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“Surry. Just across the James River. Normally fort minutes over the bridge through Norfolk if the highways were clear and not underwater…” He gives a humorless snort. “But they aren’t. Not even if we took the long way up Route 60. There’s abandoned cars all over the interstate, wrecks choking the on/off-ramps. No way we couldn’t march a single company through, let alone haul three thousand soldiers and almost twenty thousand dependents.”
“…so what happens?” you ask. “Why hasn’t the 111th tried to take it?”
He sighs. “Because that’s the debate tearing them apart. They’re still waiting for the recall order from Major General Harlowe and the 116th to return to Richmond with the civilians. And they haven’t heard from him since the fighting began. So, they’re wondering whether or not it’s fine for them to simply just dig in at Hampton, or try and make a run for Surry. Through storm zones, raider country, and God knows what else.”
“Can’t you just cross the James?”
“With what boats?”
…damn. He’s got you there.
He offers a conciliatory grin, but one that doesn’t have any humor in it. “And they argue about it every night. Because nobody in authority wants to admit that they don’t have a damn clue what the right call is. Not that it hasn’t stopped some from sneaking away or units promising to scout and report what’s going on…”
“…and?” you press.
“…we don’t know. Nobody ever came back.”
>>How likely is the regiment to expropriate our belongings in the name of military need or the greater good?
“…I’m gonna be honest with you,” he says after a beat, tone more apology than reprimand. “I don’t see you keeping the escape pod.”
Your stomach knots, even as you fight to keep your expression even.
“Sorry,” he adds quickly, hand lifted as if warding off the sting. “It might not be a nuclear reactor, but that RTG in the belly of this thing? Too good to pass up. The regiment’s got a bevy of vehicles, equipment and machines that’d kill for a steady power source. Better than burning through what diesel we’re able to salvage or winding a crank ‘til your arms fall off.”
You glance around the pod’s pristine interior, suddenly seeing it less as your refuge and more of a pile of parts and numbers in a stranger’s ledger. You quickly decide that you don’t like the thought of that as your hands ball into tight fists.
“You’ll be compensated,” Harper continues, voice firm but not unkind. “Fairly, too. Colonel Estevez isn’t the type to strong-arm folks unless there’s no other way. And…” he leans forward, dropping his voice down a touch, “I’ve got his ear. I’ll make sure you don’t walk away empty-handed.”
His eyes linger on yours. “You have my word on that.”
“…is that what they tell the chickens before the stew pot?” you counter resentfully.
Harper blinks, then laughs in spite of himself
(cont.)
