Free North Wind by Gwyneth Jones Page B

gasped.
    “Get in the back!” They were being flagged down. There were figures in silhouette, helmets and weapons. He slowed. He prepared himself. A hand rapped at the window. Sid stuck his head out. “Who are you lot?” he demanded.
    The woman was wearing green combat fatigues, and a green supple balaclava with a nightsight and telecoms band. She wore the Fallen Leaf emblem, with additions that identified her as a captain of the Franco-Suisse NVDA (military wing).
    “Who are you, soldier?” she countered, in accented English. Narrow dark eyes raked him. “Irregular undercover forces, ma’am. Ordered to Athens.”
    “Bon. Ther jeeep is requisisioned.”
    “Hey, what about my orders?”
    “We’re heading thar way. We’ll give you a lif’. You can get in the back…. Captain Hassan,” she yelled, “We have transport!”
    The Swiss tapped the coms’ unit by her ear, addressed a subvocal mutter to the troops in the crippled personnel carrier. The other captain, despite the name, was a heavily built West African type with a smooth, cheery face. He wore the red-flashed blue uniform of the Western European Union, an Allied army. Sid leaned back, nerves thrumming, noting how the woman had tacitly assumed control. As they do. Oh, this truce couldn’t last.
    “Lights, Hassan: and drive it, don’t trust the panel. These roads are vile. Goddess, what a day. Did you hear the news, English? We have burned out the nests. Not one is left on earth!”
    “So its not true that half of them got away, ma’am?”
    “Quoi? Well, some were allowed to evacuate, it’s true. Why not? We don’t kill for killing’s sake in my army, soldier.”
    He hadn’t looked at Bella, he was pretending vividly that she wasn’t there. He hoped she’d caught that news: some comfort. The Swiss was searching for controls she wouldn’t find, in dawning wonder. No direction finder, no tvs, no radio: no telecoms.
    “Where did you get this?”
    “Liberated it from the Mykini looties, ma’am. They weren’t going to be needing it.”
    She exploded. Slammed her hands on the dash. “You see what we’re up against, Hassan!” She swiveled around. “DON’T CALL THEM NAMES. NEVER CALL THEM NAMES. They’re telepaths, fuck it. They could be listening even in orbit. And if they weren’t, it’s a question of self respect. They are the Aleutians! You see what that ‘looties’ makes us seem? Like children!”
    Appeased by Sid’s earnest nodding she settled back. “Did you have any part in the orgy, soldier?”
    “Not me, ma’am. Nothing further from my thoughts.”
    “Good. I detest that.” She swiveled around again. “Who’s your friend?”
    Sid suddenly knew that putting Bella in the chador had been a deeply flawed move. In the dark with a scarf round her face she might have passed. Ominously shrouded, her alien-ness was subliminally dead obvious. He was pinned in the Ochiba woman’s stare. He tried desperately to intensify the message of his expression, his manner, his everything: I’m a nice boy, I’m one of us. Whatever I do is normal. It wasn’t working.
    Without warning, a zinging burst of blue-white shot through the cab. “Abaissez-vous!” yelled the Swiss. Hassan dropped over the stick, as if in swift obedience. The jeep careered to the side of the road, rammed and rolled. The Swiss scrambled out, rifle in her hands, jabbering into her coms’ reed. Sid pulled himself free, dragging Bella. He swung her up in his arms: ran and fell and ran again, until the noise had diminished and the dark was complete.
    “Looks like the truce is in trouble,” he remarked.
    He had collapsed, face in the grass. He was clutching a fold of the chador in one hand: in the other, the biscuits and the strap of the water canteen. He rolled over. Stars looked down.
    “Some Aleutian you are. Didn’t your great Clavel live for months among the locals at first contact, and no one suspected?” He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands into his