Mug cupped in her hands, Kirsten takes a healthy sip, humming with pleasure as the sweetened liquid slides down her dry, scratchy throat. “Mm,” she says finally, voice slightly hoarse from hours of disuse, “just what the doctor ordered.”
“The doctor has a couple of other things in mind as well,” Koda purrs, coming behind her lover and lowering her long frame until she sits against the back tent wall. Kirsten, facing front, is comfortably ensconced between her legs. Setting her tea to one side, Dakota lifts the hair from Kirsten’s neck and brushes moist lips against the skin so pleasingly exposed to her view.
“Oh, yes,” Kirsten groans, arching her neck into Dakota’s attentions. Goosebumps break out along her arms and chest as she feels the tip of her lover’s tongue trace upward along the muscle there. Heat curls in her belly as the shell of her ear is teasingly outlined, then gently bitten. That heat is trebled as Koda runs her left hand slowly down the front of Kirsten’s T-shirt, then tucks under and comes back up, laying her palm flat against the newly burgeoning muscles of Kirsten’s abdomen, long fingers brushing against the undersides of her breasts, then lazily circling responsive nipples. “Very nice,” Kirsten whispers as fire races its merry way along her nerve endings, completely obliterating the pounding headache she’d been suffering through not a moment before. “I…“she gasps as her nipples are gently tweaked, “love your prescriptions, Doctor.”
“Mm,” Koda growls, slipping her free hand into the waistband of Kirsten’s cargo shorts. “I think you’ll like this one even better.”
Their tea, lovingly prepared, grows slowly cold.
*
Several hours later, Dakota returns to the tent, new mugs of tea in tow. From her place sprawled across their joined sleeping bag, Kirsten grins up at her tall lover, taking in Koda’s state of dishevelment with a sense of giddy pleasure. Her hair, normally immaculate, is wild and her T-shirt, the only article of clothing she’s wearing, is both inside out and backward. An arrogantly raised eyebrow is the response to her giggle. Quickly rolling herself up to a sitting position, she reaches out to grab the tea mug thrust in her direction. She sips her drink as she watches Dakota remove her shirt and toss it indifferently away, almost giving her lungs an impromptu shower as she watches that magnificent body revealed once again.
“You okay?” Koda asks, lowering herself to sit crosslegged on the sleeping bag and cradling her own mug in her large hands.
“Uh…yeah. Good tea.”
“Secret family recipe,” Dakota replies, smirking.
“Mm. It appears,” Kirsten retorts, giving her lover’s bee-stung hands a significant look, “your ‘secret family’ didn’t appreciate their hive being raided.”
Koda shrugs, unrepentant. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure you have.” She lifts the mug in tribute. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. So…what were you scowling about earlier?” She gestures to the laptop which is currently displaying a colorful aquarium scene.
The question earns another scowl as Kirsten uses her free hand to nudge the touchplate on the computer, erasing the screensaver and replacing it with sets of lines that look very much like…
“Blueprints?” Koda asks, impressed.
“Yeah. Westerhaus’ offices. For whatever good it’ll do us.”
“How did you get a hold of them? Your other computer was trashed, wasn’t it?”
“Wasn’t that hard,” Kirsten replies offhandedly. “The idiot hasn’t shut his servers down, and since I’ve been known to hack into a box or two in my time….” Though her words bespeak pride, the expression on her face is anything but. She sighs, staring at the diagrams on the screen. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Have you been there before?”
“Once, yeah. Publicity tour, all the way. Shiny happy people building shiny happy robots using shiny happy equipment. It was like touring the PJ factory in Paterson. I needed a Dramamine just to make it through the presentation.”
“I take it you weren’t impressed.”
Kirsten barks out a laugh. “That would be putting it mildly, yes.” She lifts a hand, pointing to the screen. “These are the specs for the first floor, the only place anyone who isn’t in Westerhaus’ back pocket gets to see. The real work goes on below ground.”
“How many levels?”
“Eight,” Kirsten replies, flipping rapidly through the sets of prints. “Computer central is on six. The juice that one floor alone pulls in one day would light up San Francisco for a year.”
“How is it protected?”
“Doors every ten feet. Solid steel. Cameras every couple of feet. He has a security force of two hundred androids and a few dozen worker bees just staring at the video. The only way through is to be cleared by a visual, retinal and DNA scan.”
“Doesn’t pull any punches, does he.”
“Not even in his dreams.” She turns slowly to her lover. “Dakota, there’s no way in Hell we’re gonna make it through all that.”
“We’ll find a way.”
“How?”
“These blueprints are a start.”
*
Dakota bolts upright from her place on the makeshift bed. Her heart is racing to beat Wiyo, and her bare flesh is greasy with sweat. Breath leaves her lungs in steam-engine puffs as she raises a less than steady hand to her brow, wanting to wipe away images far too realistic for a simple nighttime dream. Steadying her breath and willing her heart-rate to calm, she turns her head slightly to see Kirsten curled beside her, still deeply asleep. Her hand is more steady now as she lowers it to stroke a wisp of tousled bang from her lover’s forehead. Her thumb lingers, tracing the unlined, warm, and silken skin with a light, tender touch. Dawn’s light has touched the tent’s interior, and in it, she looks at Kirsten, memorizing her features; the beauty of her golden hair, the innocence of her sleeping face, the newly-born muscles that curve and stretch the soft, tanned skin.
Lowering herself slowly, silently, she brushes a kiss against her lover’s lips, then pulls away, wiping a single tear that trails down her cheek. “Cante mitawa,” she whispers. “My heart. I love you. Never forget that. Never.”
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
KODA KNEELS ON the gentle slope of the hillside, her rifle braced across one thigh, binoculars sweeping the opposite side of the small valley. Dusk has begun to gather about them, the cooling air drawing tendrils of fog from the stream that cuts its way through the rolling landscape. Scattered through the grass like roundels of ancient bronze no more than an hour before, the poppies have furled their petals against the oncoming dark. Already the eastern sky shows the first stars; in the west, a deep crimson lingers, fading through purple to ultramarine at the zenith. Just over the edge of the hills, a sickle moon rides low, and from somewhere up in the trees that march along the crest of the rise comes the deep hooting of a horned owl, answered a moment later by his mate. A chill runs down Koda’s spine, and half-forgotten childhood fears with it.
Who? Who? But the question is superfluous. The likelihood that she and Kirsten will survive this night is minuscule.
For the last ten miles, they have seen no sign of human activity: no residents in the small town of Rancho Cordova, no movement on the road. Nor, in the afternoon that they have lain concealed on the hillside, have they seen sentries, guards, anyone at all either approach the Westerhaus Institute or stir on its grounds. It sits on the facing slope, a ten-acre campus spread out about a single story faced all about its circumference with mirror-bright glass. While the driveway and public parking lot remain clear, no vehicles occupy them. The guard booth, too, stands empty. Bougainvilleas in magenta, red, white, gold, double and single, fountain up from the graveled flower beds, together with scarlet aloes and violet prickly pear. It is all very ecologically responsible and all radically overgrown, left to the rain and the sun for the better part of a year. “Well,” she says finally, “I thought it’d be taller.”