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A generation after the United States split apart, Irene's daydreams of a better world bring the Border Collie an interesting proposition...

Some straightforward, standalone, good-natured smut for your weekend. Loosely related to "Straighten Up and Fly Right," so it has the same kind of aesthetic. This time--for once!--the main character isn't a pilot. Don't worry, I can find ways around that :P Thanks to Spudz for his help, and to all you wonderful people for being so damn lovely. I hope you enjoy it!

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"Keep the Wings Level and True" by Rob Baird

United States of--

At the sound of her name, Irene put the pencil down and looked up. Ruth was pointing her in the direction of the table nearest the door. Irene made her way over; flashed a smile. "Anything else I can get for you boys?"

Most of them were boys, anyhow. The oldest, with a captain's insignia, couldn't have been over 30. They were pilots, and theirs was not a profession that inclined them to longevity.

They jostled amongst one another, pointing; at last the captain shook his head. "No, ma'am. Just the check."

She tallied the numbers and handed the slip to him. One of his companions was a German Shepherd--still young enough that his ears perked too readily when their eyes briefly met. Irene gestured past him, through the dusty window to the mooring mast that stretched beyond the diner's front window. "Yours?"

"Yes, ma'am. The Starlite Electra, just in from Denver." The captain spoke for them all, and he'd tipped her a silver half-dollar on their lunch. "Most of us head back that way this evening."

The Border Collie smiled, nodding her head to thank him for the tip. Wasn't bad--nearly twenty percent, more than the sandwiches and coffee at McMillan's were worth--but, then, he was flaunting his wealth a bit.

She moseyed back over to Ruth. "Have you seen them before?"

"Nope," the jackrabbit said, shrugging. "But if you were smarter, you could've gotten another ten cents off that shepherd."

"Not interested." Irene turned the half-dollar over, her claw tracing the seal emblazoned on it. The Free State minted its own coin, of course--and they were bold enough to trade openly in it. A Colorado half-dollar could be melted down for well over its face value.

But who would dare to do a thing like that?

"Anyway, they're not sticking around," the collie finished, before double-checking the calculations on the receipt and adding it to the day's collection. The shepherd was plenty good-looking, in his uniform, and she was given to appreciating pilots--but he was Coloradan, and not worth the trouble. "So who cares?"

"Didn't say anything about sticking around, did I?" Ruth rolled her eyes and strode over to where the only other party in the diner waited.

It was another group of young men--this one with neat suits, bowlers tailored to complement the wearer's ears rather than simply picked up off the shelf. Irene went back to her drawing; the conversation became idle background noise.

"Oh, them? I don't worry about them, and you shouldn't either." "Because of the town's neutrality?" Ruth laughed; Irene glanced up to see her brush the man's shoulder. She said it made her seem friendlier; nudged them in the right direction as far as tipping was concerned. "Because you should be worried 'bout if you think I'll let you get away without a slice of pie. Those Coloradans didn't partake, but y'know how they are...

The Californians--oil executives, probably--didn't ask what she meant by that. Ruth stayed with them, keeping the chatter polite. When they finally decided that, yes, they were up for pie and another round of coffee, the jackrabbit drifted back to the register.

"Hey." Ruth narrowed her eyes, and flipped Irene's open sketchbook shut. "Not on the clock."

"What, you think the customers'll notice?"

"I think I notice that it's not what Stuart's paying you for. C'mon, play nice," Ruth said, and went back to bring the table their pie.

Stuart wouldn't care about her artwork, either--not with the diner dead as it was. But Ruth had seniority, and if Irene didn't "play nice" someone was liable to wind up telling her father.

This was not worth the hassle, any more than it was worth the hassle to flirt with the Coloradans for an extra dime or two. The Border Collie idled behind the counter, polishing the chrome surface in expectation of the next round of customers.

She wouldn't be around for them. The next flight was due in at 4PM, and she was getting off in... she tilted her head at the clock. It was already five minutes past two. "Hey, Ruth. I'm outta here."

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Irene."

Har, har. Irene folded her apron neatly and set it away in her bag, with the sketchbook. Even by early afternoon, the day was already so hot that little else productive could be done with it.

The Coloradans had gathered in the shade offered by the diner's awnings. Irene heard their muffled voices; saw the pointed gesturing. At last, sighing heavily, the shepherd detached himself from the group and wandered closer.

"Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Afternoon," she told him politely.

"I'm, uh. I'm Joe. Joseph. Sergeant said I oughta tell you what I told him. That's what he said, anyway."

"What was that?"

They were all still within earshot, and listening attentively. She saw Joe grit his teeth; lower his ears. "I said you were... you caught the eye."

The 'sergeant' in question, presumably, drifted over. The young mutt--couldn't have been any fewer than eight or nine lineages fighting for possession of his features--leaned a burly arm on Joe's shoulder. "What he said, was--"

"Hey..."

"Joe's new here," the sergeant drawled. "He said you was the kinda gal who oughta have a companion--walk her home and stuff."

"I appreciate the offer," Irene said. "But I don't live far from the airfield."

"He meant chaperone-like, protect ya from miscreants like us. What he don't know is, young lady like you... well, she knows where her bread gets buttered, now, right? She doesn't need protecting from anyone like m'self." The sergeant gestured over his stocky torso, then clapped Joe's chest. "Certainly not by a hired hand."

"You're not from Colorado?"

Joe shook his head. "No, ma'am. Paid escort from Denver to Sacramento. The Coloradans are all headed back. I'll fly along from here down to the capital, that's all."

"An itinerant, in other words," the sergeant finished. "C'mon, Joe. Maybe another town."

"And you've got a zeppelin to catch," Irene pointed out. The shadow of the Starlite Electra stretched over the landing strip--she was, after all, a cargo zeppelin, four hundred yards from bow to tailfins to make room for enough hydrogen to carry meaningful freight.

"Doesn't leave 'til tomorrow morning, ma'am," the captain called over. Joe shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Just that the rest of us aren't sticking around. Rather get home than stay here."

Irene shook her head. Coloradans. "Well, in that case. Who am I to turn down company? Fancy a stroll?"

Joe shut his eyes at the laughter from his companions, but fell in beside her as they walked from the diner towards the settlement that had grown up around the airstrip, just east of Redding.

"Interesting company you keep," she said, finally breaking the silence.

"Sorry about it. Mike--Sergeant Mike--he was talking about Californians all the way over the Rockies. How much he was looking forward to getting his paws on a--well--sorry about my language, too. I know you don't need a chaperone."

"It's fine." She tried to gauge him; gambled. "And he didn't get his paws on me, how's that? Coloradans don't always get what they want."

"No, ma'am."

"Call me Irene. Where are you from, Joe?"

"Detroit, I suppose. I'm an American. Unless that's the wrong answer."

"So am I."

"Really?"

None of the others had followed them. Irene paused, pulled her sketchbook out, and flipped it open. "Really."

"Holy fuck--uh--sorry. God--gosh, I'm so sorry," the shepherd stammered. "You draw that? These? That's your drawing?"

It was a P-40, unmistakable even in close-up, though she'd yet to adjust some of the finer curves. Her attention had been focused on the nose art: the Liberty Bell, with a banner unfurling around it. Property of, the banner began, above the bell.

It continued below: the United States of America. The art, even in sketch form, was faded. The lettering at the end, 1776-, was barely legible. Joe's claws hovered above the page, not daring to touch the pencilwork.

"I drew it, yes. One of the local militias has a Warhawk. It was good for reference..."

"It's beautiful. I love it." He closed the book and handed it back to her. "Isn't that a bit... would your boss like it if he knew? I thought California was proud of being the first to secede."

"He wouldn't care. Redding Airport is a neutral zone." And they'd just barely crossed the airport's property line; her house was only a few blocks past that. "And if he did care... well, so what? It's not my problem. Just a harmless fantasy."

Joe gave her a soft laugh. "I guess," the shepherd said. "I never got to fly one of those. They furloughed us three years ago, before our squadron had a chance to transition. I was still flying a P-36."

"And now?"

"Whatever my employer gives me. Right now, that means a Charger. They're the, uh... Consolidated builds them. They're adapted from a British design called the 'Mosquito.' It's quite something, actually."

Irene grinned. "Merlins, or the new model with the Vic Double Twenty?"

"The newer one. Allison 2020s. You know a lot about planes, huh? For a, uh--well--you know a lot about planes, is all."

She'd consider how much to be insulted by that later. "My father is a mechanic. He used to be a contractor for the United States Army. Nobody was looking after the manuals in the repair shop when they evacuated, so he took them home. They make interesting reading."

After she'd started her drawings, her father chased the repair manuals down and locked them away. It wasn't enough to keep the images from her mind, though. The daydreams she had. The harmless fantasies.

A glint of light, and the blurred shape of a warbird swooping past--the brief glimpse of the insignia showing they were all wrong, somehow. Not the Free State, not the California Republic... definitely not one of the innumerable vultures that called themselves 'freelancers' in the open spaces between...

"I bet they do," Joe said.

She gambled again. "This is my house already. But, ah... would you come in for a second? I'd like to show you something."

"Sure."

Back in the War, when nobody knew where the borders would end up being, California had overreached. Officially the frontier was up by Klamath Falls, but everyone knew even Redding was beyond the limits of Sacramento's control.

That was why the airport was officially neutral ground, and why her house had cost virtually nothing. A waitress could afford it, because nobody else wanted to live in Redding. And, without a family to raise, her needs were few.

She slept in the living room, an arrangement tidier than it first appeared--turning the small house into, effectively, a studio apartment. She spent most of her time in what had formerly been the bedroom, anyway.

Joe followed her inside. His eyes, as she thought they might, went wide when she brought the lights up. She gestured to the wall. "How did I do?"

The poster--she thought of them as posters, though each was its own work, done in colored pencil--was one of her newest: a Consolidated Charger swooping down with its guns blazing on an unseen foe. It was drawn in the olive drab of the Army Air Corps, with American roundels.

The shepherd's attention was drawn to the red-outlined block letters in the sky beyond the Charger. VICTORY, it said. Like the Charger's enemy, Irene left unanswered the question of what, exactly, victory was being sought.

Joe shook his head to clear his thoughts. "The lines are right," he said. "Beautiful picture. They're all... they're all beautiful."

He turned, taking the room in. The Statue of Liberty, with the air cruiser Housatonic floating imposingly behind its flame. Two P-40s, wingtips nearly touching, with the pilot in the nearest Warhawk lifting his gloved paw to the viewer in salute.

A Martin Mariner, in the United States Navy dress it had never been permitted to wear. The lettering behind it was flamboyant. "'From sea to shining sea.' God, is that the Golden Gate Bridge under it?"

"I always wondered what it would be like to fly from one end of America to the other." She pointed, first to the State of Liberty, then to the Golden Gate. "There'll be some panels in between, too, when I get the ideas."

"Some folks would say you're already 'getting ideas.'" The shepherd cleared his throat. "It's gorgeous, Irene. A bit dangerous, but gorgeous."

"I already told you: it's a harmless fantasy."

Joe leaned closer to a Lockheed P-38, the sun rising behind it. Lockheed was a California company but, like the Martin Mariner, she'd drawn it in American livery. "Some folks would question if it's harmless, too."

"If I thought you were one of them," she pointed out, "I wouldn't have showed it to you."

"Good point." The shepherd chuckled. He had a pleasant laugh, she thought. The warmth of it immediately brought a wag to her feathery tail. "It's good to know there's still some people with sense left in California."

But he said that he'd been gone long enough that the others would start asking questions. She walked him back to the front door of her house. "It was nice to meet you," she said.

He took her offered paw and shook it warmly. "Nice to meet you, too, Irene."

"Safe flying. You head out tomorrow?"

"Yep, just after sunup."

"So if I stopped by..."

Joe smiled. "You could, if you wanted."

Irene's ears stayed perked long after the shepherd had gone--long after her attention was focused once more on her sketchbook. There'd been a pleasant serendipity to meeting him--a nice balance to the pushy arrogance of the Coloradans and their Californian equivalents.

She rose early the next morning, and enjoyed a pleasant breeze on the walk to the diner. The Starlite Electra's shadow still hung at its mooring mast; activity buzzed around it, and the flightline as well, though most of the planes had already left. She crossed over to the Charger, where Joe was busy examining the left wheel.

"I hope there isn't a problem?"

He pricked an ear and turned. "Hi! No, the strut is just leaking again. It should be fine... I guess I'll have it checked out in Sacramento."

"This is a beautiful plane," she said. "I've never seen one up close." It was made of subtle curves, with nary a straight line to be found. Like the de Havilland Mosquito it was based on, Consolidated made the Charger out of wood, and the craft had an organic elegance to it.

Joe pointed to a ladder placed beside the open hatch. "Have a look inside, if you want?"

In its own way it was even more beautiful inside. She marveled at how everything in the instrument panel must've had some purpose, mysterious as it might have been to her--how it was all part of a single whole that worked in partnership, thousands of pieces brought together for one purpose.

"She flies well, too. Wonderful machine," Joe said.

"I bet." She paused. Hell with it. "So, are you with the Piasa Legion?"

Joe's ear twitched, and a strange expression crossed his muzzle. "What would make you say that?"

"It's just that the Army Air Corps doesn't have Allison-equipped Chargers. Only a few private companies use them. The plane's unmarked, but..."

"Maybe that should be an indication," he said carefully. "I, uh--hey, I should finish up here. Get ready to take off."

She'd probably overreached, Irene decided. He thought she was a spy, or something: counterintelligence, working at the airport to eavesdrop on all the traffic that came through. "Of course."

She glanced around, but nobody was watching; the Border Collie took the sketchbook from her satchel. She'd already removed the last page, and the drawing was loose. Irene handed to him. Joe took it, meeting her eyes. He held the look until, at last, he smiled. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. I hope you'll come back to the field?"

"All depends on where work takes me. But I'll be sure to stop by the diner if I do, okay? Not... not like there's any other place to stop."

"Give me a subject to work on?"

He cocked his head, looking from her to the sketch in his paw. "You mean, for one of these?"

"Mm-hm."

"Do you know what a Republic P-47 looks like?"

"I think so. I can find out."

Joe grinned. "One of those, then. Always wanted to fly one of those... I'd be curious to see what you'd make of it."

His smile, and his lightened spirits, was infectious. She nodded quickly, ideas already flicking through her head. "Challenge accepted. But you better come back, alright?"

"I'll do what I can. For now, I do have to head off."

"Sure," she said. When she turned to leave, she felt his paw come to light, tentative rest on her shoulder. The Border Collie hesitated. Joe stepped close, giving her cheek a quick kiss. She was too surprised to do anything but wag her tail, mumbling her wish for his safe flying.

The giddiness hit halfway between the flightline and the diner. Irene turned to watch the final preparations, just in case her legs abandoned her. Her burning ears flicked to the grunting rumble of powerful piston engines firing; catching. In addition to Joe's Charger, there were two P-39s, with a columbine-blue stripe indicating their affiliation to some Colorado militia or another. Apparently, not everyone else had left--or they didn't trust the Starlite Electra's safety to a single mercenary.

Compared to the aircraft engines, the zeppelin's electric motors were sedate, a barely audible hum. Colorado prided itself on adopting the newest technologies; Irene supposed it was safer to keep ignition sparks away from a hydrogen airship, too, for that matter.

Despite herself, she was taken by the grandeur of the scene: the display of engineering prowess, and the dawn's rays catching first on the Starlite Electra's tall fins while her taxiing escorts lay in shadow. If only they weren't strangers, Irene thought. Then: If only they didn't want to be.

She sighed, and walked the rest of the way to the diner. It was already unlocked, and Ruth had begun getting them ready for the day. "You're here early, huh?"

"Watching the zeppelin from yesterday leave."

"Figured it wasn't just to give me a hand opening up," Ruth said, sighing. "You need to be on your best behavior. Really your best behavior, Irene. Stuart might drop by. There'll definitely be others."

Irene pulled the flight log down from where it hung on the wall. "The Starlite Electra is departing in a few minutes. The Yreka is listed as a regular hauler, twelve crew... Republic Airlines?"

"That's the one," Ruth confirmed. "This time, it's a whole lot of military brass... the radio's been buzzing. Colorado oil is only supposed to come here through independent ships. That's a Free State zeppelin out there."

"And? Redding is a neutral trading port. Has been for a decade, now. The rules are different."

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Ruth hissed. "They want to shut it down. Sacramento wants to end the neutrality pact. They think it makes them look weak if Colorado violates their gentleman's agreement with no response."

When the Republic airliner touched down, the difference in clientele was obvious. They acted like they owned the place: scrutinizing the windows, the menu, the jukebox--she heard one of them mutter that the records were 'not from around here.'

Stuart McMillan, the diner's namesake, arrived half an hour later. He greeted them warmly; the response bordered on an interrogation. Did anyone from the Starlite Electra stop here? What did they want? Who spoke to them? Ruth, thankfully, volunteered herself so the Border Collie didn't have to prostrate herself to the newcomers.

More of the Army showed up over the next few days. She didn't like the way they watched her. She didn't like the pushiness when they demanded another cup of coffee, and she really didn't like the armed truck that had parked itself by the mooring mast.

Of course, the airport's neutrality wasn't official--they were part of the California Republic, in the sense that it lay within the Republic's self-proclaimed borders. If one was inclined to think of the Republic itself as "official," and Irene didn't give them that benefit of the doubt.

She still hoped that it would all blow over. She hoped the truck would leave, and the warplanes that escorted the Republic flights would stop buzzing so low over the diner. On the off chance that it didn't all return to normal, though, she focused on spending time in her studio over the following weeks.

After all, she had a piece to finish.

The doorbell rang just before 8 in the evening. It was still light outside, but Irene wasn't used to callers and the Border Collie took a minute to make herself presentable before going to see who it was.

She'd expected her father, probably, or her boss--either of them "checking up on her"; her attitude had probably slipped through at the diner and they'd want to chide her about that. Instead she found Joe, dressed this time in civilian clothes and, she was willing to admit, no less fetching in them.

The shepherd had a definite presence about him, and a warm smile. "Evening, ma'am."

She opened the door to let him in. "Hello again. Did more work bring you out this way?"

"You could say that. I kind of nudged myself in this direction. Here--I brought you something from back east. I don't know if you like chocolate, but..."

The two Hershey bars had been tied together with a ribbon to make them somewhat more presentable, though they'd still clearly traveled some distance and the paper covering was scuffed. Irene took them anyway, feeling her tail start to wag. "Well, sure! Coffee's been expensive this week, sorry--orange juice?"

He nodded, and she went to the kitchen, pouring two glasses and bringing them back into the living room. Joe sipped gratefully. His tail, too, was waving. "I didn't know your schedule, and the first woman I asked didn't seem to know who you were. Had to ask about the collie girl who draws those incredible pictures--then she knew."

"A fox? Yeah, Peggy isn't good with faces." Or, possibly, she made a point of ignoring Irene--Peggy's folks had ties to Howard Hughes, was how the rumor went, and she didn't take too kindly to the Border Collie's unionist sentiments.

Joe nodded. "Well, it got me over here. How have you been? I saw..." He caught himself--then, glancing towards the door of her studio, laughed gently. "You seem like you're more interested than most about stuff at the field. Guess you don't mind if I talked to you like you were one of the fellas, right?"

"I don't mind."

"Saw a flight of Goshawks parked on the ramp and wearing California colors. How long have they been there?"

She'd seen them, too--H-6s, Hughes Aircraft's revision of the original P-36. Curtiss's lines were still recognizable, despite a longer engine and the ugly underwing gunpods. "Three days. Want to hear a rumor? They're not paying dues to the airfield, either."

"I'll trade you. Somebody told me there's a California military zeppelin patrolling around Shasta. I haven't seen it, but these days I'm willing to believe almost anything."

That rumor hadn't made it to McMillan's, but with the warplanes now stationed at Redding Airport nothing seemed impossible. Joe kept going: he'd been down to Arizona, and the theoretically autonomous zone was on high alert, with regular patrols along the Neutral Zone and their 'border' with California.

She hadn't heard that, either. Despite the extra military activity, she told the pilot, Redding seemed more or less normal. Then again, she'd been busy--and not just the job Stuart paid her for. The shepherd grinned. "How's the drawing coming along?"

It was completed, hanging on the wall in her bedroom studio. The P-47 was parked, canopy open. The American flag, proudly rippling just aft of the engine cowling, was unfinished: a figure in khakis, holding a paintbrush in one hand and a bucket in the other, was hard at work fixing that problem.

"Is that supposed to be me?" Joe asked.

"Could be anyone." The dog's head was bowed, focusing on his work; his markings lay in shadow. "Did you want it to be?"

Joe said nothing for a bit. He was clearly trying to work himself up to something. What had Ruth always told her? Physical contact helped. Irene reached over, brushing the shepherd's arm. It did the trick: "I kinda came back for a reason. I mean, uh. To see you."

"And I appreciate it!"

"You know you asked if I was in the Legion, right? I am. I was on Legion business escorting the Starlite Electra. Colorado didn't know when they hired me... kind of an incognito thing. I was just trying to learn what I could about how the border is shaping up."

She nodded. "I really was just asking curiously. I hear good things about them."

"They are good. Dan Mitchell's a good man."

"And a nice role model, for a collie like me." She wouldn't admit that more than a few of the figures hidden behind cockpit glass were intended to be Mitchell, not some generic Border Collie. There was plausible deniability.

Joe laughed. "Pretty odd for a gal to say that. Do you know how to fly?"

"No." And she explained that it wasn't really about the flying. Mitchell's Piasa Legion was just another independent contractor, escorting passenger flights and protecting vulnerable settlements.

But he chose his clients deliberately, according to the stories. He had an escort carrier out at Pearl Harbor, and another airfield in the Western Enclave, at Seattle. The Legion guarded flying boats departing New York, and cargo ships trying to escape southern privateers off the Carolinas.

According to the stories, he identified himself as an American, first and foremost. She liked that. He was a kindred spirit--not a bad role model, indeed.

Joe nodded as she talked. "You'd like Dan. I think he'd like you, too. I can't promise anything permanent, but... I was wondering if you'd want to visit Seattle?"

"Of course I would. But isn't the Western Enclave a restricted zone for Californians? I don't have a visa, and they don't just hand those out to waitresses."

"If you give me a couple days, I can figure something out," Joe promised. "I already asked my wing commander if he wouldn't mind."

She tilted her head. "You did?"

Joe pulled a photograph from his pocket. It showed the shepherd standing next to a parked P-40. He was holding something up next to the nose; it took Irene a second to realize she was looking at the drawing she'd given him--framed. "Made an impression on me... guess it made an impression on him, too."

Irene grinned. "If you can make it happen, I'd love to see Seattle."

"I can. I'll be back here day after tomorrow... need to ferry a plane to the Enclave, anyway. You'll come?"

"Course I will."

They retired to her living room, settling on the sofa she'd bought back when a faint, brief desire for respectability made Irene think she might at some point entertain guests. That had never happened.

Now, with the shepherd next to her, she regretted the disarray of her house. Fortunately Joe didn't care. He sipped his orange juice, and talked about growing up in Detroit, and she marveled at how different his experience had been from her own. His father worked for an automobile company, the Depression hit them hard...

"California was supposed to be so much better. When governor Merriam started talking about closing the border, that summer, that almost made it sound even more appealing, like they had something to protect. Pop wanted to move... he even had a job offer. Mom convinced him to wait until the fall."

"By that point, it was too late?" He nodded. "It was the opposite, for us. Starting the year before, the state government would say on the radio that California was suffering too badly from the New Deal and we couldn't take anyone else. In the spring it got... worse. They were saying it wasn't just that we couldn't accept anyone else, but that we might have to 'take measures.' I didn't know what that would mean."

She shook her head and sighed. To her surprise, the shepherd reached over, brushing her hair back gently to reveal the soft red fur of her pinned ear. Irene scooted close to the dog, and he lowered his arm to drape it over her shoulder.

"What did you wind up doing?" she asked, leaning against his side.

"My older brother enlisted right after Donner Pass. He was just 19, but pop understood. He came home after boot camp, summer of '40. Patton was running, calling Roosevelt 'incompetent'; promising he was going to retake California as soon as he was elected... pop knew what it meant, but he told my brother he was going to vote for Patton. Jimmy just told him to go ahead; he'd do the same if he could vote. I figured I was going to do the same thing."

"Did he... have to fight?"

"Yeah. He was in Colorado when they seceded. His letters were... you could read between the lines, you know? It didn't matter. I went down to the recruiting office the day I turned 17. Roosevelt declared war on Germany when I was still in basic training... figured I'd be going there, eventually. I thought I was lucky, getting in the Air Corps. By the time I was out of flight school, I went to the front in North Carolina instead."

Irene nodded. "We never figured that would happen."

"Neither did I. And I definitely didn't think Flynn was going to beat Roosevelt. Him and Lindbergh were just... they just wanted to give up, that's how I saw it. When they grounded us in '46, the year those fuel shortages were bad, I resigned. My commanding officer pointed me to New York, gave me a name... he knew," the shepherd said, chuckling. "He understood."

"That was how you got into the Legion?"

"And never looked back. It's going to work out. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but it's going to work out. Dan always says that he loves flying, but he's only running the Piasa Legion until the day he doesn't have to anymore. Cropdusting from there on out, he says."

Joe laughed again, and went on to clarify that that was a lie--the Border Collie was too addicted to adrenaline to really quit. Irene listened, curled up against the shepherd, as he told her about his own adventures. And about what it would take to get him to settle down. "I don't know," he admitted.

But of course, she felt the same way. The only thing she thought with any certainty was that California wasn't likely to remain her home. She was looking forward to seeing what Seattle had to offer, at least.

"Do you think you won't come back?"

"There's not much keeping me here." She gestured to her apartment, which told the story on its own. "I don't get along well with my dad. And it's just him, no other family. Was steady with this guy--gas station attendant down the way--but he wanted me to... accept how things are. And, uh. I can't."

The shepherd nodded. And was she mistaken, reading too much into it, or had his embrace tightened slightly? No, she was quite certain. He changed the subject--she let him, guiding him into his thoughts on the Consolidated Charger. But as he kept talking, her ears gradually perked, and she became increasingly aware of how comfortable she was with his arm around her.

It wasn't only his looks, although the shepherd was undeniably handsome and she had intended him to be the figure in the drawing of the P-47. It was also that his fur smelled faintly of engine grease instead of cigarette smoke, and there was a pilot's subtle precision in his movements--even the gentle touch of his fingers on her side.

And that he shared her view of the future. That there was a future, in the long term. What about now? She could ask him to stay, to spend more of the evening now that the sky was darkening and the town was going to sleep. He might even agree. The thought of where that might lead was an intriguing distraction.

She stood, going to refill their glasses, and to see what it felt like without the shepherd's warmth next to her. Disappointing, is what it felt like. But she heard him getting up, too, straightening his clothes... she set the glasses down on the counter, meeting him at the door. "You need to leave?" she asked.

"It's getting later," Joe answered. "You probably want to start getting ready for bed, or..."

"It would be fine if you stayed. I like your company," she added, because the collie had suddenly realized she felt no shyness in admitting it.

His smile was her reward for that honesty. "Trust me. I like yours, too. But I don't want to keep you..."

"Why's that?"

"I... I don't know, actually."

"So, then... you could stay. Right?" She put her paw atop his, keeping him from turning the doorknob. Joe halted, facing her as she stepped closer to him. Their bodies were nearly touching--she could feel his heat, and surely he could feel hers, too.

His head tilted questioningly. Irene carefully looped her arms around him, and after a moment Joe let his paw fall from the knob and did the same. She raised her head to look at him, and he lowered his, and their noses briefly touched.

She had a moment to anticipate what it would be like. How he would taste, what his lips would feel like against her own, the exact pressure of his grip... half a dozen other... harmless fantasies...

Then the shepherd closed the rest of the distance. And as soon as he kissed her, everything changed. The first contact was soft, and it lasted only a heartbeat or two. But when she didn't pull away, he growled--then his muzzle was locked to hers, his arms a powerful vice wrapped around the collie's back.

Her head tilted obligingly to take him deeper. By that same natural instinct, the growl rumbling against her lips left the Border Collie's tail wagging. She leaned into the big dog, letting her faltering stance push their bodies together. His tongue met her lips; then it was pressing into her muzzle, the broad, soft touch caressing her own.

His paws kneaded into her sides as he drew her tight. The world spun, and the wall was at the collie's back. It let her brace herself as his grasp worked lower, framing her hips while her tail thudded hard against the fading wallpaper. I could be his. For the evening, at least. The thrill of it drew a moan from the collie's muzzle.

I could be his. He could shove me onto the bed right now. Tear my clothes off. Have me. It was bold enough, the way his tongue had speared forward to capture hers, and the way his fingers groped her. A few minutes more and she could be pressed beneath the shepherd, his panting weight holding her down as he bred her. She could be tied, properly knotted--it had been far too damn long, and she was out of her cycle, there was no reason for him to hold back, and even if she had been in heat the collie thought she might not have stopped him.

Because she wanted him--craved him, even--would let him take the encounter as far as he desired--demand anything from her... but instead he stopped. Her dress was bunched up at his wrist, and his fingers were pressed into the marbled red fur of her thigh.

He broke the kiss, panting hard. In his deep brown eyes she saw he was hesitating not out of his own doubt but the impropriety of it on her behalf. The sheer indecency of having the Border Collie pinned up against the wall in her own living room--they were all but strangers, and here he was, paw beneath her dress like he was any other soldier taking advantage of shore leave with one of the locals...

Joe opened his mouth to voice his hesitation, to apologize for being just another roguish pilot who thought he could just do that, and she realized she would have to take charge for a few seconds longer. Before he could say anything the collie growled and seized his lips in another kiss.

It was enough. The shepherd groaned--and bucked, hard. He pushed between her legs and there was a moment of hard, tantalizing pressure grinding up against her as his weight drove the breath from her lungs in a desperate gasp. When she dug her claws into his shoulders he thrust again.

This time the pressure lingered. This time she could savor the lewd implication of the bulge in his trousers. This time she knew that he was done resisting to spare her own decency.

He started to turn away from her, tearing from the sloppy kiss. His head jerked towards the bed. But he couldn't very well move without her permission, and she squeezed him demandingly with her arms, tightening the embrace until, with a grunt, he kissed her fiercely.

She thought perhaps she heard him say fine, or maybe it was her name filtered through his ragged desire. Whatever it was, Irene damn well knew it when his fingers pushed up until they were above her hips, tangled between her belly fur and the waistband of her panties.

Joe tugged roughly, caution abandoned in his haste. It didn't matter--she was too distracted by the shepherd's eagerness to mind the brief twinge as his fingers pulled her fur. Far more important was the satin slipping easily down her fur, until gravity caught it and she could kick the underwear off.

The shepherd's paw slid between her thighs again. She moaned as he touched her, shivered; for the first time the collie was acutely aware of just how aroused she'd become, how little resistance there was to the smooth pads teasing her bare lips. It could've been embarrassing--should've been, even--unseemly for a decent girl like her...

But her thoughts were on his other paw. The movements she caught hints of. The sound of the pilot's belt, and then his zipper. When he was done--ready, she amended, prepared like he was going through a takeoff checklist--she felt his grasp under her thigh. He lifted her leg, supporting it as he stepped closer and she leaned against the wall for support.

There was nothing in the way now when the stiff flesh dragged through her fur. One smooth, shifting adjustment later and she felt him touch her, the warm tip nestling up and between her lips. Take me, she begged. His lips on hers had the collie muffled, and her shallow panting was too fast for speech but she thought it, anyway. Just take--

His legs straightened, he thrust, and as her breathless gasp spilled into a honeyed moan he was inside her: pushing that thick shaft into the collie, inch after throbbing inch spreading her folds. Gratification gave way to giddy, shuddering exultation as he slid deeper... then a jolt of disappointment when he pulled free...

Then another smooth buck of his hips, and a jolt of fresh shock as she realized he wasn't even hilted. Each of his next strokes settled him a little further in, the stretching fullness growing more insistent, more overwhelming.

She opened her muzzle in a yelp at the last, heavy plunge when their hips ground together. He had her so thoroughly filled... no: claimed. He'd thoroughly claimed her, but as her whimper died away she caught the glint burning in the shepherd's expression: you wanted this.

He kept his eyes locked on hers while he withdrew--and, with a pointed snarl, plunged his cock back into her. Irene groaned, back arching, and her eyes rolled back as he took her. The world dropped away. There was nothing but the shepherd's smooth, pulsing warmth stuffed into her, tugging, dragging along her folds with each grind and short, humping jerk.

It was quick and rough already by the time she could think straight again, one thrust after another knocking her into the wall as he bucked between her legs. His muzzle had fallen to her shoulder; he was muffling his throaty groans into the side of her neck.

She'd anticipated his strength, his raw energy. The forcefulness of it, though, that took the collie by excited surprise. It was so easy to let herself ride the pounding tempo of the shepherd rutting her--her arms were wrapped about him now, passion straining the moans she panted into the tawny dog's pinned ear. She clung to him and he growled in his own building ecstasy.

His shaft thickened, the bulging curve of his growing knot buffeting her with increasing pressure. But his pace didn't slow--if anything the effort required to force his knot into the collie had his movements coming faster, closer together.

"Irene," he groaned. Her ears twitched at the sound of her name the way he said it--not really a question. More of a warning, not like she could've missed the shifting character of his dominating thrusts as the dog worked to his inevitable, inexorable end.

Not even like it really mattered--he was all but using her, the evidence of it pronounced and undeniable, thudding into her with a lewd squelch that followed with his pointed grinding like he needed to make his point clear. He didn't--but the Border Collie guided her quivering muzzle to his ear, anyway. "Don't--stop!" Her voice was husky, the syllables hammered from her as Joe rocked her into the wall.

The shepherd groaned again, tense. He leaned forward, pinning her, adjusting his grip to brace the collie for that last, fevered stretch. Irene gasped--each heavy pump that slipped his knot home wound her rising tension tighter but he didn't stop, just kept filling her... and then she could feel the lurch when its thick bulge wedged in snug and locked into place... felt him pushing against her... shoving in urgently....

She cried out, clutching the shepherd desperately in her arms. His shaft was gloriously present in her, thick and rock-hard as she clenched down on him, acutely aware even as climax rolled through the collie's trembling frame of just how completely he'd taken her.

Muted pain--his teeth clamped on her shoulder through fur and the fabric of her dress. She cared about that far less than the snarl that tore from her lover as he froze, muscles locking under her fingers. The dog's cock throbbed and a moment later warmth spurted inside her.

Irene fought for breath, first as pleasure surged through her again and then when the big dog crushed his chest to hers. He held her in place, humping deliberately through his peak, the distinct splashes of his seed blending into a heat that kept spreading, working deeper...

She had the sense that he wasn't really aware of any of that. For some long seconds he was just sating himself, lost in the carnal gratification of claiming his bitch. Just when she thought she might pass out he let out a soft grunt and relaxed, staggering back and nearly taking them both off balance.

"Careful," she panted.

"Bed? Now?"

She nodded and he scooped her up awkwardly, hobbling the short distance over to the bed where they collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Joe's heavy panting gradually slowed, and his tail began to wag.

His paw trailed up her leg, bunching her dress up so he could trace the curve of her rear. She felt him nose her, noticing for the first time that saliva had liberally soaked fur and fabric alike. "Sorry, I kind of made a mess of your shoulder."

Irene grinned, snuggling comfortably into the warmth of the shepherd's body. "I suspect that's not really all you made a mess of." His ears twitched and he looked away. "It's a heck of a time to start feeling shy about it now."

"I got a bit carried away..."

"Nonsense. Besides," she pointed out. "You've seen my hobby. I'm already indecent, and it's quite a lot of fun."

Joe was clearly worn out--he didn't fight her--but as his senses returned she was able to get him talking about the Piasa Legion again. About flying over the Grand Canyon, and the barren Dakotas, and glaciers in allied Canada. It all sounded absolutely glorious.

And it would be hers. Day after tomorrow, he promised--though it was after midnight by the time he finally left. She lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling in her darkened living room, and let her mind wander.

Partly it was the thought of the world, seen from altitude. Partly it was the thought of the United States--what it had been; what it could be. Partly it was the way he'd felt in the last moments of their wild mating, when his control faded and she was so exhilaratingly his...

She was still in good spirits when she reported for work the next day. Ruth, however, was not. "Peggy said that shepherd was here, flashing some photo around," she began. "Guess you're a famous artist."

"I guess I am."

"You know, girl, you don't have one sensible bone in your body. I can't be the only one she told."

"So?" Irene wasn't in the mood. She'd done what Ruth asked--ever since the guards started showing up, she'd kept the sketchbook at home. As far as the diner was concerned, the Border Collie was a model citizen.

"You'll get in trouble."

Her eyes narrowed. "For what? The Republic has the same bill of rights as the United States. I can express myself freely--it's right in the first amendment."

"This isn't the time for that," Ruth insisted. The jackrabbit doe lowered her voice and leaned closer. "I'm worried about you. The shepherd is trouble--he's not even Coloradan. The MPs were talking about him, and they said he's American."

"What a coincidence."

"Don't get cute, Irene. He's not worth it, no matter how much you might like a man in uniform--oh, don't open that muzzle of yours. I'm trying to look for you, Irene. Watch yourself. And take table four--they look like they've got some money to throw around."

She didn't feel like giving Ruth the satisfaction of saying she'd keep the advice in mind. Work could keep her attention off things, for the moment. You only have to make it through today, right? The businessmen at the table were too interested in her, though: staring, watching keenly.

One of them in particular, a lean coyote with sharp, white teeth, fixed her in an amber-eyed gaze. "So you've got, ah... ideas, huh? Heard about this little lady at the Redding diner who'd taken a real fancy to Old Glory. Pretty little collie girl. That must be you, right?"

Peggy must've been talking. "Perhaps it is. Can I help you?"

"Are you not happy in California?"

The Border Collie shrugged. "I like parts of it. The weather is nice. More coffee?"

He ignored her, leering. "Better here than in America. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Not particularly, to be honest. Can I pour you some more coffee, sir?"

The coyote leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now, what's wrong with the Republic? You wouldn't want to move to Colorado, would you? All those bright lights and glitzy electric gizmos catch your eye?"

"Good place to raise a family," one of the other businessmen suggested.

"I don't have one."

"Maybe that's her problem, Chuck," the coyote said. "Too much free time. America was broken, colliedog. We couldn't fix it. We just did one better. Don't tell yourself fairytales about how great America was."

Irene knew that she shouldn't argue, but it was hard to help herself. The promise of Seattle filled her thoughts. "America has its problems, sir, and any good patriot can admit that. Any good patriot would also have the courage to fix them, not take the opportunity to value their own ambition above the good of their homeland."

"Excuse me?" the coyote growled.

"Americans come together to raise a barn--they don't look to see what they can walk off with while everyone else is busy."

"You think that's what this is about?" His growl deepened. "Why do you think America looked west? This is where the people with ideas went--the people with initiative. Industry. Anybody who was tired of being held back, they came here. We're the ones who saw all the potential being wasted and we did something about it."

She neither replied, nor looked away.

"All we did was be the ones strong enough to take what should've been ours to begin with. All we did was rid ourselves of what was standing in our way--so don't make the mistake of being another obstacle after we've cleared so many. The world doesn't belong to naïve girls with a pencil and a parable about barn-raising. It belongs to us."

"If you say so, sir."

"Don't you?" he asked. He stared at her, leaning forward--muzzle almost curling. "Answer me."

His companion, the one named Chuck, cleared his throat and tried to defuse the situation. "It's just a dumb hobby, Walter. Come on, don't cause a scene. She doesn't know better."

"You think I mind daydreaming?" Walter's eyes wandered across the collie. Lingering; deliberate. She understood the coyote's implication: she belonged to California, and therefore she might as well have belonged to him, like any other of the Republic's harvest. "That's not the problem. I mind malcontents. And I mind traitors."

"That's a bit much," Chuck suggested.

"I guess. Chuck's right: you don't know better. But don't you worry your pretty little head. It'll turn out just fine. You understand?" She turned to leave, and the coyote reached out, taking her wrist. "Now, hold up. You understand?"

"Let go of me."

"Simple question. Do you understand?"

Irene wrenched her wrist free and stalked off. Dames, Walter's friend consoled him. You know how it is. She asked Ruth to settle the check for them--they didn't tip, which came as no particular surprise. The jackrabbit shook her head; Irene followed her advice and left early for the day.

She already knew who was at the door when the bell rang; as soon as she turned the handle her father opened the door the rest of the way and pushed inside. "You gonna explain yourself?"

"Which part?"

"The part about getting your name in the police bulletin--start with that. Then you can explain that scene in the diner today. Got a vice president at Vulcan asking what kind of hysterical characters wind up working there..."

"I won't apologize. You raised me better than to let someone like that talk down to me, and I don't care where he's a vice president." She frowned. "What about the police, though?"

"You were seen with a foreign agent! And those--those things you draw, now you've got the town talking about those! It stops now, Irene. Get rid of them."

She set her jaw. "It's a free country, father."

The blow took her by surprise, even though it wasn't especially hard. Open-pawed, meant to summon her attention. When she recovered, her father had her muzzle in his grip. "Burn them. That 'studio' of yours better be cleared out by tomorrow, or I'm calling the cops myself."

"Why?" She forced herself to speak through his strong hold on her jaw. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that you're my daughter," he growled, and let her go. "And you have to grow up."

"I don't think," she muttered, rubbing her muzzle, "that you 'grow up' out of thinking we were better as one country. Indivisible. With liberty, and that means the liberty to do what I want in my own house."

Her father's paw clenched--she could see it out of the corner of her eye. But he held his ground. "You don't know what you're talking about. You were fourteen when we declared independence."

"That's still old enough to remember. To have something to believe in."

"I'll tell you what you don't remember, then. You don't remember the AEF. You don't remember the hospitals in Belgium. I saw what happened when the greatest countries on Earth shoveled a whole generation of their young men into a furnace they tarted up by saying it was about believing in something."

His eyes were blazing, and razor-sharp. He might as well have kept his claws dug into her jaw, for all Irene could look away. "Do you really think this is the same?"

"I do now. I saw it after Donner Pass. I saw what they'd do. This is the world now, Irene, and you have to accept it. That's final." He stepped back, opening the door. "Get rid of it all. I'm not asking."

She deadbolted the door behind him and took a heavy seat on the edge of her bed. Her jaw hurt. For the first few minutes, her tears were just the adrenaline working its way free. Then anger crept in.

How dare he? I'm a grown woman, and I don't need his advice--and--and. And for that matter, who the hell threatened to turn their daughter into the police? For artwork! For some--what had she said a hundred times?--some harmless fantasy!

I saw it after Donner Pass. The tone in his voice stuck with her.

Classes had been canceled for the entire week, by that Friday the 13th. She remembered October as being particularly cold... but then, as her father pointed out, she'd been fourteen in 1939. She understood the radio announcement about the fighting in Donner Pass, but it sounded like something from a foreign country.

In the years that followed, Irene began--or thought she'd begun--to realize the import of what had happened when the California Guard turned their guns on the refugees making their way through Donner Pass. She'd never accepted Sacramento's version of events--these were not dangerous criminals, trying to storm the California border checkpoint. They were innocent people, and they'd been massacred.

But, as the pain in her muzzle slowly faded, the Border Collie's certainty grew that she'd missed something. The massacre alone hadn't scarred her father, it was also his expectation that the government would bring the perpetrators to justice. Instead the army retreated. Instead there'd been the firebombings of Los Angeles and San Francisco, and the barbed wire beyond which American troops wouldn't venture.

And in that sense of abandonment, he'd decided there was no going back.

Her anger shifted directions, and cooled. Her father was a victim as much as any of them. She couldn't really blame him. She couldn't really blame Ruth for her timidity. The Border Collie took a deep breath. She was calm now, and she knew what she had to do.

Dawn was approaching by the time she'd finished. She realized, waiting for Joe outside the airport terminal, that there hadn't been any flights scheduled. There were no aircraft parked, either; even the Californian Goshawks were gone. Her answer came in the form of a Willys 77 clattering up to the building. Joe leaned out the driver's window. "Are you ready to go?"

"Very." The car's headlights picked out the bottom corner of the poster glued to the wall of the terminal. She'd redone the drawing of the Martin Mariner, banking above San Francisco. Now the flying boat trailed a red, white, and blue ribbon; an eagle, wings furled, adorned its nose.

Nothing was left in her bedroom studio. She explained that to Joe, as the car pulled out onto the road that wound south from Redding. And she explained that she would not be returning. "You're sure about this?"

"Sure as I've been about anything," the Border Collie promised. "I'll find some way to make Seattle work out."

Joe didn't say you sound awful certain about that or this isn't going to be like one of your daydreams. Instead he said: "There should be space in the barracks, too. We'll find out in a bit."

"I'm looking forward to it. How come you didn't fly into Redding?"

"An abundance of caution. Once armed guards started hanging out at the airport, I figured it wasn't exactly inconspicuous. The plane I'm ferrying to the Legion is a prototype. Kind of top secret." He looked over and grinned. "Guess you're in on it now."

"Guess I am."

He was taking them to an abandoned airstrip fifty miles away from the city. The closer they got, the more her sense of exhilaration built. Back home they'd be starting to wake up. They'd see the posters on the window of the gas station, the general store, the library...

Some of them would be angry. She hoped it would be the right ones--the guards, the businessmen who resented anyone questioning their newfound wealth. But maybe, just maybe, some of them wouldn't be angry at all. They'd smile. Maybe take down one before the police could get to it. Her tail wagged.

"It can't just be the border towns, either," Joe mused. Every time he looked over at the collie, and her bright eyes taking in the road before them, he grinned. "Bet there's people thinking that way in Barstow, too, and San Francisco, and Los Angeles..."

"There have to be," she agreed. He reached over, and she let him take her paw in his. His grip was warm and reassuring. "People will start to realize that. This whole mess can't last forever."

Joe squeezed gently. "No. I don't think it can."

The airstrip didn't seem to have been used since California's independence: the asphalt was cracked, and partly overgrown. Joe parked the car and walked the length of the runway with her, checking for anything that might cause a problem.

Nothing caught his attention, so he went back to the car and switched on a transmitter he'd kept in the back seat. They sat in the grass, waiting--the morning already starting to warm as the sun rose higher.

She leaned into the shepherd's side, and he hooked his arm obligingly around her. "How long do you suppose we have?"

"Not very. Not long enough," he added teasingly, when he saw her expression. He kissed the tip of her nose. "They're already landing."

Irene followed where he was looking and, sure enough, a black silhouette dotted the morning sky. It drifted lower, silently, until she made out the wings, and the sleek shape of its fuselage. "Gliding?"

The shepherd explained that he'd agreed with the pilot on an unpowered landing, in case the sound of engines drew unwanted attention and he'd arrived later than the plane did. "Doesn't matter who hears it when we're taking off, but..."

It touched down smoothly, braking to a halt with the last of its momentum used to swing it back towards the runway. The craft looked like nothing she'd ever seen before: propellerless, with a streamlined nose and a gracefully curved tail. If it wasn't a glider, Irene assumed the large pods set into the swept wings were the engines, somehow, but their purpose escaped her.

The pilot--a coyote, given her bushy tail and outsized ears--clambered down carefully, feeling for the footholds along the side of the craft's fuselage. At last she dropped the rest of the way to the ground and turned to face them. "Joe, right?"

He nodded. "And Irene, a California... refugee."

The coyote shook both of their paws. "I'm Kali. Up for a trade, Joe?"

He nodded. "I understand that's the idea. I refueled the car in Redding--should have most of a full tank left. Did you see anything coming in?"

"Skies were clear. It should be good flying, and for once there aren't any gripes on the plane. If you're ready to leave..."

The aircraft had two seats, like Joe's Charger. Unlike that plane, though, they were both in line with the fuselage, and there was no access hatch. Joe certainly had the height, and upper body strength, to pull himself into the cockpit; Irene, however, did not. Seeing this, the shepherd carefully backed the car alongside, so that she could clamber onto the roof.

Kali watched to make sure he didn't hit anything. "Refugee, huh?" she asked Irene.

"It's a difficult place to be an American in," the collie answered. "I figure Washington might be easier."

"At least it'll be difficult in a different way. Good luck with it." Joe had stopped the car and gotten out again. "Good luck to you, too, sir. Take good care of my plane."

Even supporting herself on the roof, Irene had to scramble. But she pulled herself over the edge of the cockpit and took her seat behind an overwhelming array of dials and knobs and switches. Joe passed her a helmet; she put it on, guiding her ears through slits cut in the leather.

His voice crackled in her ear. "Do you need help with your harness? I'm going to start the plane--let me know if you need help."

It was simple enough, once she found the straps. She clicked the latches shut and pulled the harness taut. "Got it."

Joe's paw appeared over the seatback, thumb raised. Then it disappeared. She heard a whine from behind her, the pitch spooling up and up with the volume until it was all but deafening. Kali had pulled the car off to a safe distance. She waved to Joe, and the glass canopy slid forward and shut.

The noise of the engines was a little less deafening now. The plane lurched and began to roll towards the end of the runway. When they reached it, Joe turned around and straightened them out.

"Are you ready?"

She was, she told him, as ready as she would ever be. It was her first time in an airplane, and she wasn't sure what to expect. The engines built to a roar, and then they started moving again. Slowly at first, then as fast as she'd managed on her bicycle. Then an express train. Then a car with its throttle wide open--

But still they accelerated, the runway rushing past her to either side in a dizzying blur. And then, even as she marveled at it, the ground dropped away. She felt heavy, drawn into her seat, as though the earth was struggling to keep her there and finding itself no match for the power of the aircraft.

The horizon tilted, and before her Irene saw only sky.

There had been a moment of slight discomfort mixed with the adrenaline, but it quickly faded. From her perch she could see what seemed a limitless distance in any direction--the Redding airport, off to her left, and the city behind it. The buildings were tiny; unreal.

"How high are we?" she asked.

"Six thousand feet. We'll keep climbing for a while--fifteen thousand, maybe? But the plane has a pressurized cockpit."

"What kind of plane is this?"

"It doesn't have a name yet... probably an internal code, I guess, that's all. Garcia Aerodyne has been working on it for a few years now, starting out as an engine testbed."

"Where are the propellers? Inside those pods on the wings?"

"Sort of. It doesn't really have propellers. It's a whole new kind of engine--a 'turbojet.' They designed this as a high-flying, fast reconnaissance plane to compete with the one Hughes was building in the Republic. They packed it with all kinds of cameras and things like that."

High-flying she got from the altimeter, when she figured out where that was. They made fifteen thousand feet without any effort. As for fast: Irene leaned so that she could see around Joe's seat. "Is that Mount Shasta? Already?"

"Already," he confirmed. "Told you they built her for speed."

"And what's that in front of the mountain. It's an airship, right?"

Joe banked the plane so he could get a better look. "Yeah. I wonder what it's doing this far north. Do you suppose the rumors were true?"

"Could be, right?"

"Hey, do me a favor--is there a recognition guide in the cabinet behind you?"

She hadn't even seen the cabinet. It was full of maps, and a notebook with "KODAK ARRAY OPERATING MANUAL" handwritten in ink on the cover. "Air Inventory of the Western Powers?"

"Sounds like a good start. It looks like it's about seven hundred feet long... six engines. The middle engines have props on both ends. Four fins on the tail. Armed, I think. Two turrets along the ventral side. Radar antenna amidships."

Irene leafed through the book until she found the section on airships. Lots of zeppelins were that size; plenty had six engines. The middle engines being special sounded like it could be a good diagnostic, but--

She heard a hiss from the radio in her ear. "This is the Republic cruiser Fremont. To the aircraft approaching from the southwest: if you're monitoring this channel, break off immediately or we'll have to shoot you down."

Irene flipped through the rest of the section. "It's not in here."

"Unusual for them to be so close to the border, too," Joe said. The Fremont came back on the radio, again ordering them to turn away. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

She didn't. Joe searched the radio frequencies until he found the one the Californians were using. "--approaching." "Can't raise 'em on the radio?" "Negative. Red One, change course and intercept. Don't let 'em get closer than two miles." "Roger that, Fremont."

"Two," Joe said. "Two planes moving to intercept us. Goshawks, I think."

His eyes were better-trained than Irene's, and she saw nothing. But she had no reason to doubt him: the Californian air force had plenty of those. They might even have been the ones she'd seen from the diner--she recalled again that the airport had been deserted.

"What is it?" one of the pilots asked. "Uh, this is Red One. Fremont, I'm estimating almost eight hundred knots closure here. I'm not sure we can get a shot off."

There was a dense spray from the airship's belly as it dropped its ballast; the fore and aft engine pods swiveled vertical and the Fremont began to climb sharply. "Neat trick," Joe muttered. Their plane's 'turbojets' surged louder, and acceleration pushed the Border Collie back in her seat. "I'm going to circle back and get close enough for good pictures. Keep an eye out for muzzle flashes."

"You mean... guns?"

"I mean guns," he confirmed. The Fremont was still ascending, but their plane was more than a match for it; it crossed off their left side, and Irene twisted in her seat to watch the ship for as long as she could.

"It's like nothing I've ever seen before," someone marveled. "Fremont, this is Red One. We can't climb with that--hold on--it's coming back around." "We see it. Red One, descend and clear the forward firing zone. Turrets are standing by." "Roger, Fremont. Abandoning pursuit."

Joe had them in a shallow dive, with the airship straight in front of them. There was a mechanical whirring from under her seat, and the rapid clatter of camera shutters. The Fremont's ball turrets were turning quickly: trying to track them, but to no avail.

Then they were past the ship; the plane snapped into a sharp roll and gravity shoved her down hard as Joe heeled the plane over and pointed it to the ground. Then she was floating--then crushed into the seat again--then weightless--her breath came in hard gasps. Out of the corner of her blurred vision she saw tracers from the machine guns, wildly off-target.

"Where'd it go? Where'd it go--damn it, I've lost it!" "We can't see it, either." They were headed for Mount Shasta, and only a few hundred feet above the treeline. "Fremont, what are your orders?" "Did you see any markings?" "Didn't see anything--must've been the Enclave, though, right?" "Probably. They're up to something--just heard we've closed the Redding field until further notice. Subversive activity; some kind of agent on the loose."

Both the airship and her escort fighters were now hidden behind a ridge, and she felt the plane begin to slow as the noise from the engines quieted. "Gave them something to think about, eh?" Joe asked. "I hope the pictures turn out to be useful. Yours were, apparently."

The Fremont's radio operator sounded nervous. "Uh, any luck finding them?" "No--they just vanished." "Right. Advising sector command that we ran into a probable American patrol just southeast of Shasta. Did they open fire on you?" "Negative, Fremont." "Let's not take any chances. Return to... guess Redding ain't gonna work. You got enough gas to make Eureka, Red One?" "Sure hope so. It's gonna be tight." "Well... try. We'll be right behind you."

She watched the ground drop away as their craft began to climb again. This time Joe didn't hold back: they crossed twenty thousand feet, and then twenty-five. Five miles below them, Klamath Lake glittered in the mid-morning sun.

"It's beautiful from up here," Irene said. "I can't help noticing that it doesn't look there's a border between the Republic and us. Not one you can see, at least."

"Nope. It's just like one of your drawings." Joe pushed himself back in the seat and twisted around to grin at the Border Collie. "Did you bring your supplies? Hoping to continue in Seattle, right?"

"I did, and I am."

"Kind of a shame you couldn't take 'em with you. I bet most of them'll get pulled down and destroyed."

Probably, Irene thought. "I think it was still the best use for them. I got tired of thinking of them as, uh, 'harmless fantasies.'"

"Oh? Subversive activity, you mean?"

She nodded, stretching forward to kiss his nose. "Fantasy isn't always harmless," she explained, and returned his grin. "But it's more than that."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes it shouldn't be."