"I hear ya," John said. "I hadn't realized how much I miss bread. Butter would be nice," he said philosophically. "But this is great."
She bit her lip and looked down, drawing a circle out of a spot of spilled tea. "They weren't home," she said, and glanced up at him through her lashes. She shrugged and sat back. "I have no idea where they are, or when they'll be back. They do this, go away and come back with no explanation."
He looked at her for a moment and she lowered her eyes uncomfortably. "Was that why you looked so tense?" he asked.
"Did you think I'd be mad or something?"
Ninel sighed and looked down at her hands. "I dunno. You Weren't specific, but you were implying some awful things." She frowned and raised her eyes to his face. "Now I don't know what to do."
They looked at each other, both communicating distress, then mutually lowered their eyes.
"I can understand how you feel," John said. "They're friends, I guess, people you've trusted anyway, and now you can't even ask them questions."
"Yes!" she said. "That's it exactly. I'm supposed to organize another group day after tomorrow, but how can I under these circumstances? And, you know, they might not know anything more than I do."
He nodded sympathetically. "But you still want to do something."
"Well, yuh." She shook her head. "Things aren't going to get better by themselves."
He looked at her. Should he try to recruit her for the resistance?
She might already be in the enemy camp without realizing it
, he thought. Of course, so might her friends. But somehow he doubted it. It wasn't until recently that he'd realized that at least for a time Skynet needed, and would continue to need, human allies. Whether they realized that they were helping a homicidal machine was immaterial. Given what had happened in Missouri, at least some of Skynet's minions were willing, even eager, to kill for it.
If he could convince Ninel that these people were up to no good, or at least were being led to do no good, he might also be able to convince her to feed him reports about what they were up to. It would be a lot easier than trying to get one of his people to try infiltrating the group cold. Which might even be impossible.
"Look," he said quietly, "maybe we shouldn't get too deeply into this here."
She looked around. It was just Ray and them, and though the proprietor seemed busy, he might be listening. With the loss of all radio signals, people's voices seemed to carry more. Ninel smiled. "Okay," she said. "Why don't you come home with me for dinner."
He blinked.
"I'll make French toast."
"I'm there," John said.
Even if she intended to shoot him, if there was the remotest chance that he'd get some French toast first, it was worth the risk.
* * *
He'd wondered how long it would take them to get to the place where he'd picked her up a few weeks ago, but once they hit the highway, she'd sped along at close to forty-five miles an hour. And once they left the road for the narrow track through the bush, he was definitely at a disadvantage.
Her cabin was small and half-buried, but looked snug and well made. A pair of elk antlers decorated the area above the doorframe. There were a few chickens pecking in the yard. Two dogs— huskies—sprang to attention, barking furiously at the motorcycle.
They must be well trained, he thought. They haven't eaten the chickens yet.
Ninel put her bike on its stand and went to them, speaking softly and mussing their ruffs. They greeted her with waving tails and hanging tongues but kept a weather eye on John.
"Spike and Jonze," she said, pointing at one and then the next identical dog. John looked at her askance and she shrugged. "I like his work. C'mon in."
The space was small and somewhat cluttered, but it was clean and as neat as it could be given the crowded conditions. The bed looks comfortable, he thought, glancing at the fur-covered double bed. He resolutely turned his eyes and mind away.
"Anything I can do to help?" he asked.
"Yeah. Sit down and stay out of my way." She went to a camp-stove setup and got it started. "You can keep me entertained. Tell me about yourself."
If only I could, he thought automatically. Then: Hey, wait a minute, it's post-Judgment Day! I can tell her about myself.
Well, except for the part about his father not being born yet.
Which actually was a big part of the story.
"I was raised by my mom," he said. "Mostly in Central America and points south. She, ah, she never got along well with the authorities. I never knew my father."
But I will! In fact, I'm going to set him up with my mom, which is weird stuff.
"Um, grew up all over the place, never finished high school…"
This sounds depressing, but it was actually kinda cool, most of the time. Not the times we were being pursued by Terminators, or my time in foster care, but a lot of the time.
"Sounds a lot like my folks!" Ninel grinned at him over her shoulder. "What was your mom in trouble for? Environmental work? Peace activist?"
"Ah… blowing up computer factories, mostly," John said, and hastily added: "But she didn't hurt people. She got blamed for a lot of stuff… other elements… did."
"It works—well, used to work—that way," Ninel said sympathetically.
He shook his head. "I don't really like talking about myself."
Because even now some well-meaning individual might think I'd look better in a straitjacket. "You could tell me more about yourself," he suggested.
"I'm cooking. Tell me what you've been doing since Judgment Day."
This was the first time he'd heard the term outside his own family, and it chilled him. "What?"
She looked up from what she was doing. "Judgment Day?" she said. "That's what my friends call it."
"Oh."
It had come from Skynet? Just when he thought he couldn't hate the damn thing anymore, it got, well, judgmental on him.
The first slab of bread hit the hot pan with a sizzle and he grinned in anticipation. "Thank you for this," he said.
She smiled at him. "My pleasure."
They gobbled most of a loaf of bread. Well, I'm gobbling most of a loaf, liberally covered with really rad wild-blueberry syrup. Again, the only thing missing was butter, but who cared, it was fantastic.
"I'm glad you liked it," she said, clearing the plates.
"Let me do the washing-up," John offered. "It's the least I can do."
"I will," she said, grinning at his surprise. "I'll just stoke the woodstove so we can have some hot water."
He'd noted the chill in her house, but had said nothing, understanding her desire to be thrifty with the wood. It was backbreaking labor and he wondered if there were enough trees out there to keep the fires going this winter. Well, in Alaska, yeah…
He washed, she dried, and they talked and joked companionably. Ninel fed her dogs, much to their ecstatic gratitude, while John watched from a polite distance. Huskies were a little too close to wolves to take liberties with, in his opinion.
When they went back in she brewed some rose-hip tea.
"Tastes like math paper," he said with a grimace.
She laughed and put a pot of honey on the table. "We're probably the last generation that will know what that means. At least for awhile."
He drizzled honey into his tea, looked up and met her eyes, and slowly smiled. She blushed and lowered her eyes, then looked up at him through her lashes.
He sipped his tea and smiled. "That's better."
Biting her lips, she took the honey pot and drizzled honey into her cup, then broke up laughing.