Quest: Sauce for the goose

Quinn was explaining to Dysen the incredible thing Milo and Guillermo had asked him to do.

If it had been almost anybody else, he would have rejected them out of hand.

Benicio’s spies said the target date for the invasion was April 18, give or take a few days. He would have to be brain-dead to allow his forces to go haring about the countryside, shacking up with their girlfriends when the tsunami from Ann Arbor was expected to come crashing down upon them.

Dysen held her tongue. Quinn had a lot of energy around this issue.

Quinn dismissed the possibility that women could be farm managers. He doubted they could put in a crop, even if Guillermo disked up a half acre at each farmstead.

Quinn knew in his heart that the process of granting farmsteads would create dissension, anger and envy because some would be winners and some would be losers.

It was just a bad idea any way you looked at it.

As Quinn started his third time around the same race-track, Dysen asked him “If your gut says it is a bad idea, then why don’t you just reject it?”

Quinn looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “I don’t know. For some reason I just can’t bring myself to do that.”

Dysen hesitated for a second. The situation was crystal-clear to her but if she moved too quickly for Quinn to connect the dots then he would jump to the wrong conclusion.

“What was your biggest worry last week?” Dysen asked.

“No, don’t tell me. I will tell you” Dysen continued.

“We had a third of our fighters desert before the first shot was fired. Your biggest worry was that the other two-thirds will be gone before the echo of the first shot died away” Dysen guessed.

Judging by the expression on Quinn’s face, she had nailed it.

“Let me ask you; does my being here make you want to fight the invaders more...or less?” Dysen asked.

Quinn deflected. “You won’t be here once the guns go off. I am sending you back to Capiche.”

Dysen waved her hands in a dismissive manner. She was a quarter Italian and had expressive hands. “No matter. Even if I am behind the lines...will you fight harder knowing that I will be chattel if you fail?”

Quinn was a little bit fuzzy on the definition of “chattel” but it was clear from the context that Dysen would be little more than a slave if Quinn failed.

Indignant, Quinn rebuked Dysen “How can you ask that? I will make any sacrifice to keep you safe. I will kill a thousand of them if it spares you a single pain.”

“How many fighters do we have?” Dysen asked, seemingly changing the subject.

“Four-hundred-seventy-three, at last count” Quinn said. He didn’t know where this was going.

“If every one of them has something they are dedicated to protecting, SOMEONE they are dedicated to and want to protect...why would you think they are any less determined to protect their own than you are to protect me?” Dysen asked.

“Now, General Spackle, I am going to give you three direct orders. Take off your clothes. Shut up. Join me in bed” Dysen said.

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