying to the people in front of her. But they spoke in low tones, so Victorine couldn’t hear much of anything until the woman in front of her stepped up to the table. It sounded fairly innocuous: who she was, did she have any family, did she have any preferences as to temporary relocation . . .
Then it was Victorine’s turn. Was it her imagination, or did the Germans step closer and become more intent? Were they staring hard at her—or behind her, at Con Slaughter?
“Your ID card, please,” the bored commissar said.
Victorine handed it to her. She typed, then shot a keen look up at Victorine. No mistake, the Germans stepped closer. “You are Victorine Flynn Thayer?” the commissar asked. She was a very young woman, maybe twenty, with eyes that were too close together and lips that had been surgically enhanced too much. She looked as if she’d just gotten them unstuck from a frozen pole.
“Yes, I am,” Victorine said. Now that she was in the thick of it, she was as cool as winter.
Fat Lips typed some more. “And you came in with your daughter and Gerald Ainsley? You are hospitality managers at diversionary facilities on Perdido Key?”
“That’s correct.”
The woman craned to look behind Victorine. “And is that Dancy Flynn Thayer and Gerald Ainsley?”
“The short one is Dancy,” Victorine said caustically and immediately regretted it.
Fat Lips’s beady eyes narrowed. Smugly she turned around to the Germans and tapped the drone’s screen.
The German officers stepped up. Both of them were tall men, with frigid blue eyes and imperious expressions. One was blond, about thirty, and the other was a distinguished-looking man of about fifty with jet-black hair. He wore the silver eagles of a colonel on his shoulder. “Ms. Thayer, Miss Thayer, Mr. Ainsley, I’m afraid there is a slight problem.”
“Sure is,” Con said behind Victorine, but low enough so that no one but she could hear.
The German pointed to the drone. “Your human records indicate that you are a member of the United America Church. Are you, Ms. Thayer, a Christian?”
Hot blood pounded in Victorine’s ears and rumbled against her chest, but it did not alter her composure. She merely looked at the German colonel with a slightly amused, apparently unconcerned expression. But her thoughts were in turmoil.
Do I lie? Can I lie? Why does it matter . . . but it does, some-thing’s— very wrong . . .
Dancy won’t lie.
“I am,” she said calmly. “What of it?”
The icy blue eyes flickered. “We have had many problems with fanatical Christians, Ms. Thayer. You see, your countrymen believe that it was right-wing fundamentalist Christians, a militant arm of the United America Church, that caused this power blackout and initiated this terrible national crisis. We Germans, who are here only to assist your country in this crisis, have had great difficulties in protecting you and your people.”
Close behind her, Con Slaughter jerked, a tension reaction, and Victorine could literally feel the heat of his anger at her back. She tried, in some ephemeral way, to become even cooler, to counteract him, to calm him on some subliminal level that it seemed the three of them had established.
He relaxed just a little, but Victorine could feel it.
“My people,” Victorine repeated in a respectful tone. “You mean Christians? Protecting us from what?”
“Why, from your own countrymen, of course,” the colonel said icily. “We don’t wish to become embroiled in your internal security matters, but it has become necessary for us to intervene on behalf of professed Christians.”
“I see,” Victorine said. “So, may I ask exactly what it is you are obliged to do with us Christians?”
He leaned forward, his strong hands flat on the desk. “We’ve managed to establish two camps to separate you. But I must tell you, Ms. Thayer, that neither of them is a very pleasant place. Unfortunately we had neither the time nor the resources to provide special accommodations for subversive groups.” His voice became low and menacing.
Victorine didn’t respond. She met his cold gaze, but could think of nothing more to say.
Very slowly the colonel’s eyes went to Dancy, who was standing a little behind Victorine, her head down. Victorine clutched her close. In a less-threatening tone he said, “Miss Thayer? Look at me, please.”
Dancy raised her eyes. He studied her for a few moments.
They were the longest seconds Victorine had ever lived through.
“Your records say you, too, Miss Thayer, are a member of this militant church. Are you, too, a Christian?”
Dancy’s face was utterly blank, like a slate just washed. She couldn’t look away from the commanding German officer questioning her.
Victorine exclaimed, “What good would it do to deny it? As you say, it’s right there in the human records!”
He didn’t look away from Dancy’s hypnotized gaze. “It would be fine to deny it, Miss Thayer. In fact, that’s all you have to do.
Just tell me that you’re not a Christian, and you don’t have any loyalty to their lies and crimes against the nation and the American people. That’s all. You will be well cared for, I promise, Dancy.”
Victorine was frozen with horror. Con Slaughter stepped close to Dancy—to do what, he never knew—but Dancy finally spoke.
“No. I’m a Christian, sir, as is my mother, and as was her mother before her.”
He frowned, an ugly grimace of disgust and disdain. “So be it. What about you—Ainsley, is it? Your records don’t show any affiliation.”
“I’m an American,” Con rasped angrily. “And that means I don’t think any of my people ought to be treated with disrespect because of their religious beliefs. I’m staying with my friends. I’m going wherever they’re going.”
The German colonel nodded, suddenly bored. “Fine. Then you’ll all be sent to the Isolation Facility in Albuquerque.”
The man said it as a threat.
But inwardly Con was laughing. Albuquerque? Back to New Mexico? Back home to my team? You’re too dumb to know it, you sleazy Goth, but I won!
It wasn’t until much, much later that Con realized that perhaps he had had some heavenly help in his unlikely victory over the Germans that day.
SIX
THOSE STARS sure are pretty tonight, Noe.” .
Jesse Mitchell stood looking out the window at the canopy of darkness that surrounded the earth. A falling star made a brilliant scratch of light across the sky, and Jesse grinned, saying, “When I was just a kid and I’d see a falling star, I always made a wish.”
Noe was mixing biscuit dough, adding ingredients to a large brown bowl. “I did that, too,” she said and smiled. “What would you wish right now, Jesse?”
For a moment his lined features grew despondent, but then Jesse’s eyes twinkled, and he came over and put his arm around Noe. “I’m wishing you could put on a new red dress, and we could go to a camp meeting like we did when we were just married.”
Noe sniffed. “That’s what you say you wish, but I know you’re really wishing for something bigger than that.”
Only for a moment did Jesse falter, for she had touched a sore nerve. The catastrophic events that had fallen upon the earth had not shaken his faith in God, but more and more he was wondering what God was up to. To disguise his thoughts, he said, “You’re not mixing that biscuit dough right. You need to put a little bit of grease in it.”
“I’ve been making biscuits for you for more than fifty years, Jesse Mitchell! If you’re not satisfied, you can get another cook.”
“Nope. That would be too much trouble to break in another woman. I’m just gonna have to teach you better ways.”
The argument about biscuit making had gone on for years.
Jesse considered himself an au
thority on cooking, while Noe was just as certain that he had not one-tenth of her ability in the culinary arts. It was one of their homey, personal little jokes.
Suddenly Jesse lifted his head. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“I hear voices.”
Noe put down the bowl, her eyes growing bright. “Are they here?”
Jesse hurried across the room to open the door. Snow had fallen, carpeting the mountain with three inches of fine, glistening dust. The dawn was just beginning to lighten the skyline in the east. By the gray light Jesse saw a group emerging from the first-growth timber that lined the edge of the property. There were seven of them, one of them a small child. Still, these days one never knew what form evil could take. His eyes narrowed, then he murmured, “You wait here, Noe. Might be them, but it might be some other—something.”
Stepping off the porch, Jesse noted that Noe paid no attention at all to his warning. He heard the crunch of her footsteps in the snow, but his whole attention was on the people moving toward them.
Suddenly a voice cried out, “Grandpa!”
Jesse blinked, for he knew that voice. “David, is that you, boy?”
David Mitchell shoved his weapon into Xanthe’s hands and raced across the snow. They had been leading the others up the side of the mountain since well before dawn, but the sight of the two people he loved most in the world made David’s weariness and caution vanish. He reached the couple and threw his arms around Jesse, literally picking him up off the ground. Since he was muscular and tall and his grandfather was a small man, worn thin by time, it was like picking up a child.
“Put me down! Who do you think you are, David Mitchell?”
David laughed, but was obedient. Setting Jesse down carefully, he turned to his grandmother. Folding her in his arms, he whispered, “Grandma, it’s me! I’m home!”
The others—Merrill and Genevieve Stanton, Allegra, Xanthe, and Riley—watched with the touch of awkwardness that adults feel when witnessing an intimate scene. Only Kyle was unembarrassed; he plodded forward, a short, fat sausage in red, and threw his stubby arms around David’s knees.
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