Book 0: FIELDS OF FIRE Chapter viii

There was nothing the engineers could do about the Oceanic ship Freen. Ordinarily, a Thuringi ship could travel through the wormholes of space and execute a leap across vast distances in hardly any time at all. Theoretically, the three general population quarter ships could be strengthened to withstand the trip through the wormholes if they could get the proper materials to do so and if they had a few years’ time to reinforce the ships. And if they could be certain the Shargassi would not attack again during that vulnerable time.

Even granted the ability to meet that challenge, there was simply no way to insure the safe passage of the Freen. The powerful forces which propelled the wormholes were simply too overpowering for the fragile ship and its precious cargo of water and Thuringi sea creatures. The Freen was too massive to propel any faster through space safely. The engineers worked frantically to build the ship in time to be able to hold usable oceanic water while it still existed. They were aware of the distinct shortcomings of its structure but considered themselves lucky to have built it at all. It was general consensus that structurally and realistically, there was no practical way to improve the Freen enough for wormhole travel.

Gareth and Maranta discussed options and Gareth drew up ideas and designs largely to satisfy his own personal curiosity. Maranta saw the possibilities and useful potential in Gareth’s efforts and brought them to the attention of the ship designers. Maranta made certain his favorite mechanic was credited for his hours of toil and Gareth made many friends among the ranks of the design engineers. Gareth went on to design the filtration system to keep the Freen’s waters clean but had no hand in designing the ship itself. He did design and build some of the independent fighter ships protecting the fleet.

He went over and over the designs to find a better way to protect the delicate ship. He spent much of his off-duty hours in his quarters with a bottle of brandy in the floor of his front room with the hard copy plans, trying to figure it out.

Carrol's eyes were closed as she slumped in a chair on the observation deck. She just finished the common task of helping sanitize the main dining hall's kitchen and she was tired. She heard footsteps approach and smiled to herself. Perhaps it was Gareth Duncan. She was so weary right now; having him there would save her the trouble to look for him. He always made such boisterous conversation. One could never be certain what might spring from those impertinent lips except it was bound to be entertaining.

"Hello, Princess.” The unfamiliar voice made her eyes open quickly. He was a pilot from Darien's ship, the Solenil. She knew his name. What was it? Than something. Than Moran, that was it. His hair was thin which made his braid look like a child's skip-rope, but he had a jovial attitude and often led the singing at cantina gatherings. His smile appeared wider than his thin face if that sort of thing was remotely possible.

"Hello," she returned, and adjusted into a more respectable position than a slump.

"May I join you?"

"Well, of course." It was not her observation deck, after all. He could join her if he wished. Evidently, he did, because he began a conversation with her. It was a pleasant way to spend free time, and she welcomed the company. He walked her to her quarters casually when it was time for her to go and then went on his way. After that, she found he sought her out more and more, as well as other warrior and civilian men who 'just wanted to chat'.

It did not occur to her that her widowhood was considered about at an end. Life went on, and she was an attractive single woman with an interesting and even provocative reputation. It was not until Than kissed her cheek in farewell one day that Carrol realized what happened. "Please do not do that. I am not comfortable with it."

"I apologize, Your Highness," Than told her understandingly. "But you must certainly realize how a lovely woman can be so irresistible to a man."

It happened again the next time they were together. He put his hand up under her chin gently and raised it slightly for a kiss. She suffered it but drew the line when he pressed for more. "I cannot. Please stop." She rushed inside her quarters in a panic and slammed the door behind her.

"Your Highness?" Than's voice called out worriedly. "Are you unwell?"

"Yes. No. I am a widow, for God's sake!" she cried. "Go away!" She heard nothing more outside her door, so she went in to sit on her bed. A tear trickled down her cheek.

When would she stop panicking inside every time a man looked at her? She was past the pain of losing Maranta, but she still missed him. She missed his voice, his laugh, the respect he had for her that had nothing to do with being a Phillipi. He knew she disliked the incessant title of "Princess" so he made a point of treating her like an ordinary citizen whenever possible.

Other Thuringi followed the rules of etiquette out of respect for the Royal House of Phillipi and she could not complain since it was the proper thing to do. Unfortunately, she felt like a glass figurine, precious and treasured and breakable, until some men recalled that here was a woman who carried on a secret love affair with the Warrior General. When they did, she experienced the brash hormonal equivalent of saber-rattling from them. Male Thuringi songbirds called laurens displayed their brilliant plumage and fought other males to attract a mate. Human conducted similar displays utilizing mission medals on their tunics and the promise of unmatchable passion. Carrol did not want to be seen as a potential mate, merely as a - a good match, as her old grandmother might have put it. She did not want their calculated passion. She was lonely, not empty.

Gareth’s door buzzer sounded. He picked his way over the Freen plans to answer it, balancing carefully in order not to disturb the layout. It took a considerable amount of digging through the interior of the Steag Hallid to locate the rest of the paper schematic printouts but given the size of the ship, printouts were the only practical way of dealing with the details of a mile-wide ship. Flatscreens were good for digital work but Gareth liked old-fashioned drawing-board engineering.

He made it across the room and opened the door. “Are you well?” Carrol asked, peeking in. “What happened to your floor?”

“The Freen happened to my floor,” he explained in a grand voice as he ushered her in. She made her way over to a chair. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thank you.” She glanced around as she sat and wondered about the plans on the floor.

He swayed a little. “Good, I think I am out.”

“Then why did you offer it?” She gasped as he lost his balance and fell headfirst into her lap. He pushed himself up and grinned at her.

“Just wanted to be polite,” he laughed. “Am I doing a good job?” She stammered, unable to form an answer. Gareth was obviously on the receiving end of an impressive amount of brandy. The alcohol neither helped his balance nor further curbed his inhibitions. It did coax his smile into lighting his face, a worthwhile sight to Carrol. He got to his feet and gestured at the now misaligned layouts. “Well, little sis,” he said, using the term he remembered Brent Ardenne use to refer to her, “the vacuum of space is going to get a little wet if I do not figure out this mess.”

“You plan to figure it out all by yourself?” Carrol asked.

“Why not?” He collapsed in the floor at her feet. “Somebody has got to do it, damn the luck.” He went ahead and lay down.

Carrol studied Gareth thoughtfully as he tucked his arms behind his head to form a pillow. Not many people she knew would welcome a royal into their quarters if they had been so free with a bottle, their best friends perhaps. She lost count of the number of times Brent Ardenne met her and her brothers at his door with a welcoming bottle in hand, and certainly Keleigh Shanaugh and she spent many an hour working on a giggling round of drink together. It warmed her to know Gareth felt comfortable enough to treat her and her brothers the way he would Glendon Garin or Brent.

Gareth closed his eyes with a sigh of satisfaction, a boyish grin on his face as if he had not a care in mind. It reminded her of the jaunty way he stood at the bar rail of the Standard, so free and relaxed. She waited to see if there were any more surprises forthcoming from this most unpredictable of individuals. After a minute or two he fell into a deep, rhythmic breathing pattern.

Carrol decided to slip out and let him sleep this off. As she stepped over his prone body her foot grazed his side. With a swiftness that was a blur to her, he grabbed her legs and a twist forced her onto the floor. He laughed and pounced on top of her, the weight of his body on hers. He pinned her legs with his legs and her arms with his hands.

“Let us see you walk out on me now, Baneau,” he growled what seemed to be a pet name and gave her a kiss. It was the kiss of a man at the edge of his limits, and it nearly took her breath away by its passion.

“Gareth, what are you doing?” Carrol gasped, alarmed at his unusual behavior. She twisted about in an attempt to break his hold.

“So, Tomas Hellick is what you want, hey?” Gareth said, and kissed her brutally hard. “We will see what you want by the time we are done.” She realized in his drunken fog he thought she was Lia. His hips moved in a distinct primordial rhythm against her, an enticement to which Carrol was surprised to find her own body responded. His warm mouth insisted there was a better hold on hers to be had and hungrily searched for it. She grew hungrier for the passion she felt rising inside and knew she must bring it to a stop before something unseemly happened.

“Gareth, please! Stop this!” Carrol cried out sharply. His head snapped back, and he slowly emerged from his brandy-induced hallucination. He focused harder in confusion and caught his breath when he realized he was not holding his former lover Lia Neo, but his friend Carrol Shanaugh. With a swift volley of expletives, he jumped away and landed off to one side, his feet slipping on the schematics and making the sheets shoot out from under them. She rose up to rest on her elbows and for a moment neither said anything. Finally, Gareth shook his head and looked away.

“A thousand pardons, Your Nibs,” he said. “My God, what have I done? Did I...”

“No, I am unharmed,” she assured him. “Gareth, you were not yourself. I understand.”

“Well, I do not,” Gareth answered unhappily.

“Do you do this often?” she asked.

“What, do I try to force myself on innocent women? No, I do not even try to force myself on the guilty.” He tucked his knees up and leaned his head against them. She patted his shoulder.

“No, I mean drink until you do not know what you are doing.”

He thought for a moment as his chin rested on his knees. She brushed his shaggy bangs out of his face, and he looked at her through red-tracked eyes. “I am so very sorry,” he whispered. “I have never done that before. I do not know why I did now.”

“A great man once asked me if sedation was the answer. It was not.” He cracked a smile as he remembered, and she leaned forward toward until their foreheads rested against each other’s. “Please do not do this to yourself, Gareth,” she said softly.

“Now do you see what I meant then?” he asked. “I will make you a promise: I will look after you if you will look after me.” She smiled and nodded. It made his head nod also, and together they chuckled. He struggled to stand up, so she helped him to his feet. As he stood with her and held her arms for support, he leaned to kiss her cheek, a gentler kiss as different from the earlier ones as light to dark. Before she could react, he murmured, “I will look after you, little sis. I will not be a bother, I promise.” He carefully made his way to his bathroom and closed the door.

She found her way back to her chair and sank down, her knees unable to support her. She was not sure whether to flee or stay; if whether he was drunk or if he was letting a little brandy go a long way, whether she should feel horrified at his actions or grateful for a revelation. She was far lonelier than she ever felt in her life and did not realize how much she longed for the comfort of the embrace of a strong set of arms.

Gareth returned, drying his wet hair with a cloth. “I believe your patient will retain the use of his head after all, now that I have soaked it,” he announced, his voice a little stronger. He kicked aside the scattered plans in the floor. “I will look at those after I can focus.” He saw the look on her face. “What is it? What is wrong? What else did I do?” She shook her head, unable to speak what she did not understand. She got to her feet. He stepped closer, and she leaned into him.

“Just hold me,” she whispered. “That is all; just hold me.” He did as she requested, no more and no less. They remained this way for a long time. “It feels so good,” she said at length, “just to hold another person, just to feel someone close by.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed, surprised at the revelation. “Little sis...”

“Mmm?” she murmured.

“I meant it when I said I will look after you. I am not... I am not going to...”

“Not going to what?” she asked, unwilling to move from the comfortable niche she molded for herself against him.

He exhaled a short, exasperated sigh and tried to find the words he wanted to say. Words were never easy for Gareth. He was not hesitant in the least to speak his mind ordinarily but in situations like this when words were so critical, he was often woefully underdeveloped. “I could not bring myself to take advantage of my general's widow,” he finally said. "You do not have to worry about that."

“What?”

He shook his head. “Just hold me, little sis,” he said finally. “That is all I ask.”

It was her sentiment exactly, she realized with an odd relief. Carrol let the tension in her body melt away and held him snugly. Even though she and Maranta spent the majority of their time apart, the knowledge they would hold each other again made their time apart bearable. The royal family was an affectionate one if one did not count her sister-in-law Aura, but Carrol was hesitant to approach any of them for a hug lest they think she was about to be hysterical again. It would be hard for her to explain there was no better feeling than a pair of caring arms around her, like a warm protective cover.

Gareth also reveled in the embrace, a steadying closeness that brought him to the startling revelation it was something he needed badly. He also came from a very affectionate family that never held back their opinions or a fond embrace. He hated the empty sound of his quarters when he opened the door at entry. It only reminded him how absolutely alone he was. He was not able to find another place to spread out the Freen plans without getting in someone’s way or being mocked for his intellectual impertinence. He had to use his own quarters and only the brandy made it bearable.

She held him tight around the waist and it thrilled him more than perhaps it was proper for a man to feel concerning a casual friend. He cleared his throat. “Unless you think a belt is in order, perhaps you should lesser your grip,” he admonished mildly. She relaxed. “To what did I owe this visit?”

“I was on duty on the Daven Bau and I did not feel like going back to my quarters,” she told him.

“Are you sorry you did not?”

“No.” They let go of each other. “I wanted company, but I do not like to be around most people, just friends like you.”

“I am glad you do,” he said simply. He smiled at her. It was not the smile of a man who had ulterior motives of deeper emotional involvement. It was simply the companionable smile of a man who was happy to have someone to talk to, who understood his pain as much as he, hers.

“We should get something to eat,” she suggested. “Put something different in your stomach other than brandy.”

“Is that a doctor’s order?” He tossed aside his towel.

“Yes. Are you just going to leave that there?” She pointed to the damp cloth as they went to the door.

Gareth shrugged and nodded. “If it moves while I am gone, I will have someone induct it into the Air Command.”

They sat together in the dining hall to eat and talk. He was deep in discussion about the plans, and he saw a nearby flatscreen someone left on the table. He picked it up and sketched on its surface. “The problem is making the hull stable without disturbing the integrity of the artificial gravity or the shuttle bays and getting to the necessary spots with as little underwater work as possible.”

He drew a rough schematic of the Freen on the flatscreen with graceful strokes that contrasted with his manner. The main mess hall on the Quantid was not a place that easily lent itself to artwork. He squeezed the flatscreen between his plate and Carrol’s and drew with his left hand and ate with his right without hardship. He was better for the food in his system and the discussion of the work on the Freen.

She was glad she dropped in on him when she did. It was not good for Gareth to drink alone and certainly not over Lia Neo. Carrol had made subtle inquiries and discovered that not only had Darien’s rude kissing sounds in the Standard been on the mark, but Gareth’s remark about trading up had been accurate as well. Tomas Hellick and Lia Neo were like cups of water drawn from the same well. Both kissed whatever was necessary to improve his or her lot in life.

King Lycasis did not regard Carrol’s casual questions as anything unusual. After the Thuringi order of things went through massive upheaval, it was natural that everyone wanted to know the new structure and duties of the citizenry. There were no farms or fields or hunting areas now and the farmers and game wardens had to take up other duties. There was no way to know which creatures might be too domesticated by their confinement on the ship to make their survival in a more natural setting possible. Those game wardens who did not draw warden duty became Air Command pilots. This suited them very well. They could all fly and shoot; the mandatory cadet training that all Thuringi went through saw to that. They were eager to do whatever was required of them to serve their fellow Thuringi in a capacity they were closest to be able to serve naturally.

But unlike lifelong Air Command warriors, the independent-minded wardens and farmers were reluctant to automatically obey commands from superior officers, especially ones they disliked. These new warriors were dubbed “the Wild Factor” which Lycasis privately thought was an accurate description. Loyalty to the king was not the question; they loved their royal leader. They were just a rather undisciplined lot of about four hundred in number, and it took some time for them to think in terms of a command squadron as a team effort. In addition, the two officers who commanded the divisions to which the Wild Factor were assigned did not get along with each other in the least.

Hartin Medina was a by-the-book officer who expected discipline and tolerated no lax effort. He was a private man who rarely offered information about himself or his family while on duty. The hunters gradually learned what the regular Air Command already knew: Hartin Medina was their best ally off-duty who arranged adjustments to their schedules for necessary time-off and other personal requests.

When he was invited to attend celebrations of weddings, naming ceremonies and birthdays, he arrived quietly and usually slipped away after leaving a gift for the celebrated. None in his squadron was turned away from his door if they needed a private discussion about a problem and any and all were welcome to join him in the dining hall or during an appearance in a cantina. But on duty he was Brigadier General Hartin Medina, a man to be respected.

Tomas Hellick was given the commission of colonel shortly before the Armada left Thuringa and those under his command felt repercussions immediately. “Let us transfer to Jensen Shanaugh’s command or the Phillipi princes,” one pilot was overheard to grouse. “I will even take old Stifflip Medina himself; just get me out of Hellick’s squadron before he anoints himself Bishop of the Air Command.”

Colonel Hellick’s sanctimonious toleration of his troops rankled both Wild Factor and regular troops alike. Tomas was a well-disciplined and well-trained officer and leader, but his voice carried an infuriating note of condescension. Even if Hartin Medina was stiff-lipped and proper, he respected his warriors. Tomas Hellick was simply unapproachable. He was as distant off-duty as he was on. The Wild Factor in his squadron learned the regular Air Command did not approach Colonel Hellick at all. He made no pretense to like them and as they grew to realize his dislike extended to the crown, they preferred to avoid him.

Oriel did not feel comfortable with Colonel Hellick either. “I get the feeling he does not like us,” she said to Carrol confidentially over a private tea at Hartin and Melina Medina’s quarters. Melina was a numbered cousin of Oriel’s, and tea with her was always a treat. Melina was currently in the bathroom trying to open a jar of Thelan lina tea leaves without making too much of a mess, as she had last time.

“What makes you say that, Mother?” Carrol asked in astonishment. She pulled her chair closer to her mother’s settee and leaned against the armrest. “I thought he was supposed to be a model subject. He has worlds of respect for you.”

“It has nothing to do with personality. I do not think he care for royalty in general, any royalty. I do not mean he is as openly antagonistic as perhaps Asa Mennar, but he is not pleasant either. For instance, he might think well of me as Oriel Phillipi de Saulin but not in me as Queen Oriel Phillipi de Saulin, wife of the ruler of Thuringa. He is in the military gladly but I do not think he extends the pleasure as a subject.” She laughed softly. “Perhaps I am being overly sensitive! On Thuringa I could offer little but sympathy and compassion to our people, which was all very well and good during peacetime. Here on board the Armada everyone must pull his weight, and this makes me the least useful person. I trust it is not my royal title that prevents me from being given more to do.”

“Mother, there is no ‘least useful person’ among us. While there is life there is purpose, or did that basic lesson skip your generation?” Carrol teased. It was easy to tease her mother since she could give as well as she received. “There are many Thuringi who are recovering from the final battle of Thuringa and are not on duty yet. No one holds them to blame for their inaction. Why should anyone be troubled by you?”

“Perhaps you are right,” Oriel sighed. “I am just projecting my imagined guilt on an innocent man.”

“I would not go that far,” Carrol muttered, and Oriel chuckled.

At that moment they heard a squawk of dismay. Melina Medina emerged from the bathroom, her elegant gown and carefully made face and hair coated with the fine powder of dark Thelan lina tea.

“Oh bother!” she exclaimed, sending the queen and princess into gales of laughter, “I shall never get the best of these accursed jars!”

“Excuse me; if I am boring you, just lay your head on the table right now and I will take the hint and leave you to slumber.” Carrol snapped out of her reverie and realized that Gareth stopped his drawing and now eyed her speculatively.

“No no Gareth, I am sorry,” she said, “I was rude; I let my mind wander where it should not. What were you saying?”

“Well, when did you fall asleep on me? I do not know where to restart.”

“Oh, do not be so cross. This looks interesting, what you have here. What are these little lines?” she asked as she peered at the flatscreen.

“Those are a particularly designed pattern meant to strengthen the hull of the Freen with relatively little material to do the job.”

“What material?” she asked. He regarded her with a look of well-controlled annoyance, his closed mouth pulled slightly to one side and one eyebrow cocked in speculation.

“Name of all, Nibs,” he said quietly, “I have been chatting on until I am Sengan blue in the face while your mind has wandered everywhere but here.”

“I am sorry,” she laughed as she patted his chest in supplication. “I really am interested in this; truly, Gareth.”

“Then why not tell me a little of what you have been thinking?” he asked. He could not keep the grin from his face. He was unable to get or stay angry or irritated at her for long. She often reached out to touch him lightly on the arm or shoulder when she spoke to him, and the harmless intimacy appealed to him.

Thuringi women were practiced in catching the interest and drawing men near, but then left it up to the men to do the pursuing. The women of the Air and Sea Commands were great comrades with the men while on duty and in uniform. They believed keeping one’s distance was the only sensible way to retain the men’s respect and handle their friendship at the same time.

Gareth and Carrol enjoyed the peculiar position of being mature playmates. The sight of the two of them strike the sides of their upraised fists together briefly in passing or share a mealtime in the dining hall no longer startled the rank and file. It was no more unusual a sight than noble warriors sharing a meal with common-born warriors, or the hijinks of young Prince Erich and his ever-present cronies, Echo Garin and Triton Ardenne. It was unusual to see a grown man and a grown woman spend so much time together without his looking for a kiss or she blushing demurely at his attentions, but there was nothing wrong with it.

“Nobody likes Tomas Hellick,” Carrol confided.

“Is that all! I could have told that truth with less than half the struggle.”

“You, sir, are being smug.” She pecked his hand with her fingertips.

“You, lady, are correct.” He snatched her hand in order to capture her fingers to prevent further attack. She twisted her hand to and fro, trying to escape his grasp.

“You egg!” she snickered. “I have you right where I want you.”

Shadows fell over the two of them. Ira Trapis, the former Bishop of Arne and now Bishop of the Armada, smiled broadly as he passed by. Beside him Asa Mennar scowled at the pair.

“It is always a tonic to see young people a-courting,” the bishop commented in amusement. The speed at which their hands separated was slightly less than a blur. He got a better look at the couple. “Princess Carrol.”

His smile slipped. It is not seemly for the Princess of Thuringa to hold hands or play in such a manner with a man in the middle of the dining hall, his glare said without words.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” she said and stood out of respect of his office. Gareth also rose to his feet and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. To paraphrase the old analogy, if this bishop was in his parlor Gareth belonged all the way outside.

“I do not know that I have had the privilege of meeting this young man,” the bishop said, but he gave Garth a quick appraisal that did not promise to allow high marks.

“Your Eminence, this is Our good friend Major Gareth Duncan de Gordon,” Carrol told him. Gareth privately marveled at the royal quality of her voice, not as if he were a nondescript mechanic from the hanger decks but someone the Bishop of the Armada ought to meet. “Major Duncan has been such a blessing for Us since the death of Our dear husband. He was the general’s aide and has not let Us dwell in Our morbid natures but has distracted Us with lighter fare.” Turning to Gareth, she continued. “Major Duncan, this is His Excellency the Bishop of the Armada, former Bishop of Arne Ira Trapis; and Lord Elder Asa Mennar of the advisory council.”

It took Gareth a little time to realize that Carrol spoke in the High Royal Speech of the Thuringi Court. The royal “We” threw him off. When he realized that she was not going to let a Royal Religious Nibs look down on him, Gareth felt a rush of gratitude. He prayed that he would not let her down.

“Your Excellency; sir.” Gareth bowed at the waist with one fist reverently held to his chest. He saw Maranta Shanaugh do that on a number of occasions to visiting dignitaries, and therefore the proper thing to do. The Bishop smiled benignly at him and turned again to Carrol.

“I am pleased to see you are doing better now, Your Highness,” he told her. “I was distressed over your earlier... distress,” he finished, flustered at his elegant repetition.

In Gareth’s mind, he could see a Kellis scoremarker: Gareth 1, Bishop 0.

“The Bishop of Thuringa is the heart of kindness,” Carrol replied and gave a slight nod of her head. He bowed low, and the two men continued on their way. The two friends waited until the Elders were out the door before exhaling with relief.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“You know you are welcome.” They picked up their dining trays and he took the flatscreen. They left the trays in the proper receptacle and went to the observation deck without speaking a word the entire time. Once they were on the observation deck, they sat together on a low lounge that commanded a good view of the twinkling starfields on the screen before them. Each was lost in thought; they did not so much as steal a glance at each other.

Always a tonic seeing young people a-courting.

The phrase echoed through his mind. Finally, Gareth cleared his throat. He had to dispel that echo from his thoughts before it made him stupid.

“We suppose We should wander back to Our quarters now,” he said, affecting a high pitched, overly regal delivery to his voice. She could not make a sound; she was so tickled the best Carrol could respond was to push into his shoulder with her own. He pushed back and continued his lofty air with a nose held high in the stereotypically prissy manner of the well-born. “Our ship’s plans are scattered about Our front floor and We will be found wanting in the housekeeping department should We neglect Our daily cleaning.”

“You istay!” she declared affectionately as she slapped him on the arm. He looked pleased at the insult.

“As a test of your deductive instincts, so in tune with Our own,” he responded in his normal octave but with the same regal bearing, “We will leave Our flatscreen with Your Nibs to study. There will be a test on the morrow.” As he handed it to her, a strange impulse overtook him as if unseen hands gripped his head. He kissed her on the forehead playfully. The strange feeling dissipated as abruptly as it appeared. She looked surprised but made no protest. He left the room, wondering what came over him.

She watched him leave. As the door closed behind him, she tilted her head slightly to one side and smiled.

Lycasis’s long tiring time on the bridge of the Quantid was through, and he turned the next watch over to Stuart’s capable hands. In the private royal quarters, he heard Carrol’s lilting voice from the bedroom, a sound that made his heart glad. He had been afraid the loss of Maranta Shanaugh made her lose her mind permanently until Stuart and Darien told him about some friend of theirs who cheered her out of lethargy. He was grateful to whoever it was who brought Carrol back to her old self. The bonus was hearing Oriel’s happy voice in concert with their daughter.

A flatscreen on an occasional table caught his eye. It was obvious what the drawing on the flatscreen represented; it was the Freen with strange little patterns at various places on it and a series of lines that extended from the top and bottom sides of the ship out to the tapered edges. There were equations scribbled down one side of the drawing, equations that Lycasis recognized as extremely viable. Down along the bottom was a note that read:

Hello! Hello! Nibs! Wake up! Is anyone there

He took the flatscreen with him as he joined his wife and daughter. Oriel lay face down on a padded table, naked with only a thin cloth to cover her from the waist to her knees. Carrol gave her mother the daily massage that kept Oriel’s muscles toned. Oriel’s arms were folded to form a pillow for her chin. She brightened when she saw him. “Lycasis.”

To Lycasis her greeting was akin to hearing the songbirds of Thuringa singing by the gentle waterfalls near Fellensk. He approached the table and went down on one knee beside her to kiss her cheek. She tugged at one of his silver-golden locks with a delicate hand. “What a pleasure to see you so soon,” Oriel told him. “I feared you were rooted to the spot on your bridge.”

“Not quite,” Lycasis assured as he stroked her hair and tucked it over to one side.

“Let me be on my way,” Carrol suggested. Her role as masseuse could easily be replaced by someone who would take far superior enjoyment in rubbing Oriel’s backside.

“Before you go,” Lycasis stopped her. “What is this? How did you come about it?”

“That is something my friend Gareth Duncan drew up. He is working on plans to improve the Freen.”

“Is he a designer?” Lycasis asked in surprise. He thought he knew them all; there were so few left.

“No, but he is an incredibly talented engineer and mechanic. He was Maranta’s right arm.”

“Oh.”

“Father, before you ‘Oh’ like that again let me ask you if anyone else had been able to come up with any useful ideas for strengthening the Freen?”

“No,” Lycasis admitted. “He drew this up, did he? And these equations are his?”

“Yes, they are. I admit that my mind began to wander when he was explaining it all to me, but he knows what he is doing. I have talked to a couple of other designers, and they got rather excited and suggested I approach you with it.”

“I am too tired to go into it right now, Carrol. Let us see if we can get together with some of my councilmen on the next duty round,” Lycasis suggested.

“We?” Carrol asked, startled by the inclusion.

“You and I, yes; we. He is your acquaintance.”

Gareth’s incongruous royal We conversation suddenly sprang to mind, and she burst into a sudden laugh of delight. Covering her mouth to suppress it, her eyes danced, and she looked like a little cadet again up to mischief at her big brother Darien’s side. Lycasis smiled too although he had no idea what it was that so amused her. She gave her parents the usual buss goodbye and they heard her break into open laughter before the entrance door shut behind her.

“Whatever was that about?” Oriel wondered.

“I would ask you, my love,” Lycasis replied. “She seems to be in exceedingly high spirits. I have not seen her so cheerful in many a –” he broke his sentence off abruptly as he considered a sudden notion.

“What is it, Lycasis?” Oriel asked as she rose to prop herself up on her elbows.

“Well, I have not seen her like this since before we left Thuringa before Maranta died. You do not think this –” He lost his train of thought at the sight of his wife.

“O mighty king of Thuringa, you are overtaxing yourself. That is the second sentence you have failed to complete,” Oriel observed, pleased to know precisely why her husband did not complete the second one. He gently removed the thin sheet from her form.

“I will be vigilant in my actions henceforth,” he promised.

The Standard was noisy, which was to be expected. Any cantina full of talkative drinking people was expected to have a respectable level of noise. It was a good thing as far as Carrol Shanaugh de Phillipi was concerned: she and her closest friends were immersed in some scandalous chatter and with it masked, she could listen without fear of being upbraided for her interest in the subject.

"It is true, as I am sitting before you, I swear she said it," Berryl Renaugh said. Berryl was a favorite young officer among the warriors: she was sturdier built than most of the other women which made her more huggable in the minds of men friends. Her buoyant nature made her easily likable to women and this likability won her the information she now imparted. "It was not as if she was trying to keep it private; she was right here in this very cantina, tossing back glasses and bragging on him as if he was her own man."

"But that is scandalous," Dannar Hashone declared over the tongue clucking and gasps of disbelief from the others at the table. "Lia should know better than to speak of assignations so bluntly in public and certainly –”

"Certainly, they should be about her husband if she did," Keleigh Shanaugh declared. "What exactly did she say, now?" The four women crowded their heads closer for better reception.

"She said that Gareth lasted longer than any man she ever knew. Hours, she said."

"What cheek! Just how many men did she have with whom to compare?" Keleigh snorted.

"She did not give a figure or names, but evidently it was enough to give an accurate estimate," Berryl wheezed in amusement. "Well, Gareth is a well-built man. Apparently, his rudder bears assured certain quality. Oh, but that is nothing! You should have heard her light into Tomas Hellick."

"What do you mean? Her own husband?"

"I mean... how can I put this?" Berryl mused.

"Put it flat out on the table," Keleigh urged. "Hurry up; I must go on duty soon."

"Yes, and I have to go with Father to the Freen," Carrol added. "Put it however you wish, we do not care."

"Well, at least ten other people heard her say it, some of them in Tomas's command so… well, she said Tomas only has time for himself during, you know, and it is quite frustrating that he is not very well versed at that." The other three gasped in surprise.

“Berryl Renaugh!" Keleigh declared.

"It is what she said! Or the meat of it, at least," Berryl defended herself and took another sip of her drink. "The man is not well schooled in lovemaking. War, yes; bed, no."

"Then why did she marry him? Surely, if she was that experienced –” Carrol began but Dannar elbowed her.

"Princess, for the sake of your title let me ask the naughty questions. Berryl, why did she marry him? Did she not realize that he was a... a shortrange fighter?"

Keleigh erupted into a gale of snickers at Dannar's question, which sparked a riot of laughter from them all.

"She wanted the tunic, I guess," Berryl said with a shrug.

It was uncommon but not unheard of. Other women were known to marry a man because of his reputation as a warrior or a shipwright or in whatever field he may be proficient. Men were known to marry women who were good-looking but stupid, or generous with affection but rather irresponsible, or who simply had a compatible task. It was uncommon that Lia married Tomas despite his disappointing technique. At least those who married the tunic were usually pleased with what was beneath it.

"Damn stupid reason for marrying, I would say," Carrol declared before she realized she spoke aloud. The other three looked at her speculatively.

"You married for love, of course," Keleigh said.

"Not entirely. I admit I married for lust," Carrol said with a Darien-like tone to her voice. She enjoyed the shock on her friends' faces. "Well, I was not going to let him get away."

"Not with his kind of firepower! What is it the D'tai boast – 'Long distance shipping, we know how to deliver it right'!" Berryl blurted aloud and quickly regretted it. Keleigh laughed and saluted. Berryl turned red with embarrassment, but Dannar quickly recovered and put in a scandalous observation of her own.

"Well, it seems to me that great generals gather equally impressive auxiliaries. If Gareth is as skilled in the sheets as Lia claims, perhaps he might be an interesting –” she chose not to finish the sentence. They smiled at each other and the outrageous way they spoke.

"Ladies, ladies, ladies!" Ton Medina arose and turned to face them from the booth next to theirs with a wide smile of amusement on his face. "I await the rest of that statement. All the others were so interesting."

"You heard?" Berryl squalled.

"That such words would spring from such innocent lips," Ton replied and accompanied his admonishment with clicks of his tongue. "I especially thought it funny about the colonel."

His friend Ren Renaugh, the navigator on the Morgan, sprang up beside him and leaned his elbows on the top of the seatback in order to speak to the women. "So, as I understand it, if men were ships Tomas would be a shuttle.” His definition forced Carrol to suppress the giggle trying to emerge.

Berryl buried her face in her hands in remorse. "I must speak to you at length at a later time," Ton teased her. "You know how to capture a conversation and really make it work for you."

"Be silent, you walking door," Berryl moaned into her hands as her friends laughed.

Tomas Hellick entered the Standard at that moment, and hours too late. The other ten people who overheard Lia earlier naturally spread the tale for the amusement of others who suffered under the colonel's command. These in the know eyed him in a new light, thanks to his talkative and none too cautious wife. "Princess Carrol? Your father awaits," he reminded her as his approached the booth.

"Well, I always thought he was a little prick," Ren whispered to Keleigh. Keleigh Shanaugh burst into laughter, her rowdy unstoppable Shanaugh roar. As she leapt to her feet, she motioned Carrol out of the booth with frantic waves of her hands. Tomas had no way of knowing why she laughed but he did not like the smiles and smirks of the warriors he so detested around him.

"Come along, Your Highness. No one likes to be kept waiting."

"Apparently some cannot, anyway," Ren said to Keleigh, which provoked another outburst not only from her but from other patrons as well. Tomas eyed him coldly.

"Renaugh, you are dancing on the edge of my patience."

"What? I was not speaking to you, Colonel Hellick. I was speaking to Captain Shanaugh." Ren knew Tomas could not have heard their previous conversation, so the colonel’s chill confounded him.

Tomas gave Keleigh a particularly disgusted glare. "Yes... a Shanaugh." He turned on his heel and took Carrol by the arm.

"Careful, Colonel Hellick," Carrol said with a friendly smile. "I am a Shanaugh as well."

"I bear it in mind," Tomas said with a hint of snap in his voice. He nodded stiffly. Carrol went out of the Standard with Tomas following behind. After they left the quiet that descended at Tomas's sharp words to the princess was dispelled.

"He does not like anyone, does he?" one of the pilots at the bar asked. "Not even our fair princess! Word, if he wanted to be nearer to the crown, that would be the first path you think he would seek."

"Credit her with better taste," Keleigh told him as she sat again. Ren slid in the booth beside her and Ton squeezed in on the other side, blocking in Berryl and Dannar.

"Come now. Offer up your scandalous tales and we will compare them to what we have heard," Ren offered.

"Men are such gossips!" Berryl declared.

"We inherit it from our mothers," Ton told her. "Daven! We need a bottle of something nice over here."

“Very well,” the gifted-task bartender replied, “but no beetle drawing for you! You make them far too large.”

“Spoilsport,” Ton grumbled, and put his marker away glumly.