"You know, they are using you," her mom accused, almost as soon as the conversation started.
Cheyenne stared at the blank screen. Her mom still wouldn't use the camera. "Who, who is using me?" she asked.
"Your picture, well, pictures of what's left of you anyway. They're everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
"Online. On TV, you name it," Mom answered.
Cheyenne had seen her picture on the news. "How does that constitute using me?"
"You're their little poster child for cooperation," Mom groused.
And that's a bad thing? "So? All I did was what I had to do in that situation. Any sailor would have done the same."
"You could have just said, the guns broke, you know."
"And millions would have died," Cheyenne protested.
"You would have been safe, and home by now."
Was she really trying to guilt Cheyenne for saving millions of lives? "No, I wouldn't," she said out loud. "I would still be at sea for another three weeks, just like I am stuck here for another three weeks."
"They want us to just roll over and lose our freedom," Mom said.
Cheyenne let out a groan of frustration. "Says who?"
"Everyone."
Cheyenne knew it wasn't everyone, it was a small number of conservative pundits and radio jockeys. They were filling the airways with fears that the Consortium would take over America and take away our constitutional rights, or gun rights, anyway.
It didn't help that Captain Ganaka, now assigned to the African Administration, had decided that the war torn country of Somalia needed to be "pacified." Consortium troops, using low flying troop transports, were systematically capturing outposts and removing all the weapons they found. The ships were virtually silent and equipped with stun technology, rebels would pass out and wake to find their guns gone. The rebels swore to fight on, but the Somali president, with the aid of U.N. Peacekeepers and Consortium troops, were rapidly gaining control of a country that had been no man's land for the better part of a generation.
Most rational people saw this as a good thing, Cheyenne thought. It took a special kind of person to twist it into the message that the Consortium was coming for our guns. But you can't argue politics with Mom. She sighed. "How are the kids?"
"Oh you know, James is telling everyone that's his mom on TV. That photo of the press conference with you and he together? He's taken it for show and tell every week since. It's practically all he'll talk about."
"Not about that," Cheyenne groused, "how are they doing, in general."
"That," it was obvious Mom didn't want to be derailed from her political rant, "James had a doctor's appointment. The school thinks maybe his Ritalin needs upped. He's been so excitable lately. Mackenzie's holding up okay."
Cheyenne wished she could be there. She wasn't sure James needed to be on Ritalin, at least not as much as he was. He needed more structure. He needed a good breakfast before he went off to school, not pop tarts or sugar cereal. When she got home, she would see to that. She'd talk to the school, too, not just blindly go along with medication at every request. When... she looked down at her hands and wondered when that would be.
"Cheyenne? Are you listening?" her mother's voice interrupted.
"Huh? Sorry, I drifted off," Cheyenne said.
Her mom barreled back into her political rant about how the President and the Consortium were using her, making her the hero for their new found friendship and cooperation. Cheyenne didn't bother interrupting. She wouldn't get anything useful out of Mom when she was like this. She'd wait until she got a chance to talk to Mackenzie.
Cheyenne didn't want to be poster child for anything. She didn't want to be a hero. She wanted to be a mom, to be whole and home with her kids. But that wasn't the whole truth. Part of her, a big part, wanted to be at home with her kids. Another part wanted to here, with Lana. She wanted a body whole enough to explore what these new feelings meant. That, at least, was something she might get.
######
The mood in the mess hall that evening was somber. The men were eating in clumps, as if an invisible wall surrounded three separate camps. The rape, the trial and the curfew, Dan thought, identifying the groups by what they were most angry about.
A number of the consortium crew, including Kavi herself, insisted they didn't hold the rest of the Americans to blame for what two men alone had done. And yet there was a table entirely of consortium healers and crew. They talked in low voices and their hands strayed to their translator collars at times, blocking it's actions so their words were not translated for the American's benefit. Their looks were more guarded and cautious.
At the back another table was entirely Americans. They mostly didn't wear translator collars and they ate in silence. Dan could guess well enough what sort of things they would be saying when they got back to the privacy of their bunks. Muttered remarks about being prisoners and how the consortium would never respect U. S. Rights.
The largest two tables was still a mixed crowd, if less mixed than twenty four hours ago. Dan found a plate and a place there.
"Curfew," Runningbear was muttering as Dan sat.
Next to him Aloka gave a big dramatic sigh. "Can't even come to our lounge..."
"Geez," Madsen groused. "Could you two give it a rest? Twelve hours. You'll be separated for twelve hours."
Aloka gave him a hurt look, as though he should understand that twelve hours was far too long for a love as deep as hers. Dan bit back a snort.