Right Terry thinks I have a concussion, but Left Terry is only agreeing with him because they’re technically the same person.

When the little copter crashed we were not exactly high off the ground. And it was mostly spinning in place at that point too. And we both were flung free from it before it hit the tree and caught fire and had its remaining ammunition reserve go up in a great conflagration.

So the good news is that the enemy definitely isn’t going to be able to track us using any of its onboard communications devices. And the bad news is that there might be a little bit of a forest fire in the works.

I wobble slowly to my feet, and feel instantly nauseas and wish I had done so much more slowly. But I’m thankful I still have both of my feet. And Both Terrys appear to be completely intact.

But come to think of it, Right Terry might also be Correct Terry.

With the crackling of burning debris at our backs, we head into the wind that filters through the thick forest. There is just enough of it that I feel secure that we will not be chased by any fires we cannot outrun.

And if I remember correctly, this should also be the direction that our planned escape route should be headed.

I am in no state to remember anything with accuracy. I have to rely completely on the Terrys. Only one hand grasps my shoulder and guides me through the woods. Some small trail, probably from deer or poachers, gives us an easy path to follow. Neither Terry is really in good enough shape to be climbing over any difficult terrain. I can see that they walk with a limp despite the armor protecting their limbs from harm.

I envy his combat gear. The mission required that I be disguised in one of the violet uniforms the traitors who chose to work with the invading Troos are forced to wear. The thin microfiber fabric clings to my sweaty skin and leaves me feeling miserable and vulnerable. Even his boots are better than the pair I stole from their commissary.

While moving at our slow limping pace, the cold night air slowly helps the Terrys coalesce into a single entity once more. And I remember that we have an emergency beacon. I reach into the bag and fumble about uselessly for a few minutes.

It takes me longer to find the little toggle than it does for me to begin to hear the roar of a tank engine in the distance. Mel must have exited in the same direction as the copter’s half-hearted flight.

When it arrives, the headlights are both broken off and it offers no light in the dark woods as it tramples small trees that have the luck to be in the way of the maruading monster.

Commander Gosin barely slows the thing down before popping her head out the hatch. The tank does not even come to a complete stop before Terry has grabbed it and hoisted himself up onto the side. He hooks his arm under my armpit and yanks me onto it as well.

The tank never manages to come to a complete stop. We’re up and onto its back before that is made necessary. I can tell by the way her mouth is moving that Mel is saying something to me from her commander’s perch. I have no idea what it is.

It’s probably some kind of criticism.

That’s fine. I probably deserve it.

There is a long and very uncomfortable ride from these woods to our hidden destination. I make said ride without complaint.

The ride across the countryside takes us over hills and down what’s left of some old highways that wind and follow the terrain. If I weren’t clinging to the back of a tank whose driver I’m fairly sure wants to shake me right off of it and whose commander would not argue with that choice then it might have been downright pleasant. The long and circuitous route takes a few hours, but the hidden base is much closer to the Troo-occupied fortress than one might suspect. In a prior world, we’d still be in the same state.

The base is hidden beneath a hill, with immense metal blast doors painted with very special materials that disguise heat and radar while also looking rather much like they’re an empty septic field behind an old, burned out school. They creak open when we approach and thud shut as soon as we pass through. It is still full dark outside, and there is little chance that we have been followed, but protocol is that the doors stay closed as much as possible, so the doors stay closed.

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My fingers are cold and stiff when the tank permits us passengers to disembark. Inside the base it is warm and dimly lit. I slowly flex my knees and roll my feet around to loosen my uncomfortably stiff joints after the uncomfortable ride. Terry does the same, refusing to look in my direction while doing so.

Mel pops out of her hatch again and the tank falls slowly silent as the engine cuts out. The sudden hush of the loudest thing in the room makes the entrance space feel like it echoes with every breath. As my hearing adjusts, I catch the sound of the ventilation fans humming their constant tuneless drone, and so many people busy at the work of keeping the Resistance alive.

I hang my head in shame without really listening to what the tank commander is saying.

“July Amber Chapel, when are you going to learn that you’re not an army all by yourself?”

The woman who says the first thing I do listen to is not Commander Melanie Gosin. It’s my mother, our fearless leader. She strides forward from across the vehicle bay with stiff steps that click the heels of her boots sharply against the cement floor. Her graying hair looks even more pale than usual in the flickering fluorescent lights.

“I’m sorry Mom?” I offer in appeasement.

“Oh July,” the steel in her spine softens. “You know I worry about you? How do you keep getting into these kinds of messes?”

I nervously rub my temple. My fingers find a zit, and I am filled with even more embarrassment than just that of having my mother dressing me down like a kid in front of the people I am supposed to be working with as a professional.

My mom pulls me into a hug. She pats my hair and I feel comforted by her presence.

“I mean it though, sweetie.” She continues, her voice low with her face close to my ear. “You need to realize you do not have to solve every issue. You could have been extracted much sooner.”

I shake my head.

“I could complete the mission, Mom,” I answer plaintively, “I knew I could do it. You wouldn’t expect anyone else to have backed out early.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she promised. Mom then gave orders to my friends and comrades, insisting that they all get a good meal and be looked at by a medic before they even begin to worry about a debrief.

I said something noncommittal and we turned to walk together to the smaller door to where the barracks are.

I do not get the same treatment as those who formally volunteered to be under her command.

Mom guides me through the labyrinthine maze that are the tunnels carved from the stony hill to a small natural cave that has become her own private home after our original home was destroyed by the original invasion. It drips when it rains overhead, but all of the spaces in here do that. What we lack in damp protection we make up for in stalactites.

I’m forcefully sat down at the narrow table that is the only seating in the space that is Mom’s private kitchen. Most of us refugees don’t rate a private kitchen. And she only managed to get one by being the one in charge and by taking the natural cave instead of having a space carved specifically for her.

It’s a relief that we don’t have any bats. There’s no exterior exit to this section of cave.

Mom takes out a tablet and stylus and begins to write. I know there is a lot to say about what went wrong, and I’m not in a hurry to say it.

“I want you to know,” she starts, “that before I say anything else about this last mission, I am proud of you.”

I’m surprised. That is not what I expected at all.

“What?” I’m not eloquent.

“You made mistakes, definitely, but you managed to recover from them with grace. None of the people who went with you into there died. And while your objective was information, you managed to crack a nut we had given up on instead.

July, I want you to know that you have accomplished a great thing tonight.”

I put my head down on the table, cradled in my arms, and I begin to cry.

“Mom, I killed someone.” I sob, my heart finally feeling the weight of the evening. “Probably a lot of someones. And I almost got killed myself.”

“Oh honey, no.” Mom caresses my hair gently. I can feel her pulling twigs and bits of debris out of the tangles. “It’s always okay for you to be afraid. You handled it so well, really, I could not demand better of you.”

I want to ask her if she felt this way about all the Troos whose deaths were her fault. But I remember how I had a father before the invasion. And I know she feels so differently about them.

But it doesn’t make me feel any better. I think about how many people were still down in the basement of the fortress when I lit off the explosives. I think about how they probably have mothers too.

And I cry.