Dragonfly Vs Monarch. Charley Brindley

Mama,” Katrina said as she and Rigger walked into the living room. “What’cha been doing?”

      Rigger marveled at how sweet she was to the girl and contrasted that wonderful camaraderie he saw between them with the resentful, almost spiteful way Katrina talked to him. He envied a relationship so close, a mother and her little girl could call each other ‘Mama.’

      “Thinking,” Rachel said.

      “About what?”

      “That house with a yard back grass you told about.”

      “You mean grass back yard.”

      “And monkey box.”

      “Monkey bars.”

      “And sand box.”

      “Is that your gadget?” Katrina asked Rigger, nodding toward the mantel.

      Rigger looked at it, then back at her. “Excuse me?”

      “I said, what is that gadget?”

      He walked to the fireplace and reached for the object. It was an electromechanical device suspended in a solid block of clear Lucite. It measured exactly three and a half inches square. He rotated it to catch the light, admiring the precision milled parts and tiny gold-etched circuit paths running zig-zags over the octagonal silver cover.

      “It’s a triple-stabilized, self-calibrating thermionic gyroscope.”

      “Oh.” She took it from his outstretched hand. “Sounds dangerous.”

      “Only if you hold it too close to your heart.” He grinned at her.

      She held it away from her body and looked at the other side. “What’s it for?”

      “It’s part of the guidance system for cruise missiles.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes.” He expected some show of admiration, or at least approval.

      “Then you’ve killed a lot of people.” She handed it back to him.

      “Maybe I should’ve said it’s used in the guidance system of the Benedict Arnold also.” He put the gyroscope back on the mantel. “Or at least a variation of this one.”

      “Traitor?” she said. “The anti-cruise-missile missile?”

      He raised an eyebrow.

      “I’m destitute, not illiterate. There was an exhaustive article in Newsweek last month about the Benedict Arnold, also known as The Traitor.”

      Rigger had read the same article. During the second Gulf War, eight cruise missiles had gone astray, three of them killing civilians. The same problem had occurred in the Afghanistan war. It was during that war the Pentagon decided to proceed with development of the Benedict Arnold, which soon became called the Traitor. Its main purpose was to birddog the Navy’s Tomahawk cruise missiles. If one of them deviated from its course, even by as little as two degrees, the Traitor, which measured less than four feet in length, would instantly accelerate and destroy the errant cruise missile. Still an embarrassing mistake, having a highly developed weapon misbehave, but an airburst wasn’t nearly as deadly as having a confused cruiser fly through the window of a new bride’s wedding party. If the cruise missile performed as prescribed, then the Traitor would follow it into the target and add its own small contribution to the resultant explosion.

      The second reason the guys in the Pentagon E-Ring wanted the Traitor developed was for use against enemy cruise missiles. This was, perhaps, the more important mission; a mission they knew would play a leading role in next war.

      “Where’s your copy of the gyro for the Traitor?” she asked.

      “They wouldn’t let me have one.” He didn’t bother to add that the new model was still too hush-hush even for the developer to have one in his own home. There was also the Dragonfly project, but he felt no desire to invite any more animosity from her; she was hostile enough.

      “Now I’m impressed,” the woman said.

      Rigger stared at her for a moment, thinking it would have felt better if she’d simply slapped his face. “I’ll show you the bedrooms.”

      The words came out with a flinty edge, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He walked past her toward the hallway. He’d had enough of her surly attitude. After showing her the master bedroom downstairs and two additional bedrooms upstairs, he left her and returned to the living room to find the little girl.

      “What’s your name?” Rachel asked.

      “Rigger Entime.”

      She held Henry in front of her face, with the doll facing Rigger. “I don’t think so,” she said in her deepest voice.

      “Then what do you think my name is?”

      “God.” She laid Henry on the carpet and began removing the doll’s clothing.

      Rigger was taken aback. God? he thought. A god is a creator; not a destroyer. Obviously, she doesn’t realize who God is, or isn’t.

      “Well, Rachel…” He was lost for a moment. “I’ve been mistaken for a lot of different people, but never anyone as magnanimous as He.”

      She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. She then crooked her pointer finger, motioning him to come closer.

      He bent down.

      “There’s something I have to tell you,” she whispered.

      “What’s that?” he whispered, too.

      “I don’t like big words.”

      He straightened up. “Oh, sorry.”

      “If you’re going to use big words, you have to talk to Kat…I mean Mama.” She went back to work on Henry. “She knows about big words.”

      “Well, I’d much rather talk to you.” Rachel—Appearance – 10, Likability – 10, Attitude – 9, Usefulness – 7.

      “I think it’s right here,” she said. Henry lay naked on the floor between them, smiling up at Rigger. Rachel pressed her fingertip to the doll’s tummy.

      “What’s right there?”

      The little girl jumped up and ran toward the hallway, then down the hall to where Katrina worked in the bathroom. A moment later, she came running back and fell to her knees at the doll’s side.

      “Apengitus,” she said.

      “Apengitus?” He stifled a chuckle. “You mean appendicitis?”

      “Yes, and it’s got to come out.”

      Rigger went to the kitchen and came back with an assortment of flatware and three linen napkins. He laid out forks, spoons, and a butter knife beside the ailing Barbie doll.

      Rachel stared up at him, her eyes wide.

      “It’s okay,” Rigger reassured her as he knelt on the floor. “Henry won’t feel a thing. Now, I’ll be the doctor, and you’ll be the nurse. When I ask for an instrument—”

      She gave him a severe look.

      “I mean tool. When I ask for a tool, you’ll hand me one of those.” He took one of the white linen napkins, folded it twice, and placed it over Henry’s face. “Now she’s out. We can get to work.” He flipped a second napkin into a triangle and tied it around his face, outlaw mask fashion. He placed the third napkin around Rachel’s face in the same manner, tying it in the back.

      Rachel took her place on the opposite side of Henry, glancing from Rigger to the doll.

      “Butter knife,” he said, holding out his hand to Rachel as he pressed an index finger to the doll’s stomach.

* * * * *

      Ten minutes later the operation was over, the offending appendix removed, and Henry still slept under the napkin.

      Rachel and Rigger looked up to find Katrina staring at the two masked operators on either side of a naked doll, with a collection of