Unknown - The_Growing_589064

“Sorry, cuz. The roads are a bitch out here. I’m doing my best.”

“It’s alright. Just…try to be a little smoother.”

“You got it.”

Kirsten pulls up the heavy first-aid kit from its place bolted to the floorboards of the armored vehicle. Popping the clips, she opens the metal lid and peers inside. Her hands set upon a pair of bandage scissors, and she pulls them out, then looks up at Dakota. “If you can unzip your cammos, I’m going to have to cut your thermals away from the wound.”

Nodding, Koda unzips the suit to just above her navel.

Kirsten quickly averts her gaze as she gets an unexpected view of Dakota’s small, firm breasts, clearly outlined against the thin, skin-tight fabric. She can feel her face go a flaming red and guesses Koda can likely feel the heat of it from her place against the opposite door. “I…um….”

“It’s ok,” Koda replies softly, smiling. “Like I said, this can wait.”

“No.” Kirsten clears her throat and tries again. “No. I can….” Forgoing any further attempts at talking, she grabs the proverbial bull by the horns, reaches for the neckline of Dakota’s thermals, and gently cuts down to mid chest. Peeling the blood-sodden fabric away, she exposes the deep, sluggishly bleeding cut. She then tracks up to meet Koda’s eyes. “It’s um…it’s….”

“On my breast. I know.” She smiles again. “If you can wet down a bandage, I’ll get some of this blood off, then tape a pressure dressing to it. It’ll hold until we reach base.”

“I’ll do it,” Kirsten replies firmly, trying desperately to rein in her professional demeanor, which seems to have fled with the rest of her common sense. God, you’d think I was some giddy schoolgirl. Get your act together, Kirsten. You offered to help. So help. Think about her breasts later.

And she would. Of that, she was sure.

Forcing her hands to remain steady, she uncaps a bottle of sterile water and wets a dressing sponge with it. She begins to blot at the wound, though the task is made harder by the fact that she has nothing to purchase on. Manny driving them like he’s riding a steer in a rodeo doesn’t help matters any.

Finally, blessedly, most of the blood is cleaned away. Kirsten then unwraps a sterile 4X4, doubles it, then doubles it again and presses it tight against the wound. The APV chooses this moment to hit its biggest rut yet, and in pure instinct, Kirsten lifts her free hand and cups Koda’s entire breast in order to maintain pressure on the wound.

“I guess this means we’re married now.”

The amusement in the low voice causes Kirsten to realize the positioning of her hands, and she looks up at Koda with something very akin to horror blazing from her features.

Dakota can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. “Relax,” she soothes. “You’re doing a good job.”

Kirsten’s fiery blush deepens.

Koda rolls her eyes. “Breathe,” she orders softly. “I can’t have my nurse passing out on me like this. What would people think?”

The vehicle hits yet another rut and Kirsten, already off balance, falls forward, diving nose first into Koda’s warm cleavage. Dakota’s arms come around her instinctively, protecting her from further jostling as the APV stutters and bucks its way down the unplowed road.

“Could this possibly get any worse?” comes the plaintive wail from between her breasts.

Koda laughs out loud. “Well, we could be walking.”

*

Wearing a freshly pressed jumpsuit she got from the base hospital, Koda steps quietly into the darkened, cool house. Her head is lightly buzzing from the four or five shots of pure octane that her brother and cousin had all but poured down her throat in celebration. Of what, she still isn’t quite sure, but their good spirits and warm companionship was a fine enough inducement to stay. Her wound is neatly stitched and dressed, and quite complacent beneath the numbing weight of the alcohol she’s consumed.

The light from the fireplace leads her through the darkened kitchen and into the living room. Asi’s tail thumps against the tattered rug, but he doesn’t remove his head from its resting place atop Kirsten’s thigh. The woman in question is sprawled along the couch, her head lolling against one ragged arm, a thick—and doubtless dry as dust—robotics tome resting, spine up, on her chest. Her glasses hang askew on her face, and she is lightly snoring, obviously deeply asleep.

Coming closer, Dakota squats on her haunches and lays a hand in Asimov’s warm fur, stroking it as she gazes down at Kirsten, watching the firelight as it plays over her spun-gold hair. She follows one tendril that lays across one twitching eye, caught up in thick, dusky lashes. The face she looks upon is that of an innocent untouched by the ravages of war or time. It is a kind face, a compassionate face imbued with an innate goodness that the young scientist tries so hard to conceal.

With infinite tenderness, she gently sweeps the tendril loose of its confinement, smiling as Kirsten’s nose twitches briefly, before relaxing once again beneath the weight of her slumber.

A soft footfall sounds, and Koda looks up to see Maggie, her well-worn robe casually belted at the waist. Her face is solemn, brown eyes intent on Koda’s face.

“She’s getting inside, isn’t she.”

Though the words carry with them a faint accusation, the tone itself is soft, perhaps even warm. Koda chooses to keep silent, well knowing that her face speaks a truth mere words can’t convey.

“Thought so,” Maggie responds in a whisper, walking over to the foot of the couch and staring down at the almost fragile looking woman taking up its length. “Sparks like that don’t fly for nothing.”

“Sparks?”

Maggie’s smile, when it comes, is wry. “Yeah.” As she swallows, a brief look of sadness crosses her features, and is gone.

“Maggie, I….”

Allen lifts a hand. “Don’t say it, Koda. Don’t say that you’re sorry.”

Rising gracefully to her feet, Dakota grasps the upraised hand and pulls it gently to her chest. “I wasn’t.” She pins Maggie with her eyes. “I’m not.”

That brief, sad smile flashes but a moment as Maggie lifts her free hand and tenderly trails it against Dakota’s warm cheek. “C’mon,” she intones softly. “Let’s go to bed.”

*

The General’s conference room is still grey, but this time, at least, the coffee arrives promptly. As steam curls up from the mug before her, Koda is pleased to note that it is also hot. Kirsten’s sudden status as possible Commander-in-Chief of whatever is left of the armed forces may not make Amtrak run on time—has not made the trains run at all, in fact— but it has had an immediate and positive effect on the Base’s coffeemakers.

Kirsten has taken her seat at the head of the table without question this time, Hart claiming the second-ranking chair at the foot. Otherwise the seating arrangement reflects the tension that has been building in the room for the past two hours. One side is wall-to-wall brass: Air Force Light Colonels, Majors, a stray Captain to fill out the line. Like Hart, they are all in formal uniform, all of them bristling with theatre ribbons and good conduct medals. Studying the decorations surreptitiously as she sips her coffee, Koda counts the presence of only one pair of pilot’s wings and zero Purple Hearts. Desk jockeys and rearguards. Facing them across the table are the scouts who have just returned from the prospective battleground, Tacoma and Manny in unmarked and rankless fatigues, the rest in an assortment of jeans and work shirts. One of the Majors—Grueneman, H., according to his name tag—darts his eyes repeatedly from Koda to Tacoma. She has no need of her shamanic talent to know what he is thinking: they look just like identical twins, but they can’t be. There is, too, something of the offended grade school principal in the down-the-nose-on-a-long-slalom look that lingers on Tacoma’s hair, caught back like her own with a beaded band at the nape. Definitely not regulation.