Unknown - The_Growing_589064

Damn dog wants a goddam harem, she thinks even as she bends to ruffle his ears.

Allen is still standing. Grudgingly, Kirsten takes in her height, the elegant modeling of her head emphasized by her short, natural hair, her long hands unspoiled by rings. The firelight glints off the single ornament she wears, an earcuff in the shape of a bobcat. There is a sense of stillness in her, of sufficiency with not so much as an atom’s excess. Unbidden, something of the warmth that drove her out of the house rises again in Kirsten. She feels the blood spread across her cheeks and hopes that the other woman will attribute it to the steaming liquid she holds to her lips. From beneath her lashes she darts a quick glance at Rivers, who seems to be wholly absorbed in her attentions to Asimov.

Oh great. First a spot of voyeurism, and now the Colonel’s a turn-on. Kirsten drinks and sets down her cup. “Thanks,” she says again. “That’s good.”

Allen’s lips curve up slightly at the corners and for a moment she looks distinctly feline. A bobcat perhaps, or a slender cerval cat, and just as enigmatic. She says, “Dr. King, I want to thank you for what you did.”

Kirsten gives a dismissive wave of her hand, but the Colonel continues. “No, it needs to be said. Of course we’re all grateful for your courage in infiltrating the droid factory. That will be repeated again and again, and I suggest you get used to it. What I’m personally thankful for is your slugging the General in the chops. If you hadn’t, I would have. And I’d be facing a court martial.”

Dakota, who has been giving her entire attention to Asimov, gives a soft snort. Kirsten feels her eyes slide toward the Lakota woman again, taking in the high cheekbones and deep blue eyes, the jeans-clad legs that go on forever. To her chagrin, she also knows that Allen has seen before she can regain control of her face. “I appreciate that, Colonel,” she says evenly.

“I’d have had his hide regardless if any of my people had been harmed,” Allen says, the faintest of emphasis on any. “The General didn’t just bomb the droid codes into oblivion. He nearly killed a couple dozen of my troops, not to mention the chopper squadron Manny Rivers led into Minot to haul their asses out.” The Colonel takes a sip of her own drink and sits down. “Not to mention your own.”

“With respect, Colonel Allen, I’d have been perfectly all right if none of your people had interfered. And I’d have the codes necessary to disable the droids. That’s the real cost of your General’s stupidity, in lives we can’t even begin to count.”

Abruptly Rivers gets to her feet. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Dr. King.” She pauses only to give Asi’s belly a final tickle, then crosses the hallway to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“I didn’t mean—” Kirsten begins.

“To offend? But of course you did, Dr. King.” The Colonel’s expression does not change, but Kirsten has the distinct sense that the other woman is suppressing laughter. “Still, don’t be concerned that you’ve chased Dr. Rivers out of the room. She’s faced”—and the smile does break through—“considerably worse than yourself. Good night.”

Halfway across the room, Allen pauses and turns. “When you’re ready to sleep, blankets are in the hall closet. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the couch tonight. We’ll try to find better arrangements for you tomorrow.”

Kirsten watches as the Colonel disappears into the bedroom. The sound of soft voices comes to her, blurred, though the door. She raises a hand to turn off her implants, but lowers it after a moment’s hesitation. She cannot follow the words; it is not as if she is eavesdropping. After a time, the strip of light beneath the door goes dark, and the voices fall silent.

Quietly, Kirsten makes up the couch with a pair of blankets she finds in cabinet and turns out the lights. Asi manages to wedge himself onto the cushions beside her, his great head lowered onto his paws. Kirsten stares past him into the dying embers on the hearth, watching as their red glow fades and turns finally to ash. She has the uncomfortable feeling that something vital is hovering just beyond her understanding. She cannot come at it through reason, try as she will. Over and over she turns the question in her mind, looking for even the slightest intellectual purchase. But the answer lies elsewhere, and she does not know how to approach it.

When only ashes remain on the hearth, she sleeps.

CHAPTER NINE

DAWN SLOWLY MAKES itself visible through the slats of the blinds as she sits, huddled on the lumpy couch, a cup of slowly chilling coffee in her hands and a threadbare military blanket draped over her shoulders. That the coffee is real, and therefore quite welcome, is of little comfort to her this morning—a morning on which she can count upon the fingers of one hand how many hours of sleep she has gotten, and still have enough fingers left to bowl a strike in any smoky ten-pin alley in town.

Sensitive as always to her moods, Asi whines and lifts his massive head from where it is resting in her lap. His head cocks, his eyes giving forth a look so human and so caring that, for a moment, her chest tightens and her eyes sting. But only for a moment.

Smiling at him to show she is fine, she once again lapses into thoughts that have chased each other round and round like a dog its tail for the better part of eight hours. Thoughts that on the face of things make no sense. Just random snatches of words and images glued together without any order or logic that her scientist’s mind can comprehend, rather like a ransom note made from letters and pictures cut out of ladies’ magazines.

“God, I could use a cigarette right about now.” Her voice, hoarse from exhaustion, nonetheless conveys her sentiment perfectly. Though shut of the addiction for five years now, sometimes the urges come at her like a mugger waiting in a blind alley, and right now the mugger is twelve feet tall. And fanged.

She sits quietly, waiting for it to pass, then wonders why she even bothers fighting it. It’s not as if cigarettes cost anything anymore, and after spending the better part of the last one hundred hours literally staring death in the face, the dangers of smoking have lost, so to speak, their power to scare.

She snorts softly. “Sure. I’ll just go into the commissary or whatever they’re calling it these days, grab a few cartons and smoke myself sick.” Raising her coffee cup, she toasts the morning. “Happy days, huh?”

With a small whine, and a louder groan, Asi heaves himself up off the floor and trots, tail wagging wildly, over to the door of the bedroom. A moment later, the door opens and Koda and Maggie, dressed identically in pristine white jumpsuits, step into the living-room, their shoulders brushing casually together. For reasons she can’t fathom, the sight tugs at Kirsten in a most unpleasant way, and she finds she can breathe more easily only when the Colonel has absented herself from the tableau, moving on into the kitchen while the Lakota woman stays behind to scratch a positively ecstatic Azimov behind the ears.

Kirsten takes in the scene as the noises her dog is emitting sound like something heard on a rent-by-the-hour motel’s coin operated television set, and she can’t help but watch wonderingly as graceful, long fingers magically hit every single perfect spot on her normally standoffish canine companion.

As if sensing the rapt attention, Koda looks up from her pleasurable task, and their eyes meet and lock. Kirsten feels the fiery heat of the blush that crawls upward across her skin; embarrassed at being caught staring, embarrassed at the noises her dog is making, embarrassed, most of all, by her attitude of the night before.