When All Goes Bright
©2007 Jess Mowry

Prologue

It could have been called a not-quite land. It was not quite in the center of Africa. It was far enough south so it wasn't steamy, and yet it was not quite a desert. Although it was tiny in terms of a nation, its borders had never been quite defined. Its people knew when enough was sufficient, and more than they needed was really too much.

The not-quite land wasn't much of a prize when the Europeans came. It was too far away from a river or coast to be a convenient source of slaves, who inconveniently tended to die if marched for many miles in chains, and it didn't appear to have anything like diamonds, gold, or oil reserves. So there was nothing of value to steal, nor a reason to put its people to work. They were too peaceful to use as soldiers, too spiritual to accept other gods, and a little too smart to be easily cheated. They weren't in the way of anything so there was no need to exterminate them. They might have been hated for being too kind, but there were never enough of them to pose a major threat.

Some said the French had first claimed this land, but were never quite sure what to do with it. Then as a sort of colonial joke they had bargained it off to the British. The British may never have realized that the not-quite land was a place of its own and not just a part of somewhere else. It was rather like moving into a house with a family who lived in the attic, and of never taking the time or trouble to climb up and make their acquaintance. Whoever they were, they made no demands and never complained if the roof might have leaked. And while it was true that they didn't pay rent, they never asked for anything, like running water, electric lights, or telephones to call their friends.

One might have imagined a British Major, long retired from building an empire, reading his paper in robe and slippers and hearing something go bump in the night. He would pause for a moment, puffing his pipe, and wonder about those people up there; but perhaps it was better to just let them be. It was, after all, a tiny space and couldn't be used for anything.

One day the Major passed away and left the house to his sons. By then all its valuable things had been sold to keep the Major comfortable. The yard had become a jungle again, the house was in need of many repairs, and the sons would have been responsible if the roof fell in and hurt anyone. So they gave the house to its free-living tenants -- or rather gave it back to them -- and moved to a better neighborhood.

The not-quite land was forgotten again, and decades passed away in peace while the rest of the world made various wars that came in many sizes. But, far away was a powerful land where anything that wasn't possessed was a threat to those who didn't possess it. The people who lived in this mighty place had never quite understood the idea of when enough was sufficient. They were only five percent of the world, yet they gobbled up twenty-five percent of all the world possessed. The purpose of power was power (they said) and the more you possessed the more you should have because that was the natural order of things and the way their children were taught.

The house of Earth could not be enlarged, but its civilized children demanded more room, or at least more possessions to put in their rooms, because that was the natural order of things and the way they had always been taught. They started to think of remodeling, and so began to measure their house to capitalize on its limited space and evict any free-living tenants.

Chapter One:

The not-quite land was mostly flat, but here and there were huddles of hills, like scattered camps of sleeping camels. Much of the country was dusty and dry, and yet it was not without life: there were groves of golden acacia trees, African oak, and thorny bushes, though never quite abundant enough to really be called a forest. There were even some places of not-quite jungle surrounding occasional water holes, or lining the banks of slow-running streams, which were never quite rivers except when it rained. These meandered their way across the plains in lazy loops with ox-bow lagoons, adding sinuous stripes and shadings of green to an otherwise golden-brown palette.

Some might have called the land barren in places, and yet it was never quite naked. There was hardy grass of amber hues that grew as high as a lion's shoulder. Yes, there were lions in this tiny place, though not quite as large as in other lands, and therefore not as interesting to those who studied or captured such things. It had also been this way in the past for those who came to Africa to murder something noble... one wanted the true king of beasts for a trophy; a lion who looked like a worthy opponent when locked in the sights of a rifle.

It was not quite the end of a long hot summer, but not yet time for the hard winter rains. One of the not-quite worthy lions had just downed a small antelope -- another species of life in this land that had never been worthy of notice -- and was dragging it into the shade of a tree when a distant droning invaded the peace. The lion paused to listen a moment, but then returned to important things.

The murmuring sound was faint at first like a slowly approaching swarm of bees. Then, an airplane appeared in the southern sky, which today was as blue as a porcelain bowl and as clear as the eyes of a child. The plane skimmed the hump of a slumbering camel, thereby crossing an ancient border and blatantly breaking a brand new law.

The plane was a Douglas C-47. It was painted a tawny-golden shade very much like the coat of a lion. This wasn't a color one might have imagined for something designed to fly in the sky, but it would have been almost invisible to another airplane flying above. At the moment there weren't any other airplanes for hundreds miles in any direction; but far overhead, unseen up in space, the unsleeping eye of a spy satellite had spotted an unexplained shadow below and was frantically searching its memory files for a possible threat to its masters.

The C-47 was flying so slowly that a hawk could have passed it with ease in a dive and laughed at the foolishness of men who created such clumsy and noisy machines to go where they didn't belong. Some might have said that it wasn't quite flying, for just as the land is no friend to a ship, an airplane should also have stayed well away because there is safety in altitude. This proverb would have seemed wise to follow, because about every three minutes or so the plane's starboard engine would sputter a bit and spew out a streamer of dirty gray smoke. This would continue for several seconds and sometimes the engine would backfire, but at last it caught up with its portside brother to finally resume their droning duet.

The airplane's skin looked as crinkled and worn as the foil of an old cigarette pack. Riveted patches showed here and there, and the sides of the forward fuselage were dented and scarred in a thousand places by ice being thrown off the spinning propellers in colder climates in other times. The engine nacelles were lathered with oil, and carbon soot blackened the wings' undersides, but there was a saying about these airplanes: they could possibly crash but would never wear out.

Painted on either side of the nose was the faded face of a snarling lion above the words, SIMBA AIR FREIGHT. The cockpit was like a tin camp stove with the sun blazing down on the lion-colored roof, though the windows were open and wind rushing past with the soft steady roar of a waterfall. Dust seemed to coat every surface inside, including the glass of the instruments, their needles twitching and quivering, while the air was a stew of leather and sweat, hot engine oil, and hydraulic fluid.

A man lay asleep in the co-pilot's seat; a fine-boned man of not quite thirty. He was shirtless in trousers of lionish brown that were fitted with large cargo pockets. His skin was a dusky, lusterless shade like the deep satin-black of the instrument panels. He seemed a bit taller than only six feet, partly because of the cramped surroundings, but mostly because of his dancer-like build where every tight muscle was starkly defined like an artist's anatomy model. His chest was a pair of proud oval shapes above a stone-rippled stomach. His biceps were solid as river rocks, even while resting relaxed. His face looked youthfully peaceful in sleep, with high rounded cheeks and a wide snubby nose. His lips were full and rested half open, revealing the gleam of shiny white teeth. His hair was bushy, indifferently kept, and powdered with dust to a lion's-mane color, a sooty- brown shade with amber highlights. His feet, resting clear of the worn rudder pedals, were clad in what seemed to be native-made boots with antelope uppers and truck tire soles. Unlike most pilots he wore no watch. A tuft of fur on a slim leather strip loosely encircled his neck. At his side was a heavy utility knife in a sheath decorated with beads.

In the pilot's seat was a boy of thirteen who was scanning an anime magazine, while a primitive, mindless, mechanical thing composed of gyros, gears and wires, with oil for blood and a pump for a heart, attended the business of flying, mysteriously moving the twin steering yokes as if a ghost was guiding the plane. The boy, like the man, was deep dusky black, shirtless and shiny with sweat in the heat, which had muddied the leather beneath him. His hair, like the man's, was bushy and wild, shaded by dust to a lion's-mane brown and crowned with small yellow headphones. These were cheap and plastic things that looked out of place in the ancient aircraft. His face wasn't quite the same as the man's -- disregarding their difference in age -- but mostly due to its full rounded cheeks and the hint of a soft second chin. The boy, like the man, had long slender bones, but his body was rolly and soft. Sprawled in the narrow pilot's seat, as only a boy of his age could sprawl, his belly spilled over his ragged blue-jeans and wobbled whenever he moved. His navel resembled a funnel-shaped cave, while his chest was a pair of melon-like shapes that bobbed to the bounce of the plane.

The boy had youthfully large feet and hands, the former encased in boots like the man's with antelope uppers and truck-tire soles. The latter were chubby and possibly clever when not resting paw-like and loose. His nose was wide, basically bridgeless and rather aggressively snubbed. His lips were at rest in a half-open pout, displaying a pair of startling teeth that might have opened bottle caps. His onyx eyes had long silky lashes and were slightly upturned at the corners. This gave him a sly and foxy look; though they couldn't be seen at the moment, concealed by a pair of pilot's sunglasses designed for a far bigger face than his as well as much different nose.

Unlike the man, the boy wore a watch that was almost cartoonishly huge and complex. On his other wrist was a souvenir bracelet that might have come from a carnival. It was silver-plated, but now showing brass, and engraved with the name, Dakota. Around his neck was a slim leather strip; and a tufted lock of lion's mane lay nestled between the orbs of his chest. He wore a headband of antelope skin, skillfully woven and beautifully beaded, which only partially tamed his hair but channeled the sweat from his eyes. A knife in a sheath, also handsomely-made, was secured to a loop on his jeans.

Like all things beloved and cherished, the plane was protected by powerful charms: a lion's fang dangled above the compass, along with a doll in the Akan tradition that smilingly swung and regarded the sky. Feathers, beads, and cowrie shells adorned the various levers and knobs, each a bit of art in itself. A souvenir photo was taped to the roof, looking down at the man and boy, the kind that were taken at carnivals. The boy was holding an ice-cream cone, his belly half bare in an underwear shirt that would have been tight on a much slimmer youth; while the man was clad in lionish brown and looked like a bumpkin come to a fair.

Dakota's headphones were plugged to a Diskman, another modern plastic thing, and the volume was high to battle the roar of the elderly Pratt & Whitney engines. Yet, Dakota glanced out about every three minutes whenever the starboard engine sputtered. Then he would lower his magazine and scan the dusty instrument panel. The airspeed was steady at 130 knots, but he'd fondle the starboard throttle a bit and tinker with the fuel mix controls. Then, his large and foxy eyes would roam the faces of other gauges... revolutions and temperatures, oil, fuel, and manifold pressures, altitude (about 1000 feet), flick to the compass (north by northwest), and then return to the starboard engine, which usually steadied and stopped spitting smoke as if feeling the boy's annoyance. Then Dakota would gaze ahead through the bug-spattered glass of the grimy windshield. Finally, he'd reach between his legs where a bottle of Coke was nestled upright and take a sip of the hot sugar water. He also munched on Simba Chips, bought that morning in Johannesburg.

The starboard engine sputtered again, belching a burst of gunmetal smoke as if sipping a beverage that didn't agree. The sleeping man stirred whenever this happened, as if the malfunction invaded his dreams. But Dakota performed his ritual of fondling the throttle lever, pampering the mix control, giving the engine a glare of reproach, and the roaring duet resumed its drone. He sloppily swallowed the last of his Coke, tossed the bottle out the window, and gave the compass another glance. He studied the landscape unrolling ahead and a huddle of oncoming hills. He checked the altitude again, then set his magazine aside, slipped the headphones off his ears and hung them next to an ancient pair, huge and heavy, Bakelite and steel, that served the airplane's radio.

Leaving his seat was a minor struggle of dynamic muscle against static mass, and complicated by ergonomics designed in the 1930s. Finally reaching an upright position, his body rearranged itself, obeying the law of gravity, his belly plunging over his jeans and rebounding a bit like a bungee jumper. Muddy sweat drained from his cave of a navel to spatter the worn metal floor, while more trickled down from under his arms, channeling various rolly curves through a tawny-gold coating of dust. The soles of his boots made potato chip sounds in the gritty carpet of dust on the floor as he entered the sweltering cargo bay.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. Dust motes danced in the broiling beams to the clattering beat of the engines. The cylindrical space was crowded with things; cardboard boxes of various sizes, many displaying labels of food, flats of tinned milk, a pile of rice sacks, barrels of fuel and kerosene, and a 1943 Willys Jeep born the same year as the airplane. The freight included roofing tin, lengths of plastic water pipe, a restless roll of chicken-wire, a truck engine banded to rough wooden skids and bearing a tag from Israel, along with shovels, axes, hoes, and a dozen machetes bound in a bundle that looked like a primitive killing machine.

There was also a coffin, classically-shaped in the old-fashioned British "toe-pincher" style. It gave off a rather ominous smell that suggested the plane had a passenger whose body should have been on earth... and decently below it. If scent had it color this would have been bronze with nasty streaks of acid-green.

Dakota's jeans were a little too small and more than not quite buttoned. The denim was thoroughly soaked with oil, which gave it the texture of leather. The pockets were ragged, and one knee ripped, but they might have been the only blue-jeans for hundreds of miles in any direction. They rode comically low on the boy's chubby bottom, hiding all but the toes of his boots, and revealing more than concealing a lot in regard to his teenage anatomy. Their ribbon-like cuffs dragged over the floor, leaving a trail behind in the dust as he wiggled his way through the cargo.

Reaching the big double doors near the tail, he pushed the forward door open an inch and pissed in the rushing slipstream. He was fighting to fasten his unwilling jeans when the starboard engine sputtered again.

"Bother!" he said in Swahili -- which could have meant damn, or probably worse -- then crunched his way back to the cockpit.

He paused to scan the instrument panel, then pulled another hot bottle of Coke from a rusty ice chest as dry as a desert. He settled into the seat once more, and was slipping the headphones back on his ears, when he noticed a rising column of smoke beyond the cluster of hills ahead. He squinted a bit in the savage sun-glare despite the deep green of his oversize glasses, and noted circling vulture shapes that were gracefully skirting the smoke. He frowned a little, leaning forward, his chest becoming roundly breasted, spilling over the steering yoke; and even his teeth seemed eager to see as his mouth slowly opened in wonder. Then he reached over the throttle quadrant and prodded the sleeping man's shoulder, his fingertip leaving an ebony spot in the coating of golden-brown dust.

"Nathi."

The man was awake in an instant. His eyes were as foxy and black as the boy's, flicking first to the instrument panel, checking the compass and altitude before giving Dakota a questioning look. The boy only pointed ahead. The man also frowned, then said in Swahili, "Take her up a little more." He reached for a pair of binoculars that had once belonged to the British Army.

Dakota unlocked the auto-pilot and took control of the airplane, planting his boots on the rudder pedals and gripping the dusty steering yoke. He set the mix on auto-rich and slowly advanced the throttles. The starboard engine spit and faltered, but quickly recovered and roared again, maybe feeling Dakota's glare. The airplane's nose tilted up. Clearing the hills by 500 feet, Dakota lowered the throttles once more and carefully leaned out the mix. The man scanned ahead through the windshield.

Some might have said it was not quite a village but only a scatter of mud-plastered huts surrounded by fields of native crops: millet, maize, beans, and yams. It looked even less like a village now: the huts were roofless and smoking within, while flames still flickered here and there like angry red eyes in soot-blackened faces.

The vultures scattered away from the plane as it cut through the pillar of smoke. The smells of charred thatch and smoldering wood, of baking clay and burned possessions, blew into the cockpit then faded away as the plane burst out into sunlight.

"Shall I circle around?" asked Dakota.

"I don't see anyone," said Nathi, still intently scanning the ground. "No cattle, no goats. Not even a chicken."

Dakota scowled. "The Army would have taken them."

Nathi shifted the glasses. "They didn't bother to burn the crops. ...Maybe the people escaped to the hills..." Then, his muscular body tensed. A long finger turned the binoculars' focus. "Bring her around and come in low."

Again, Dakota reached for the throttles, but paused to point ahead. "That must be the Army trucks."

Nathi aimed the glasses northeast where a cloud of dust rose in the heat-shimmered distance. "Probably two," he said. "Maybe fifteen kilometers. I doubt they can see us through all their own dust." He glanced at the fuel level gauge. "Go ahead and bring her around."

A few minutes later, the C-47 swooped over the village at seventy knots, man and boy scanning the ground.

"I see someone!" cried Dakota, half upright with his head out the window, his jeans slipping low on his bottom. "There in the shade by the chicken house. The one with still part of a roof."

The man only sighed. "A boy, and he's dead."

"Are you sure?"

Nathi lowered the powerful glasses. "Yes."

"Was he theirs, or ours?" asked Dakota.

"It doesn't matter to him anymore."

Dakota reached for the throttles again, about to pull up, then said, "They always welcomed us with a feast."

Nathi nodded. "Take her down."

There wasn't an actual airstrip, but the ground was flat and fairly smooth. The boy brought the plane to 500 feet, gently banked to circle around while carefully losing more altitude and lowering the wing flaps. Then he lined up the nose with the faint wheel tracks that marked their previous landings.

"Cross feed," he called, his hand on the throttles.

Nathi reached for the fuel selectors.

"Cowl flaps open. Gear down," said Dakota. He pulled back a bit on the steering yoke as the landing gear lowered with shuddering thumps and the airplane balked with the drag.

"Green and latched," called Nathi. "Tail wheel locked." He peered ahead at the oncoming earth. "Someone has been digging out there, but not enough for graves."

Dakota checked the airspeed again, noted the smoke still rising straight up, then lowered the flaps to full position, easing a bit on the trembling yoke as the airplane flared on ground-effect.

But, Nathi's eyes seemed troubled as he gazed ahead at the place of digging. Too small for graves...

The main wheels touched with a a firm double-bump, spewing twin clouds of golden-brown dust that fanned away behind the tail. Dakota reached to lower the throttles.

"Mines!" yelled Nathi.

"Full throttle! Full rich!" Dakota shouted, straining back on the yoke. "Gear up!"

Nathi considered for less than a second, then jerked the landing-gear lever, yanking the wheels from under the plane, which desperately fought to stay aloft... seeming to strain every creaking rivet, engines roaring at full RPM, gushing out solid black streamers of smoke, propeller blades pitched for maximum bite, frantically clawing the precious air so terribly close to the ground. Machine and boy battled together to fly, and then they were past the digging.

"Gear down!" yelled Dakota.

This time the thumps of the landing gear locking echoed the thuds of the wheels hitting dirt. "Green and latched," called Nathi.

"When all goes bright, don't look," puffed Dakota, shaking new sweat from his face.

Dust billowed over the ground once more as the airplane rattled and jolted along, a thing from the sky now awkward on earth. Dakota gently toed the brakes. The tail wheel dropped with a lesser thump, tilting the cockpit skyward again so the boy had to stretch to see over the nose. Finally, the airplane creaked to a halt a few hundred feet from the side of a hill and the village's ancient burying-ground. More tawny dust drifted in through the windows, furring the glass of the instrument panels and dimming the glare of the sun. The doll and lion's fang swung to and fro. Dakota bowed his head to the doll and murmured a "thank you," echoed by Nathi.

Dakota retracted the wing flaps, lowered the engines to clattering idle, studied the oil pressure gauges a moment, then stretched to reach the ignition switches above the windshield frame. Silence settled around the plane, except for the ticking and clicks of hot metal. Dakota flashed a sudden smile, displaying his bottle-opener teeth.

"How was that?"

Nathi sighed, stirring dust in the air. "We were ten knots below stall speed, yet you flew."

"Perhaps it was magic?"

"Or ground-effect. Though it shouldn't have worked in this heat." Nathi also smiled. "I could not have done better... but please never do that again."

Then, both faces, youthful, mature, hardened into grimmer lines.

"Do you think those mines were for us?" asked Dakota.

"Now they are for anyone."

Dakota wiggled out of his seat. Secured to a bulkhead by rubber cords was a pair of AK-47s with most of their blackness worn off. Their bolts and triggers were shiny from use, their wooden stocks darkened by oil and sweat. He took down one of the heavy weapons while Nathi uncradled the other.

Like Dakota's dangerous jeans, Nathi's trousers clung low on his hips as he slung his rifle over a shoulder and followed the boy down the now-slanted floor, their boots crunching dust in the silence. He wrinkled his nose as they passed the coffin.

Dakota cocked and readied his rifle, setting it to full-auto fire and crouching close to cover the man as Nathi opened the doors. The creak of their hinges was loud. Nathi blinked in the sunlight, shading his eyes as he scanned the hills, while the boy poised ready to shoot.

"They would have known it was us," said Nathi.

"Should we wait?" asked Dakota. His own eyes behind their oversize glasses had turned to study the village.

"They would have known," said Nathi again. "And the trucks have been gone for at least an hour."

"Do you think the Army took the people?"

"There were only two trucks." Nathi unslung and cocked his weapon.

It was in the boy's nature to jump to the ground, but he comically landed and almost fell, his jeans slipping down to his knees. Nathi landed as light as a cat. Dakota recovered his fallen jeans and adjusted his glasses, which scorned his nose. Nathi studied the port landing-gear where leaking oil was spattering dust like tiny atomic explosions.

"Shall I put in the pins?" asked Dakota.

"No," said Nathi. "We may have to leave in a hurry."

Rifles held ready, man and boy moved cautiously off toward the smoke-shrouded village, pausing once to look back at the plane, well camouflaged by its lion-colored paint... though far up in space the dust had been noted and pictures were being sent.

The vultures, disturbed by the noisy landing, were only now spiraling back to earth. They hadn't quite reached the boy on the ground, who lay in the shade of a smoldering hen-house, the smoke casting rippling patterns around him. He was chocolate-brown and might have been twelve, naked and showing no body hair. He looked well-fed, even slightly round-tummied. His eyes, pure midnight and not yet sunken, gazed off in that strange and disturbing direction that no living eye can follow. His chest had been shattered by full-auto fire, though mercifully now it was covered with flies and the gleaming bones mostly concealed. One of his teeth was slightly chipped, which somehow made him look younger. Around his neck was a stainless-steel chain and a pair of aluminum tags, the only things left to him in this world except his glossy, feasting shroud.

Dakota's eyes kept flicking around behind their lenses like emerald tears, scanning the scatter of smoking huts, the womanish swells of the lion-colored hills, and the empty sun-shimmered plains. His chubby fingers roamed the gun, though seldom strayed far from the trigger. But the only sounds were the buzzing of flies, the croaking and caws of the impatient vultures, the campfire crackle of burning wood.

"I thought they took one?" he said at last, his gaze coming back to the bright metal tags, which made the boy's body look like a possession... left-luggage, perhaps, to be called for later; although it was clear than nobody would. "To give to his parents, at least."

"Only an army with honor," said Nathi. "Which wouldn't have stripped and left him like this."

"Maybe they need the uniforms. ...That might be useful information."

"Someone fought back," said Nathi, kneeling to pick up a cartridge case. "This is from an AK."

One of the vultures, hungry or boldest, made a scuttling dart toward the body. Dakota swung his rifle, slamming the bird away. It retreated in fury, hissing, screaming, shitting itself. The others watching seemed to laugh.

"We should bury him," said Dakota.

"But, he's not one of ours."

"His spirit should have a place to rest, not be left to wander."

Nathi nodded. "For now..." He handed his gun to Dakota, then pulled a sheet of rusty tin from what remained of the chicken house and arched it over the body. Then they moved on through the smoke-shrouded village, weapons ready, eyes alert, peering into each smoldering doorway, one always guarding the other's back, tensing at every soft sputter of flame or the crack of a charred rafter falling. Hut after hut lay gutted and empty, except for the ashes of household things. Bullets had blasted and ripped the mud walls, and the Army had used incendiary grenades to set every dwelling afire. Nathi noted this, saying, "They have more weapons than fuel."

Dakota nodded. "That is useful information." He went to the well and looked down. "They had enough fuel to poison the water."

"A few liters would have been sufficient."

"Why didn't they use grenades on the crops?"

Nathi was scanning around once more. "Perhaps they hoped to harvest them before the rains begin. But they seem to have left in a hurry. That's probably why we saw the mines." He aimed a finger here and there. "Most of these cases are M-16, though an AK or two fired back."

On the ground near the last of the burned-out huts, Dakota spotted an Army cap in a camouflage pattern of desert tans, which didn't quite work well in this lion-colored land.

"Careful," warned Nathi. "The General has many new toys."

Dakota studied the sun-baked dirt before lifting the cap with his AK muzzle and flipping it into his hand. A tag inside read BARRYMORE CORP. HOUSTON, TX, USA. Dakota flung it away, then pushed up his slipping glasses again. "Maybe the people crossed the border? Or, maybe Rashawn took them to safety."

Nathi studied the cartridge cases. "A few hundred rounds, and maybe two rifles. Short bursts to conserve ammunition. Then they ran... there..."

Man and boy faced the last smoking hut. Then they approached it, weapons on point.

Two boys lay inside, one maybe ten. The other was close to Dakota's age, wearing a tuft of lion's mane on a leather strip around his neck. Unlike the round-tummied soldier, these boys were as lean as cheetahs. Both wore tire-tread antelope boots, though their only clothes were loincloths in a camouflage pattern of ambers and golds striped with shadings of black.

Dakota's hands clenched on the gun. "I should be fighting with them!"

Nathi touched Dakota's arm. "You just fought a battle to fly and won. How long do you think they could last without you? For now we can help them with shovels."

Chapter Two:

"Mom? I think Freddy's dead."

"...Oh," said Nicole after a moment and not quite knowing what else to say. The words had awakened an old memory, though she couldn't quite bring it to mind. She paused in her fight with a lipstick tube: she knew there was still quite a bit left inside, but the dammed thing wouldn't unscrew all the way as if cunningly crafted to cheat and retreat. She turned from a mirror still steamed from her bath to the near-naked boy in the doorway.

Zackary was almost thirteen, with sandy blond hair in a spiky mop and the indigo eyes of his father. He'd always been rather charmingly chubby with round chipmunk cheeks and a slight double-chin, but seeing him now clad only in shorts Nicole realized he had gotten quite fat. His stomach resembled a sack full of Jell-o that avalanced over his boxer shorts and wobbled in waves whenever he moved. His navel was like a funnel-shaped cave that tunneled away into shadowy depths, while his breasts were a pair of water-balloons that looked about ready to pop. His skin was as pale as vanilla ice cream, while his nipples, pink and disturbingly large, didn't do much in proclaiming his sex.

Nor did the small silver ring in one ear, the spiked leather bracelet he wore on a wrist, or the chrome-plated necklace of bright metal beads that looked like an oversize bathtub chain... although they were currently "in" for boys. As well as green hair, which she'd promised tomorrow. He'd dropped out of soccer the summer before and now spent most of his time in his room, either sprawled on his bed and watching TV, surfing the web for God knew what, or playing violent video games that featured mass-murder and nuclear wars, with blood and guts in full Technicolor, including grisly sound-effects of ripping flesh and breaking bones. Nicole wasn't sure how to deal with that -- or even if she should try -- any more than with Freddy's apparent demise.

She tossed the lipstick into the wastebasket, telling herself to remember the brand and never buy it again. ...Or, could its commercial chicanery be used to advantage somehow? Ours gives you all you deserve? But, her company didn't make cosmetics, at least no division she knew of. And what was the crap anyhow, she thought; colored grease to smear on her mouth to make it look wet and inviting to males.

"Er..." she said, feeling slightly confused, a rather familiar sensation these days. "Are you sure, honey?"

Zackary shrugged as if still half asleep, though he'd looked that way for most of this year, even engaged in genocide on faceless hordes of terrorist orcs... sub-human things motivated by hate that one only wanted to kill. Orcs never had any families, no cute little orclings to cry for their daddies, or wives to weep for their slaughtered breadwinners, so nobody felt the slightest remorse about bombing them all to hell. Nicole had suspected drugs for a while as the source of Zackary's laziness, and had read somewhere that heavy dope-smoking in pubescent males could cause their breasts to become enlarged. But she'd never smelled any weed on her son, so she'd settled for lack of motivation and probably too many carbs.

"He's all stiff, mom," added Zack.

Nicole glanced again at the misty mirror, patted her golden-brown hair into place, and wondered if it was getting too long... too late to worry about that now. She almost guiltily checked her watch. Freddy had picked a bad morning to die, and she hoped it wasn't an omen. But, she made herself smile in a hopeful way. "Maybe he's just sleeping late." She almost added, "like you," but didn't.

"He's all stiff, mom," repeated Zack, without the slightest degree of hope in a slightly squeaky pre-teen voice.

Nicole took her son's chubby hand, noting his sloppily wobbling walk as she tried to hurry him down the hall without seeming overly stressed. Her morning commute was looming ahead like its own kind of video game from hell... Road Rage X, perhaps.

The house seemed depressingly dark and still, almost like a funeral home, as if Freddy's passing had set the mood. The air conditioner murmured low, sounding a bit like organ music, combating the heat of a Houston June. Their feet were silent on deep pile carpet, Zackary's bare, Nicole's in new shoes that were stiff, unforgiving, and bought yesterday, along with her moderate business suit. She caught sight of herself in a closet door mirror while passing the huge master bedroom; still rather attractive at thirty-four years, maybe too "full" for a modeling job -- not that she'd ever wanted to model -- but slender enough not to care. Her eyes were sky-blue, her cheekbones high, her chin was determined and firm. Her complexion had always been clear and smooth, easily tanned with a touch of sunlight to the honey-bronze shade of a Malibu bunny; a look that Texans seemed to favor as much as the surfer-boys in L.A... even without blue eye-shadow. Her lips had a natural fullness and color, her lashes needed no lengthening, and her makeup was usually minimal in keeping with her executive job.

Zackary's room was also immense and featured lots of free space, mostly thanks to Maria the maid, who shoveled it out three times a week in total indifference to Zackary's rage... something usually felt more than heard that could curdle the air like a sulky cat and fill the whole house with pubescent distemper. A scatter of junk-food and candy bar wrappers defiled the floor and mocked Maria. The shelving system was sagging with things, as heavily laden as Zack's skeleton. There were comics, CDs, and model airplanes... almost a hundred little aircraft, the older of many different types, the newer all fighters or bombers. There was a fifty-inch HD TV, a new Sega player, a million games, DVDs and assorted software, along with a massive stereo and a few old toys from Zackary's past... action-figures of muscle-bound males equipped with weapons of mass-destruction in every conceivable form.

Several were sold by her own company; the Defenders Of Democracy series with "fully authentic uniforms"... though manufactured in Communist China. One Defender was African, stripped to the waist in camouflage pants with a feral pattern of amber and gold. Nicole had suggested a few less muscles and more realistic proportions, but had been overruled by Marketing... "boys want masculine mass," they'd said.

There was also a Barney, an old Tonka truck, and a well-worn Tickle-Me-Elmo. The walls were defaced with gothic posters, some almost seeming satanic, while others depicted bombers in flight with savage explosions erupting below.

The TV clock showed 7:32, sparing Nicole a glance at her watch as she went to the Hamster Habitat, a plastic mini-universe of pipe-like runs and transparent chambers that probably gave an illusion of freedom while keeping its occupant safely contained. There wasn't much doubt that Freddy was dead, a very obese little ball of fur now sprawled beside his brimming food dish. But she opened the cage to make sure anyhow, forcing her finger to stroke, not prod, as Zack observed with a sleepy expression. Rigor Mortis seemed to have passed, and the flabby furball was room temperature.

"I guess he was getting old," she said, though she wondered how old was "old" for a hamster. Could you overfeed them like goldfish? If so, that was probably cause of death, but at least he had passed looking happy. ...Or was that rictus sardonicus? She tried to recall if Roger had bought him before or after the nasty divorce, when Zack had dropped out of soccer.

"I guess," said Zack.

"I'm sorry, honey," murmured Nicole, giving her son a comforting hug and almost expecting a squeeze-toy squeak. He felt like Freddy without the fur. "How do you feel about that?"

"Okay, I guess. He was gettin' old. ...Maybe I'll get me a rat."

"...We'll... talk about it," said Nicole, who had never liked rodents in any disguise. Rats smelled, she had heard, but so did Zack; that sharp, bitter bite of young adolescence, which seemed to saturate the room. She noted with a bit of surprise the few wispy curls under Zackary's arms, although it would likely be several more years until he'd start shaving his face. She supposed she would have to read up on that rite and be ready to offer advice.

"I guess we should bury him, huh?" said Zack. "Like, before he starts to smell?"

"We might have to do it this evening, honey. I have an important meeting, remember?"

"Are they gonna give you more money?"

"I guess it's possible. ...But we're not doing badly right now, are we?"

Zack reached for a half-eaten Milky Way bar next to the clock on his beside table. "I guess we got enough."

That was certainly speaking the truth: the settlement terms had been quite sufficient, mostly due to Roger's abuse... vicious and vile but thankfully verbal, as Zack had testified in court. Nicole's own job brought in more than enough, and the rest was invested securely offshore in the hands of a cunning accountant. "We could put him in the refrigerator. Like they do in a... well, in a morgue."

Zackary's eyebrows lifted. "With the food?" he asked, his mouth full of chocolate.

Nicole took note of the slight "U" in food. Zack had asked for a "pin" last week, and after she had found him one he'd given her a baffled look and said he needed to write.

"We'd put him in something," Nicole improvised. A disposable Tupperware tub came to mind in lieu of a hamster casket. She wondered if anyone made such an item. Surely there were coffins for pets?

Now, Zack's accent was pure Thousand Oaks: "Mom, that's gross!"

Nicole glanced again at the fat ball of fluff and mentally wished it in animal hell for skewing her mind from important things. But, how long would it take to dispose of the... corpse?

"We can bury him in the flower bed. There's a shovel in the garage, I think. But we'll have to hurry so you won't be late. You don't want to miss graduation practice." Nicole realized with a flash of guilt that she hadn't yet bought him a gift.

Zack smiled a little, which seemed to prove that he didn't hate her for losing the only man in his life. His teeth, she noted, were flawlessly straight, thanks to a year of retainers and braces, a nasty ordeal he had really hated. Fortunately, he'd excelled at soccer, becoming a schoolyard star for a while, which had tempered the trauma of grinning in tin.

"I got a box," said Zack, seeming to wake up a little more. "The one my old G.I. Joe came in. ...I guess it's okay to touch him all dead?"

Nicole smiled, too, as much at Zackary's innocence as the double-syllable he'd given to "day-ed." Like most Californians, she thought of herself as having no accent, regarding a drawl with amused reserve and a drawler as slightly inferior. ...Maybe more than slightly. Of course, she kept this under cover, dwelling here in drawler-land.

"I don't see why not," said Nicole. "He's still the same Freddy, just... not quite all there." She glanced around the wreck of a room. The big new Dell PC was on, and she chose to ignore a soft-porn site. At least they were cute gothic girls. ...Or, were they called Emo these days? "I'll get breakfast started."

"Okay, mom," said Zack, licking chocolate off his fingers.

It seemed ironic that Quality Time had to come with a death in the family.

Nicole hurried down the shadowy hall and into the cavernous kitchen, a ranch-style room with a Spanish tile floor and a huge island range in the center. The fridge was a monstrous stainless-steel box that might have served well in a morgue. It had huge double doors and a rabid ice maker she couldn't quite seem to control. The kitchen faced out on a vast patio through a virtual wall of thermal-pane glass, overlooking an almost olympic-sized pool with a tall water slide and a huge Jacuzzi in which a hippo might comfortably wallow. The sun, still brassy and low in the east, struck glittering sparks off the turquoise water, reflecting from rows of bright copper pans that hung above the six-burner stove. Maria polished them every week, though Nicole had little time to cook and often brought home take-out meals or told Zack to order delivery food.

Nicole took a breakfast out of the freezer and slid it into the microwave. The Mr. Coffee had already started, set to her usual schedule. She poured a cup of Colombian Blend, glasses of milk and juice for Zack, then switched on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV.

The face of the President appeared, the red-white-and-blue at his back as always, as if required to prove his allegiance to something besides a dollar sign. Raised by disillusioned hippies -- a term her mother often used -- Nicole wasn't very patriotic, but supposed she had to keep up with the score; who the current terrorists were, why they threatened her way of life and had to be bombed off the face of the earth so she could have blue-jeans and Ronald McDonald. Not to mention plenty of gas at whatever price the traffic would bear.

She tried not to think about things like that, though she understood them well enough... being in propaganda herself. She generally recognized liars and lies, but her "terrorist threats" were closer to home in the constant intrigues of the office. She daily dealt with the petty dictators who plotted and schemed to destroy what she'd built, dropping their bombs in the boardrooms and lounges, booby-trapping her office P.C. -- or trying to give it a virus -- and setting trip-wires in her various projects in hope they'd blow up in her face. Everyone mined her road to success in a savagely civilized way.

She had once made a stab at "saving the world" and had found it rather ungrateful. In fact, it had booted her square in the butt and sent her running for home. Still, no one had given her anything, and she'd given back more than her share: it was time for her slice of American pie and she wanted it creamy and sweet.

She pulled her Palm Pilot out of a pocket and typed "pet coffins, lying lipstick," and "Zackary's graduation gift."

Zack waddled in wearing dangerous jeans that gave a new meaning to saggers. Their pockets were nearly down at his knees, while their cuffs dragged the floor and concealed his sneaks. Their rather ridiculous bagginess -- enough overpriced denim to cover three kids -- did manage to slim his appearance a little despite all the flab hanging over in front. I-pod headphones were plugged in his ears, and his feet were encased in expensive sport shoes, which seemed like a contradiction in terms, given the shape of his still-shirtless body. He set a small box on the counter top, then raided a cupboard for Pop-Tarts.

"Er," said Nicole. "Maybe you should put him out on the patio."

"It's pretty hot, mom," Zack wisely replied, locking and loading the four-slice toaster. He snagged a box of Mud And Bugs, then switched the TV to Cartoon Network where demons were more comprehensible, their evil motives transparent enough for even a child to understand.

"I sealed him in plastic," he added, while filling a Lion King cereal bowl.

"I hope you washed your hands."

"Ya think?"

Nicole eyed the clock, a 1950s amber lion who twitched his tail and rolled his eyes to mark the relentless march of time... which seemed to be marching much faster these days. It had once belonged to Nicole's grandmother back in the decade of Leave It To Beaver. Then it had hung in her parents' kitchen, seeing Nicole through her Wonder Years from kindergarten to U.C.L.A. Her mom had been going to throw it away when age had made it senile, but Nicole had had it cleaned and repaired... at an astronomical cost by a jeweler who thought she was missing a marble for wanting to save such a stupid old thing.

She hoped Freddy's funeral wouldn't take long: she normally left the house by eight, and the drive was at least forty minutes... assuming no wrecks or road-rage attacks. Her meeting was scheduled for ten o'clock, which offered a margin of safety. Still, she decided to cover her butt, and took out her company-furnished Nokia as Zackary drowned his Bugs in milk.

She got her boss's receptionist, who always seemed to be at her post with a finger firmly on company pulse. Jenny knew where the bodies were buried, yet seemed content with what she had, never back-biting or playing for power, which often puzzled people.

"Hi, Jenny," said Nicole. "I'm having a problem... I know, it would be today. ...No, not stuck in traffic again... not yet anyhow. ...It's... a... death in the family. ...Thank you. But, I'll be there in time for the meeting. I wanted to let Dwane know. ...Yes, it's sad to lose a loved-one."

She glanced at the box on the counter as Zackary crunched his muddy bugs and glassily gazed at the TV screen. She noted another Amber Alert, the third in two weeks; and though kidnapping kids was a horrible thing it was starting to seem as commonplace as school massacres and terrorist threats.

"But, we weren't very close," Nicole added. "Thanks, Jen."

The microwave beeped, and she took out Zackary's plastic-sealed breakfast of eggs, sausage, and hash-brown potatoes -- "Made country-fresh on the farm every morning" -- as the toaster ejected its sugary cargo. She set out a fork and a napkin.

"Come and eat, honey. I'll go find the shovel."

Zack plopped down with his cereal bowl, his eyes intent on the TV screen, as Nicole went into the three-car garage. Her footsteps echoed hollowly across the spacious concrete floor. It seemed large enough for a Texas barn-dance with only her Chrysler Cruiser inside. The emptiness still surprised her without Roger's Lexus and Hummer H-2, prudently bearing American flags, though the stickers were made in Taiwan.

Her own car was unpatriotic, maintaining a nervous neutrality which had likely been noted by parking-lot cameras. Her yard was maintained by a weekly service -- a Mexican man and his two chubby sons who were democratically paid in cash -- and the big riding mower was shrouded in dust, along with her own garden tools. Nicole glanced down at her shiny new shoes as she picked up a cobwebby shovel. She wondered if she should change for this, but how deep a grave did a hamster need? She found some old sneaks in a box of clothes that Roger had left for the Salvation Army... and which she kept forgetting to call. The well-worn Nikes felt good on her feet.

The garage was still fairly cool from the night, but the outside air was a sauna from hell when she opened the patio door. She hoped her antiperspirant worked as well as its claims on TV. A six-foot wall of faux adobe defended her sprawling back yard from its neighbors, each big enough for a small soccer game, with turquoise pools and brown-skinned workers to tend yellow roses and Kelly-green lawns.

Nicole's own grass was wet from the sprinklers, making her grateful for changing her shoes. Wisps of steam like infant ghosts rose up to haunt her ankles. She selected a spot in a flower bed, more due to its shade at the base of the wall than with any concerns about Freddy. She found the earth was thankfully soft, and her shovel clove deeply beneath Roger's sneak.

She heard a faint rumble of sliding glass as Zack waddled out on the patio, bearing the box and a Pop-Tart. He started to sweat almost instantly, and reached her all shiny and smelly. He had shown an increasing reluctance to bathe, though Jenny had said that was normal enough, having raised three sons of her own. It was just part of instinctive rebellion, testing the bounds of a teen habitat. The gardener's boys were around Zack's age, but seemed to possess no particular scent -- flowers and earth more than anything else -- whenever Nicole had offered them Cokes. She often felt guilty, seeing them sweating while skimming the pool and probably longing to go for a swim, but they were getting paid by the hour. Three shovelfuls later the grave was dug, and Zackary solemnly lowered the coffin. Amusingly -- or maybe not -- the box displayed an American flag.

Here lies Freddy, thought Nicole, a patriotic American rodent who gave his all for consumerism.

Zackary added a bit of Pop-Tart to see Freddy through on his journey beyond.

"He was a nice hamster," said Nicole, feeling a few words were needed.

"Yeah," said Zack. "See ya, Freddy."

The wireless beeped in Nicole's pocket.

"I'll do it, mom," offered Zack, as Nicole extracted and un-flipped her phone. Except for his toddler days at the beach, this might have been the first time in his life he'd ever used a shovel.

Dwane Barrymore's face appeared on the screen, Texas-tanned and steely-blue eyed, with just the right etchings of weathered crows feet to remind everyone of the Alamo. Naturally he "ran a few cows" and threw barbecues on his "acre or so."

"Y'all havin' some trouble this mornin'?" he asked. He wouldn't have said "little missy," but it seemed to be rather implied.

"No problem," Nicole assured him, while noting the digital time on the screen. "I'm just getting ready to leave."

"Jenny just told me you lost a relation. I'm sorry, Nicole. Are you all right?"

"Thank you, Dwane. I'm really okay." Nicole glanced at Zack, who panted and shoveled, his bitter sweat scenting the air. "We weren't very close."

"When's the service? I'll send some flowers."

"...Er," said Nicole. "He didn't want one."

"Well, look here now, I don't want you drivin'. I sent somebody to pick you up."

"...Oh," said Nicole, as Zackary, puffing, completed the grave. His saggers were dragging the shorts off his bottom, now almost transparent with sweat. Nicole didn't envy his classmates today. "I'm really all right," she insisted.

"It's already done, so you just never mind. Matter of fact, he should be there by now. We can't have you missin' this meetin'."

"...Oh," Nicole echoed, a little surprised and doing the math... an ambulance couldn't have made it that fast. Then she heard an approaching drone, and the thrashing chop of propeller blades. Zack looked up, wiping sweat from his eyes, as a low-flying helicopter appeared above the suburban horizon.

"Woah, mom!" cried Zack. "Check it out!"

"Y'all better wave," chuckled Dwane on the phone. "Them houses out there pretty much look alike. Hope you don't have any clothes on the line."

Zack was already waving, his boxers and jeans at an indecent level.

"Oh," repeated Nicole once more. Her mother still hung out her clothes on a line, but in this neighborhood that was likely illegal and maybe a hangin' offense. "This is really too much. You shouldn't have, Dwane."

Dwane only chuckled again. "Enjoy the ride, Nicole. Might be a lot more in your future."

What did that mean, Nicole wondered? She took hold of Zack's arm, mindful of the menacing blades as the aircraft settled itself on the lawn with the pompous grace of a fat bumblebee. Like all flying things Nicole had seen, it looked brand-new and hospital clean. BARRYMORE CORP. showed bright on its side, along with a gaudy American flag.

"This is so cool" exclaimed Zack, displaying more life than he'd shown in a year. "Hey, mom, you're really important!"

Nicole kept her grip on Zackary's arm until the rotors had slowed to a stop and she'd measured their circle of steel. She admitted to feeling a little important, knowing her neighbors were all taking notes. No one had actually said anything, but it seemed to have been assumed in these parts that she wouldn't be able to keep the house "without a man around." Even the director at Zackary's school had tactfully mentioned "other academies," whose standards were almost as high as their own... though "assistance was sometimes available in certain deserving cases."

Zack had been scanning the aircraft. "It's only a Eurocopter, mom. An' kinda old. But it's still cool."

Well, thought Nicole, old or not -- and that was a relative term to Zack in a world where things were obsolete by the time one got them home from the store -- this was better than a roomful of puppies on curtains, something that Dwane often said. And all because Freddy was dead. She suddenly wished him in hamster heaven with brimming food dishes of rodent delights and effortless treadmills that powered themselves.

The pilot looked like every pilot -- mostly from movies or striding through airports -- Caucasian, of course, and inspiring trust; a rather indefinite young middle-age, with closely-cropped hair and a lightly-tanned face. His eyes were concealed by shiny sunglasses, reflecting the world in bright mirror tears. He was clad in dark slacks and a sky-blue shirt. His narrow knit tie, of the type pilots wore, was pinned with a tiny American flag. His Rolex chronometer gleamed in the sun, as did his professionally pleasant smile as he opened the door and stepped down.

"Miz Neale?" he asked in a southwestern voice above the idling whine of the engine, which left a kerosene scent in the air.

"Yes," said Nicole, stepping forward as if to receive a diploma. Then she glanced down at her ratty old shoes. "I'll just be a minute..."

"Mom!" yelped Zackary, breaking loose.

"You're going to be late for school," warned Nicole, restraining herself from making a grab that might have looked overprotective.

The pilot smiled at Zackary. "How far is your schoolhouse, son?"

"I dunno," said Zack, his eyes roaming over the flying machine despite its evident age. "The bus takes about ten minutes."

"They have a big playin' field?" asked the pilot.

Comprehension lit Zackary's face. "Yeah! It's for soccer. ...Cool!"

"Is that all right?" asked Nicole, feeling slightly intimidated as if she was being tested somehow.

"Oh sure," said the pilot easily, as if he could do what he damn well pleased as free as a bird in the sky. He glanced at his watch, which had multiple dials. "We'll have you there in no time. ...Name's Ted Baxter."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter." Nicole took his hand. He smelled like soap and aftershave.

"Ted."

"Ted." Nicole felt cool air flowing out of the cockpit where Zack was raptly peering inside. It was good to see him excited again after months of virtual nothing. "I'll get my things. ...Come on now, Zack. Go get a shirt and your books. Hurry up."

"Okay, mom." Zackary lumbered back to the house as fast as he'd moved in his soccer days, though he had to hold onto his jeans with a hand and looked like an earthquake in flubber. Nicole hurried after him, leaving the shovel upright in the earth over Freddy's sealed-in-plastic remains.

Chapter Three:

The sun had grown ruddy and low in the west but the heat of the day hadn't lessened. The earth had been hard and defiant, resisting the shovels and even a pick as if weary of death and accepting more children. Attacker, defenders, it made no distinction, giving no quarter to iron and steel, or the dreary labor of man and boy to return what it had nurtured.

Dakota and Nathi were muddied with dust, and even their sweat couldn't wash it away, though the earth seemed eager to drink of them, maybe accepting that as payment as they filled in the second of two small graves in the village's hillside burying-ground. The site was extensive, centuries old, and most of its mounds were ancient and weathered, telling a tale of long tenancy and of lives lived out in not quite abundance but seldom with less than enough. The headstones were mostly pyramid shapes, some of rocks, others of clay. The oldest were melting back into the ground like empty castles of termite cities after their empires had fallen. Most of the graves were adorned with treasures, a beloved old pot, a favorite basket, a knife, a machete, a necklace, a toy. One grave boasted a radio, a first-generation transistor type. On another small mound was a toy airplane still hopefully poised to fly.

Dakota's jeans had refused to stay on as, panting and puffing, he'd plied the pick, so he'd finally stripped naked except for his boots, his lion's mane charm, bracelet, watch, and his sweat-sodden bright-beaded headband. He wore the sunglasses high in his hair like the flying goggles of a cartoon squirrel.

Nathi's own trousers clung low on his hips as he shoveled the last of the dirt into place. Wiping sweat from his eyes, he measured the sun, which was nearing the hilltop above. Dakota leaned on his shovel, ignoring his watch and doing the same. Neither had spoken for several hours because there was nothing to say. The only sounds had been their digging, their panting breaths as they'd opened the earth, and a few murmured curses encountering rocks. They had often paused to scan the horizon and listen for voices or engine sounds, but nothing had broken the graveyard silence except a whisper of breeze in the grass. Then they would drink from a battered canteen as the earth was thirstily drinking of them. The vultures had sulkily watched their work, surrounding the site in a rustling circle and muttering curses beneath their own breaths as the last of the bodies were covered. Even then a few had remained, eying the diggers in speculation as if it was only a matter of time.

Dakota cleared the dust from his throat, spitting brown mud between the two graves, then sloppily gulped more water. "It will be dark when we get there," he puffed, passing the canteen to Nathi.

Nathi drank. "You need the practice of landing at night."

"I still find it scary."

"So do I," said Nathi. "But, a little fear is a healthy thing." He smiled. "Some pilots are old, and some are bold, but very few live to be both."

He turned to look down at the ravaged village where yesterday's children had waved at the plane while running along in its southern-bound shadow. The fires had all burned out by now, though smoke still ghosted from blackened doorways and drifted through windows like empty skull eyes.

Dakota murmured: "Even if the people return they will never rebuild on the site."

Nathi nodded. "A thousand years of tenancy ended in less than an hour."

"Perhaps it was part of the General's plan?"

"Perhaps," agreed Nathi. "We should leave a warning. The Army might have laid mines in the crops."

Dakota scanned the hills again while sweat trickled brightly from under his arms to channel the mud on his body. More dribbled out of his cave of a navel to sink in the earth of the graves. "Where do you think the people have gone?"

"Rashawn must have known there would be an attack. Or he wouldn't have left defenders. Maybe he did help the people escape. Took them across the border. He has a few trucks and a Land Rover now."

Dakota looked down at the airplane, a tawny shape in the amber grass beneath the redly sinking sun. "And soon he will have a Jeep, along with the engine he needs."

"Thanks in part to you," said Nathi.

Dakota recovered his ragged jeans and pulled something out of a pocket. "I took one," he said, displaying the shiny aluminum tag.

"Maybe someday there will be an accounting. When the world has learned the value of life."

"I think he was brave," said Dakota, looking down at one of the mounds. "He was shot in the chest, not in the back."

"Or not sufficiently trained." Nathi gathered the shovels and pick, then slung the canteen by its hand-woven strap. Dakota studied the tag once more, then lay it on the grave. He slung Nathi's rifle over a shoulder but kept his own in hand. They walked down the hill through the whispering grass, both scanning the ground for mines.

A few minutes later they reached the plane. Its wing shadows stretched out graceful and long. Far up in space their shapes had been noted, waiting for someone to correlate them with the dust of the landing a few hours before.

Dakota went to the port landing-gear and looked up into the wheel well. "It's still leaking a little," he said, ignoring the oil that dripped from the engine.

"It should be all right," said Nathi, sliding the shovels and pick through the doorway. The coffin now gave off a horrible stench after baking for hours in the cargo bay. Assuming a scent could have a color, the bronze-green reek, which had seemed rather dry, had turned a slimy and wet yellow-white. "We'll put in the new seals tomorrow," he added, backing away and catching his breath. "I'll get the engines warmed up."

"What of the mines in the crops?"

"There's some paint in the tool box. Leave a few warnings and hope nobody goes into the fields."

"A hungry child might," said Dakota.

"Speak then as a child to a child." Nathi boosted Dakota aboard by grabbing the back of his jeans. "We'll deal with the other mines ourselves. Hurry before it gets dark."

Dakota clamped a hand to his nose, leaned from the doorway to suck a deep breath, then wiggled his way through the jumble of cargo. He quickly returned with a small can of paint, then trotted away to the village. He drew the warnings on bullet-pocked walls... a disk-like shape and a menacing skull. On the disk he painted U.S.A.

The engines were idling, spitting out smoke, as Dakota came panting back to the plane. Nathi took him under the arms and hoisted him through the doorway. Both held their breaths as they squeezed past the coffin and crunched their way up the sloping floor. The sun was sinking behind the hills as Nathi slid into the pilot's seat and checked the various gauges.

"Tail wheel unlocked," said Dakota, plopping into the co-pilot's seat. "Cowl flaps, trail. Mix, auto-rich."

The starboard engine sputtered a bit as Nathi swung the plane around, the toe of his boot on the portside brake, and lined up the nose with a distant hilltop, avoiding the place where the mines were laid. He held both brakes while testing the engines and running up the pitch controls. Dakota watched the instruments, calling out pressures and RPMs. He switched fuel tanks to draw from the fullest, then locked the tail wheel.

"Twenty-seven-hundred," he called above the rumble of rising power.

Nathi took his feet off the brakes. The plane surged forward, gathering speed, rocking and jolting over the ground, propellers eagerly clawing the air, engines roaring, rivets squeaking, a cloud of dust fanning away from the tail. Dakota called more instrument readings, holding the throttle handles in place while keeping an eye on the gauges. The clatter of cargo and creaking grew louder. The doll and lion's fang trembled and danced. The ancient aircraft gained more speed, bouncing across the dusty terrain. The tail rose gently off the earth, tilting the cockpit level again. The plane rattled past the corpse of a village and finally climbed thundering into the sky.

"Gear up!" called Nathi.

Dakota pulled the landing-gear lever as Nathi eased back on the steering yoke and the airplane cleared the hilltops. "Get ready," said Nathi, banking to starboard. "The light's going fast."

Dakota centered the lever, then took one of the rifles. He set the switch to full-auto fire as Nathi circled the plane around, adjusting the flaps and coming in slow, banking gently to starboard again as Dakota took aim out the window. The rifle bucked in Dakota's hands, its butt driving deep in his shoulder. Orange muzzle flame licked out toward the earth. Smoking brass spewed from the hammering gun, bouncing off the quilted padding that lined the inside of the fuselage. One of the mines exploded below with a muffled WHUMP and a scarlet flash. Dirt and metal blasted skyward, jolting the plane in the air. Another mine burst like a flower of death, erupting more dirt and flinging up rocks, along with slashing shreds of steel designed, devised, by civilized men to razor flesh and shatter bones, to kill or maim, to blind and cripple.

A third mine exploded, and finally two more as Dakota grimly reaped a harvest. The stink of gunpowder, reek of cordite, the smells of hot steel and bright bitter brass, filled the cockpit and burned his eyes.

They circled around for another attack and three more mines exploded. The eye in the sky took note of them all as if fretting over the waste. Now recognizing a definite threat in the fiery blossoms erupting below, it frantically signaled its masters.

The light was too dim for a third approach, though the sun reappeared for a lingering moment as Nathi climbed to a thousand feet and brought the airplane back on course, north-by-northwest in the deepening dusk.

"How was that?" asked Dakota, pulling the empty clip from the gun.

"It should be sufficient," Nathi replied. He lowered the engines to cruising speed and their rumbling thunder faded a bit. "The craters will be a warning." He switched on the instrument panel lights as the sun disappeared below the horizon, but left the wing-tip and tail lamps off.

Dakota reloaded the smoking gun, then racked it back in its cradle. "There are two Cokes left."

"Maybe you should check the Jeep. I feel it shifting around."

Dakota switched on the cargo bay lights and went back to tighten the nylon straps that held the Jeep to rings in the floor. He inspected the other restless freight, including the hideous coffin, then returned to the cockpit and uncapped the Cokes, handing a foaming bottle to Nathi and plopping into the co-pilot's seat. The auto-pilot was back in command, sensing the world through gyros and gears but otherwise mindless and blind. The airspeed was steady at 130 knots, the altitude a thousand feet. The nearly-full moon had not risen yet, and the sky was black velvet studded with stars. The engines droned their metallic duet, the starboard sputtering now and then but soon catching up to its brother. The wind rustled past with its waterfall sound, cooler now as night settled in, and the ruby lamps of the instrument panel provided the only light. Dakota trailed a hand out the window. The other fingered the charm on his chest. The coffin's reek was fainter now, behind the wind like an unburied ghost, masked by the smells of hydraulic oil, upholstery leather, and weary sweat.

"Sometimes I wish we could just stay up here."

Nathi glanced at Dakota, a scarlet-eyed demon with bloody red teeth. "I wish that more than sometimes."

"Who started the war?" asked Dakota.

Nathi considered, at ease in the seat, his boots resting clear of the rudder pedals. He gazed ahead at the ebony sky beyond the crimson glow of the compass. "If you mean who fired the first shot, then it's easy to blame the General. Still, he's only a puppet, and his strings are pulled from far away."

Dakota drank from his bottle. "He dances for America, and kills for its President-General. But, why does America help him? And what does it want from us?"

Nathi shrugged. "Greed only wants what it doesn't possess."

"But, how did the General come into power?"

Nathi regarded the airplane's charms as they gently swung on their leather strips. "Mostly because we let him. We didn't heed the warning signs. We didn't even know they were warnings. There was little violence at first. Laws were passed with no one's consent. Laws the General said would protect us, but really just gave him more power."

"And we did nothing to stop him?"

"At first the new laws seemed reasonable. He said we needed an Army. The world out there is dangerous, as you have come to learn."

"The General has made it dangerous here."

The starboard engine sputtered again. The instrument needles quivered and twitched. Then the portside engine faltered. The airspeed needle began to drop, along with the nervous altimeter. The auto-pilot creaked in surprise, sensing a wrongness as best it could and mindlessly trying to right it. Nathi unlocked it, taking control. Dakot's hand went to the mixture knobs.

"Use the auxiliary tanks," said Nathi, dropping the nose to bring up speed while sacrificing altitude.

Dakota switched the fuel level gauge, reading each of its faces. "The auxiliary tanks are low."

Nathi searched the horizon as both engines spit and backfired, blowing out fistfuls of yellow-orange flame that flared and flickered beneath the wings. The moon was slowly rising, silvering the nighted land. A huddle of hills had appeared in the distance. "It should be enough. We'll filter the main tanks tomorrow."

Dakota fussed with throttles and mix. The port engine steadied and roared once more. Then its mate rejoined it. "Do you think they gave us bad fuel on purpose? In hope we would crash?"

"I don't want to believe it," said Nathi, returning the plane to cruising speed after climbing back to a thousand feet. "You can't live your life thinking all are against you. Then you become your own enemy, suspicious, hateful, and scared of shadows."

"You don't like fighting, do you?"

"Only boys fight when they don't have to."

Dakota looke