The Lost Apostles by Brian Herbert Page A

seated near Zepeda, also under restraint and attended to by Fujiko. These were the three that Lori felt certain she could not trust. There were also a pair of middle-aged matrons and the scholarly translator Michelle Renee, all of whom Lori had decided not to lock up, and who had the primary responsibility of taking care of the children.
    Still four months shy of her sixteenth birthday, Lori felt much older than that. In Seattle, she had felt twenty, from the emotional development she had undergone with her friends. Now she felt twice her actual age, and she had shown enough force of personality to take control of this helicopter. Even Councilwoman Fujiko Harui seemed to accept that. At least, Lori was willing to give her the opportunity to prove her loyalty. The diminutive woman had displayed remarkable courage, and obviously felt deep sadness over not being with her daughter.
    “I have to start the tandem engines to test them,” the pilot said, climbing up into the cockpit by the separate hatch. “Even if I engage the rotors, we can leave the electronic camouflage on.”
    Not entirely trusting her, Lori followed her into the cockpit, carrying the handgun.
    Moments later, with the two of them sitting side by side, the engines whined on, then grew louder as the pilot moved a lever.
    “They don’t rev to full power,” the pilot said, making a face of disapproval as she accelerated and decelerated the linked engines. “I’ll have to take the fuel system apart, to see if sand got into it.”
    “How long will that take?”
    “A day if it’s only the fuel system and maybe the air filters, longer if it’s more than that.” She tried the engines again, shook her head in disgust, and shut them down. “Lucky for you, I’m the best aviation mechanic at Monte Konos.”
    When the pilot resumed working on the engines, Lori remained close, where she could see what was going on, and could prevent the pilot from taking the aircraft and flying off with it.
    Within a half hour, engine parts were spread out on a plastic tarp that had been laid on the sand. The air was motionless, not blowing gritty particles, but the pilot said she was prepared to cover the parts quickly if necessary, and she would wipe all of them off before reinstalling them. Now Lori felt confident enough to venture a short distance away, where Fujiko was still trying to play with the children. She had a tunecube out now, with popular music blaring from it. Kneeling by the little girls, Fujiko passed the small device around to them. Each examined it with only a little curiosity, sometimes fiddling with the dials and changing the settings and tunes.
    As Lori approached, she noticed that Fujiko began to cry, and then looked away when the teenager approached, as if embarrassed. “What’s wrong?” Lori asked.
    “I’m sorry. One of the songs on the tunecube reminded me of my daughter. I wish we could go over to Dixie Lou’s camp and break Siana out, but that could get her killed. I don’t even know if she’s still alive, but can only hope. I feel like a coward, like I should do something more.”
    “You’re doing everything you possibly can,” Lori said, kneeling and putting her arm around Fujiko’s shoulders.
    “Thank you.” The Asian woman wiped her tears away.
    Lori noticed the four toddlers looking at her simultaneously, eight eyes gazing in unison, as if from a single entity. Momentarily, she focused on each of the little people. Their eyes were filled with wisdom, experience, and compassion, but tinged with an eternal sadness. They were not the eyes of children, and hardly the faces of children, either, when she studied them closely . . . just small in size. She felt as if she knew them, as if she understood why they didn’t play enthusiastically with Fujiko. They had more important things on their minds. But she only sensed this, without specifics.
    And the specifics were driving her crazy. Lori felt as if she had the weight of the world