“Daddy’s dead!” he was screaming, at the top of his lungs. Prima caught him. “Lemme go! Lemme go!” He flailed at her.
The tutor followed close behind. “Prima—put him down.”
The tutor, though a man, was not Mitch, and she dared look at his face, pale as whey. “What is it?” she asked.
“That abomination,” he said, through clenched teeth. “She stole a shuttle, and tried to escape. Ranger Bowie and others went after her; there’s been—” Light stabbed through the windows, a quick shocking flash of blue-white. Prima whirled, suddenly aware of her heart knocking at her ribs.
The tutor had opened the window and peered out and up. Prima followed him. Outside, cars had stopped cantways, and men were looking up. Prima dared a look into the sky, and saw only patches of blue between white clouds. Ordinary. Unthreatening.
“I want to see the newsvid,” she said to the tutor, and walked into the boys’ part of the house without waiting for his permission.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The newsvid had two excited men yelling into the vid pickup. Prima could hardly make out what they were saying. Escape, pursuit, invasion . . . invasion? Who could be invading them? And why? Mobilization, one of the men said.
“What is it?” she asked again. The older boys were already moving toward their gunboxes.
“It’s the end of the world,” one of them said. Daniel, she thought. Secunda’s third.
“Don’t be silly,” another said. “It’s the heathen, come to try to enforce their dirty ways on us.”
“Why?” Prima asked. In all her years, no one had ever bothered Our Texas, and she saw no reason why anyone would.
“Don’t worry,” Daniel said, patting her shoulder. “We’ll protect you. Now you get on back to the women’s side, and keep order.”
Prima turned to go, still unsure what had happened, and what it could mean. In the kitchen, Secunda and Tertia were quarrelling over the meaning of the bright light, and both turned to her for an answer. “I don’t know,” she said. Who could know? Temptation tickled her . . . no, she dared not risk her soul asking an outlander such questions, but . . . she made up her mind, and went out to the weaving shed.
“Miriam!” The outlander woman turned from her loom. Her face was tight with tension; she must have seen the light too. “Do you know what that light was?”
Miriam nodded.
“Was it from space? From ships?” Another nod, this time with a big grin, a triumphant grin. Miriam mimed a rocket taking off, shooting another rocket.
Invaders. There were invaders. “Who?” Prima asked the air. “Who would do this? Why?” She jumped when Miriam touched her arm. “What?” Miriam mimed writing. Writing . . . Mitch, she recalled, had threatened to take Miriam’s right hand if she didn’t quit writing; she’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary because the woman was a gifted weaver. Now she led Miriam to the kitchen and gave her the pad of paper and marker they used for keeping accounts.
Light is weapon Miriam wrote. Prima squinted, trying to read as fast as Miriam wrote. Weapon, that was clear. Ionizing atmospheric gases. That made no sense; she didn’t know any of the words. Miriam, glancing up, seemed to guess that. Made air glow she wrote. Well, but how could air glow? Air was just air, clear unless there was smoke in it.
“Who?” Prima asked again. “Who would attack us?”
Miriam scribbled rapidly. Guerni Republic, Emerald Worlds, Baltic Confederation, Familias Regnant . . . Prima had no idea what those were, besides godless outlanders. Battle in space, not attacking here. Someone you stole from.
“We don’t steal!” Prima said, narrowly stopping herself from slapping Miriam. “We are not thieves.”
Stole me, Miriam wrote. Stole children, women, killed men.
“That’s not true. You’re lying. The children had no families, and you women were rescued from a life of degradation . . .” But her voice wavered. Miriam had been here for more than ten years; if she still believed she had been stolen, if she had not understood . . .
I can prove it. Miriam wrote. Get to a transmitter—call—find out who that is, and ask them.
“I can’t do that! You know it’s forbidden. Women do not use men’s technology.” But . . . if she could find out. If it was possible . . .
I know how. Miriam wrote. It’s easy.
Forbidden knowledge. Prima glanced around, realized that the others in the kitchen were staring, trying to understand this conversation. “I—I don’t know where such machines are,” she said finally.
I know how to find them.
“How?”
Tall thin things sticking out the top of buildings.
“It’s still forbidden.” Thinking of looking up at tall thin things made her dizzy in her mind. Thinking of touching men’s machines was worse.
We can look at the newsfeed. She must mean the machine kept for the women to watch religious broadcasts.
“How? I don’t know how to set it up.”
I do.
Miriam went to the closet where it was kept, and pulled it out. More than a little afraid, Prima helped her pull it, on its cart, into the back kitchen where there were extra electrical outlets. Miriam uncoiled the nest of wires that Mitch had left, and plugged this one and that one into the back and sides of the machine. Prima had no idea which went where, and kept expecting the machine to burst into flame. Instead, it made a faint frying noise and then a picture appeared, the same background as the one she’d seen on the boys’ side. This time only one man looked back at her. Miriam kept tinkering with the machine, and suddenly it had a different picture, crisp and colorful . . . men in strange uniforms, very odd-looking.
Prima felt faint suddenly. Some of those odd-looking men in uniform were women. The view narrowed, concentrating on one of them, a woman with dark skin and eyes, and silver hair. Miriam touched one of the machine’s front controls, and a voice spoke.
“—Return of children captured with the piracy of the ship Elias Madero. Return of infant children born to Sera Meager during captivity—” Prima felt behind her for the table and leaned against it. That yellow-hair . . . this must be about that yellow-hair. “—Ships are destroyed; your orbital station is destroyed. To avoid more damage and loss of life, you are urged to cooperate with us. This message is being transmitted on loop until we receive a reply.”
Ships destroyed. Mitch’s ship? Was he dead? Prima felt the weight of that loss. If Mitch was dead, someone else would be Ranger Bowie, and she—she and the rest of Mitch’s wives and children—would belong to Mitch’s brother Jed, if he lived. Jeffry, if Jed had died.
The sound of gunfire in the street brought her upright. “Turn that off,” she said to Miriam. “Before we get in trouble. Put a—a tablecloth over it.” She knew she should put it away, but if Mitch was not dead there might be more news of him, and she could not bring herself to lose that connection. “It’s past lunchtime, and we haven’t served,” she scolded, brushing past the questions the other women wanted to ask. “Feed the children, come on now. Feed them, put the babies down for naps. What would Ranger Bowie think, if he saw us like this!”
They were washing up when Jed arrived, white-faced and barely coherent. “Prima—it’s terrible news. Mitch is dead or captive; all the Rangers are. Get me food, woman! I have to—somebody has to take over—” Prima scurried out, driving the maids away; she would serve him herself. Safer. When she had piled his plate with roast and potatoes and young beans, she summoned Miriam.