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Book 1 Flight of the Armada Chapter 6

Layoff

By Jay Michael JonesPublished 3 years ago 45 min read
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Brent decided to take the Isador to the Pacific Ocean one fresh Monday after a weekend of rest at the ranch, and he set off for the Strait of Magellan right away. On the map the trip looked interesting but not all that remarkable, but in reality, it took much longer so he sped his ship up a little. The sea was rougher than he realized. He went further south toward where the map showed only a space of white. Brent thought perhaps the mapmakers arbitrarily picked the color for that country the way they chose the colors for other countries.

The air was freezing cold, but he noted there were small animals on the snow-surrounded, pebbly shores: little black birds with large white breasts that waddled and slid onto ice and on into the sea. He sailed the Isador up against the ice and stepped out on its fin with the intent to go ashore.

"Oh, My Horror!" he shouted in surprise. "I will freeze my zenda off!" He hurried back inside the ship and dressed in warmer clothing and thick boots. He returned to the fin and gingerly stepped out onto the ice. He carried his pistol and sword, for he read that wild beasts were everywhere on Earth, even at the far reaches, and he was not going to take a chance.

He trudged across the ice and snow with nothing in sight but whiteness and sunshine. He was glad he had sunglasses in case he came across humans, since they also cut the glare to his eyes. He headed for the area where he saw the sliding birds. When he topped a ridge and looked down at them as they marched to the sea and leaped in, he sat down to observe.

They did not fly, although they did possess little wings that thrust out from their sides as they hurried along. He laughed at the sight and continued to laugh at everything the little birds did. The land was not all snow, he noticed. Many exposed rocks let him know there was land somewhere under all the cold white cover.

He took a small flatscreen from his pocket and recorded his impressions on it, including the lovely light show in the sky that resembled colorful dancing ribbons or curtains. He took a deep breath – and suddenly he noticed an unpleasant odor of rank raw fish in the air. He heard a flopping noise behind him, a noise that had crept up but now commanded his attention. He turned around and stared at a sizable bloblike creature twice as long as the Thuringi, with an unsightly large nose, large whiskers and two long sharp tusks in its mouth. It roared at him and moved with startling swiftness. Brent scrambled to his feet and rushed away from it, down the hill and toward the birds.

"Run, you fellows! There is a Bulbous Tusked creature behind me!" he shouted, as if the birds could understand him and as if they could not see it for themselves. In his panic these things did not occur to him.

He continued to run until he stumbled, rolled down the incline and landed heavily at the bottom. The birds were not helpful, but they had sense enough to run away from the approaching sea lion and the man. The elephant seal roared again and continued to chase after Brent, eager to taste this likely dinner.

"Wait, you!" the Thuringi declared as reason dawned on him, "I have weaponry!" He drew his sword and pistol. After a brief moment's consideration, he sheathed his sword. There was no sense in letting this huge creature get that close. As the elephant seal advanced and there was no place left to run, Brent shot it with his sidearm.

It felled the animal abruptly, but the forward momentum brought it to land on the ice at Brent's feet. He uttered a squawk and leaped back a step. It groaned and grunted, so he finished it with a mercy shot to the head. He slowly walked around it, staring in awe at the massive bulk. It was ugly, far uglier than most other creatures he ever saw. It had attacked him without provocation and with deadly intent. He did not regret defending himself, but Brent was saddened by the necessity of taking a life just the same.

After he recorded pictures of the creature on his flatscreen and some shots of the amusingly solemn-looking penguins, he returned to the Isador. Word, this was an impressive continent! He checked his location and shook his head. No, this was not the Antarctica. This was only an island called Elephant Island, although the creatures he saw looked nothing like the elephants he saw on the television and in Michael's books. The large continent was further south, so he set sail for it.

He reached a shore where to his everlasting astonishment, he saw the staggering territory in all its ice-locked glory. Brent Ardenne was speechless. He stared out the window of the Isador with a singular thought in mind: Father will never believe me about this.

The water was cold, but he swam in cold depths before on Thuringa and on Earth. He decided not to take any chances, however: cold water slowed his reaction time, and he did not want to face something like a Bulbous Tusked Creature in it. Instead, he made his way to shore and walked around a little, staring out across the endless snowy landscape in awe. It was far more snow than even the impressive amount they had at the ranch in Oklahoma. Everything about the Earth was larger and grander than the relatively limited number of things on Thuringa.

But Thuringa was more structured, he told himself. Thuringa did not have so many confusing choices, and there were not so many dangers at every turn by our generation's time. Thuringa was small and our population low, we shared, and no one went hungry or without. Earth is impressive but it would be more impressive if it were not so…so… careless.

Feckless.

Unseemly.

He laughed aloud at the thought. Oh, if only Bishop Trapis could have heard that, and from Brent Ardenne too! The old scold might have passed out from shock.

When the snow melted, the Thuringi were saddened because it was so delightful to frolic in it, even though the air was cold. The driveway was muddy and slippery and the dead grass in the yard was a sad sight. Darien was always impatient to see green grass again. In no time he got bored so he either helped Gareth work on machines or engines or ships, or he set out across the pasture to find something to do. He saw deer at every turn and was appalled to learn these creatures were killed for food or trophies. "They slay illini for their horns! Word!" he roared. "What, they cannot merely admire horns on a living creature; they must kill it and display it on a wall? What appalling manners!"

"It is quieter around here when he is at work," Stuart grumbled.

One day as he and Darien went out to look at the cattle, they saw snow falling again. They whooped and ran back to the house to get the ax. Michael showed where they could cut down trees for the stove, and the brothers eagerly set about getting their own wood. It was a satisfying way to release their energy and admire the snowfall at the same time.

They stacked a cord of wood by the time Glendon came in from town with news. "The Gentrys said to watch the news report for weather conditions. It is to be a blizzard." And a blizzard it was, the snow piled all around the northern front side of the house so high they could not tell the porch from the yard, and the drifts completely covered the porch floor.

All they could do was eat, sleep, and keep warm. Stuart did not object when Gareth put his arms around Carrol since she was prone to shiver easily and his warmth was a comfort. Of course, Darien did not object and instead took the opportunity to make kissing noises at them. He cheerfully baked bread and pies of all kinds from the canned goods in the cellar. His apple pie was a rousing success, but Stuart drew the line at green bean pie.

"No good comes of sweetened green beans." After tasting it, Darien had to agree.

One rare occasion when the Phillipi brothers were in the cellar and Gareth was in the barn, Glendon noticed Carrol shivering in front of the stove, waiting for the freshly added wood to get her warm. He picked up a blanket from the couch, wrapped it around himself and then stood behind her and enveloped her in his arms. She was startled as he bent over and burrowed his cold elegant nose against her warm neck. She was about to comment on his unusually forward action until he said, "Forgive the presumption, my dear princess, but it will not do to have our fair Carrol shivering from the cold. Allow me to warm us both until the fire does its task."

He was not seeking romance; he was simply trying to warm his nose. It was not the worst way to get warm, she told herself, and enjoyed the unfamiliar embrace of a most proper Garin. Once the room was warmer, he kept his word and left her with the blanket so he could go about his business.

Brent brought back tales of a land where there was nothing but snow and ice for thousands of miles, and they were fascinated and horrified at the thought. "It is as frosty there as Aura's glare." Stuart smiled but said nothing.

The weather reports on television fascinated them. It was downright barbaric to guess at weather this way and the Thuringi were merciless at mocking the weathermen.

"They have been wrong more than they have been right," Gareth noted.

"I do not understand why you persist on living this way," Brent scoffed. "In my travels, the other half of this planet is much more pleasant. You should come with me; none of this constant cold until the seasonal exchange. But no, you insist on staying where it is miserable. Airmen!"

"Oh, Watermen," Carrol shot back, "You insist on owning a wandering fin!"

The name of the city was New Orleans, and Brent Ardenne was fascinated by its sheer audacity. For weeks he heard nothing but mardigraw, mardigraw over the com, and apparently some sort of revelry was to come to a head on a specific night of obesity. The Isador slipped into the Big Easy's harbor on Fat Tuesday, and Brent emerged filled with curiosity. He took care to wrap a scarf around his gills, but it quickly became clear that his precaution was unnecessary.

Not only was there a city-wide party under way, but it was also a costume party. He could have appeared as a gigantic parmenter and not have stood out in the crowd. Boisterous crowds drank and sang and partied at every turn, so Brent hid in plain sight and enjoyed a rare uninhibited time among Earthians.

Women kissed his cheeks and vowed he had the most wonderful costume they ever saw. He was appalled at the unseemly way some of them exposed their breasts to people on decorated vehicles, but it garnered them colorful necklaces thrown from decorated wagons. Brent saw no need to behave the same way; all he had to do was smile and wave at the vehicles and soon he was festooned in colorful bead necklaces and party hats.

He wandered into one of the many bars open to the revelers and ordered a beerz. He drank and sang in American with the other party goers, and at one point one of them drunkenly commanded him to sing a song. He thought for a moment before launching into The Seagoing Maiden, a ribald song that was a standard in every Thuringi cantina. It was about a lass who offered her favors far too freely to be anywhere close to reality on Thuringa, but it suggested a delightful way to imagine it. It did not matter since it was well received by the hard-partying crowd and won him another round of drinks.

He found himself staggering toward the docks with one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a young woman named Elizabeth and the other hand securely holding a bottle of Guinness. Elizabeth was from Clemson wherever that was, and she was curvy and warm and giggly, all the best traits an Ardenne could want in a woman.

But wait; those were traits that a single Ardenne man wanted, and Brent was no longer single. "(You realize I am a married man)," he told her.

"That's okay, I won't tell her if you won't," Elizabeth giggled.

"(No no)," Brent protested as he stopped abruptly and planted his legs firmly where he stood. "(I cannot dally; I made a vow before the God of All to be true to my wife and I cannot break it. But, but, but; you are a very lovely girl my dear Lady Elizabeth, and it is no reflection on your allure)."

"I don't know what you just said, but it sure sounds wonderful," she told him.

"(That is what they all say just before they realize I mean it)." She sputtered in amusement, and he joined in. "(Tell me where I must take you)."

"You said you had a ship!"

"(But I cannot take you to it. It would not do)," he intoned as he leaned his forehead against hers.

"It would not do," she repeated, and sputtered again.

"(No, no it would not)!" he chuckled.

"Then I'll just go home, damn it all anyway!" she giggled.

"(Home to your Clemson)."

"Home to … yeah no, somewhere here."

"(It must be somewhere around here)." They headed back up the street, only to find their way blocked by a pair of men of dubious purpose. "(I say, where is Clemson)?"

"Give me your wallet," one man said without preamble.

"(My whatet)?" Brent asked, and he and Elizabeth chortled at the same time.

"Your wallet, man; give me your dough."

"(You speak in riddles)!" Brent exclaimed, "(and I cannot bear it when you people speak in riddles)!"

"Give me your goddamn money," the second man commanded.

Elizabeth was not so far gone that she did not recognize a mugging, and she shook Brent's arm as sobriety rapidly gained a foothold on her. "He's not kidding, he wants your money."

"(Oh, he does. Well)," he said, pushing her to one side and drawing his sword, "(He is not going to get it, is he)!"

"I have a gun, you asshole," the second man said even as Brent drunkenly swung his body around to face his assailant. The hand with the blade followed the motion, and the Pleonian steel nearly sliced the mugger's hand off.

"(…and now you do not)," Brent breezily observed.

"Augh!" the mugger shrieked. He seized his wrist and fell to his knees in agony. The first man scrambled for the dropped gun, but Brent brought his sword around again and the man stopped just in time to prevent his own decapitation by the blade held closely under his chin.

"(Now I was having a grand time on this most obese day with drink and beads and Elizabeth and her Clemson, and you have to spoil it all with your demand for coin)," Brent scolded. He swayed a little, but his sword remained still as he began a lecture to his panicked adversary. "(I want you to go away, little man, and – oh hush that wailing, you are noisy)!" he bellowed at the blubbering injured man. "(Word, you should not argue with a sword, it is never a good outcome)." He kicked at the gun, and his foot sent the weapon clattering across the street and into a water drain. "(Come, fair Elizabeth, we must go to Clemson)." Unmindful of the two thugs, he threw his arm around her shoulders again and continued on to the brightly lit main thoroughfare.

Once there, a policeman stopped them. "That's a pretty realistic sword you have there."

"(It most certainly is. I say, we cannot find Clemson and she must be there)."

"Uh…huh. Where is your hotel, miss?"

"It's the Hotel Monte…Monte…"

"Monteleone?"

"Yes."

"It's the next block over."

"(Thank you, my good man. You are a credit to Naradi everywhere)," Brent praised, and after resheathing his sword, he staggered off with Elizabeth.

After the Thuringi and his friend disappeared into the crowd, the policeman heard the wounded mugger wail again as his partner in crime helped him into the circle of the streetlight. The wound was hastily bandaged with a sleeve torn from his shirt, and blood saturated the cloth. "He coulda killed us, he nearly took off my arm! You gotta arrest that sumbitch!"

The policeman whirled around, but Brent was nowhere to be seen. The cop blew his whistle. When backup arrived, an ambulance was summoned, and the police set out in search of a tall blonde man with yellow contacts dressed up in some sort of fish costume and in the company of a leggy brunette with hoop earrings.

They never found him. Once they arrived at the hotel, Brent and his new friend ran into some of the group she accompanied to New Orleans, so he turned her over to them. He kissed her goodbye and took the taxi her friends hailed for him back to the docks. It took him unnoticed past the searching policemen and the ambulance that took the injured mugger to the hospital. Brent dove into the water, swam up under the dock where the Isador was tethered, and secured the hatch once he was inside. He peered at his hand that still gripped the bottle and roared in outrage. It was watered down with the undrinkable New Orleans harbor water.

Darien heard a great deal about a ‘Strip Club’ that some of the oil field workers attended in another town. He could not figure out what it was. He learned not to ask questions since they only left him open to mockery for his ignorance. He mentioned the club to Stuart one evening. “I have no idea what kind of club it is, but it seems to be some sort of place to relax,” Darien told him. “Apparently, the membership is open to visitors.”

“Perhaps it is some sort of council,” Stuart mused. “We might investigate it. Perhaps it is like the organizations Michael mentioned, the Red Cross and the United Way. If it is a place to relax, you should attend it. You have been working so awfully hard, Darien. You deserve to rest. You and Glendon and Gareth should all go to this place.”

“What about you and Carrol and Brent?”

“Carrol and I do not work nearly as hard as you three, and Brent is constantly enjoying his work. You deserve a treat. Besides, we can remain here for security’s sake,” Stuart said. “We will go another time.”

That settled, Darien listened carefully to his co-worker’s conversation and cautiously asked where this club was located. He got teased anyway.

“Yeah, they’ll love you, musclebound,” one of the men snickered.

That Friday night Darien, Gareth, and Glendon got into the truck and went to the address he was given, using the directions Lloyd wrote for them. It was quite a long way from the ranch and Gareth was uneasy about the distance. When they pulled into the parking lot of the establishment, they all relaxed a bit. “Why, it is a cantina,” Gareth said with relief. “What better way to relax than with a beerz?”

They were stopped at the door by a larger-than-average sized Earthian man who demanded money. “What is a cover charge?” Glendon asked politely.

“Bucks, man; nobody gets a peek for free,” the man replied gruffly.

Darien shrugged and gave the man the amount specified. “I suppose it covers the scrip for beerz ahead of time,” he surmised.

The three Thuringi walked around a wall into the bar and were struck dumb at the spectacle before them. A nearly naked Earthian girl writhed on a platform to the rhythm of a song, and the cantina was filled to capacity with men who drank as they watched her performance.

Glendon uttered a "Yeep!" and a roar of disgust, and quickly turned to face the wall. Darien glanced around at the patrons of the bar, appalled to see they evidently enjoyed the spectacle. Gareth shook his head and reached for the pistol he thought was at his side.

“She is obviously being forced to perform this disgraceful act,” he told the others. “She must be some sort of captive. Perhaps we should free her.”

“We will need to go back and get the others, and weaponry,” Darien agreed. “Name of All! How disgusting! I thought these people were good people.”

“Hi, y’all,” greeted another Earthian girl wearing an apron and little else. She carried a tray of bottled beerz. “What’ll you have?”

“(What will – young lady, are you forced to work here)?” Darien asked as he quickly pulled her to one side. Glendon and Gareth took up defensive positions on either side of them. “(And that poor creature on the platform),” he indicated the dancer with a jerk of his head in order to avoid looking at her again, “(how long has she been enslaved thus)?”

“Huh?” came the plain reply. “Buddy, I have to work here. I got a kid at home to take care of, and this is the only work I can get. And if you’re talking about Mary Lynn up there; shoot, she’s a headliner. She brings in the best cash. Nobody’s a slave around here. It sure beats working at the Dairy Queen.”

“Do you mean that young woman is intentionally exposing herself to this crowd, rather than toil for royalty?” Glendon exclaimed, astonished at the very idea. His voice carried and several patrons turned to glare at them.

“Shut up, creep,” one inebriated man called out. “Go thump your Bible somewhere else.”

“You foul wretch,” Glendon shot back angrily. “Have you no pride in yourself or your women? How can you support such scandalous behavior?”

“Look pal, if you want a drink, get a drink and sit down and shut up. If you just want to complain, get lost,” said the man who demanded money at the door. Darien approached him with a dangerous look in his eyes.

“(We did not realize this establishment catered to such foul events),” he said. “(We will not stay. Return our scrip to us, and we will indeed be gone).”

The bouncer sneered with contempt. “You paid your cover; you saw the goods. Now beat it.”

“(Gladly),” Darien replied. He picked the man up and proceeded to beat him.

The ensuing free-for-all found all three Thuringi in the center of an enormous quasch from which there was no escape. Beer bottles flew in all directions, as were chairs, tables and the occasional Earthian man. Some of the dancers watched from behind curtains and doors in the back of the club. Word swiftly spread about three big handsome strangers who were tearing apart the bar over them, and it was gratifying to the girls’ egos.

Gareth slugged his way through a trio of men, relishing the chance to get back at them for the assault on his eyes that their acquiescence provided. Glendon held a broken table leg and fended off his attackers handily, as if it were consue practice.

Darien was in full riot mode, swinging his fists and throwing anyone he could get his hands on across the room. One of his co-workers from the oil field refused to get into the fracas when he observed the maniacal gleam in Darien’s eyes and saw the damage the Thuringi inflicted upon adversaries.

A police siren wailed in the distance and the bar cleared out. A scantily clad girl rushed out from behind the curtain and took Gareth by the arm. “Come on, it’s the cops. Come this way,” she shouted. He called to Glendon and Darien, and the three ran with the girl to the curtain through the scrambling throng of scattering patrons.

Behind the curtain was a small room with walls lined partway with mirrored dressing tables with many bright lights around each mirror. A dozen barely dressed women were in scandalous costumes, and they eyed the Thuringi appreciatively. Glendon realized shutting his eyes at the sight would not be helpful in the least, so he chose to avert his gaze to the ceiling instead. "Yeep!" Darien put his hand up and pretended to rub his forehead, and effectively shaded his eyes from the sight of the women.

Gareth concentrated his sights on the eyes of the woman who brought them there. “(If you are in need of escape, we will offer you a safe passage away from this place),” he told her. “(You need not be forced to perform these salacious acts).”

“But honey, this is how we make our living,” one of the women told him kindly. “If anything, you’re the ones who need to escape. The cops aren’t going to go easy on you for busting up the place. You’d better get out the back way, fast.”

“(But you need not live like this),” Darien protested without removing his hand from his eyes.

“Is that a marriage proposal?” asked one of the girls.

“(I am not the marrying kind).”

“None of ‘em ever are,” she sighed. “Go on, now. Stay out of sight until the cops leave.” The Thuringi slipped out the back door and found refuge in the shadows. The exit door closed just before the local police came into the dressing room. The girls all voiced their objections to the intrusion. When he saw no men there, the policeman went back to report to his sergeant. The dancers giggled.

“Isn’t that sweet; they wanted to save us from ourselves,” one laughed. “How cheesy is that, I didn’t think white knights were still around.”

After the police left, the Thuringi stole back to the pickup and drove to the Sheldon ranch in silence. Finally, Gareth said, “As the God of All is my witness, I never expected such a thing. Name of All! Even bawdy Borelliat women have better dignity than that.”

“Such is life on a jaded world,” Darien grumbled. “It is disturbing. Have they no knowledge of the enticement of flowing garments? Have they no shame? Was that a…a stable?” He and Gareth exchanged wary glances.

There were bordellos on some outposts run by scurrilous, unscrupulous Gharadee. When the Ledess of the Chassiren flatly refused their ideas and requests – in fact, she wounded several in doing so – the Gharadee experimented with supplying some of their own Gharadee women to men in exchange for coin. Such ventures did not do well since no one wanted to pay for something the Chassiren supplied for nothing. The Chassiren were more appealing and gracious, and the Gharadee women were frightened the Shargassi would request their services. Chassiren always filled the need and were infinitely safer to visit than a loose Gharadee woman, as the former were protected from disease and similar unpleasantries.

Beyond that, no one really knew much about the Chassiren, as they seldom disclosed anything. No one saw children on Chassiren, so it was believed they did not become pregnant. If they did no one could tell since children were nowhere to be seen there. A Chassiren had the ability to reflect the preferences of her visitor, so except for the initial meeting in their Grand Hall few knew a Chassiren’s identity unless she allowed him to know. It was also a widely regarded opinion that Chassiren preferred Thuringi or Thelan visitors if a preference among the people of the Stellar Council could be made.

Glendon stared out at the highway as he drove, aghast at the whole notion of easily offered gratification. It was not seemly in any direction. A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Darien. “I am most humbly grateful, Your Highness, that such behavior offends you. It dispels the notion you are unseemly in action and thought and fortifies my belief in your underlying goodness.”

“Of course, such behavior offends me!” Darien declared, a little out of joint at the statement. Still, he understood why Glendon mentioned it. Darien spent so long cultivating and reveling in a bawdy reputation, the club was the sort of place the Bishop would presume Darien preferred. “I speak naughty and sometimes act naughty, but never in my wildest imaginings would I ever lower myself to such base behavior. I prefer the chase to the capture and even then, the capture should be worthy. That sort of business offers no chase at all; there is no enticement, no challenge. Ugh!” He shuddered. “It makes me want to scrub myself clean and avoid all Earthian women just as a precaution.”

When they returned to the Sheldon ranch, they were at a loss of how to describe their evening. They had to explain something; all three obviously were involved in some sort of altercation. Carrol busily cleaned their cuts and bruises.

“Well, what happened?” Stuart demanded.

“I would rather not speak of it in front of the princess,” Glendon said politely.

“Why not?” Carrol asked, surprised. “You were all to go relax, not get into a quasch. What happened? What kind of club is this strip club?”

“Naked women danced for the salacious observation of strangers,” Gareth snapped after the other two did not speak up. He was mortified to explain anything to anyone about the events. “It was the most disgusting thing we ever saw in our lives. I for one never want to witness such again and would prefer not to mention it again either.”

Carrol stood before him with an antiseptic cloth in hand, her mouth open and her eyes wide. She was shocked at his words. Brent, home for a quiet restful weekend from his adventures on the Isador, had much the same look on his face.

“Did you manage to free them?” he asked.

“They did not wish to be freed,” Gareth muttered. “It is their method of employment.”

Brent and Stuart uttered snorts of dismay.

Glendon said, “I suppose even a beautiful world like this one has a nasty underside, but I wish I had not been a witness. Surely they cannot believe it is their only option for garnering wages.”

“You see, this is just the sort of thing over which the Bishop will scream,” Brent told them. “To say nothing of what Aura will do! We must not mention this in any of our general reports. It took us some time to discover it ourselves. Perhaps if we stick to the plan to keep to ourselves after the Armada arrives, the rest of Thuringa need never be exposed to this kind of unpleasantness. God knows I never want my good boy Triton or my dear Isador to be saddled with this sort of mental imagery, nor do I wish it for myself.”

“It is not the sort of entertainment shown on their broadcasts here on Earth,” Stuart mused. “Every society has its seamy underside, as Glendon said. In our society we have the sweet poems of the Vita Kanerra in our public libraries, but we also have the Tarinade that our adventurous youth and our ardent and daring lovers claim. If that is the worst that Thuringi society has to offer, then we are far and away ahead of the Earth.”

“The Tarinade has some extremely scandalous passages, itself,” Carrol pointed out before she realized what she said. The men studied her apprehensively. “You seem to believe only men read, and you also quoted it endlessly on our journey here. Isador read the Tarinade, too; it did not make her any less worthy of respect.”

“No, but the Tarinade is chiefly meant for private inspection between consenting adults,” Darien said. “It was never meant to be on display in a public forum.”

“I will not mention this in my reports,” Stuart decided. “I did not bear actual witness to it. But now we are aware of the matter and can avoid it in the future.”

“True,” Brent agreed. “But how is it this Earthian pastime disgusts us, yet we take such perverse delight in singing along with their 'One Fine Day'? Is this not at cross purposes?”

“I let my imagination take me where it may go, when I sing that song,” Darien told him. “It is not something that is placed before me to rob me of private interpretation. It is the difference between being naughty by suggestion and being disgraceful by action.”

“Well, Earthians do not realize when they agree by saying ‘yes’ they have no idea that to us, it sounds like ‘yjass’,” Gareth said. “But Darien is right: suggestion is a far cry from what we witnessed tonight.” He took the antiseptic from Carrol’s hands. “We were fortunate the police did not capture us after the fight. Then it would have had to go into the reports, and your father would have found me unworthy for even unintentionally witnessing such a display.”

“You had no way of knowing,” she told him. “How did you escape?”

“The women showed us an exit through their dressing room.”

“You were among them, among those exposed women?”

“Well, yes,” he said, and she hastily gathered her medical supplies. “It was the only way out.”

“I can just imagine,” she said, obviously not believing him from the tone of her voice.

“Honestly, Your Nibs,” Gareth protested. “The only other way would have put us in the path of the Earthian Naradi. It was not unpleasant.”

“Oh, of course not,” she said, and retreated to her medical office in the parlor.

“Well, what do you want!” he exclaimed, following her. “I did not look upon anything but their eyes. If you think I looked anywhere else, then I am even more offended than you by the accusation!”

“Lover’s quarrel,” Darien judged. “She is in the wrong, you know. Gareth was every bit as shocked as we were; he was simply more practical about our situation. Someone had to keep his eyes open for a way out. I confess I hid my eyes.”

“I stared at the ceiling,” Glendon confessed, abashed. “Gareth was strong enough to handle the situation.”

Stuart shook his head and laughed. “So, both the Naughty Boy and his noble Guardian were too rattled for practical application! It was up to our Everyman to get you out of harm’s way! Well, let the two of them work it out. Let us clear our minds with a treat we walked to the store and purchased today. We have a cold confection called chocolate ice cream.” He led them into the kitchen.

In the parlor, Carrol told Gareth, “I do not doubt your word. I simply cannot fathom your even wanting to be near such creatures; such Chassiren.” She shook as she put away her supplies.

“Oh no, Your Nibs! Chassiren are not anything like these women! Chassiren are gracious and low-keyed companions. And I beg your pardon, but I did not want to be near these women. I wanted to get out of there without running afoul of the local constabulary. It would jeopardize our whole mission to run afoul of the law, as well as jeopardize any hope I have for your father to allow me to court you.” He reached out and took her hands in his. “How can you think I could willingly look at such brazen people, how could you imagine that I would ever wish to consider anyone but you? You wound me, Your Nibs.”

“I simply do not like the idea of some strange woman eyeing you,” she said crossly. “A woman so brazen might believe that any handsome man might be hers for the taking, and I do not care to have them assume such of you.”

He peered at her. “Nibs? Are you jealous?”

She frowned and looked at him. As she did, her frown altered into a rueful smile. “Well, I suppose I am. You have the ability to turn a woman’s head, you know.”

“I did not know,” he whispered. “I have not made it a habit to notice other women since the night I held you dancing at Festival.” She seemed to melt against him, and they kissed passionately.

“Have you settled your differences yet, or have you killed each other?” Darien called to them from the kitchen. “The silence is deafening.”

“We have settled,” Carrol called back, and stole another kiss from her beloved engineer.

“Well, if you do not both get in here soon, there will be no chocolate ice cream for either of you,” Stuart told them. Gareth and Carrol grinned at each other and tried to see who would make it into the kitchen first.

Only one conversation concerning the club started Monday morning at the oil field site. Darien was asked how he liked the girls last Friday. He gave his inquisitor such an intense glare that the man nearly wet himself from trepidation. “(I cannot believe you treat your women so carelessly),” he responded. “(Is there no regard for human dignity here)?”

“Hey, nobody forces women to dance,” the man replied.

“(No, and no one can force me to encourage such activity. I enjoy the pursuit of a woman as much as the capture itself. If she is so wanton as to advertise herself among many, there is no challenge. You people believe in seeking the easiest path. It makes you soft and weak).”

The grand roll of his royal voice reminded the men that he was foreign-born and perhaps very old-fashioned; everything about him emanated royal blood in exile. Perhaps their family fled Europe after the war. The men knew little about European monarchs except that at one time many countries were ruled by them, and now most were republics. This man obviously never lived the life of the common man, yet he returned to the oil field day after day because some sense of duty was stronger than his disdain. Recalling the ease with which he saw Darien throw men across the room at the bar, the man at the bar that night let the matter drop and advised the others to do the same. Darien was given a wider berth from then on.

Dickie Forbes called Darien over to his truck one evening before they packed up to go home. Darien was cold and stiff and annoyed as usual at Pete and George and already in a foul mood. He hoped that whatever Dickie Forbes had to say would be brief and be done with it. He was.

"Darien, you're a darn good worker but right now production isn't really needed around here. Our rigs are going out in the western part of the state to drill some new sites but we're cutting back on some of these reworks. What I'm saying is, I'm going to need to lay you off, you being the new guy and all."

"You will lay me off." Darien did not understand the term and his stare of concentration looked as if he was contemplating murder.

"But I'll need you later, don't get me wrong!" Dickie hastened to add. "I never saw a man with as much gumption and drive as you! To be honest, I…well, since you don't have any work papers or a passport yet, I have to pay you under the table in cash. Out on the new rigs the big bosses want us to provide Social Security numbers for all the work hands so I'll have to keep you here."

"Under the table? Social secure…? Sir, my hands have never been completely secure at this social manner of work the entire time," Darien admitted.

To his astonishment, Dickie Forbes laughed at him. "You have the strangest ways of talking, I swear!"

"I would say the same of you."

"I'll explain it to him, Mr. Forbes," Lloyd offered.

"Good! I reckon we'll need him back this summer, but right now they want the rigs out at the new spots. Are you coming with us, Lloyd?" Believing this bewildering conversation over, Darien strolled off for Lloyd's pickup.

"Yeah. I'll explain to Darien on the ride home."

"Okay. I sure appreciate it." Dickie lowered his voice for Lloyd's hearing only. "Darien kind of scares me when he gets that mean look on his face, almost as much as that brother of his. Brr, I still get the shivers over him!"

"Stuart's a good man, Mr. Forbes; you just caught him on a bad day and the boys picking on his brother, that's all."

"Yeah, well, these people sure stick together!"

Lloyd explained to Darien on the ride back as carefully as he could. He did not want to face the large man's wrath, either.

"See Darien; we're just reworking the old fields to get as much oil out of the ground as we can. They're drilling in new fields out west, but you don't have any identification. Dickie's been hoping you could get new passports or green cards or something from your embassy, but I guess he just can't wait any more. He'd like to bring you out there to work because you're a good strong worker, but you've got to have some I.D."

"I do not know why I cannot get new passports," Darien repeated what he was told to say by Michael. "But what is the meaning of paying under tables?"

"He means he's been paying you off the record in cash because he can't write a check to a guy who doesn't have any legal standing, see. It's called paying under the table, sort of out of sight."

"Oh."

"When they come back, it won't be to any of these fields we've been working. It'll likely be to some east of here, sometime this summer. So I'm sorry but you're being laid off."

"What does that mean?"

"You won't have any work; you won't be working with us for a while."

"I woe not?" Darien's whole face lit up with relief. "Excellent!"

"You don't mind?"

"I doe not at all! It is cold and I am unused to this strange weather, and the black product from the ground makes me ill. It will be a relief to get away from it for a time."

"Well, thank God! I was afraid you'd be mad!"

"No woe! We shall have a grand time of it without the Dickie Forbes' people to annoy us!"

"Well, that's another thing. I'm going to be going with them during the week, and then on the weekends I'll drive home to see Katie and Monica. I have to earn a living and Katie will have to go it alone for a while. So, I was wondering if you'd mind kind of looking after them for me while I'm gone. You know, in case of an emergency or something."

"I would be honored," Darien assured him gravely. "My family will take care of them as if they were our own numbered kinsmen."

"Uh…okay, that sounds good!"

Darien was in a jovial mood when he came into the house. "I am laid away!" he announced. "I will not toil in the black fields until they return in the summer!"

"When is that? When it gets hot again?"

"I believe so. Ah! Let me wash away this nastiness for the last time!" He strode off to the bathroom cheerfully.

"I am so relieved!" Carrol heaved a big sigh. "Every time he goes out in that field, he comes home ill." She packed up her samples and test equipment for the day. Carrol discovered the Earth had so much variety, she would need to carefully pick which samples to bring back to the Armada, and which to leave behind due to lack of ship room. Until then, however, she collected as much as she pleased, and the small parlor was getting full.

When Darien came down to dinner, he was delighted to see heaping plates of vegetables ready to be eaten. "These are the vegetables we stored last summer," Carrol explained. "It was our harvest, as meager as it was. Perhaps this year we will be better prepared and can all help Glendon prepare the ground."

"These are as good as the fresh kind from the market," Stuart noted. "We shall plant the entire yard full of edibles."

"Leave some room for Kellis," Gareth protested. "One side yard, at least!"

"That is not unreasonable," Stuart agreed.

“I will need more room for my samples. I may need to use some of the stalls in the hanger,” Carrol told her brother.

“That is not unreasonable, either.”

Glendon discovered the usefulness of bicycles and acquired one. It was primarily for Carrol, Stuart or Gareth to use to ride into town on weekdays, and Glendon rode it for pleasure on Sunday, his day off. Sundays off appealed to all of them, but to Glendon it was especially sweet. Regular businesses were closed, and he was free to bicycle all over the surrounding roads without crossing much traffic. He especially liked to stop outside the churches at mid morning to hear the hymns. He did not understand much about the Christian religion, but he respected the enthusiasm for their beliefs.

The black churches fascinated him. Their music was lively and vibrant with energy, and he was drawn to them. He peered around the door into a service one Sunday, curious how these boisterous sounding services were conducted. A friendly black gentleman at the door waved him inside, so Glendon eased around the door. He only wished to observe unobtrusively in the back, but at six feet ten inches, a yellow-haired, green-eyed Thuringi could not be unobtrusive in an African Methodist church under any circumstances. He was the object of curious glances and stares.

“Come on in!” invited the preacher. “Everybody is welcome in God’s house.”

Glendon took a seat on the back row, and realized how much he did not blend in. But their enthusiasm for their religion was infectious, and in time he clapped along with the rest of the congregation and enjoyed the delightful harmonics of the music.

“Man, that is one big ol’ white boy,” one man whispered to another. After services, they approached Glendon and chatted as they walked outside. The men were in their early thirties in age, and the one who spoke to him was named Franklin Morris. “I remember you now. You work over at the feed store for Mr. Gentry, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Shoot man, I saw you carry around big hundred-pound sacks of feed like they were nothing. What do you eat to get you there, anyway?”

“I like peaches,” Glendon ventured, not understanding the question, “and chocolate.”

“Peaches and chocolate?” The men looked at each other and laughed uproariously. “I don’t think I’ll tell my children that; they’d be eating nothing but peaches and chocolate from now on, thinking they’ll grow to be mountains.”

Glendon went on his way after a time and reflected how pleasant strangers were. It did not surprise him that Earthians encouraged religious beliefs. These followers made a much kinder citizenry.

At the gas station later that week Glendon noticed a little black girl barely into her adolescence as she hurried down the road, schoolbooks clutched tightly to her chest. She glanced back over her shoulder continuously, and Glendon saw why. An automobile with four teenage Caucasian boys followed her and as the car passed her, they yelled vile epithets at her. Glendon concluded his gas purchase and followed the girl in order to call to her.

“Would you like a ride?” he asked. She shook her head and he drove on. In the rear-view mirror, he saw the car with the boy circled around and approached her again. Glendon stopped his truck and got out. The car pulled in front of the girl, and Glendon saw the way she bit her bottom lip in agitation and fear. The boys emerged from the car, making crude suggestions and more vile taunts than before. One pulled at her pigtails, and she jerked away from him only to run into another boy, who plucked at her blouse.

“Leave her alone,” Glendon ordered. They turned around to see who spoke, and two boys backed off immediately. The other two, a surly looking pair, sneered at him.

“Well, the Englishman is a n****r lover,” one remarked.

“This child is not up to the task of warding you away, but I am,” Glendon told them. He came around the front of the car. “Leave her alone and stop calling her vile names.”

“Ooh! Such vile names!” one of them mimicked and the others chuckled. “Can’t you freakin’ count, Jeeves? There’s four of us and only one of you.”

“Yes, it is so terribly unfair. Earlier, there were four of you and only one small girl. Now the odds are even: only four of you, against me.” He motioned to the girl. “Get behind me, child. These vermin will not harm you; I promise you that.” She pushed past her assailants and hurried to do as he instructed.

“Man, I’ll kick your ass,” the ringleader of the group vowed as he stepped forward. Glendon backed up a couple of steps to the front of the car. “Look, the retreat of the Light Brigade,” the ringleader pointed out to his friends.

Glendon reached down and got a firm hold on the bumper of their car. With a hearty jerk he ripped it off the vehicle in front of the stunned boys. He tossed it aside carelessly and said, “Come kick my ass, boy,” with a particularly unnerving anticipation in his voice.

“You took off my bumper!” the driver howled with indignation.

“Come forward, and see what I remove from you,” Glendon told him. A police car approached and stopped behind the group of boys. As the officer got out, the boys rushed to him and proclaimed their innocence. They pointed to the bumper, then to Glendon. The girl stood next to the Thuringi and gave the tall stranger a sad look.

“I’m sorry, mister,” she told him. “I’m all kinds of trouble to you.”

“No, you are not,” Glendon said.

“What’s this about you tearing up their car?” the officer asked.

“They accosted this innocent girl, and then threatened me when I intervened on her behalf,” Glendon replied. “I thought it best to warn them as to the possible outcome.”

The officer looked at the car and noted with a startled jerk, how jagged the bumper brackets were, literally torn off rather than figuratively. He glanced at the girl and recognized her. “This ain’t the first time these boys have shown their tails, is it Becca?”

“No, sir.”

“We didn’t do nothing to her,” the leader of the gang claimed.

“That’s a damn lie,” called out a woman from her yard nearby. “These hounds called her names and had her so shook up she was downright ashy. Then this giant came along and took up for her, and they were all for going after him, too.”

“What about the bumper?” asked the officer.

The woman leaned against her fence and raked the blonde and gray wisps of hair back from her face. She looked the officer straight in the eye and said evenly, “I couldn’t say for sure. It must have fallen off.” The boys objected loudly to her statement, but the officer stopped them short.

“You pack of wolves; don’t think I don’t know about you. If you’re not stealing cigarettes from the machine at the laundromat or sneaking beers, then you’re harassing someone weaker than you. If you’re looking for something to do, I have a cell back at the station you can fill for awhile. Now I’ve told you before to leave this little girl alone. She ain’t bothering you. Get out of here.”

“What about my bumper?” the driver demanded. The officer looked Glendon over and turned back to the boy.

“I’d say you got off easy. Go on now, git.” The four boys opened the trunk and stuck the bumper in as best they could. “And don’t think about making trouble, either. I know your daddies and they ain’t gonna like you pickin’ fights.” The boys got into the car and left. “Them four are going to win an all-expense trip to McAlester Prison one of these days,” he told Glendon. “You’re the English guy that’s working over at the Gentry’s, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I heard there were a bunch of English guys that caused a big fight over at a club in Muskogee the other night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” Glendon replied. It was no true lie. There were no people from England concerned with the events at the club as far as he knew.

“Uh huh.” The officer wagged a warning finger at the girl named Becca. “You find yourself another way home, girl; don’t make it easy for those jaspers to get at you.” He went back to his car and drove away.

“I am willing to take you to your destination,” Glendon offered, and she took him up on his offer this time.

The next day Franklin Morris from the African Methodist Church came to the feed store to see Glendon. “I appreciate you taking up for my little niece. Those boys have bothered her ever since her brother won a football award one of them thought he should have.” He shook Glendon’s hand. “You’re welcome at the African Methodist Church any time you’d like to come.” Glendon thanked him.

fantasy
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About the Creator

Jay Michael Jones

I am a writer and an avid fan of goats. The two are not mutually exclusive.

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