John Mosby's Scenario:  A Rescue                                                          
by jonwI'
August 4, 1999

John stared down the barrel of his pistol.  His good eye 
could see straight into the forbidding black hole.  It made 
no sense.  He had survived.  He had friends, hell, he even 
had the schooner, a home and a livelihood wrapped into one.  
He had something to do, something to occupy his time.  And 
still he was staring down the barrel of his gun, on the 
verge of killing himself.  So many dead.  So many comrades 
gone.  Why should he still be around?  Why him?  So many 
better men than him had died; so many with more promise, 
with more to live for.  He saw them most every night, in his 
dreams…..  He couldn’t call them nightmares anymore; they 
held no terror.  He’d been through them way too many times 
for that.  Still, they robbed him of rest, and dragged him 
back to things that he’d sooner forget.  Things he’d wished 
he had never done, or could do over.

His most recent dream had been one of the more frequent 
ones.  One of the more powerful ones.  Definitely one of the 
more distressing ones.  He’d been leading a patrol through a 
city.  The guerillas had launched a new year’s offensive, 
and had largely taken the city.  His troops were trying to 
hold on, until reinforcements could arrive, to take it back.  
They were patrolling the borders of the portion of the city 
they still held, trying to keep the enemy off balance, to 
detect growing troop concentrations that might indicate an 
assault, and to do what damage they could.  They’d just 
passed through an alley, narrow and dark, a perfect place 
for an ambush.  They’d been ready, on guard, but nothing had 
happened.  As they exited, into a small square, into the 
sunlight, John could feel his troops relax, and he turned to 
warn them that they couldn’t let down their guard.  He’d 
gotten a few harsh whispers out of his mouth when the 
shooting started.  The guerillas boiled out of the buildings 
ahead of them, and to one side, shooting.  John’s initial 
impression was that they would have done better shooting 
from cover, as most of his patrol was now in the open, but 
then it struck him that many of the attackers carried clubs, 
scythes and machetes.  They had to close, to attack; they 
didn’t have enough weapons.  As the smoke of battle swirled 
around him, his SMG stuttering, growing hot in his hands, he 
turned and saw her.

She was a young girl, maybe 16 years old.   Like most of the 
locals, she was a mouse-morph, slender and short, the 
traditional dress slit to the hip over loose pants swirling 
as she turned.  He looked at her and thought she was one of 
the prettiest girls he’d seen in this forsaken country.  As 
she turned, as she caught sight of him, her face contorted 
in hate, and her weapon, an ancient rifle rose, to point 
towards him.  He considered for a moment, just standing 
there.  How could he destroy such beauty?  They only wanted 
the foreigners out of their country….  What right did he 
have to kill her?  Even as his mind debated, his body acted, 
the muzzle of his SMG rising, to buck in his hands, 
stitching red blossoms across the front of her dress.  And 
then the smoke of the battle closed over her, and he moved 
on, instinctively, trying to rally his troops against the 
assault.

He stared down the barrel of his gun, and sighed.  He 
couldn’t do it.  He’d always had enough religion to prevent 
him from following through.  His God forbid it, and with all 
he’d done, with the life he’d led, he knew he didn’t want to 
add that to the list.  In fact, he should be in no hurry to 
explain himself at that final judgement……..  And his father.  
God might forgive him, but how could he explain his life to 
his father, explain what he’d become? 

Kara watched the Coyote exit her seaplane.  Through the 
whole flight, he'd been nervous, fidgiting….  And now he 
stood on the dock, bag in hand, staring not at the resort, 
but at Mosby's Schooner.  Convulsively, as if the sudden 
recipient of a shock of electricity, he started down the 
dock towards the ship.  Kara shook her head and smiled at a 
young couple, obviously on their honeymoon, as they exited 
the seaplane.  When she looked up again, the Coyote was 
gone.

The steps on the deck above his head snapped the Lion out of 
his reverie.  Suddenly the pistol was back in his hand, the 
hammer back, the safety off.  Instinct was taking over 
again; who could be there?  What could they want?  Hank had 
left three days before, for the birth of is latest 
grandchild.  Sylvia and her family would be busy with the 
arrival of the seaplane.  There were no charters 
scheduled…..  Moving quietly, the Lion stalked towards the 
companionway.

"Allo?  Kapitan Mosbee?"  The Coyote looked about the deck 
of the small ship, so full of ropes and strange devices.  He 
knew there had to be a way down from the deck, but he was 
unused to such ships, and could not find a door, or a 
staircase…..  As something slid back on the boxy structure 
at the back of the ship and a head emerged, he whirled, 
trying to make sense of it all.

John looked at the Coyote and frowned; "Must be someone came 
in on the Seaplane" he muttered to himself as he lowered the 
hammer on the pistol.  Tucking the weapon into the chart 
drawer by the companionway ladder, he hauled himself onto 
the deck; "Can I help you?" 

The Coyote looked up wide-eyed at the scarred, half nude 
Lion with the piratical eyepatch and gulped; "Says you can, 
he does, Yes…….  And hope you can I do as well!  For the 
need, it is great, and the time, it is so short……"  John sat 
on the edge of the deckhouse and looked at the Coyote; 
"First, WHO says I can ….. help?"  The Coyote's tension 
eased a bit as he found he no longer had to stare UP at the 
Lion; "Field Marshal Forrest…  A friend of a friend at the 
Embassy, he said that if I went to the Field Marshal, that 
he might know someone who could help me find my Nina….."

John listened, trying not to smile as the Coyote paced, 
talking animatedly in a thick accent, waving his hands 
about.  It seemed that he was engaged to a girl by the name 
of Nina, an Arctic Fox.  However, they were both recent 
immigrants to the Freelands, and Nina had gone back to the 
country of her origin, to the province of Koslovsko, to get 
permission from her family to marry.  And that was where the 
problem lay.  While she was there, another bout of violence 
had broken out, and this time, instead of a few "incidents" 
it had devolved into full-scale civil war, along ethnic 
lines.  And it seemed the Arctic Foxes were the minority……  
The Coyote, who's name was Ioseph Seplaplovik, was looking 
for someone who could go in and get his fiancee and his 
future in-laws out.

"You understand, this could well be a lost cause.  They 
could all be already dead.  The news IS full of stories of 
massacres of civilians there."  The Coyote nodded; "Know 
this I do, and still, done it must be.  For me to at peace 
be, know I must.  Money I have, and willingly will I pay.  
John nodded; "I figure it'll take me …. Four days to get 
there, three days to infiltrate, another week for the 
"extraction", and then another Four days to get back.  The 
standard contract calls for half down, half on completion, 
successful or not, plus expenses.  I figure that'll come to 
about……. Ten thousand down, and another five thousand upon 
completion."  The Coyote's ears folded flat to his head, and 
his eyes widened; "so much?……."  John shrugged; "If they're 
all dead, I'll be back sooner, and the expenses will be 
less….  But if I can get them out, well, just think of how 
much that many airline tickets would cost…."  The Coyote 
stiffened, and nodded; "Pay I will, and gladly; just bring 
my Nina safely home to me….."

John stuffed his flack vest into his haversack, and then 
reached for his thermal underwear.  He may have been able to 
live in just a pair of shorts in the Islands, but Koslovsko 
was in the mountains in the other hemisphere, and it was 
winter there.  As he tucked his pistol into its special 
compartment in the bag he smiled; "I might not be able to 
kill myself…… but that doesn't mean there aren't other ways 
to accomplish the task.  Maybe I can get someone else to do 
the job for me… and if I'm in the process of trying to do a 
good deed at the time, well, that might work……."

Rale and Lucas kept somber faces as the Lion instructed them 
in the care of the Schooner while he was gone.  Bilges to be 
pumped.  Decks and superstructure to be washed down every 
other day with fresh water, to reduce salt spray corrosion.  
Mooring lines to be checked, especially in the event of a 
storm.  And it wasn't to leave the dock, unless the Sergeant 
Major returned.  Other than that, they could do as they 
wished.  As he hefted his bags and headed for Kara's 
seaplane, Rale looked at Lucas and stage whispered; "Do you 
think he'd mind if we got into the beer?"  Lucas grinned 
back; "Probably not, as long as its not ALL gone when he 
returns….. but Mom'd Kill us!"…….

Kara looked the Lion up and down.  He was dressed in a 
safari shirt and slacks, with a vaguely military style.  And 
he had that look….  Staring down at his bags, the Vixen 
frowned; "We're not going to have trouble with the metal 
detectors in the airport again, are we?  The Lion just 
smiled.

It had taken four flights and three days just to get to 
Kozakistan, and another LONG day on a crowded bus to reach 
the village on the border.  The roads were all clogged with 
refugees streaming in the other direction.  From there the 
Lion had simply walked across an unmarked, unguarded section 
of the border.  Stopping in a thicket, the Lion had changed 
from his more civilian garb, to his "cammies."  The pack 
with his old clothes was hidden; there were clothes in his 
other bag, in a locker in a bus station in Kozakistan…..  
and in this part of the world, he was scarcely dressed 
unusually.  Hefting his submachine gun, the Lion stalked off 
into the brush.  The villiage he was headed for was over a 
hundred kilometers distant……

Sometimes, in tense circumstances like that, life seems to 
come in disjointed segments, like a slide-show.  As the Lion 
moved through the woods, through ankle deep snow, constantly 
watching for any sign of pursuit, for the patrols he knew 
must be about somewhere, things took on a surreal aspect………

The rebels had died hard, among the rocks.  The battle had 
happened an indeterminate time before, all the corpses 
frozen stiff in the snow.  The vulpines, most of them Arctic 
Foxes, had been armed with a mish-mosh of weapons, and 
equipment.  The other forces, he couldn't quite call them 
government troops although they wore the uniforms, were much 
better equipped.  They were almost all Snow Leopards, and 
there were fewer of those as frozen corpses.  It looked as 
if two patrols had happened across each other, and wiped 
each other out.  The Lion looked for maps, or other 
intelligence that might help him pass through the opposing 
forces, but finally he gave up.  Even the surviving radios 
were dead, the batteries frozen solid.  Finally he turned 
and resumed his trek.

The snow was deep here, its surface a hard layer that he 
crunched through as he moved, making MUCH more noise than he 
was comfortable with…..

That night, he slept in the remains of a burned out church, 
as it snowed.

In the morning, the water in his canteen was frozen, and he 
had to risk using a heat tab to melt snow in his canteen cup 
to get a drink…….

He swung far to his left, away from the road.  The sounds of 
the fighting ahead was sharp in the cold, crisp air.

He squinted at the sun, and then at his SatNav… if he turned 
left here, he could cross the ridge and pick up the road on 
the other side, missing a village and saving a half dozen 
kilometers…..  Turning, he moved deeper into the woods.

The culvert had held some sort of a bomb.  The armored car 
had obviously been crossing the culvert when the bomb had 
gone off, as it was a good two dozen yards away, upside-
down.  There had been no survivors, but the corpses had been 
mutilated, and left on display….  The Lion looked briefly, 
and then moved on, paralleling the road just inside the 
treeline……

His rations tasted like modeling clay, and had a similar 
consistency.  Still, they took the edge off his hunger…….  
He walked as he ate.

He watched them through the spotting scope.  A ragged line 
of Snow Leopards in winter camouflage.  One of them had a 
hand-held thermal imager….. but he was looking the wrong 
way.  Slipping down below the rock, the Lion turned and 
moved crosswise to their path.  They shouldn't be that hard 
to evade….  As long as they didn't spot him.

The ambush wasn't for him, but he had almost stumbled into 
it anyways.  Keeping away from trails and paths didn't mean 
that you didn't occasionally have to cross one.  And it was 
only by sheer bad luck that there'd been an ambush set up 
just down the trail from where he was thinking about 
crossing it.  The only thing that saved him was the fact 
that one side or the other had come down the trail, passing 
almost right in front of him, and stumbled into it first.  
As he low-crawled through the thicket, he thanked the Lord 
that it hadn't been him….. but then, if HE had gotten there 
first, would more lives have been saved?

The second night found him perched in the crook of a tree, a 
dozen feet off the ground.  Something had awakened him from 
a fitful sleep….. holding as still as he could, he watched 
as a group of vulpines, also in winter camouflage passed 
beneath him.  They were almost close enough to touch.  The 
Lion knew that the eye was drawn to movement, and until they 
were out of sight, he dared not even breath…….

The line of burned out cars, trucks, and busses were all 
civilian, and they looked like they'd been hit by an 
airstrike.  Even in the cold, the stench of death filled the 
small valley, and the Lion hurried on.

He checked the map, and then his portable SatNav, and then 
turned to once again study the small village through the 
spotter's scope.  Or at least what was left of the small 
village.  Half the buildings had been burned.  There was no 
smoke from the chimneys of the remaining cottages, no 
footprints in the freshly fallen snow.  No sign of life.  
Settling back, he decided to just watch for a while.  If 
there was another ambush, he'd see a sign eventually.  If 
they were all dead, the delay wouldn't matter……

At dusk, he slipped in towards the village, moving in, in a 
slowly narrowing spiral, checking around the periphery of 
the village, and then into the outer buildings.  He moved 
slowly, watching for boobytraps, although the snow made that 
hard.  Here a door was amateurishly wired to some 
explosives, waiting for someone to pull it open.  There, 
between two buildings, there was a tripwire, but the way the 
snow drifted had betrayed it.  The can of food, left 
prominently on a table was obviously a boobytrap, as was the 
book left on a chair…..  Finally, towards the center of 
town, he found them.

Whoever had come, had herded the civilians into the church 
in the center of town, and there they'd been shot.  Machine-
gunned by the looks of it.  And then the building had been 
burned.  But the fire hadn't caught properly, hadn't 
consumed the building the way it had obviously been supposed 
to.  The roof was mostly gone, but the walls still stood.  
In the fading light, he methodically worked through the 
clumps and groups of bodies, comparing them to the picture 
Seplaplovik had given him.

It was almost completely dark when he found her.  She'd been 
beautiful, but her face was twisted in pain.  The older male 
fox had partially sheltered her, and she'd only caught one 
bullet.  But that'd been in her stomach…….  It'd been a hard 
death.  The way the bodies were grouped, it was obvious that 
the family had huddled together.  Laying them out as best he 
could, he fished in his pack for the camera.  The flash and 
the film were infra-red, and shouldn't give him away……  He 
used the whole roll, thinking that some war-trials 
commission somewhere, some day, might be able to use the 
evidence.  Putting the camera away, he took his folding 
shovel and stepped out into the churchyard.  The ground was 
frozen, but only for the first half foot, or so………

By the time he'd finished burying them, it was dawn.  Wiping 
his hands on the seat of his pants, he collapsed his shovel 
and stowed it in his pack.  He was heading for the door when 
he slowed…..  The fire had burned the roof, and the inside 
of the church was covered with several inches of snow, a 
curious combination of soot and pure white.  He'd buried the 
Vixen and her family, but hadn't had the energy to bury 
everyone in the church.  There were just too many of them…..  
As he'd passed one jumble of corpses, amongst so many, 
something had caught his eye.  One of the bodies shrouded in 
white….. looked less white.  As if the snow had partially 
melted.  The rising sunlight was reflecting off of it 
differently.  Turning back, the Lion knelt, to softly dust 
the snow from the face with one paw.  It was a little Fox 
kit, about four years old.  Like so many of the vulpines of 
the village, she was an Arctic Fox.  Her eyes were open, and 
she was deathly still, but she was breathing……  The Vixen 
she was clinging to was obviously her mother.  There was no 
male of a suitable age to be her father anywhere nearby, but 
there appeared to be Grandparents and siblings…..  Her 
family had shielded her from the bullets…..

For a moment, the temptation to simply stand up and walk 
away.  She wasn't his problem.  It simply wasn't his 
business……

The flashback was sudden, unbidden, and unwelcome.  He was 
cleaning up the inside of their tank, just puttering about 
while the unit took their break.  It was during the summer, 
that tropical summer, on the coast of the South Inland Sea, 
and his unit had been running patrols.  Sweeps through the 
hamlets and villages, looking for the guerilla forces, and 
more often than not, not finding them.  Even a single tank 
carrying a squad of infantry on its deck could be seen a 
good ways off, giving the guerillas time to hide, or flee…… 
or set up an ambush.  But Command wanted it done that way, 
and hence they "patrolled."

They'd stopped at a roadside vendor, for a cool drink.  
These vendors, mostly mama-san's and their pre-teen 
daughters were endemic in that tropical country, catering to 
the traffic on the road….. The rules required someone to 
stay in the tank, just in case, and this time it was John's 
turn…….

The explosion rocked the tank hard, a difficult thing to do 
given the fifty tons of inertia the tank had.  John found 
himself in the gunner's seat without any idea of how he'd 
gotten there, the turret swinging to the left, the side the 
explosion had come from, seeking a target, seeking the 
attacking forces…..  but after a quick, complete circuit, 
nothing was seen.  He ran the turret around again, slowly, 
studying the rice paddies and the jungle through the ten 
power gunsight….. nothing.  Confused, he grabbed his SMG and 
hoisted himself through the Tank Commander's hatch, to slip 
over the side….

The scene was a bloody mess.  Bodies littered the ground.  
Pieces of bodies littered the ground and the soil was dark 
with blood.  The flies were already swarming, feasting.  
Looking around, the Lion's eyes fixed on the Sergeant Major, 
who was standing there, his arms held out from his side, 
literally covered in blood.  Rushing over, the Lion growled; 
“where are you hit, Hank?”  The Sergeant Major just looked 
up at him; “Nowhere; not my blood.  Hoskins there stepped in 
front of me just as the bomb went off; threw him back 
against me.  John looked at Hoskins; he was a mess, 
obviously dead, perforated by shrapnel.  John slung his SMG 
and bent to do what he could for one of the troopers who was 
starting to moan, even as he asked; “What happened?”  The 
Sergeant Major was much too much the veteran to stay shocked 
for long; he started moving, stripping field first aid kits 
off the dead, moving towards those that might still be 
saved; “We’d bought drinks…….  Yours is around here 
somehwhere……  This little kid came running up with a basket.  
Looked like he was just on his way to deliver lunch to Mama-
san in the fields, and was curious about us.  He just stood 
there and watched, and then suddenly there was an 
explosion……."

In that area, with a guerilla war, you never really knew who 
was the enemy.  Those that sold you a cold drink by day with 
a smile might try and kill you at night.  And the enemy was 
NOT above using children for their own purposes.  One time, 
they’d even found kids as young as about 14 among the dead, 
carrying assault rifles…..

John looked at the young fox kit, debating with himself.  
Kids could be the enemy.  Exfiltrating with a child could 
lead to death.  Hers and his.  It wasn’t his problem, his 
responsibility.  But despite all the arguments, he couldn’t 
just leave her there.  Moving over, he bent to look at her.  
Her eyes were open, unblinking, but yes, she WAS breathing,   
“I can’t leave you here” he murmured, realizing that she 
probably didn’t understand a word he was saying.  Trying to 
move slowly, and put forth a reassuring attitude, he gently 
picked up the kit.  He thought he was going to have trouble 
for a moment when he had to pry the kit’s paws off its 
mother’s cloak, but then the kit was in his arms.  
Carefully, he headed from the village, for the treeline.

Boris Stefanovitch watched the figure depart, and scowled.  
Whatever it was, it wasn't one of the hated, godless 
Vulpines….  And it certainly wasn't one of the Uncia.  And 
the very fact that it WASN'T one of the Uncia made it the 
enemy.  Waving to his patrol, he moved along the treeline, 
circling the village, just in case there were more of the 
enemy hiding there…….

Lions are sprinters, not long distance runners, and yet the 
Lion ran as hard as he could, heedless of the trail that he 
was leaving.  Distance was needed right now, and a lead on 
any pursuit that might be following.  That was sure to 
follow, for some instinct told him his departure had not 
gone unobserved……  He moved through the wooded hills, 
through the snow as best he could, alternately running, and 
walking, checking his hand-held SatNav every few minutes, 
until he just couldn't go any longer…..  In a sheltered 
vale, he found a group of fallen trees.  Scooping the snow 
out from between several of the trunks, he laid his 
waterproof ground cloth down and then nestled the Kit on it, 
wrapped in his blanket.  "You stay here" he whispered in the 
kit's ear, and patting the bundle reassuringly, he turned 
and retraced his steps…….

The Claymore was pointed back along his tracks in the snow, 
the tripwire perpendicular to them.  And he was crouched in 
the bole of a large tree, just watching.  It was amazing how 
few folks checked the trees when they walked, especially if 
they were following tracks on the ground.  And most folks 
forgot that Lions could climb……  it hadn't even been a half 
hour since he concluded his preparations… barely time for 
him to get cold and stiff in his hiding place, when he saw 
them.  Shadowy, ghost-gray forms moving silently through the 
snow, flitting from cover to cover.  It didn't matter who 
they were at this point, John was sure that a patrol from 
either side would see him as the enemy….  It was debatable 
which of the two figures hit the trip wire first; in any 
event, the claymore went off with a bang, its cloud of ball 
bearings propelled by the strip of plastic explosive mowing 
down at least two of the patrol, and probably a third.  No 
one's reactions were THAT fast.  After a moment, heads 
started to come up, and the Lion carefully sighted down the 
barrel of his SMG.  His weapon stuttered, shifted, and 
stuttered again.  And then again.  That left one, and sure 
enough, after a moment, he broke and ran, still not knowing 
where the fire was coming from.  A fourth burst took him 
down as well.

John dropped from his tree, glad the patrol was so small.  
Anything larger and he would have had trouble……  As if by 
instinct he checked the bodies.  He'd done his work well, 
and they were all dead, at least by the time he got to them.  
They were all Snow Leopards, too.  A couple of them were 
quite young, but probably of the minimum age for military 
service.….  His training had him collect all the documents 
he found, as well as the weapons and ammunition.  Maybe 
someone would think, should they ever be found, that the 
other side had conducted the ambush……

The weapons he hid amongst the fallen treetrunks, when he 
reclaimed the Kit.  She'd been just where he'd left her, 
staring up at him with wide eyes.  Gathering her up, 
stuffing his blanket and groundcloth unceremoniously into 
his backpack, he turned and resumed his trek.  The Border, 
and what passed for safety beckoned.

It had, as he thought, turned out to be a little girl.  When 
he stopped to rest, a good hour beyond where he'd conducted 
the ambush, he'd dug through his pack looking for something 
to eat.  She hadn’t expressed much interest in his field 
rations, but that wasn't surprising.  The stuff wasn’t very 
appetizing.  To the point where the jokes about it had 
become endemic.  However, she’d been horribly thirsty, 
draining his canteen.  A while later, of course, she’d had 
to pee, and that’s when he determined her sex.  At least 
she’d been potty trained………

It was only by his SatNav that he'd known he'd crossed the 
border.  His destination was a different village from where 
he'd departed the bus, one that wasn't hosting one of the 
massive refugee camps, or full of relief agency types.  It 
was just a bit off what passed for "main roads"…..  As he 
walked, as he put miles between himself and the border, his 
SMG moved into his pack, and the camera found its place 
around his neck.  With luck, he though, he might pass as a 
photojournalist, a war correspondent… He had documents to 
lend credence to that, not that he expected anyone to 
believe him……

The innkeeper shrugged, and the Lion nodded resignedly. The 
refugees had found their way here as well, and there was no 
room left in the Inn.  He was able to get them both a hot 
meal, however, and he felt a whole lot better afterwards, 
even if the Fox Kit had just picked at her food.  Watching 
her from the corner of his eye as she sat forlornly at the 
table, he padded over to the Inn's "front desk" to inquire 
if they had a telephone, and how much it might cost for him 
to use it.

The Cab looked like it had been through a strafing attack.  
The front and rear windshields were gone, the side windows 
starred, and the body had random holes through it.  Some of 
them as big as his fist.  But the sound of the engine belied 
its looks……  The Lion grinned and hugged the Cheetah; 
"Hello, Franz, good to see you again."  The Cheetah just 
chuckled; "and you, my old friend.  I won't ask you what 
brings you to Kozakistan.  Whatever it is, it IS good to see 
you again!"

As they drove, with the Fox Kit between them on the front 
seat, the Lion filled the Cheetah in on where he'd been and 
what he'd found.  Franz wasn't surprised; "Stories like 
that, I hear every day.  It is bad over there.  But I tell 
you, I'm making a small fortune driving the wealthier 
refugees back from the border, and then bringing food and 
relief workers back again.  I hate to profit from other's 
misery, but….."  The Lion just nodded.  After a while, he 
grinned; "Tell me, is Heinz still in business?"  The Cheetah 
just laughed.

"Some day I will have to come and visit you and the Sergeant 
Major on your boat!"  The Lion grinned; "you'd better!  Show 
you a side of the planet I bet you've never seen before.  
But in the meantime, you take care of yourself, Franz!"  The 
Cheetah just waved as he sped off, a pedestrian down the 
street hustling to get out of the Cheetah's way.  Picking up 
the Fox Kit, nestling her in one arm, stooping to pick up 
his pack with the other, the Lion turned and looked at the 
nondescript building in front of him……

The orphanage was bedlam.  The number of refugee war orphans 
had so far outstripped the facilities that there were 
children sleeping in the halls, and in the yard.  And the 
few adults there were running around, almost frantic trying 
to get ANYTHING done.  The Lion watched for a while, from 
across the street and then shook his head.  Turning, he 
moved off, the Fox Kit held in his left arm, his pack in his 
right paw…….

 “Heinz, you’re not the best forger in the world, not even 
the best forger in this area; but you’re here, and I’m here, 
and therefor you’re going to do a job for me……”  The Ermine 
looked at the big lion with a mixture of greed and fear; 
“Only, Meinherr, if you can meet my price…”  The lion nodded 
and they got down to some serious dickering.  In the end he 
traded the documents he’d taken from the pursuers, and a 
moderate amount of credits, for some passable documents for 
the child, declaring her to be his niece by adoption, from a 
brother he didn’t have.  It wouldn’t withstand a rigorous 
scrutiny, but it would do to get them home.  And he knew 
others that could do a better job of inserting the child’s 
“history” into various computers, later.

They caught a ride on a truck to the next town, where he 
reclaimed his bag from the locker.  From there they caught a 
bus to the nearest city with an airport. It took about 28 
hours of steady flying until they were back in the 
Freelands, siting in the departure area of the airport, 
waiting for Kari’s seaplane.  Along the way, he’d purchased 
a translating dictionary, and he was slowly working at 
getting the little girl to talk.  Mostly her responses were 
monosyllables.  Still, she was now telling him when she was 
thirsty, or hungry, or had to go to the bathroom……

Kari saw John sitting in the waiting area, a small, quiet 
form next to him, leaning into him, as if sheltering from a 
gale in the lee of his bulk.  The flight was comparatively 
empty, and when she’d dealt with the other passengers she 
wandered over, to sit on the other side of the little…… 
girl?  The snow white little vixen looked up at Kari with 
blank eyes, scarcely registering her presence.  Kari looked 
at her for a moment and then looked up at John, one eyebrow 
quirking upwards in a silent question.  John stroked the 
little girl’s hair with one paw, looking down at her; “War 
orphan” he muttered as if that explained everything.  Kari 
was about to inquire further, when her last passengers for 
her flight showed up, a raucous squirrel family, and by the 
time she’d gotten their tickets squared away, John and the 
little girl had boarded the seaplane.

The flight was relatively short, as always, and Kari found 
no time to go back and talk with John.  She did however get 
on the radio to WaterWings and ask Bethany if she knew 
anything about what John was up to.  Bethany told Kari about 
the very nervous coyote, and John's trip to try and find his 
fiancee.  When Kari told Bethany what John was returning 
with, they both only became more confused.

The coyote was waiting on the dock when Rale and Lucas tied 
up the seaplane.  John emerged from the cabin, the child 
carried in one arm, his bag over his other shoulder.  Seeing 
the look on his face, the coyote let out a wail of despair, 
to which John only nodded wordlessly.  John handed the 
coyote the envelope full of pictures, and without a word 
turned to walk slowly down the dock towards the schooner.  
The coyote turned and staggered towards the beach, where he 
sat down heavily to begin looking through the pictures.

The fox kit looked at the schooner, perhaps the first real 
interest showing in her eyes, and she turned to look at the 
lion carrying her; “Komgst ca ehrig?” she said in a small 
voice.  John had his hands full, and couldn’t reach the 
dictionary.  Instead he just shrugged and said “home”.  
Dropping his bag at the companionway, he pushed the weather 
cover back and carefully carried her down the steep steps, 
to the “main salon”, the biggest room on the schooner.  
Moving back aft, he opened the door to the tiny stateroom 
next to his “owner’s cabin”, and softly laid her on the bed.  
The porthole was already open, and he turned on the fan to 
get some air moving.  Sitting down next to her, he fished 
the dictionary out of a pocket and tried to pronounce her 
word for “home”.  She looked at him for a moment and then 
nodded, snuggling down on the bed, her head against the 
pillow, asleep almost instantly.

He watched her breath for a while and then went up on deck.  
The Coyote was sitting on the beach, scattered pictures 
around him, just staring out to sea.  Returning below just 
long enough to fetch a bottle of whiskey, he walked down the 
dock and across the beach, to sit next to the stricken male.  
Uncorking the bottle he took a long swig and passed it to 
the coyote; “here, this’ll help”.  Wordlessly, the coyote 
took a long pull, and then choked, spluttering as the raw 
whiskey burned his throat.

It was much later that night, when Sylvia and Kari walked 
down to the dock, and out to the schooner.  The lion was 
seated on the floor of the corridor, just outside the little 
girl’s room, the almost empty bottle in one hand.  He wasn’t 
asleep though, although what he saw, where he was staring 
into space, was anyone’s guess.  Sylvia bent down to look at 
him, and in the dim light, his face turned slowly to look 
back.  Sylvia glanced into the room, where the kit was 
sleeping quietly, still hunched against the pillow, and then 
back down at the lion; “What are you doing, John?  Where did 
she come from?  Who does she belong to?”  John just sighed; 
his voice was slurred, but he seemed to make sense as he 
spoke.  “In order, probably making a hash of things, as 
usual, from the village the coyote sent me to, and as best I 
can tell, all her relatives, through great grandparents, are 
all dead.  There was quite a vulpine community there, 
including a large number of arctic foxes, and they’re all 
dead.  All of 'em.”  He turned to look up at Sylvia; “I got 
there too late to do anything about it.  I wish I’d gotten 
there sooner, but even then, I’m not sure I could have done 
anything to stop it."  Kari stared at the little girl, as 
Sylvia and John talked, her own mind wandering paths best 
left untrodden, thinking of her own little girl and her 
untimely death.

Sylvia shook her head; “Honestly John, there must be 
agencies to take care of that kind of thing; folks that will 
look after and care for orphans……”  John just chuckled; 
“ever seen one of those orphanages?  Cattle are treated 
better.  I swear I could turn her loose on the street in any 
city in the Freelands and she’d be better treated.  I HAD to 
get her out of the fighting, to some place where she 
wouldn’t be hunted and killed, just because of her species, 
or her background.  I may not be able to do much for her, 
Lord knows I’m not anything like a role model, but even what 
I can give her is more than she’d ever get back there.  The 
Lion took another long pull from his bottle, finishing it.  
Cocking his head to one side, he looked up at Sylvia, and 
then flicked his gaze towards the still silent Kari; “do you 
know someone willing, who’s better suited to taking care of 
her?”

This story, Captain John Mosby, and Sergeant Major Hank 
Schmidt are copyright its author.  Sylvia Slipsunder is 
copyright Todd Sutherland. Any comments, suggestions, or 
complaints should be addressed to hbkhm@huber.com.  Flames 
should be addressed to the nearest drunken Kzinti, Kilrathi, 
or in a pinch, Klingon.