They say the best lies are based in truth. I have on my hands several truths to support one enormous lie.

It doesn’t take long for a search party to find me. I’m not hiding and there really isn’t anything I could do to make my way back to the base any faster.

When questioned, I insist on speaking only to my mother or to Elmer. The only direction I give as to where the car went after I was removed from it is to say that their allies have them.

What I don’t know for sure is whether any of us actually have any allies left at all. It will be very hard to argue that I am not working against our resistance’s interests when they figure out that it was my gun that shot the other fallen soldier. If they ever figure it out. Terry’s sub gun uses the same ammunition as my sidearm. I didn’t even know the dead man’s name and that doesn’t make it any easier at all.

I’m starting to wonder if I will ever get out of this hole. Every time I think I’ve found a way out of it, something happens that gives me a reason to go right back into the tunnels.

The search party brings me back the long way. Apparently there are concerns that the shortcut tunnel has been compromised and it is in the process of being rigged for demolition. The ride back into my claustrophobic nightmares is most discouraging. I try to compose the truths that build up the lie before I will be confronted by anyone more imposing that a few strangers.

When I’m placed in mom’s professional office instead of her kitchen I know for certain that the bodies have already been found.

Mom sits at her desk, still dressed in her combat uniform. The desk is an old wooden door resting on two stacks of cinder blocks. The room is round, but not a natural formation. It has the same dimensions as one of the grain silos, but lacks the feed funnels at the top and bottom. A crack, perfectly centered behind mom’s chair, shows how this rock formation was abandoned for the original task it had been hollowed out for. Enormous steel arches add strength to the walls that the crack gives the impression of weakness to.

I stand in front of the desk. Mother places her little tablet computer down in front of her, folding her hands across it to hide the contents from me.

“I know what the data says,” her voice is colder than I’ve heard before, “tell me what you say.”

I inhale deeply.

“It’s my fault.” A truth, and a painful one for me at that.

“I brought a Troo to the base.” Another truth.

“His allies tried to help him escape.” Also truth.

“I don’t know how he was found out.” Still true.

“I’m not sure where he went, but he thinks I will work with him. I can get information out of him.” The lie, and only partially untrue at that.

I realize right about now that I have been gripping my wrist behind my back the entire time. The spot where Tromeo touched feels warm, but I know that I’ve rubbed off all trace of dried blood several times over by now. I just want to have some memory of him. And all I have to remember him by right now is sweat and my cousin’s blood on his hands.

“Wasn’t that your goal before?” Mom moves her hands to look at some detail on her tablet. “Did you misjudge him once already? Two people are dead, July Chapel. And one is my nephew.”

“I didn’t get a chance to stop it from happening.” I answer with the truth again. “Terry almost shot me.”

“You were there?” Mom looks at some diagram on the tablet.

“Yes. I thought that getting him out would be the best way to prevent his allies from hurting anyone else.” Not entirely true, but not entirely false either.

Mom nods. Her posture relaxes visibly. I’m not sure what I did right, but she seems convinced.

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“You know,” she says, “if you lied and said you weren’t there, I’d have to have you executed. Daughter or not.”

Tears fall down my face unbidden. I didn’t realize at all how close I was to losing everything. I didn’t realize that she could do that so easily. I did not realize that her genocidal crusade against the Troos would drive her to execute her only surviving child.

And I make up my mind that I cannot let her win. I cannot let this war go on for a single moment longer than necessary.

“What should I do?” I grip my wrist with tight fingers. My nails bite into the soft, defenseless skin.

Mom looks me over again, taking in the state of my dress, my mussed hair.

“Why did you bring the Troo here?”

“I wanted him to meet you.” Completely true. Just leaving out some of the other things I wanted to do with him before making that introduction. I’m a married woman now and I did not want to lose precious time waiting for a meeting to end or for her availability to open up for me.

Mom just turns her head and squints at me and that is all the questioning it takes for me to give more detail.

“I really did. I thought if you could talk, maybe we could have real dialog that would help.”

“I guess he does trust you.” She lowers her gaze, and then turns the tablet over completely. “So, do you think you can work the same magic on Trooaris?”

“Trooaris?” I hate sounding like a parrot.

“Yes.” Mom smiles at me. “I’m not an idiot. You brought him here so he could have sex with you and having indulged in his perversions you’ve now gotten us an inside man. I want you to do it again with their prince.”

I feel sick to my stomach. She’d kill me and she’d pimp me out. I could vomit.

I need a way out of this.

“I think I can do that.” The words escape my mouth before I can think of a way to get out of this demand of hers. I need a way out. I let her guide the rest of the conversation, just agreeing to any request.

And when her interrogation is complete, I leave and head immediately back to my little hole in the ground. Tromeo’s clothing is still there on the floor, bright white uniform wrinkled where it lay.

I flop down on our bed to cry. It still smells like his presence. Several blue feathers sit among the blankets, fallen free from the friction event that had taken place. I collect them, each and every single one of them, so very carefully. I have a small handful when I stop finding more of them to rescue.

I don’t know what else to do with them. I gather them up and tie the little bundle with a piece of string. If I cannot have a wedding ring, then I will have this memory of our time together in a secret place. Pulling the curtains that hang on my wall aside, I tape the piece of string to the wall and then close the curtain again. When I point my lamp in just the right direction, I can see the faint outline of the bundle on the fabric.

His clothing goes into my pillowcase. It is an obvious hiding place, but much safer than leaving the pile on the floor. And while she was ready to have me killed, mom was also ready to take me at my word. I do not expect my room to be searched thoroughly.

I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to wash away the memory of him.

Instead I brush my hair to tidy myself, knowing that I’m going to have to take that shower eventually.

And this is how Elmer finds me.

“You don’t usually go into hiding in such a small place,” he says from the other side of the closed door. I must assume that he can hear me moving around in here.

“No, I guess not.” I glance around the room for anything else that needs to be hidden. There really isn’t anything here but my handgun. The magazine is still short by two rounds. I try not to think about them.

"What do you need?”

How do I even answer that question? What do I really need?

“Get me out of here.” I sniffle hard and try to remove the salt from my cheeks by rubbing my fists against my face. “I want out.”

I hear a motion against the door and realize it’s Elmer picking the lock. It takes so little time for him to get it open that he might as well have had the key.

Elmer opens the door and I see he is already carrying a bundle of clothing in his arms for the second time in so few days.

“I thought you might.” He puts the bundle on my bed. “This job only works if you’re here because you want to be. We can’t have burnout taking out our people instead of enemy action. You can always come back when you’re ready.”

The mind boggles.

“What are you saying?”

“Go. Get out of here. Live your life in the shadows of petty tyrants without having to worry about getting shot or have your hole collapsed on you. I can’t get good work out of anyone by telling them I’ll kill them if they don’t.”

I reach out and open the bundle of clothing. There is a pair of plain civilian pants and a soft fine cashmere sweater. I have worn a uniform most of my life. My clothing has been provided for by the remains of our nation’s military. I have not owned anything as nice as this sweater since before the Troo attacked.

“I raided your mom’s closet.” Elmer shrugs. “I have an exit plan ready for you if you’re willing to trust me.”

“I have to, don’t I?”