Black Locust Letters (21 page)

It
got closer and closer. Betty tossed a cape over her shoulders and
went to the window where the marching heartbeat grew louder and
louder. She tugged the curtain aside and saw the foremost unit jog
past her house, a perfect unison of bobbing heads and swinging legs
over the blacktop, made visible by the early light of the morning
sun.

Betty clutched her coffee, shaking as the first unit ended
and a second one began. There was no doubt in her mind where they
were going, there was one destination down this road and it wasn't
a standard marching loop. They were going to the troop transport
center where they stored the vehicles.

Keys
in hand, Betty opened the door, saw a bleary eyed neighbour doing
likewise, and upon seeing the two of them, more doors opened and
all the ladies of their side of the street converged together in a
worried cluster. No soldier turned his head, but Betty knew that
many of them watched.

“
What is happening? Are we at war?” Betty asked, remembering
how Clarkin had left.

Geri
was the one who answered. “No. It's PCE time.”

“
PCE?”

“
Pre-Conflict Evaluation.”

“
Our
troops are the first ones out,” said one of the other
ladies.

“
As
always,” muttered another.

Betty bit her lip. “But what is pre-war
evaluation?”

“
Spies, war games, who knows? They go. We watch. And wait. And
some of us have jobs to do, but only if we can hold up under the
pressure. Like we all should. We're military wives, tougher than
most ladies, right?”

There was a murmured assent. Betty's stomach churned over.
“But it's not...it's not as dangerous as open conflict, is
it?”

A
silence passed between them. Geri said, “Betty, they're secret.
This base is secret. We're secret. If it ever gets out, they have
ways of confining it again. Our men go, but there's no way to know
who will return. Or when.”

Betty felt sick at the thought and of the possibilities which
Geri did not express but Betty knew she intended. But the women
were watching, and Betty wasn't one of them. Not a military wife,
not yet, and she knew in her gut that they were watching her and
marking down her reactions on a mental score sheet. These women
should not find her wanting, if she wanted to be counted amongst
their number.

“
I
think, I...I have something which I need to do. Excuse
me.”

Two
steps down the street, Betty remembered that she hadn't even shut
her door in her haste, and went back to lock it. The wives gathered
together talking, and children were ignored then all at once
embraced. Confused infants cried and their mothers had no patience
for it. Then she continued as usual, her mind in utter turmoil and
her nerves in shatters.

Betty walked through the park, walking so long she found her
way along a shrub lined path which led off to the cemetery. Two
people she knew stood a ways off from each other, clearly there for
the same purpose: To speak with Betty.

How
word got around so fast, Betty could not fathom, though she
suspected it had something to do with Never Weres, and she was
correct in that matter. However, if she thought she could guess the
meaning behind the visit from her guests, she was wrong.

Liza
came forward first, with a shaky smile, and then she hurried to
embrace Betty. “I'm so scared,” Liza said. “They got to Richard. If
he puts one syllable out of line, they'll yank him off the air and
execute him for disobeying a direct order. And you know Richard,
you know how he is, it doesn't matter he's not military, he lives
here and that's enough. I wish he'd agreed to leave with me, but he
wouldn't, he wouldn't.”

And
all Betty could do was make little shushing noises and hold Liza
while she cried, because there was no doubt in her mind that Welch
would do exactly as he pleased, consequences be damned. He'd chosen
his boat, and he wouldn't jump off the ship because someone told
him to. Betty stroked Liza's hair until she wiped her eyes, blew
her nose, and said she'd best be going.

Betty stayed by herself for a minute, grappling with her own
emotions which Liza had stirred up. Then she looked around for the
centaur who had come to see her, and she wandered around a
bend.

It
was there she saw Tetrametrius, whose face focused on hers as
though he'd been expecting to see her. Despite the intensity of his
expression, he approached her timidly.

“
Betty Cratchet?” He paused as though expecting her to confirm
her own identity. “May I introduce you to someone,
please?”

Hope
burst in her chest, thinking it was Clarkin. Betty wouldn't believe
that he'd just abandoned her, and she couldn't think that he was
dead, yet both those thoughts had gone through her mind over the
last many days.

“
Yes, who?” Betty realized that he had already introduced her
to Clarkin in November, so it couldn't be him, and Tetrametrius
wasn't playing with her. Dispirited, Betty nevertheless followed
him through the snowy yard until they came to a
mausoleum.

A
woman waited there, her hair dark and sleek, wearing large
sunglasses, a blue silk scarf about her neck, and a red and white
polka dot dress. She smelled familiar. Sweet, and
florally.

“
You
sent the letters?”

Bright red lips curved into a smile. “Why do you think
that?”

“
There can't be very many people who make black locust
perfume.”

The
woman laughed, a merry sound. “Indeed not. I did not send you the
letters, though I did make the cologne, on special request, for a
very esteemed friend.”

The
woman's gaze flickered to the centaur, and he backed away, to stand
guard.

“
I
wanted to thank you for the warning.”

Betty hesitated. “You are the Ladybird.”

“
And
you are the Bell.”

Betty paused an instant, then said, “What do you know about
the vandalism on my front door?”

“
Vandalism?” The woman looked confused. “I remember hearing of
a commotion on your street. I will ask about it.”

The
two women considered their standing, then Ladybird reached into her
caplet lining and pulled from it a journal. “Read this. Maybe you
can prevent others from befalling Exica's fate.”

Betty froze, hand suspended over the plain black book. “What
do you mean?”

“
You
have not heard?” Ladybird frowned and said slowly, “Your mate was
injured when his team received mixed signals. We have not seen or
heard from him in days.”

“
How?” Betty demanded, though she knew the answer already:
Alpha. The journal pressed into her palm, and Ladybird said, “I am
terribly sorry. I wish he would surface, as well.”

As
an afterthought, she added, “You see, I am his sister.”

With
that, she left, and Betty did, too, feeling more than a little
dazed, clutching the book to her chest, hoping it was something
written by Clarkin.

Betty went home. There seemed nothing else to do, and she
didn't want to talk to anyone yet. When she stood at the door, she
was stunned, not remembering the rather long walk in the snow to
get there.

But
at the door, she stopped, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get
any rest. Pure rage boiled through her veins, and Betty instead
knocked on the neighbour's door and asked to be driven to
town.

“
You
want to borrow the car?” asked Geri.

“
I'm
too furious to drive.”

Geri
nodded. “Where to?”

“
Stanford's Bar. Come get me in fifteen minutes.”

Betty's father sat in the shade of a corner booth, smoking a
cigar and chortling with his officers. For once Slim wasn't among
them. At Betty's stern stare, her father ordered the men away and
motioned for her to sit.

She
refused.

“
Take a seat, child, I have much to discuss with you. Bungled
letters, mysterious night time visits from a demon. James doesn't
know that he didn't leave until morning. I haven't told him.” There
was a threat implied.

Betty put her knuckles on the table. “You lost men last week.
Top men, your best.” She didn't know it was true until he blanched.
Betty resumed, “They don't listen to Alpha anymore and they're too
scared to listen to Tango. Tell me I am wrong.”

Father snarled. “How do you know? Who told you?”

“
I
have eyes and ears in places, papa, but that doesn't mean they tell
me things. I know because everyone knows. Like I know we'll be
going up against the Bear in greater force, soon, unless this is
taken care of now.”

“
That is obvious.”

“
And
the troops won't listen to your wave talkers. Not
anymore.”

Father drained his whiskey.

“
But
they'll listen to me. And I'll talk for you because I like
Sanctuary and I want to see men come home to their children. If you
agree, give me no more of this Slim shit and hand over the user's
manual.”

“
Ever the diplomat.”

“
Got
that right, pops,” Betty said and at that moment, she saw Geri's
car flash by to park on the street.

Without saying goodbye, Betty left the bar.

The
knock roused Betty from hanging up laundry across the kitchen,
thankfully nothing but hand towels and blouses, for when she opened
the door, she found a man with a 42” chest towering over the
remains of her now very dead sunflower. In his fist he gripped a
journal, holding it as awkwardly as a machine-gunner could hold a
book.

“
Betty Cratchet?” he asked in a burly, rough voice.

“
Maybe. Maybe not. Show me your identity card
first.”

He
took it out of the pages of the book, Betty inspected that the seal
was current, the colors proper, the name in the correct typeface,
and finally that it had her father's coffee stain on the back. As
this met with her approval, she handed the card back and said,
“What work does my father have for me to refuse?”

The
man held out the book. “He said this was for you, and I was to
remain within five feet of you at all times.”

Betty snorted. “Come in, then, but understand that I'm not
leaving the bathroom door open for you to keep the five foot notice
thing.”

To
her satisfaction the man looked suitably embarrassed. She smirked
to herself and took him to the kitchen so she could finish putting
up her towels. The man coughed.

“
It
is a matter of national security, Ma'am.”

“
Don't ma'am me. I'm young enough to be your kid sister.” But
Betty did hasten in hanging up her last of her laundry, just not so
much that the man might have reason to think she was anything but a
fast worker.

She
took the bed and laid the code book out on the sheets as well as
all her notes and other books, arranging them to her satisfaction
before she began reading the code book her father had sent her. In
truth she was marginally surprised about two things. First that he
even had a code book, when the code was supposed to be all verbal,
and second that he would see fit to give it to her.

Betty read Slim's handwriting in the first several pages, and
realized that it had been him who had decided to keep a record.
Doubtless it was for his own reference, as the notes seemed sketchy
in some places and random lists in others. It wasn't meant to be an
educational text, but there was still too much here to have risked
being given to an enemy. Betty skimmed through half the book, and
saw that the meaning of certain words morphed over time, and every
now and then she caught sight of a legitimate date. She copied down
the lists, cutting them out and compiling them in groups until she
made sense of what they were.

Betty soon had a decent idea of what had been going on, and
she was gratified that she'd picked out two of the three articles
that they were using to communicate with each other in. Then at
around three hours in, Betty put down the book and started digging
for pans and potatoes.

“
Aren't you supposed to be working?” asked the
guard.

She
frowned at him, trying to decide if he would be with her for more
than a few hours, and if it would be worth it to memorize his name
if relief came. “No. Rests must be taken in between sessions,
otherwise the meaning becomes mixed up. And we couldn't risk that,
could we?”

The
guard grumbled something that didn't make any sense and might not
have been an actual coherent sentence. Betty asked, “Will you be
here for dinner? I feel strange eating without offering you
something.”

The
man at first denied being hungry, but Betty added extra to the pot,
and tossed a couple of potatoes in the oven for good measure. Come
supper time, she could hear his stomach growling, and so she served
him up chili over a baked potato, and found a batch of cheese to
top it off with.

Betty knew a few things about cooking, and that was very
literal. She'd learned more recipes by digging through Slim's code
book than she had by experimenting. For what it was worth, Slim
really had learned to do more cooking since he went away, and he'd
jotted down the successful recipes right there in the midst of code
making. Typical.