Unknown - The_Growing_589064

“Well, I’ll only need two or three. The more closed-mouthed, the better.”

“You think we’ve got a leak.”

“A big one.” Kirsten sighs. “If we let whoever it is think they got away with it, we might have a chance at cracking this.”

“I know just the two, then. I’ll have them report to you as soon as we get back on base.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem, Dr. King. Not a problem at all.”

“We’re back to that now, are we?”

Her only answer is a wink.

*

The sun has been down for several hours when Kirsten spreads the last of the miniscule pieces of the former android out on the large table in a good sized, if barren, office Maggie has appropriated for her use. The number of bits of twisted and mangled metal is in the thousands, and Kirsten looks at it, dazed, unsure where to begin. She sighs heavily and runs a hand through her hair.

“Long day, huh?” Koda asks softly from the other end of the table.

“Longer night,” Kirsten replies, hefting one of the larger droid bits and fiddling with it before placing it back down on the table. “God, what a mess.” She sighs again. “If I didn’t think part of our answers might be hiding in all this…somewhere…I’d be tempted to bundle it back up and throw it in a landfill.”

“I have faith.” Pushing herself away from the table, Koda walks to Kirsten’s side. “C’mere.”

Kirsten willingly steps into the circle of Dakota’s arms, groaning in tired contentment as they close about her in a comforting embrace. “Thanks,” she mumbles, burrowing into the hug, and letting Dakota’s scent and quiet strength surround her like a living blanket.

“Anytime,” Koda replies, brushing her lips against Kirsten’s soft hair.

A tentative knock on the door causes Dakota to relax her grip, though Kirsten hangs on as if for dear life. “That’d be your techs.”

“Can’t we just pretend that no one’s home? Maybe they’ll go away?”

The knock comes again, stronger this time, followed by a “Ma’am? Ms. President?”

Kirsten groans.

“Ma’am? Are you in there? The Colonel sent us.”

Dakota gently disengages Kirsten’s grip, then lowers her head and presses a sweet, and in no way chaste, kiss to her lips. “I’ve got to look in on my patients,” she says after a long, wonderful moment. “Have fun, and I’ll see you when you get home tonight, ok?”

“Home?” Kirsten asks, head spinning. “Where’s that again?”

Laughing, Dakota touches Kirsten’s cheek, then turns and heads for the door. “Later.”

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

KODA CHECKS HER watch as she takes the steps of the Rapid City courthouse two at a time. With her other hand she steadies the laptop where it thumps against her side, drumming counterpoint to the rhythm of her feet. To her disgust, she is late; the complete lack of loiterers and smokers on the arched portico tells her that she is very late. Swearing quietly to herself, she flings open the heavy glass doors that have by some miracle been spared by both uprising and vandals. Or—and it’s an encouraging thought she has no time for—they have been replaced in an awakening of civic responsibility. Score one for the rebirth of democracy. She jogs across the foyer with its semi-circle of bronze Great South Dakotan busts, boot heels ringing hollowly in the emptiness, then up more stairs. Even if it were not cordoned off by yellow tape, she would not gamble on the elevator when the electrical supply to the building is as iffy as a politician’s honesty.

Two stories up, she barrels out of the stairwell at speed, slamming the swinging door back against the wall. In the hall outside the courtroom a portrait of the (probably) late President Clinton hangs crookedly over the door, smiling out from behind cracked glass. Martinez and another corporal she does not know stand rigidly at attention on either side of the entrance. That other corporal apparently knows her, even if she does not know him; instead of blocking her path, each man grabs a door handle to let her through without slackening her stride. Koda tosses them a smile and a quick “Thanks, guys!,” jerking her hat off just as she passes under the lintel.

She is not as late as she feared. With a rustle of cloth and a scraping of feet, the audience is just seating itself as Harcourt settles into his own chair. In this court, designed not for trials but for coroner’s inquests, there is no high bench or witness stand. Instead, Harcourt sits behind a long meeting table on a low dais, bracketed by state and national flags, six citizens ranged down its length beside him. A single chair beside the table faces the audience; a smaller desk, beside it, houses a recorder and a laptop computer, operated by the same Sergeant who has acted as clerk of the court in the ongoing rape trial. The arrangement is deliberately informal, designed to reassure those who fear incipient martial law or outright military takeover of the city.

While the preliminary paper-shuffling occurs, Dakota takes in the set-up, her eyes raking over the packed rows of seats, seeking her cousin and brother. It seems as though half the surviving civilian population have come to make their own judgements in Dietrich’s shooting, as have a substantial number of Airmen and soldiers from the Base. These are conspicuously not in uniform, but the prevalence of buzz cuts, half a dozen sitting together here and there in the crowd, gives them away. A close knot of people in the front row, a woman with fragile limbs like a bird’s, two young men and an old man with thin white hair and a wind-scoured face, she takes to be Dietrich’s family. On the opposite side of the room, barely visible for the intervening rows of spectators, she finally locates a green uniform amid half a dozen more in Air Force blue, and the pale wooden shapes of crutches propped against the back of an empty chair.

As she makes her way toward them, Harcourt glances sternly at her over the tops of his half-glasses, then pushes them further up onto the bridge of his nose and begins his opening remarks. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to determine the manner and cause of death of William Everett Dietrich, deceased, of Rapid City, South Dakota. This inquest is pursuant to the laws of the State of South Dakota, specifically section 23-14-1, which states that ‘the coroner shall hold an inquest upon the dead bodies of such persons only as are supposed to have died by unlawful means.’” His eyes rake the courtroom. “I call your attention, ladies and gentlemen, to that word ‘supposed.’ We do not know, yet, whether Mr. Dietrich met his demise in an unlawful manner, but we hope to do so by the termination of these proceedings. I caution you all, and especially the jury, about making any assumptions in this matter beyond what the evidence will show.

“Further, because the person who claims to have fired the shot that killed Mr. Dietrich is a member of the Lakota Oglala Nation, we will also follow the laws of that nation as amended in 2005, Section 05-12-16, which states that an inquiry shall be made into ‘any human death, if a determination of the cause and manner of death is in the public interest’ and into ‘all deaths involving accident, homicide, suicide and those from an undetermined manner.’”

As Harcourt continues his explanation of the court procedures, Koda slides into the empty seat beside Tacoma, carefully and soundlessly laying the crutches flat on the floor. Glancing down at his heavily bandaged hands, she gives him a look that causes his face to tint darker in embarrassment, and he gives her his best hangdog grin. Shaking her head, she slips the carrying strap from her shoulder and sets the computer in its case beside them. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers. “Your feline friend decided she was going to make a run for it. It took us twenty minutes to corral her.”