“Church, Church, Church — Jackalope, over.”
Andi scowls at the radio. Jackalope ain’t even a mech; Cindy-Lee was a Fleet gunnery officer, entire other ass-end of the theatre to any deployment that Vin or Andi saw. Jackalope’s just a big ol’ pickup, really, with the suspension replaced and big all-terrain wheels slapped on it. She hauls stuff around for folks, comes out when mechs break down out on the range, lends a hand when people find something out there that’s difficult to haul in.
“Jackalope, Jackalope, Jackalope,” she says. “I ain’t out today, can’t help you, over.”
“Church, Church, Church, don’t be a jackass, over.”
“What do you want, Cindy-Lee?”
“Aw, you’re mad now,” Cindy-Lee says complacently, “you’ve broken radio protocol. Over.”
Andi pointedly ignores the radio for ten minutes.
“Church, Church, Church, this is Jackalope. Christabel Singh just loaded me down with a platoon’s worth of zucchini bread and I’m headed up your way. You’re takin’ some baked goods whether you want ‘em or not, over.”
“Negative, Jackalope,” Andi tells her. “We’ve ascended to a higher plane of existence and can’t eat another bite of fuckin’ zucchini bread ever again, over.”
“Already told you,” Cindy-Lee says. “Whether you want ‘em nor not, Andi, over.”
Andi stews about it for another five minutes before picking the mic back up.
“Vin put you up to this because she’s out of town,” she accuses.
“No offence, Andi, you’re the most ornery motherfucker for half a hemisphere,” Cindy-Lee says right back. “Of course I’m checkin’ on you for Vin.”
“Well, still breathin’,” Andi says, grip on the mic tight enough for plastic to creak reproachfully. “You’ve checked.”
“Do I sound like I’m jokin’ about the zucchini bread, Andi?” Cindi-Lee says patronisingly, and turns up half an hour later, Jackalope rattling down the trail to park in front of Andi’s cabin.
Cindy-Lee goes to the cabin first. Andi can hear her open the screen door and yell; finally Cindy-Lee comes to the barn, hauls herself up the access rungs to peer into Church’s cockpit, where Andi is nested in a quilt and fur-lined earflap hat, eyes red-rimmed, shotgun stuffed down the side of the seat, a nested stack of empty self-heating noodle cups perched on top of the console.
“Andi,” she says, without pity, which is just as well, because otherwise Andi might fix to shoot her. “Vin’s been gone, what, three days?”
“‘Bout that,” Andi allows, through her teeth.
“You been out here the whole time?”
“‘Bout that.”
Cindy-Lee looks in at her. “I’m gonna unload zucchini bread into your pantry until the truck’s empty or you come stop me,” she says, and climbs down.
“You’re why nobody likes Navy!” Andi yells after her, untangling herself from the quilt, staggers out to Jackalope, and blocks the door when Cindy-Lee tries to come back for a second armful.
“You stink, Andi,” Cidy-Lee says.
“I’ll shower when you stop tryin’ to palm all that off on me!”
“Would I take advantage of your back bein’ turned,” Cindy-Lee pouts, hand over her heart.
“You’d shank a man in the back for a cookie,” Andi says, and shoos her back to the cabin. “You get one mug of tea and then you can get off my mountain.”
Cindy-Lee sits herself comfortably in the spare rocker, where Vin usually sits. Andi swallows the urge to haul her out by the collar and throw her off the porch, and Cindy-Lee looks at her with beady eyes over her mug of tea and knows, watches her and slowly drinks half of it, silent and peaceable.
“Andrea,” she says finally.
“No,” Andi says. “Fuck you.”
“Last winter,” Cindy-Lee says implacably. “When she went to see her nieces an’ nephews and piss off their parents. You know what she said, when she asked me to check on you that time?”
“Fuck off, Cindy-Lee,” Andi says furiously.
“Looked at me and sniffled and went, Every time, I’m scared I’ll come back and she’ll have — the shotgun, maybe.”
Andi takes the half-empty mug away from her. “Get off my porch,” she snarls.
“Behind the barn, prob’ly,” Cindy-Lee says mercilessly. “Somewhere there won’t be a mess to paint over, not to be a burden, ‘cause Andi thinks like that.”
“Shut up.”
Cindy-Lee shuts up, but not for long enough. “You know she’d stay if you asked her, Andi.”
“I heard that Navy officer trainin’ loves scenarios,” Andi says, shaking, mean. “Scenario, gunny: you’re on the ocean, you and your pal, ditched in a life raft. You’ve got all the little life raft kit, whistle and fish hook and a little anchor. Where in your fancy officer training does it tell you to wrap the anchor chain around your pal’s throat and throw it out?”
Cindy-Lee does shut up, then, for a bit, looks at her with something a lot like pity, eventually gets up and walks down the porch steps.
“Every time,” Andi says after her, “every time I think, maybe this time, maybe she calls and says I met someone, I ain’t coming back. Maybe this time I can stop dragging her under—”
“You tell me,” Cindy-Lee says, lips judgementally pursed. “You tell me whether you’ve ever even once told her out loud that you love her, Andrea.”
“You think someone worried about blood on the paintwork would leave her with that to clean up?” Andi says, loud and bitter.
“You,” Cindy-Lee says, climbing into her truck, “are a saints-forsaken, despicable cowardly shit,” and aggressively slams the door.
Andi stoops and throws a rock after Jackalope’s receding tailgate. “Scram!” she hollers, and waits until she’s sure Cindy-Lee won’t hear her to yell, “And anyway! She don’t even — I ain’t coming second to that woman’s fucking mech—” and punches her knuckles bloody on the porch post.
