Final impact

Ronsard unloaded another Gallic shrug on her. “You know I cannot say. You, however, I have heard all about. If you did not want to join me in Scotland, you had only to say so, you silly girl. There was no need to run away with Patton to end our affair.”

“Asshole.” She smiled. “You hear I almost got waxed?”

“They told me,” he said, the levity disappearing from his voice. “They said the fascists tried to murder you, along with some GIs.”

Duffy sighed, feeling ragged and all too fragile.

“They killed all those boys,” she said, shaking her head. “Woulda killed me, too, but I was so covered in mud and crap by that stage they didn’t see that I was wearing matrix armor. I don’t think they even realized I was a chick. And the boys kept it quiet, God bless ’em. It was kind of a rush job. Not up to the usual efficient SS standards when it comes to atrocities. Himmler is gonna be pissed.”

She found a relatively comfortable position and settled into the pillows. “So if you can’t tell me where you’ve been, can you at least say where you’re going?”

“Back to Scotland, like I told you. I was delayed in France by a broken heart.”

She chuckled, and then winced at the pain. “Jesus, Ronsard, you’ll fucking kill me where the Nazis failed.”

Julia felt the ship climb up a precipitous wall of water, hover in the air, and come crashing down on the other side with an almighty hollow boom. In her specially constructed bed she was hardly troubled, but Ronsard had some difficulty keeping to his feet.

“You wanna hop in with me?” she asked.

“Well, I-”

“I don’t mean in that way, Filthy Pierre. I couldn’t put out at the moment if my life depended on it.”

Ronsard gingerly hopped up on the bed, making sure not to squash her. “So, you are on your way to hospital back in England then?” he said. “And I could come down from Scotland, perhaps, when you are well enough to, what was it, get the leg over?”

Duffy patted him on one leg. “Nice thought, but I’m going back to France.”

“You cannot be serious, surely?”

“I am, and don’t call me Shirley…sorry, old joke.”

He looked confused and for a sad, terrible moment she was reminded of Dan. Looking back on their relationship, he’d sported the same poleaxed expression more often than not.

Okay, that was a little unfair. Dan had been in love with her, truly, madly, and deeply, as the saying went. And he’d had that thing Halabi spoke about, that self-satisfied look all men get when they think their woman is the finest piece of ass in the room. He was a great guy, but in the end he just got confused.

Confused about why he loved her. Confused about why she couldn’t be what he wanted. Why she couldn’t give any more than she was willing to give. And why that was so little compared with what he’d come to expect of a woman. Most painfully she remembered the complete and utter incomprehension contorting his poor, sad, beautiful face when he discovered that she had aborted their child and sterilized herself.

Compared with that, Ronsard’s bemusement was minor.

“Don’t bother, Marcel,” she said. “I’m from another world. You’ll never understand.”

He held up a hand in protest. “Non,” he said, and she detected a deep sadness behind his martial faзade. “I think I understand only too well. You forget I have been at war, too, cherie. I was with a woman recently who made a decision that she had to leave and run toward danger. She felt she had no choice.”

“And did she?”

“Have a choice. No. And did she go? Yes, she did. And now she is dead, which is why I am able to sit here talking with my beautiful American from another world.”

He reached out and stroked away a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. It was a tender gesture.

“Was she a lover?” Duffy asked, surprised to find out that she cared about the answer, but not so much one way or the other. A strange feeling.

“No. A comrade.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Such is war, no?”

“I suppose so.”

Ronsard took her hand, and they sat in silence for a minute.

If he’d seen this room two years ago, he’d have known that Hitler was doomed.

Stepping into the CIC of the Trident was akin to passing into another world. The merest glance at the giant video wall that dominated the hexagonal space was enough to explain why the Allies had seemed almost omniscient at times. In effect, they were. There were too many individual display units for Brasch to be able to count, but all he needed to see was the eight networked monitors that took up three sides of the room. As he stood in front of them, they seemed to enclose him, providing a view of the entire European theater that was godlike. The density of information available was beyond his ability to interpret.