How High the Moon
Colorado is building a death ray. Nora Fletcher has to stop it.
Colorado is building a death ray. Nora Fletcher has to stop it.
Set in a dieselpunk universe where the United States has broken up and occasionally rogue states just up and build death rays. Nora Fletcher is a Californian, an elite pilot tasked with preventing grave consequences. And, apparently, finding allies when complications arise. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff (this is a new version of the story I shared via Dropbox). To everyone: Happy New Year, rather belatedly, and happy Valentine's Day. This isn't exactly mushy or anything, but I figure everyone could always use some pornography on a day like this.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"How High the Moon," by Rob Baird
Nora Fletcher was partway through her second mug of coffee already, and no closer to understanding why she was awake. The marten had been given a folder of coded orders, told to preflight an aircraft, and pointed towards the revetments where the less sensitive planes at Republic Air Station Muroc sheltered.
The aircraft in question was a Lockheed Electra, a light, twin-engined transport aircraft. The ones at Muroc had been modified by the California Republic for various reasons: this, in particular, was a surveying platform, with most of the seats removed in favor of expensive cameras.
Now that Republic Air Command had plenty of P-38s, they'd mostly retired their old Electras. The example she now inspected survived because it was easier for it to pass as a civilian aircraft, and because it was equipped to carry the special cameras they used for aerial mapping.
Major Fletcher was not a reconnaissance pilot, and Special Operations didn't engage in aerial mapping. If anything it seemed more like a glorified air-taxi hop, with one VIP: a silent buck, whose identity she only learned as 'Virgil' after he'd taken one of the seats in the passenger compartment. The VIP's two bodyguards, a trim young fox and a black-furred husky, could've been military--but all three wore business suits.
"Any idea who they are? Civilians, right?"
She directed the question at Alice Karchey--Alice, at least, Nora was familiar with. Indeed, they'd been friends for over a decade, and she trusted the collie when Alice shook her head. "No. Whalen Virgil is a full-bird colonel--MIS, like me."
"And the muscle?"
"Haven't seen them before."
Which made nothing clearer. Captain Karchey, who took the copilot's seat, was not rated on multi-engined aircraft, and not qualified as a navigator. The photographic analyst, 'borrowed' from Stanford on the grounds of her dissertation, had only recently expressed an interest in learning how to fly, and her training program wouldn't finish for another few months.
But Fletcher's orders hadn't given her a proper copilot; Alice would have to do. Captain Karchey read from the checklists dutifully, and went quiet while Fletcher taxied them to the runway and negotiated for takeoff clearance. Their imminent departure proved to be a mystery for the tower, too. "Sorry we can't give you the weather. But, ah... you're cleared for takeoff, Yucca 1-6."
"Copy that. Thanks, tower." She clicked off the mic and looked over. "Bloody hell. Right? Isn't that what you say?"
Alice rolled her eyes. "Do I really have an accent? I don't think I have an accent. My family moved to Oakland when I was three, you know."
"But this would be an appropriate time, right?"
"I think it would."
Nora fidgeted, tapping with her fingers along the throttle levers. "I get why they didn't tell me anything. I'm just the pilot. But why didn't they tell you anything?"
The collie could only shrug, and offer a sympathetic frown. "I don't know. Special orders."
And they were overweight: the scout Electra's auxiliary tanks had been topped up, too. Intuition told Nora the RAC had a reconnaissance mission planned, and they'd be loitering somewhere. There was a recon detachment at Redding, though--no reason either to borrow her piloting expertise or to fly up all the way from the Mojave.
Even with her engines firewalled, the plane took most of the runway before it finally managed to get itself unstuck from the ground. Alice watched the marten strain at the controls, shaking her head. "We'll clear the mountains, right?"
Her course took them northwest, towards Sacramento. "They're not going to be in our way. Not for a little while, anyhow. Can I register a complaint with the MIS?"
"You're welcome to."
Throttles still wide open well after takeoff, the laden plane gained altitude with a pointed, plodding reluctance. "This is not the change of pace I wanted. I was scheduled for ordnance training--Captain Ruiz took my slot."
Alice snickered. "That's what you're mad about, huh? I thought it was being woken up early."
"That, too. This better be good."
"Maybe the Japanese are back?" her friend suggested. "And there's a carrier off San Francisco?"
Hmm. "And they wanted someone who could land one of these pigs on a flattop? Maybe." Relations had cooled somewhat with Tokyo, but the Empire had been one of the first to recognize their independence and they were still a source of materiel. A clandestine meeting somewhere in the Pacific, outside the range of any prying Federal scouts, wasn't out of the question.
Her hopes were dashed at Bakersfield, when the RAC traffic controller pointed her northwest towards Sacramento. At Sacramento, she received new vectors towards Redding. No, whatever her commanders wanted, it would keep her over the continent. By the time they burned through the fuel in the auxiliary tanks, the Electra was light enough that she could back off the throttles without stalling.
"Klamath Falls," Nora decided aloud. The 'border,' which amounted to a depopulated buffer zone, was an obvious flashpoint, and their northern neighbors had been fortifying it heavily. "And give the mission to someone with combat experience, in case the feds try to chase us off."
"Then why am I here?"
Nora pondered. "So they can get the pictures analyzed as soon as we land in Redding. I don't know why it'd be so urgent. Or what Colonel Virgil's doing. What'd you say he does?"
"I didn't. He's from China Lake."
Eight years of service in the Republic Air Command hadn't given Major Fletcher a high enough clearance to know anything about what the installation did. Three in Special Operations, even--where she'd made the first selection round--and helping test top-secret prototypes in the Mojave desert, and the marten knew better than to ask about China Lake. "Huh."
"Yeah," Alice said.
That could've made even speculating dangerous, so the marten kept her mouth shut for the rest of the leg to Redding. That one was short, and the field radioed her first. "Air Station Redding calling Yucca 1-6 Sugar. How do you read, over?"
The weather, at least, was beautiful for the flight--not even a hint of the afternoon haze that sometimes settled in over the California Republic's northernmost major city. Nora could see its skyline on the horizon, just off her nose. "Loud and clear, Redding. I make us due south, uh, about twenty miles. Over."
"We copy that, Yucca 1-6: you're twenty-two miles south, bearing 1-8-5. What's your fuel look like?"
That was, Nora thought, a bit of an odd question, but she checked the gauges anyway. "I have 9-5 gallons left, Redding. Half a tank or so."
"Yucca 1-6, turn right, heading 6-0 degrees."
The marten glanced over at Alice, who looked just as confused. "Redding, I don't think I copied that. Did you say right, 6-0?"
"Affirmative. Right, 6-0 degrees."
"Uh. Roger, turning to 6-0 degrees." It pointed their nose northeast, towards not Klamath Falls but the open desert northwest of Winnemucca. Neutral territory, at best; warily, she banked onto the specified heading. Map, she mouthed to Alice, who unfolded a navigational chart for the pilot.
"We see you on course. Yucca 1-6, execute cards 6, 3, 8 in order. Say again: cards 6, 3, 8. Over."
Nora opened the leather-bound folder she'd been given at the briefing, slid the stiff paper orders into her decoding machine, and forced its handle forward. The decoder, a mechanical punchcard reader, would always return some sort of text: the cards it was given, and the order they were inserted into its three slots, determined whether the result was gibberish.
She pulled the handle back. Locate 748.6 and follow to land at Mountain Home Army Air Field. Tower frequency 118.2. Maintain radio silence to all RAC forces after sending result 'KAH' and receiving 'EKP.' She stared at the stamped letters, muzzle ajar.
Gibberish, in that case. It had to be gibberish. "Redding. Execution result is as follows: King, Able, How. Over."
"Yucca 1-6 Sugar. Redding has: Easy, King, Peter. Out."
Nora keyed the microphone reflexively. Maintain radio silence, the order read. Reluctantly, she released the switch and gave the card to her copilot. "Look at this. Mountain Home is a federal airbase. Why are we... why would we..."
"I don't know." Alice had her soft, folded ears back; she looked openly bewildered. "I swear, they didn't tell me anything."
"You don't think we're... you don't think Colonel Virgil is..." The word tasted so bizarre, so ugly on her tongue that she had to spit it out. "Defecting, do you? Right?"
"No. It must be something else." Nora couldn't tell if the collie was merely whistling past the graveyard. "Why would he want me? Or you? There has to be a reason."
Curiosity got the better of her, at last. After setting the radio frequencies as instructed and double-checking the Electra's trim, she unbuckled her harness and slid the door back to the crew compartment. "Sir?"
Colonel Virgil lifted his head. "Pilot?"
"We've received our last set of orders. It, ah... seems to take us out of Republic airspace, sir."
The buck nodded solemnly. "To Idaho, is that correct? There's an important meeting there, Major Fletcher. We'll find out what, exactly, our government wants of us when we land. Until then, carry on. And... it would be helpful if we were not detected on our route."
Back in her seat, Nora shrugged at Alice's questioning look. "The orders are right. No idea why."
And they beat on slowly; mindful of their range, she reduced the plane's speed even as the Electra sank to a lower altitude. Landing in neutral territory was, at best, a gamble--she had no intention of trying to barter for aviation fuel with a high-ranking intelligence officer on a secret mission in the back of a reconnaissance plane.
Now and then, as she picked her way between mountain peaks, the marten lifted up high enough to search for any signal. When it came, finally, the transmitter strength nearly overwhelmed her. She hissed in irritation, turning down the volume. "How did we not hear that earlier?"
"Wasn't on before?" Alice guessed.
"Maybe." Time to find out if that meant anyone was listening. "This is Yucca 1-6 Sugar calling Mountain Home."
"This is Mountain Home. Go ahead, Yucca."
"I have orders to approach and land. I'm on the... 2-2-0 radial."
"Fly straight in, Yucca. Report when you have the field in sight and, uh... what are we looking for?"
Nora was still uncomfortable, but they didn't have the fuel to make it back to Californian airspace anyway, and perhaps not even enough to make it back across the US border into neutral territory. "A twin-engined, twin-tailed Lockheed. Red stripes on the outer wings. Republic Air Command markings."
She saw the field as soon as they cleared the mountains, just north of the Snake River. It showed signs of recent improvement, the earth around its runways still scarred. Sunlight danced off at least 30 parked aircraft: mostly larger, transports or bombers, she supposed. A golden intelligence opportunity.
The traffic controller wasn't concerned about that, though, or none of it showed in his voice. He cleared them to land immediately, in the face of a gentle, inviting headwind. In a way, that was almost worse. She could've used a distraction from how strange it was to be descending into enemy territory.
Because, even if there hadn't been shooting for years--even if the man in the tower sounded more bored than anything else--the United States was still an enemy. They'd be foes, in spirit at least, long after the last rubble was cleared from California's cities, perhaps until nobody was alive to remember what had happened in the fighting over their secession.
Perhaps not even then.
She didn't know what she'd expected: halftracks and tanks waiting for them after they touched down and taxied to the parking area. At least an armed escort. Instead they were met by two black cars, and a small contingent of uniformed Army Air Force soldiers. Whalen Virgil opened the door and disembarked while she was still shutting the engines down.
She followed right after, with Alice just behind her, in time to hear introductions. "Welcome to Mountain Home. And, ah... back to the United States, I guess, eh? I'm Lieutenant Colonel Morse, commanding officer of the 15th Observation Squadron. I'd love to give you a tour, but I guess you have places to be. Airman Dodge will escort you to the main complex. Where are the other members of your party?"
Colonel Virgil pointed to the Electra. "Inside. They're going to stay with the plane."
"At least it's starting to cool off. Armed, I imagine?" The American officer nodded thoughtfully at Virgil's pointed lack of answer. "I'd like to have one of our MPs introduce himself, so we recognize faces. If your guards need anything--ice, lemonade, food--they can just ask and we'll bring it over. Is that acceptable?"
Virgil agreed that it was. A short drive took them to a building not far from the control tower--newly painted and, blessedly, air-conditioned. A few other soldiers were already in the meeting room, and only one of them shared Lieutenant Colonel Morse's uniform: a bear, who pointed to three empty chairs. Morse wouldn't be joining them, clearly; the door clicked shut behind Nora and, when Whalen Virgil took a seat, she did the same.
"Thank you all for coming. In the service of introductions, I--"
Virgil cut him off; the buck's voice was icy. "We know who you are, general."
Nora didn't, herself, and a cautious look towards Karchey indicated Alice was in the dark too. But the bear took it in stride, indicating a khaki-clad wolf across the table and a short-furred hare next to him. "Very well. Colonel Royce Begay is from the People's Militia, in the Intelligence Department; First Captain Yazzie is an applied scientist--also with Intelligence in that capacity, as I understand it. Colonel Whalen Virgil heads special projects for the Republic of California, and Captain Alice Karchey is an imaging specialist. Major..."
"Nora Fletcher," the marten said. "I'm a pilot."
"I see. Commander Bailey Hawkins is also a pilot, on loan from the United States Navy." Bailey, who looked like a mutt, was the last of them to be introduced. "Let's cut to the chase: we've all been hearing reports of a new weapons project being developed somewhere to the west of Colorado Springs. Our assumption had been that it was probably related to the Covey System. I imagine California's conclusion was similar, Colonel Virgil?"
"Perhaps."
General Haro took a deep breath. "I would like to put all of our cards on the table, colonel, but that entails some... reciprocity. I understand if you don't like me, personally. But this goes beyond me. Your government agrees."
"My government," the buck shot back, "ordered me here. I didn't come by choice."
"It goes beyond you, too, colonel. California's relationship with the Colorado Free State is perhaps the warmest of any of us. But there are skeptical voices, too, as we both know."
Whalen Virgil set his jaw. "Yes. However, Colorado is remote--they pose little threat to us, and they've done nothing to jeopardize our mutual trade. Lest you think having Colorado airships moor in our cities gives us special insight: it balances secondhand information, and knowledge about the Covey installations themselves is restricted."
"They haven't been briefed?" the bear asked, pointing to Nora and Alice. "Ah. Two years ago, the Colorado military started testing a device that could be used to shut down an aircraft's engines or otherwise interfere with their equipment. It's a powerful defensive tool, and we have every reason to believe that it has become operational."
"It is," Colonel Begay added quietly. Both he and Haro looked to Virgil.
The buck saved most of the fire in his eyes for Begay: privileged information, Nora surmised, had been revealed in those two words. "Either way: if it is, or if it is not, yes, we assume the rumors about Trappers Peak are related. It accords with other information we've received."
"The defector? Yes--we know about that. I'd like to come back to it." He ignored the way Virgil bristled, and kept going. "Our F-12s had been operating with relative impunity over the Rockies--up until last month, when we lost contact with a regular recon patrol. Two days later, a second F-12 went down trying to find the crash site. That time, we had... well. All cards on the table, right?"
The prompt had clearly been meant for Virgil, but he didn't rise to the bait and the other officers kept quiet, too.
"The EB-32 is one of our secret projects. An airborne radar, built using British technology: faster and more survivable than a zeppelin, and able to see well beyond the horizon. One of them kept in constant contact with F-12, and when the radio signal was lost, so was the radar return. Commander Hawkins, you said... the crew blinked and they were gone, right?"
"More or less, sir. The report says that, as they watched, the radar signal seemed to blink. And that was it. No distress call, no sign of parachutes, and nothing from our sources about any prisoners. It was noted on analysis that both reconnaissance aircraft were lost in unique locations--ones where as many as five Covey stations could see them."
"You conjecture that they've... updated the installations," Colonel Virgil guessed.
"I'm setting the context for what they have done. Unambiguously." The bear set an attaché case on the table, flipped it open, and passed a set of photographs to Virgil. "These were taken two weeks apart. Scaffolding obscures some of the equipment, but you can see the emerging construction."
"I thought your scout planes couldn't get close?"
"The F-12, while capable, is not the only aircraft available to us. I hope that Captain Karchey can confirm for you the details of what's going on--with your help, of course. They've built and tested a successful Pashkov collimator, clearly: now they intend to build one at scale."
Virgil looked up from the pictures. "That's ridiculous."
"You're working on one, are you not? Pashkov is a short story writer," Haro explained for the others' benefit. "An immigrant from the Soviet Union. He proposed an array of lenses, focusing many beams of light, each brighter than the sun, on a single target. We don't think it's an especially promising idea--and he's not a scientist--but it seems to be an avenue of research in the Republic. That's why you were asked to come, Colonel Virgil."
"There's no way they can be that far along in their development." Some of the dismissal began to ebb from the Californian's tone as he examined the images, handing each to Alice Karchey in turn. "How long have these power lines been there?"
"We don't know. But our analysts estimate that the generating capacity of the Stapleton Dam could be at least eight hundred megawatts, and there are doubtless other power stations we don't know about yet. We think that their research with the energy required for Covey's technology proved to be the insight they needed to generate the weapon's light pulses."
"At what sort of scale?"
"We're not sure. The Navajo suggested they might be able to get closer pictures, or perhaps even blueprints, from some of their embedded assets... but we didn't want to risk it. That meeting was in July--before we lost the F-12s. Those were our attempts to fill in some of the gaps."
"This is all unconfirmed, then." But Nora could tell the colonel was no longer totally convinced in his skepticism. "You're asking a lot based on guesswork."
Colonel Begay cleared his throat. "It's not pure speculation. We can corroborate it with certain... other information. Probably more relevant to you, Colonel Virgil."
Whalen Virgil handed the final picture over and sighed heavily. "I'll need to speak to my government. And they'll definitely want to know about why the Compact wasn't informed about that meeting." He stood, looking to General Haro. "You have a long-range wireless set, I presume?"
"We do. I can show you where it is."
That left Nora, Alice, and the American pilot. He shrugged at the closed door. "We're too important to be bothered with phone calls, I guess."
"So it seems," Alice agreed with a short, quiet laugh. "I know a blue heeler named Hawkins. Are you from Richmond, by chance?"
"Blue heeler?"
Bailey answered Nora's question first, by waving a paw to indicate the peppered grey fur of his face. "Me. Thought I was a mutt, huh? Nope. And I'm not from Richmond, either. Third generation in Pittsburgh, but... could be a cousin or something. Same country."
"He was US Army, until he resigned his commission. It was that, or fight another war."
"I can understand that choice. It hasn't been easy." The dog's keen brown eyes seemed to darken for a moment. "I suppose we all know that. Well, hell. I guess take it as a given that--"
Someone knocked at the door, then opened it to the hallway beyond. "Captain Karchey? Your presence is required." The American soldier stood aside, letting her pass and pulling the door closed again.
"And there were two," Nora muttered. She couldn't help but wonder what they might have been talking about. "What were we supposed to take for a given?"
"Just welcoming y'all here. Being friendly." He shrugged. "Maybe we're not that important, huh? It is sorta weird how us pilots were in the room to start with, right?"
"That's above my pay grade, commander."
"Bailey." The dog had an affable, warm grin; she shook his paw when he offered it to her. "Mine, too, I guess. At least we get the flight hours in."
"True." Affable or no, she'd seen Virgil's reaction and like any good Californian she had no love for Americans. Nora intended to stay quiet, but Bailey didn't retake his seat and the silence gnawed at her. "So you fly F-12s, then? I've only seen them in pictures." The F-12 was a sleek, four-engined ship with contrarotating propellers and a nose like an artillery shell: deafening, fast, and gorgeous.
"There's some on the flight line. Get a good look when y'all take off. I've been inside a couple, but the Navy doesn't use 'em, so I don't either. Still a fun ride, though, believe me. I fly most of the Navy's inventory, if it's needed. The EB-32s are just Consolidated WYs we let the Air Force repaint, and I can fly those." He brought the cup to his muzzle and took a sip, letting the pause punctuate his next statement. "Mostly I consult about... other things, though."
"'Consult'? You're with the OSS," she realized. "That's why we're here."
"Don't know exactly, yet. But I bet more'n anything they're gonna decide they need to 'take care' of this mess. Then there'll be some consultation, if we can find a way to work together without biting each other's heads off."
"There's some bad blood between us," she allowed.
"I don't blame your colonel, either. General Haro is..." he caught her look. "Really? You didn't know? He was the wing commander who led the raids on Los Angeles. Can't say it ain't provocative, but if they think he's the best man for the job, I tell ya... I'd go to hell and back for that man."
Los Angeles. Nora blanched--she'd only seen the pictures, and that was bad enough. "A lot of us made the first part of that trip on his account already, then."
"That's why I don't blame your colonel. You're from the south?"
"Modesto. We were spared the worst of it."
"Good. Good," he repeated a few seconds later, for lack of anything better to say. "And now you're a pilot. Anything fun? The new Garcia jets? Faster than an F-12, I bet. And probably not as loud..."
Nora cocked her head. She'd never seen one in action, and wasn't likely to. Publicly, Sacramento gave no comment about that. Off-record, they referenced the strength of their domestic aircraft industry, with the hint Garcia's loyalty might be questionable. "I haven't seen one of those, either."
"I got to see one parked. It has to be faster than a Meteor, though, if they get the engines sorted. Y'all really know what you're doing."
She decided Bailey was genuinely trying to be friendly, and not baiting her. "The Garcias do, for sure." Arizonans jealously guarded every scrap of sovereignty California granted the Autonomous Zone, and Garcia Aerodyne refused to sell their new jets to Republic Air Command. Nora would not tell him that, not if he didn't already know. It was sensitive information, and...
And it was absurd. Bailey seemed good-natured enough, making conversation, and the truth was that they should've been friends--there was no reason not to except borders neither of them had agreed on. No. She fought the impulse back. He's American, and you know what they've done. What they'd do to get California back, if they thought they 'had to.' Don't let him trick you.
Bailey had continued talking. "--designs are a bit venerable, sure, but they still work. And you must've had fun coming in, with the weather and the scenery. The mountains to play around with..."
"I was more focused on just getting here. We were carrying a lot of fuel. Short legs--not like all the long-range aircraft you've got stationed at a forward airbase like this."
"True! I was surprised when they said we had a Lockheed twin coming in and it was an old Electra. I figured maybe you were bringing Amelia home." He sighed, and shook his head gently. "The least you could do after dropping her."
"What? Nobody knows what happened."
Bailey stared into his coffee grimly, right ear flicking. "C'mon. We do. Federal propaganda flight, out in the Pacific where she might've seen something about what you were up to with your Japanese friends..."
"That's not what I meant! I meant that what happened to her is a complete mystery--we didn't--do you... is that what the rumor is over here? The Republic had Amelia Earhart killed?"
He lifted his head, locking clear brown eyes with her. And then, as she opened her mouth to repeat the question, he broke the uncomfortable silence with a grin. "No. Of course not. I just thought it would be interesting if I made up something dumb and you admitted it. Good for my next promotion or something..."
"That's a hell of a joke..."
"Yeah? What about all these 'long-range aircraft' we got at our 'forward airbase,' huh? Is that what the rumor is 'over there'?" He was still grinning, but his eyebrow had taken a pointed arch.
"There's a lot of work that's been done on the runway, commander--saw that coming in. Big hangars and big planes."
"It's that, or cargo goes by Canadian railway. Or it doesn't, when the military trains get priority. Thirty Skymasters and a squadron of F-12s--and I think I'd be excused for saying we do have a reason to watch our border, wouldn't you?"
Again she couldn't shake the feeling of how absurd it was. A brief flash of... guilt, even, at the conclusion she'd jumped to. The marten covered for it by avoiding his question. "The Skymaster is a DC-4, right?"
"That's right. You can tell your bosses that, ah... well, I don't live here, you know? But the rumor's been they're expanding the runway so they can transition to DC-6s. Same range, but twenty tons heavier."
"Twenty tons heavier?" Fully loaded, the Electra only weighed five tons.
"It's a lot of wreckage to pick up if you drive it into a mountain because you couldn't reach takeoff speed. I think that's the idea. I copiloted a WY here Monday and the best thing I can say is that we stopped in time. Takeoff is going to be... well, with luck, I'll catch a different ride."
"Oh?"
He laughed. "Runway altitude here is three thousand feet. It's twenty-three hundred miles to get home, and the WY carries the equivalent of a six-ton bomb load. You can probably guess how we get 'em airborne."
"RATO?"
"Prayer."
Nora found herself smiling. Relaxed, even, enough that continuing came naturally. "I woke up this morning with orders to fly an L10 here from Barstow. And the thing is: the Electra will do even better than top speed at full load. Chop the wings off and chuck it straight into the junkyard." Bailey snickered. "No, I'm serious. Just drop it right from your zeppelin."
The heeler's chuckle broke into open laughter. "No, no. I'm picturing--you put those, uh--those German rockets, the ones for the jet bombers? Like you have those under the wings of this tiny little twin-prop--"
"Oh, god!"
"You show up on the flight line and you know, boy, they're really asking something of you..."
"'Hey, everybody back there. It's gonna be rough getting airborne' and somebody asks 'how rough?' and you just... pull out a flask and take a drink while you're closing the hatch with your other paw..."
"Flaps: check. Magnetos: check. Takeoff power--" Bailey set his coffee down, curled his paws into fists, and pantomimed setting off a plunge detonator. "At least it'd be fun, though."
Through her giggling, she shook her head. "But it's worse! They didn't tell me where I was going. They just told me the reserve tanks were full. And the whole time--the whole time, we're ambling down the runway--as if I wasn't thinking: 'an Electra. Oh, god. They're gonna knock me off.' You know? 'They're gonna do me just like they did Earhart.'"
Bailey almost spat out his coffee. "I knew it. Always did. But you were lucky, then? You got here..."
"We got here. And my arms will be feeling it for a week." She flexed one of them, for effect.
"Not bad, not bad. Almost ready for a WY. Tell you what: if we're free after dinner, I'll escort you to the flight line. Give you a tour. You can see what a Rainbow looks like up close... I can show the workout routine Consolidated invented for us..."
"Maybe..."
"It works. I'd show you, but... already ripped the sleeves of one flight suit..."
She wanted to say 'yes' then and there. She liked the heeler--with his boyish grin and easy laugh, the temptation was to embrace how comfortingly familiar chatting to him was. At the very least, not to think of him as the enemy. An evening of irreverent humor would do her good.
Her eventual answer was more noncommittal, but the American took that in stride. He wanted to hear more about the Electra, about how she'd gotten into flying, about which swing bands were still playing in California. The marten's answers came more and more easily; she asked a few of her own in kind--
And, without warning, the door swung open. Hawkins had been leaning back, his feet up; he wasn't able to straighten himself before General Haro noticed. "I see you two have been getting along. That's good. Colonel Virgil and Captain Karchey have confirmed our worst suspicions."
"They're almost ready to switch it on, sir?" Hawkins asked.
"Yes. So this is highly likely to become a combat operation. There are political sensitivities, as you can imagine. We're waiting on approval from the War Department and we're to take no action before then. As soon as we have that approval, though, we need to draw up a plan for destroying the Trappers Peak installation as cleanly as possible. Commander Hawkins, you'll handle that from our side."
"Yes, sir. How long do we have?"
"A few weeks, at most. By the end of the month, Colorado will be able to direct a beam with the power of a thousand-pound bomb anywhere in the state, five or six times a minute. If they're allowed to finish the job... well, I don't need to tell you--or you, Major Fletcher--how destabilizing it would be."
"No, sir." Hawkins was all business now, and if being relaxed in Nora's presence had been a transgression he and the general clearly had more important tasks to focus on. "I can begin work whenever I know what assets are available."
"Anything you want can be made available, commander. But the Californians will be taking the lead here--that's the political side." General Haro paused to give Colonel Virgil a chance to speak; the buck didn't take it. "The project is being run by one of theirs. A Dr. Remington Wittrock."
Nora's eyes went wide. Remmy? But...
"Major Fletcher? Have you heard of Dr. Wittrock?"
Alice had been the one to introduce her to the mountain lion, a researcher at Stanford during the collie's studies there. Brilliant and charismatic, Nora had fallen for him immediately, and he'd obliged her by doing the same. His soft, contemplative side tempered her rashness, and her mildly chaotic energy nurtured his curious impulses: the chemistry had been apparent to anyone around them.
And, one day, he left his office and never come home. Have you heard of Dr. Wittrock?
She soft-pedaled the answer. "We're old friends. He disappeared about four years ago. We... all knew--his friends, that is, we all knew--he'd been kidnapped on account of his work."
"Energy amplification," Captain Yazzie said.
Nora didn't know the precise details. "Yes. Remington is a pacifist, though. He'd never build weapons--he thought his research could lead to a breakthrough in clean energy that would keep us from fighting over resources. I don't know what he was planning, but I know that much."
"Apparently, his priorities have changed. According to Colonel Begay's contacts, Dr. Wittrock is an enthusiastic director. And, as you can appreciate, vital to the project. Again, I can't stress enough: until we have approval, this is all theoretical. The last thing anyone wants is an incident."
Bailey Hawkins raised his paw briefly. "Would it be easier if I left the room, sir?"
"I wasn't trying to be subtle, commander. This isn't about that zeppelin--we just want to be careful. The Navajo and the Californians are guests of the United States government for the night, and nothing more. Dinner's at the O-club; it should be decent enough. Colonel Virgil, we need to discuss practicalities with your plane and the guards, I suppose?"
Nora was still stunned, and the marten couldn't decide on the greater shock: finally knowing what had become of her fiancé, or that he was involved in military research. It hit her with a gasp, in the empty quarters a polite airman showed her to--what the intersection of both revelations meant. That he was now a target, and...
It's not the Remmy you know, obviously.
And she'd gotten over the Remington Wittrock she did know. It had taken a few years to get from telling herself that she needed to move on and actually doing so, but she had, and... and that didn't make it any easier to deal with. She'd distance herself from the operation, of course--Nora had resolved that much within a few minutes. Colonel Virgil would understand.
But when he came to her room, Virgil's tone was blunt, and he spoke without niceties: "It must've been quite the surprise, major."
"Yes, sir."
"We'll need to take action. They're having the XA-3 ferried over by Captain Ruiz. You'll fly the insertion profile, though, and you'll join the ground team. Needless to say, it is in both of our interests that Dr. Wittrock be... rescued. He'd be an asset of incomparable value to the Republic. You're in a unique position to convince him."
"The person I heard described doesn't sound like the Remington I knew, sir. If he's changed that much, I... I don't think he'll listen to me." She hated to admit the next, more painful reservation: "And I wouldn't want my... my past with him to... compromise me. I shouldn't be on the mission."
"In a perfect world, major, I might agree. However, the Defense Secretary considers the potential reward to be well in excess of the risk. You're staying on the operation--orders straight from Cole Alexander, on recommendation from the General Staff."
When he left, Nora thought of how she'd spoken to their intelligence liaison every week for two years, asking for news. Finally they'd revealed Remmy was still alive, so far as they knew, but his location was a carefully guarded secret. What had the first hint been? Unconfirmed reports say something in the north, perhaps... Or: diplomatic relations with some of our neighbors are strained, as you know...
And the Republic didn't share a border with Colorado.
They'd wanted her to think the United States had taken Remmy prisoner. And it was all too easy to conclude that her superiors had known the truth all along--that they'd known what the meeting in Mountain Home was about, too. That she'd been set up, because MIS, or the government in Sacramento, or someone saw an opportunity to get hold of his research, and she was the best angle they had.
What was she supposed to do? Refusal would end in a court-martial, probably; dismissal, at least. And, in one stroke, she'd go from asset to liability. A loose end in hostile territory--easy to tie up, that was for sure. Like Amelia Earhart, she thought grimly, stomach tightening. It didn't seem like only a few hours earlier that she'd been joking with Bailey Hawkins.
When a knock broke into her thoughts, she was oddly glad to see the blue heeler on the other side of the peephole. With the door opened, he smiled carefully. "You missed dinner. Weren't hungry?"
"Distracted. Thinking, I guess."
He reached into the satchel slung on his shoulder, pulling out something wrapped in wax paper. "Sandwich, if you want it. And a thermos of ice water. Mind if I..." When she let him in, shutting the door behind him, his voice softened. "You looked like you saw a ghost, back in the meeting. It's about your friend, right?"
"It... was."
"Captain Karchey hinted it might be." Ignoring a rickety office chair shoved beneath the room's writing desk, Bailey took a seat on the couch and put his satchel on the table before it. "So. More than ice water, in that case." He lifted a glass bottle free, tilting it to gauge how much remained. "Almost full."
"Rum?"
"Bourbon. Pretty good one, if I remember. Join me? At least for the sandwich, but we need to talk."
"Do we?"
He uncorked the bottle, took a sniff, and sighed contentedly. "Mm. Well. Here's the problem as I see it, yeah? I'm supposed to work with you--conduct a joint operation and all--in unfamiliar terrain, with equipment I haven't seen, and secondhand intel from our friends in Window Rock. And us two, we don't really know anything but our names and where we're from. So."
This was, she had to admit, a good point. The marten sat down, and took the sandwich he offered. "Perhaps they'll call it off."
"They won't. They're a bit wary after the last incident--that's what Haro thinks, I'm sure--but this is different. They'll want to go ahead. And, now..." The dog drew a tin mug from his satchel and, while he kept talking, poured a measure of bourbon into it. "I'm kinda guessing Colonel Virgil told you that he'd prefer the good doctor was safely returned home. Also, maybe it would be okay if y'all didn't tell us about that until we were on the ground."
Nora teased the edge of the wax paper's tape with her claw. "Shouldn't you have gotten me drunk before hinting at that?"
"I don't need your confirmation, ma'am. We Americans, y'know... we've made some mistakes, but we're not stupid. But consider: if you were me, and ordered to put the lives of your soldiers in the care of someone who was obviously gonna get up to some light... back-stabbing, let's be honest... what would you do?"
"I don't know."
"That's two of us." Bailey waited to see if she'd say something else. The marten's thoughts were elsewhere, though; she didn't even know what she could possibly say. He gave up: "Turn on its head, like, though. If I got told my old friend was a mad scientist these days, and I'd either have to shoot him or do that light back-stabbing, what would I do?"
Nora avoided looking at the heeler. And at the sandwich, for that matter; she stared into the nicked varnish of the table. "You don't know?"
"Nah. I do. I'd tell my superior officer that my conflict of interest made me a poor choice for the mission and request to be replaced. And when he said, 'orders are orders, major,' I'd tell him right back: 'what did you just call me?' 'Cause I'd be confused, right? I'm not used to being called 'major'--take me a second to recover, and then..."
It was a stupid joke, and she couldn't help her quiet, almost rueful laugh. "And then?"
"Then I'd go find someone who does get called that. Ask what I'm supposed to do, 'cause I figure that's a lot of weight to carry. On top of learning about my friend. On top of saving the world, because they're going to tell me that's what's at stake if I say 'no.'"
Nora shut her eyes and sighed heavily. Counting to ten in her head, waiting to see if an answer or the need to breathe would come before she finished, didn't do the trick. She opened her eyes and gestured to the bourbon. "Alright."
The heeler slid his mug--untouched, she realized--over, then unscrewed the thermos and tipped a second helping into its cap. "So where do we start?"
"Orders being orders."
"Not much of a toast, eh? But, hell--we've just met. Cheers."
She tapped her cup on his and took a sip. He'd undersold the whiskey: very good bourbon, indeed, and worth a drink of its own accord even if her nerves didn't require steadying. "Do you take this with you everywhere?"
"For special occasions, mostly. I try to be a diplomat. Honestly, I probably would've found a reason even if you'd just taken me up on that tour."
"A diplomat?" She stared at him until he first shrugged and, after several more seconds, chuckled with guilt belied by his grin. "Uh-huh. Captain Karchey didn't hold your interest?"
"What can I say? It's always good to befriend another pilot. Truthfully, after this afternoon, I was honest about why I came to see you. But the tour could be friendly, too, y'know? Doesn't have to be anything more than that, if you're spoken for."
She looked reflexively to her left paw; the ring of worn fur was subtle, now, but Nora could still make it out. Bailey followed the marten's glance, the moment of indiscretion enough to have caught his attention. His eyes narrowed, and he raised his muzzle to stare at her. Nora saw him mouth the word before speaking aloud.
"Oh. Fuck."
Despite the quality of the whiskey, she had the feeling he wouldn't blame her for downing the rest of her cup. In quantity, it still burned, and that was oddly... gratifying. "I don't know what to think about it yet."
"Shit. I wouldn't, either." Bailey lifted the bottle, and poured her a bit more bourbon after seeing Nora's nod of approval. "Virgil knows?"
"Knew, probably. From the beginning."
The blue heeler followed the same line of reasoning as she had. "He looked surprised, but I bet his bosses weren't. Thing is... we don't really talk to you, except through back channels like the Navajo. I didn't know all the details, but I know we alerted them to our suspicions weeks ago--asked them to pass the message on to Sacramento."
"They must've."
"Yeah." Now it was his turn for a drink and, while he didn't quite go as far as Nora, it was a long, healthy one. "But if they'd told us something--anything--we might not've lost those two F-12s for no goddamned reason. And their whole crews..."
"I'm sorry."
Bailey finished the bourbon in another swig. "Fuck. The War Department only cares about the weapon being destroyed. You're a long way from replicating his work even with help. And we'd have plenty of time to think of some countermeasure. So if you use me and my men to get in and betray us, who cares?"
"You, probably. Me," she added, quietly.
Bailey fell back until the sofa caught him, peering up at the ceiling. "Have you ever been to Colorado?"
"No. Have you?"
"It'll be my first time. When I was stationed in Seattle, though, I flew all up and down the Cascades, and the Coast Range. Lot of training in the mountains--why I'm here, I suppose. Consulting..."
"I just--"
"One time," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "I hiked over to Crater Lake. It's a park. This lake... it was a volcano that exploded--the ranger told us it happened recently. I don't know, a thousand years? The locals remember it, in stories. Folk tales and stuff."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's so blue, Nora--the most beautiful water I've ever seen. I thought, um... I thought: 'that's why I do this. That's what I'm serving for.' Places like Crater Lake. Yellowstone... the Cumberland Gap... but that lake, oh, boy. I told myself I was gonna retire there. Have a cabin. Get up in the morning, go fishing." He sat up and recharged his cup. "Was back last year. Same ranger. I told him that."
"About retiring?"
"Yeah, I joked that he had a good job. But wouldn't you know it? There's no fish."
"What?"
Bailey took a sip and kept the cup close to his lips, even though his whiskers twitched as the alcohol prickled his nose. "There's no fish. It's a volcanic lake. No way for them to get there. They used to stock it, but... when things went south, nobody had the time or the money. Whatever was left died out."
"But it could be stocked again."
"Mm-hm. I decided that was how I was playin' it: 'when this is over, I'm restocking that lake.' What about you? Why do you do this?"
Nora had to think for a bit, and the conclusion brought her to another drink. "Anger."
"About?"
"Everything we suffered until we declared independence, and what happened to us afterwards, and how much work it takes to hold on to what we've earned, and..." And losing Remmy, right? She swallowed before she had to say that one, knowing what she now did, and chased the impulse away with some more bourbon. "I don't know. Yours is better."
"Friendlier," he countered. "But dumber. They ain't gonna let one person stock a national park just 'cause I want to. But I guess I'll find out when I retire."
When. When this is over. The marten toyed with her mug, watching the rye in it swirl. "Does it feel like we're waiting for the warden to show up? With a blindfold and a cigarette and all..."
"Nah."
"No? You're going to be able to sleep tonight?" Bailey pointed towards the bottle as his answer. "Maybe. Then I suppose you want to talk planning. Figure out what we're going to do if we have to work together."
"Not really."
"No?"
He shook his head. "I don't know that I'll like the answer. Might as well put it off, right? If we don't talk about it, we're still just friends getting to know each other."
Nora was thankful for the excuse, and the whiskey softened her guilt at that. "Point..."
"This can all wait until tomorrow. Fuck, maybe we will get lucky and the secretary won't want to stick his neck out again." Bailey took a large enough drink that he had to refill his cup. "Unlikely, but maybe. I'm not a gambler."
"I'm not either. When you say 'incident'... what happened?"
"Complicated international diplomacy?" he said obliquely, tone rising at the end of his explanation. "Something like that. More complicated than a couple soldiers fraternizing across nationalities, for sure."
"Oh, we haven't even done anything yet."
"'Yet'?"
She didn't even know why she'd said it. "Haven't done anything, is all," she clarified, and pushed her muzzle into the mug of bourbon.
"Right. Ah, who cares? In this together, eh? We broke a British spy out of her cell on a Commonwealth zeppelin before she could be handed over to a German raiding flotilla. Then we shot the zeppelin up in the escape. British planes ambushed and destroyed the raiding ships--pretty good work all 'round, but it got out that one of our people was involved."
"We didn't hear about that..."
"You didn't," he countered. "I'm sure the Republic did. Officially, our man ended up on a Royal Navy carrier delivering some maps, not knowing what they were being used for. We paid restitution to the Germans. In turn, they kept the 'spy' bit quiet. And the world goes on for a few more days."
"Downing a zeppelin, though..."
"Just disabling it. Serves 'em right, anyway, if you ask me. I just wish we'd been able to keep the plane our guy stole, instead of handing it over to the British. The Commonwealth's been upgrading their 110s," Bailey explained: the Messerschmitt 110, a venerable heavy fighter, had become a mainstay amongst mercenaries and smaller powers now that the Luftwaffe had given them up.
She knew that much from Californian intelligence, though not much more. "Upgrading how?"
Nora shouldn't have asked the question, and Bailey shouldn't have answered--at least, nothing more than that's none of your business. "New engines and propellers, mostly--50% more power, that's the rumor--and they're lighter, too. Long-range patrol fighter for their zeppelins."
"Lightning power at two-thirds the weight? That would be interesting to fly."
"Probably like the new one y'all have. The new Lightning," he clarified. "With the counter-rotating props--there was a squadron up in Alaska, couple years back?"
"Oh! They're not even related. It's a Hughes design."
"Flown one?"
"With conventional propellers, yes. My guess is maintenance requirements put the last nail in the gearbox's coffin. 'Specially in Alaska." She was aware of how she slurred the last word more than of what indiscretions she might've committed--California's involvement in the oil wars may have been an open secret, but... "I'm glad I wasn't there."
"You? You're glad? You have the coat for it." Bailey set down his bourbon to rake the grey fur of his arm. "This?"
Nora leaned over and checked for herself. Shorter, yes. Soft. "Parka?" she suggested.
His glare was positively withering. "Uh huh. I heard that my first day, too. From a white wolf with a pelt like--" he held his paws apart generously, to indicate its length. The movement dislodged her fingers from his forearm, which served as a reminder that they'd been there in the first place. She drew back while he was distracted. "And it doesn't do anything for an oilbox, or the way the metal binds up."
"Fine, fine. But what if you were me? Do you think this is Mojave fur, Bailey?"
The blue heeler's touch felt a little less purely academic when he stroked her: first from her elbow down towards her wrist, then a few shorter follow-ups. Even if his expression wrinkled thoughtfully, and he began his conclusion with a pondering hmm. "I see your point."
Nora finished her drink, set the mug safely on the table, and turned towards the heeler. He hadn't let go, and the movement took her a few inches closer to him. One teasing remark--one playful question about how he'd kept warm in Alaska--would do the rest. "Look..."
"Yes?"
"Are... our governments going to make some rash decisions tomorrow?"
"Probably. Are you thinking we're going to beat them to it?"
Yes. And, more to the point: to hell with Sacramento. She forced herself to the words: "A little. But we shouldn't. Right?"
He slipped from her arm. "Bein' reasonable? No."
"Right. Being reasonable."
"Then we should call it a night. I'll decide for ya." With an easy grin, the heeler rose--steadier on his feet than she figured she'd be, when her time came. "Need some help?"
Bailey held his paw out to help her up. Nora hesitated, but... no, it was late, and a hangover seemed within the realm of possibility in the morning. The delay, though, meant he wasn't expecting her grip, or the strength of the marten's tug, and he hadn't braced himself. And, instead of pulling Nora to her feet, the heeler stumbled.
He caught himself on the wall, at least, rather than on the marten. They weren't touching--but his mottled grey muzzle was so close that it made no difference, and when their eyes locked tension built against inevitability with the hiss of a lit fuse.
The whiskey made everything easier. She told herself that, catching the briefest, subtlest hint of it on his lips when they met her own. Of course in truth it wasn't the taste that mattered: it was the way it meant, when she didn't resist that first kiss--so light its intent was still plausibly deniable--the dog leaned in more firmly for the one that followed.
And in turn the way it meant as she reclined, and he stayed close, Bailey pinned her. He broke the kiss panting a question, are you sure, and in answer Nora growled. By that point her arms had wound up circling him, he couldn't really get away had he wanted, and she made room for him on the sofa. Drawing her legs up, working her feet against the edge of the mattress, she heard first one and then the other of her boots thump against the floor.
Like the whiskey it was an excuse, a way to tell herself she'd committed to his staying. Her leg hooked around the dog, drawing him against her. He gasped into her mouth and briefly, before he shifted his hips away, she felt the unmistakeable swelling in his pants. Saw the flicker in his clear eyes, as he thought about apologizing for the impropriety, realized what had led to it, and pressed hungrily into a renewed kiss.
Impropriety be damned, his tongue brushed hers in velvety heat as he worked it past her lips and into her mouth. Now she tasted him more than the bourbon, and moaned quiet approval. Time turned fuzzy--was it a half-minute before he thrust again and the contact lingered shamelessly? A minute before spread fingers gripped her rear? Two?--five? ten?--before she realized how out of breath she'd become?
He sat up while she fought to quell her panting, his fingers on the buttons of a shirt she saw he'd already half-undone. Enough time, then: that sufficed. He opened his mouth; Nora preempted the unasked question by starting on her own blouse. Bailey gave a charmingly canine growl and hurriedly finished the job. Watched her do the same, eyes narrowing at the sight of her bare pelt. Slid one of his paws to his belt. "Should I..."
She nodded. Just like that she was doing the same: heedlessly, thoughtlessly even; nothing really mattered. Nothing in her conscience offered meaningful resistance before she was exposed to him. His fingers dragged through her soft coat. The wrong way, against the grain, up towards her chest. Roughly. Purposefully.
He leaned down to kiss her again as he squeezed her breast, and his parted lips caught the wanton moan the grope drove from her. His weight settled over the marten deliberately. For a few seconds longer he contented himself with the kiss but she could feel his hips swiveling, arching--feel his muscles beneath the short fur...
Feel rigid pressure, hot and slippery, nudge at her once, and twice, and catch as he found the right angle. The dog pushed in a short, firm, thrust. Gauging her readiness, apparently, but even as she realized he was inside her, and started to gasp with the penetration, he was moving again. Throbbing, unyielding heat slid smoothly deeper and deeper.
Nora's thoughts lagged. She groaned as the soft fur of his sheath, grinding into her, announced that he'd hilted. By the time she sensed that, savored being so delightfully filled, Bailey was pulling out. She shuddered; squirmed under him as his curving, veiny girth dragged along her folds. Needed him back inside her--and then he was, bucking steadily into the marten.
And God, but he felt good. The evening had been worth it. The impulsiveness had been worth it. The next morning would be worth it, she thought brokenly, as one firm, fluid movement after the next plunged her full of the big dog's cock. The exotic swell of him left a trail of giddy, rising pleasure as he spread her sex open.
It was exactly like he was stoking her. Like every faster, harder thrust shoved fuel onto smoldering embers that flickered and teased the prospect of open fire. Nora worked to meet him eagerly as the heat in her core built, hips rising in time to his rhythm. Bailey groaned, his tempo increasing, and as her body reacted in kind she felt the pressure about to spill over and failed utterly to resist it.
Climax hammered into her in inexorable, gratifying waves. She humped against him frantically, driving him deep between her legs, working herself against a growing ball of teasing pressure that had her finally understanding the quirky way Alice smiled when she talked about her husband.
It was unmistakable when her wits finally asserted themselves, though not enough to keep her from a breathless oh, god when the next unsteady stroke sank the knot halfway in and she thought she might come on him again, right then and there.
Not quite, but as Bailey slid himself the rest of the way the possibility definitely lingered. "Should I pull out?" She shook her head. He pulled free and gave another solid thrust, rolling his hips up against hers. "You've been tied before?"
Nora wrapped her leg around him and tugged, and Bailey got the message. He pressed deep, holding still, and then humped into her again. And then again, the angle and pace shifting before he settled into something firm and short. Something insistent; hard, rutting shoves, each heavier than the last. Something that must've been gratifying, given the sudden focus in his tooth-bared, ear-pinned expression.
The bulge of his cock was no longer teasing. Now it was an aching, stretching pressure, swelling until it kept him from really thrusting. Now she realized why he'd asked--the size of it grated and squeezed her from inside and it seemed to be tugging him deeper as he grunted and bucked feverishly.
And just when she thought she might yelp--might beg for mercy--he froze. The canine endowment that held him locked in her also held their bodies flush. Held his fuzzy sack close so she could feel it clench--relax--clench again--and a hard throb down the length of his buried cock as he groaned and a strong, scalding splash staked his claim to the marten.
He thrust more gently after that, but he still thrust, and Nora became exquisitely aware of what it meant to be tied. How the heat of that seed jetting from his tip stopped spreading when it met his knot. How it built into slick, filling warmth, stirred viscerally around his twitching shaft even while he kept pumping more cum deep into Nora's cunt. How it accented the dog's growls, hoarse and sated as if there'd been any doubt about what he was doing.
How each pulse thrummed against her nerves, growing hot and increasingly electric. The marten sighed her shuddering way into another peak, limbs tightening their embrace, hips pushing snugly to the dog's slowing bucks as pleasure rippled through her. For a long, blissful spell, even after he collapsed in her arms, she squirmed convulsively, body milking every last spasm of ecstasy she could wring from her release.
He nuzzled into the side of her neck, his breath soft and comforting. Content, utterly relaxed, she settled down and let her mind wander. From the dog's soothing weight, to the knot asserting their union with every heartbeat, to her conviction that she had not, in fact, made a mistake. To the next day--was it midnight already? It could've been.
"I shouldn't be on the mission. I'll find a way."
"They won't be happy, right?"
She shrugged. It rubbed her fur on his; she sighed, and stroked his back. "I'll manage. They'll manage, too. And it's... better than what might happen. What... might have to happen."
Bailey paused for a spell. Finally, though, he rolled onto his side, looking into the marten's face. "I can't say it wouldn't make things easier for me. But maybe you should go."
"Why? Why would you want that? So we can build one of those damned things instead?"
"No. I'd consider, though--"
"Or maybe it's the other way. You're supposed to let me get close, so you can shoot him."
"That option will be proposed, I'm sure. But if I were you, I'd consider: you think he's a good person, don't you?"
"He was."
"Then he still is--somewhere. If you come with us, you can pull him back. Convince him. What if this is your chance to rescue him, Nora?"
"That's a contradiction. If the Remmy I knew is still there, working for California instead of Colorado wouldn't be any better for him--certainly no rescue. He wouldn't..."
Strong arms drew her to Bailey's chest, brought their muzzles together until their eyes locked. "Not the Republic. You."