The picker rolled across the field with a camel's gait, swaying left then right with a gentle lurching momentum, punctuated by an occasional rise and fall that left the seated pair suspended almost weightless on the opposed benches. The pace was snail-like.

Each girl was tethered to a single horizontal pipe that ran the length of the wagon behind the benches. Below the pipe, behind the picking bench, ran a slow moving belt which fed back to a hopper. The truck rolled up onto a furrow, straightened out, aiming down the row to slowly began its harvesting pass.

The grapevine pickets marched through the open gap between the benches. Sienna's gloved hands flicked out, cutting a cluster of black frosted grapes from a passing vine then tossed the bunch behind her onto the hopper's moving belt. This was the second time the sergeant had let them out onto the fields to collect the fruit and Sienna was becoming practiced at it. Lucille sat across from her, eyes flicking along the marching plants, hands moving with the swift deftness of long experience.

Her son Leslie drove the rig as he had yesterday while Private Pickfield, chewing a piece of green vine, rode shotgun. The heavy brown stock of his post rifle was jammed down between the passenger door and the seat. Its business end leaned against the truck's dashboard. Gilda was absent this time tending to kitchen duties and the sergeant wouldn't let any of the others out into the fields.

Suddenly with a startling crack, the rifle disappeared and the mid-afternoon quiet filled with the sounds of gunfire and shouting men. Lucille looked up bewildered, squinting through the slat sides of the carriage.

Private Pickfield spat the vine end from his mouth and jerking open the cab door, stood half in and half out of the truck to look back over the field. Several men were running from the cover of the wood across the break and into the vineyard, making for the big mobile launcher the mercenaries had set up there. Private Pickfield scrabbled at his belt holster, pulled out a formidable looking handgun and took aim at the dashing men.

Leslie let the steering wheel go and lifting both legs from the floor, kicked out at the soldier's legs shouting, "Ma! It is Papa! I saw Papa coming!"

The truck bounced over the furrow with a sharp snap to the right as Leslie let the wheel go. Private Pickfield, jounced by the picker's motions, was already half in the air when Leslie's kick shot the soldier's feet out from under him. The mercenary tumbled from the truck, cursing furiously.

Sienna's tether snapped taut as she was pitched forward, and Lucille barked her nose against the carriage wall leaving a smear of blood on the wooden slats. Leslie recovered control of the careening truck, and pointed it toward the racing figures now scattering among the vines of the field's edge.

"Stop the truck! Stop it!" Lucille screamed at her son, frantically working the tether latch connecting her to the safety rail of the truck. Sienna recovered her balance and grabbed the bench with both hands. The noise outside was now a constant din. Unable to see anything from the bench, she concentrated on keeping from being bounced from her precarious hold. Leslie managed to slam on the brakes, stalling the truck before it upset. Then he pushed open the cab door and raced off toward the estate militia scuttling through the field's vines. Lucille finally free of the tether, threw herself into the cab and tumbled out the door in pursuit of her son.

"Leslie, no! Come back!"

Sienna unhooked her tether and climbed into the cab. She could see the puffs of smoke and hunched figures dodging along between the furrows towards the launcher. Mercenaries surrounding the launcher crouched and fired in defence.

It was into the no-mans land between the two groups of contesting men that Leslie ran. His mother,struggling to catch up, raced after him. Lucille heard a chattering burp. A line of rippling dust kicked up behind Leslie, who jerked and fell from sight beneath the arbors. Lucille's screaming was unending.

Avery crawled between the plant rows, watching the almost colorless Wavies winking in and out of sight as they closed on the Launcher, the mercenaries weapons evaporating as they passed. A lone grape harvester was in the field, and during the initial rush, it had veered off, careening towards his position.

He toggled the field communicator and raised Herr Muller. "Now! Mr. Brown's friends are up to the truck. Take the launcher! Daniel and I will control the field. Fire the missile."

The radio crackled with Herr Muller's response, but Avery's attention was drawn to the truck, that suddenly braked. The driver's door flailed open, and his sister's son flew out of the cab, running pell-mell towards Daniel, who crouched not forty yards away. Forgetting the radio, Avery shouted at Daniel, pointing at the boy. Daniel rose up, his face a mask of fear, waving his arms. "Down! Get down!"

An armed mercenary rose from beneath the launcher and took aim at Daniel. Avery could see the burst of smoke from the muzzle as it rattled against the merc's shoulder. Daniel pitched to the ground, and Avery swung up his rifle, took a bead on the merc and fired. The merc fell. Avery refocused his attention to where he had last spotted Leslie. All that could be seen was the bent over back of Lucille, who was screaming. Avery hunched and ran through the arbor rows toward her.

Herr Muller spat and cursed, crawling through the field. He fumbled at his belt for the radio controls then commanded, "Go! Go, go go! Get zem!"

A ragged line of workers ran forward, firing. They didn't hit anything, but the wild shots kept the remaining mercs flat to the ground about the launcher. The Wavies had made it to the missle site, and with a succession of pops were disarming the confused soldiers there. Muller scrambled erect and trotted off after his men cursing and puffing.

Sienna lowered herself from the truck cab of the picker. The firing had stopped, and she could see Avery, who was now standing over Lucille, pulling her upright in the arbor at the spot she had seen Leslie fall.

Sienna limped through the rows toward the pair in a daze. So this is what a battlefield looks like, she thought. Damn Gregory to hell. The green grape vines still shivered quietly in the mild summer gusts and sunlight threw deep black shadows between the field rows. Nature went on unabated, unconcerned over the death of one young boy and his father, or the shaking sobs that wracked the hapless mother and wife.

Herr Muller bent over the fire control panel of the launcher, squinting alternately at the instruction sheet Diocullis had sent, and the control board, muttering. His workers stood over the spread-eagle mercenaries, post rifles aimed. There was a click and a whirr. A rotating light came to life atop the launcher, and a deflecting blast panel elevated into position. A loud buzzer sounded, and with a roar and a cloud of smoke, a tall white cylinder sped away into the bright sky. The contrail arced up then down again, and everyone standing watched a half-sphere of fire grow in the distance where the St Croix dome stood. The dome disappeared in the resulting explosion, as a rending thunder shook the air. The crew cheered.