Book 1 FLIGHT OF THE ARMADA Chapter 8 Part 2

They checked on the Martins every day by phone or in person. Speculation grew concerning Katie Martin and Glendon, chiefly because Glendon was the best known of the Thuringi in town and he was an obvious choice for romantic daydreams. Katie was quizzed every time she arrived at work in the beauty shop about her activities while Lloyd was away in the oil field. At first, she did not know where it was all leading. Once she found out, she was quick to tell the gossipers Lloyd had asked the Thuringi to help her and Monica out in his absence, and they did that and nothing more.

Carrol rode in on Bishop one day with a basket full of eggs for the Martins. Katie invited her to stay for a little while and chat. It was a treat for Carrol to talk to another woman for a change, so she stayed and let Katie paint her nails.

"Are all those guys out there where you live, your brothers?" a client asked as she popped her head out from under the dryer hood.

"No. T- three of them are," Carrol replied, correcting herself to include Glendon as her "brother".

"They sure are good-looking."

"Thank you."

"I hear tell that one that works at Gentry's is married; is that right?" one of Katie's co-workers asked. Her hair was piled on her head in a very becoming fashion, similar to the way the noblewomen of Thuringa styled their hair.

"Yes, he is."

"Why, he's too young to be married!"

Oh, if only you knew! "But he is, and he is madly in love with his wife." Carrol hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but it only gave the two other hair stylists and three customers something to chew on.

"Well, where is she?" asked a customer.

"She is back in our homeland."

"If you don't mind me asking, what are you all doing here?" Katie's boss asked.

Carrol was ready for this formerly troubling question now. "We are here studying American farm practices. I must say, we were extremely impressed by the county fair! Why, there were so many crops and animals and goods on display!"

"I heard that your brother is kind of sweet on Katie here," a stylist said archly.

"We are all fond of her; she and Lloyd have been very kind to us, and of course little Monica is simply charming!"

"Well, I keep saying, she and that big green-eyed movie star Glendon make a mighty pretty couple!" the stylist teased, and Carrol noted the flush in her friend's cheek as well as the annoyed glance she gave the co-worker. Katie did not welcome the comment and did not support it. The Thuringi princess understood the problem at hand and assumed the same patient stance that Queen Oriel Phillipi de Saulin might have taken.

"Of course, they are each attractive people, but it is a poor tale you tell. We were just saying to one another recently how much we admire Katie and Lloyd's love for each other. And of course, my brother's reputation is impeachable and his regard for marriage is sacred. One might think you were spreading something as dreadful as gossip, but I am certain you did not intend for it to sound that way."

The gossip circle did not quite know how to take that. On the one hand, the mysterious girl with the intense green eyes spoke so prettily and lordly; yet on the other hand it sounded as if she had just told the woman to stop lying and shut up. With her back to the group, Katie glanced up at Carrol and smiled.

The salon owner was not quite through. "Did I understand that you were married, too?"

"Yes, I was."

"You're…well, you're a little young, aren't you?"

"I am blessed with a youthful appearance, but yes, I married young." A little falsehood for the sake of safety was something she had learned from The Proper Garin.

"What does he do?"

"He was a soldier, and he was killed in the line of duty." She let that sink in before adding, "It is not a subject I like to discuss. I miss him very much still."

The other stylist started to say, "But what –" and the proprietor snapped, "That's enough, Judy!"

"Who's that other fellow out there with you, that short one? I hardly ever see him, or that other one with the foxy attitude," a customer said.

"They are friends of ours, specialists in their fields. We have all known each other for a long time."

"Are they married; do they date?"

Carrol smiled. "They are both spoken for. Such robust, handsome men are not likely to sit idly without attracting a love interest."

"No, I suppose not. I swear, all the good men are taken!" This started off a round of idle chatter, and the crisis was averted.

As soon as Carrol paid for her manicure and went on her way, the proprietor turned to the gossipy stylist. "Don't you get it?"

"Get what?"

"Are you that dense? Her husband was a soldier killed in the line of duty. Her brother works for the Gentrys, who took him right into their bosom as soon as they got here. See? I bet she was married to Gary Gentry! They must have married overseas or something, and that’s why they came here to this podunk little town! That Glendon does remind me of Gary in a lot of ways, so sure, the Gentrys are bound to favor him.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” the stylist objected. “Ed and Margie would have said something by now about Gary getting married.”

“Not if his wife was a teenager, I bet they wouldn’t,” a customer pointed out.

“They sure are some pretty people out there.”

“Well, y’all just cut out the trash talk about them folks. You know I don't tolerate anybody talking trash about a soldier." The proprietor patted a framed picture of a Marine that sat on the table at her station to underscore her point. "And if you don't want Ed and Margie Gentry to come after you with a rake or one of those big Phillips brothers to wrestle you to the ground like a steer, you'd best leave the subject of Glendon and Katie be, too."

"There is no 'Glendon and Katie'," Katie reminded them firmly. "Good grief; they are all friends of my husband's! Haven't any of you ever heard of 'family friends'?"

"Nobody that good looking, no," said a customer. "I wouldn't mind getting a mite friendlier with one of them."

Work in the oil field started back up for Darien, but his was an erratic schedule that did not require his presence every day. A few farmers hired him out to stack hay bales in their barns, and this he did gladly. He did not ask for coin and even protested when it was offered to him, but they paid him anyway. They were grateful they did not have to do all that heavy work and that he enjoyed doing it.

Stuart wanted to document their projects for his report, so one day Glendon accompanied Darien out to the oil field with a camera. What he saw alarmed him greatly.

Darien was in the middle of the drilling operation, handling the heavy equipment and working among the brackish, filthy "mud" pipe lubricant right along with the rest of the crew. His skin was a ghastly pallor, and he was sick to his stomach the entire time, but they were short a crew member that day and he had to stick it out.

Glendon was likewise eyed suspiciously by the crew. "Anyone that pretty is probably a fairy," Pete confided to George at mid-day during a break. George looked beyond him, and his eyes widened so much they nearly bugged out of his head.

"Maybe, but I don't think I'd want to test that boy's patience if I was you." Pete turned around and nearly choked on his coffee.

Darien was covered in the muddy liquid, and Glendon had stripped off his shirt and then his tee-shirt for Darien to use to remove what liquid he could from his skin. Glendon's musculature was only to be expected of a Naradi Famade who spent the last year hefting heavy sacks of feed and fertilizer around all day. When Darien removed his shirt in order to use it for a mop as well, Pete and George did not say anything out of line for the rest of the day. They remembered Stuart's warning about Darien's having killed many men in war, and now they believed it. He looked like he could take on anyone and come out whistling despite the Thuringi claim he looked undernourished.

Brent spent much of the first part of October in the Pacific until the Columbus Day Storm in the northwestern part of the United States. It brought him to the Willamette Valley in Oregon to aid in rescue work at ranches. His heart grieved over the loss of the lives and the destruction of property, and he was extremely impressed by the storm system that caused it all. Storms like that were uncommon on Thuringa. The wind and turbulent seas were like nothing he had ever experienced before but it thrilled him greatly. No one questioned his background or noticed his appearance during the rescue work, they were simply glad to have a willing pair of hands in a time of need.

Two days later on the fourteenth he was called back to the Sheldon ranch to help evacuate in case the Cuban Missile Crisis took deadly measures. The Thuringi observed the political events with mixed reactions. Stuart was appalled at the standoff; he had hoped to approach the president but was rebuffed in the attempt given the tense atmosphere in Washington. Carrol was impatient at the foolishness and Glendon privately hoped Stuart would decide to destroy the missiles as a measure of introduction.

In the end they remained at the ranch and waited like the rest of the world and breathed a sigh of relief that their outpost would not be destroyed before the Armada arrived.

“Stuart, Earthians are going to blow themselves up and take us with them, and there will be nothing for our people here but a big smoking rock. What is it about that tiny little island that is so important?” Brent scoffed at the dinner table one evening. “Even its name is unremarkable. Coo-ba. I looked at it. It is nice but for pity’s sake, America has an entire country from the one great water to the other.”

Darien picked at his food at the dinner table and finally spoke his mind. “I do not understand how this miserable planet ever reached this stage in its history. We can hope for peace between them, or we can be instrumental in seeing that peace is achieved. And frankly, hope is just the breeze going by for all its effectiveness.”

“How do you propose that we see peace achieved?” Stuart asked.

“Ramming it down their throats seems to be the only thing some of them understand,” Darien said. “But the six of us cannot do that by ourselves.”

“Not even the entire Armada could do that and still call ourselves Thuringi.”

“Well, we need to do something! As Brent said, they will destroy themselves and our hopes with them. It would have to be a concerted effort. With strategic placements of our battle cruisers and battle ships –”

“Are we back to that again!” Stuart groaned. “Which word in ‘we cannot’ is troubling you on the matter? Forcing someone to do your will serves cross purposes; it will only breed resentment.”

“Then what do you propose? Asking them nicely to play with us?” Darien asked acidly. “They like to swagger and brag about their might; let them get a taste of what might really is.”

“You work with them. I should think you of all people would understand their peculiar sense of resolve,” Stuart said with an effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. “We hated the Shargassi for fighting with us –”

“What part of ‘we are not the Shargassi’, can you not understand?” Darien shot back. “I am not out to destroy Earthians and do not wish to rule them in perpetuity. We need the space of a number of years of guaranteed peace; that is all. Then we can leave.”

“Guaranteed peace? This world has millions of people, with millions of issues with which to deal. Just how can you guarantee anything that they themselves, who understand the issues better, cannot?” Stuart snapped. "I want to approach President Kennedy, but we must make certain that we are not perceived as another threat!"

“Would you pass me the corn?” Gareth asked Glendon. “If they start pounding on the table again, I would like to at least be able to sit back and eat while I watch the show.”

“What show?” Stuart asked, distracted.

“The Stuart and Darien Nightly Argument Show,” Gareth replied cheerfully. “You both say the same things over and over.”

“But Darien never says just who he would threaten and how, and you never manage to outline a peaceful solution,” Glendon added.

“What you two need to do is gather the facts and present them to Father,” Carrol said as she passed the corn to Gareth. “He will be the one to decide the course of action, if any.”

“Well, when the world blows itself up, he certainly will have only one choice of action, then,” Darien declared. “Scrape up what is left of us.”

“I look forward to seeing Hartin Medina’s reaction to Marilyn Monroe,” Gareth remarked, as he buttered his corn on the cob. “He will not know whether to be offended or cover Lady Melina’s eyes and gaze at the woman.”

“He will be too busy gazing at Ann-Margret, I wager,” Glendon remarked, with a peculiar gaze into space. He snapped out of it quickly and grinned sheepishly, and Carrol pounced.

“What is it about red haired women, with you,” she laughed.

“It is a fascinating color,” Glendon said with a shrug. “Perhaps I shall bring back some hair color when we return to the Armada, and Janis will become the first Thuringi redhead.”

Stuart and Darien looked at each other with wry grins. They knew exactly what the others were saying to them: Shut up.

“And just what will you say to explain this sudden change that will not make her jealous of your time here?” Darien asked.

“I shall dye mine red, too,” Glendon chuckled, and they laughed at the mental image.

“I will color mine brown,” Gareth said. “It is usually streaked with grease, anyway.” Carrol poked his leg under the table with her toe.

“It is not,” she said.

“I will dye mine black,” Darien decided. “To match my black heart.”

“I will dye mine white,” Stuart said. “Too much more of our arguments about Earth, and it might turn that way, regardless.” They looked at Carrol, who was nibbling her corn. She blinked at them.

“What, I am not about to color my hair any differently,” she declared. “All this length? It would take days to color and dry. I like good old Thuringi yellow, thank you.”

They lifted their glasses of luket and toasted the color yellow.

“The color of caution,” Darien observed.

“There is nothing wrong with a little prudence,” Stuart began, and the other three moaned.

“Let us color our hair blue, the color of the sky,” Gareth suggested.

“That would earn me a rousing degree of sarcasm at an oil field,” Darien told him.

“Anyone who has the nerve to color his hair blue should hardly be challenged by people who do not,” Glendon told him.

On Thanksgiving Day, Michael Sheldon came out to the ranch and brought a turkey to roast. He helped them prepare and eat a traditional American Thanksgiving meal, and in the late afternoon they introduced him to the traditional Thuringi game of Kellis. It was a bone-jarring collision of muscle and struggle that quickly made Michael sit the game out. The other five continued to play, so Michael took pictures of the happy, laughing group all weekend.

He was astonished and impressed by the ranch's improvements: the barn was once again a solid structure and the livestock were healthy and well-tended. The house was remodeled with all manner of improvements, and he liked the heated tub on the back porch for Brent's use. The fences were all kept up and the people of Iron Post had nothing but good things to say about his large house guests. No one cared any more where they were from or what they wanted. The Thuringi were friendly and bright and did not cause trouble for anyone unjustly. They kept to the ranch much of the time but when they did appear in public, things just seemed better for it.

All the scouts attended Monica's Christmas Pageant. To Darien's disappointment, she was not a sheep but in the context of things she had an improved role: this year she was an angel. It was the same play from the year before and the roles were recast, so Darien knew what to expect in terms of songs and setting. His companions were delighted by the play and cheered enthusiastically. Gareth went out in search of the perfect Christmas tree with Lloyd and delivered it to the Martin household.

"Now we need to get your folks one," Lloyd said, but Gareth shook his head.

"It is not our belief, Lloyd Martin. It is an admirable religion, and we respect your decision to follow it, but it is not ours. To claim the trappings of this Christmas would be false to our own ways."

Monica pleaded with him to stay and decorate the tree with them. Darien drove up with a truckload of firewood and proceeded to offload half of it, and the other half would go out to the ranch with Gareth and him. He agreed to help Monica decorate so Gareth agreed as well.

"You know, I noticed that y'all don't seem to have any holidays of your own. Is that true?" Lloyd asked Darien after they unloaded the wood and came in to set up the tree. Gareth already had it in the stand and was testing the lights.

"We have our own holidays, but no one here knows anything about them," Darien explained. "They are not large and grand affairs like yours; they are but simple observations with no meals or sweet candies or gifts. Word, your calendar is sprinkled with merriment, while ours boasts a steadier, somber sort of appreciation year-round."

"You don't have Christmas?" Monica asked round-eyed.

"No, but we honor your ideals," Gareth replied. "That should suffice. We do not expect anyone here to believe in everything we say and do." He finished stringing the lights on the tree.

"I guess so. Are you and Miss Carrol going to get married?"

The abrupt question left Gareth open-mouthed and blushing, to which Darien snickered and answered for him, "He had better. I believe Carrol has her heart set on it."

"Oh, I do not know that she does; there are many other more worthy men than me," Gareth stammered.

"Name one!" Darien dared brashly. "I have observed you, Sword and Fist, and I can think of no other man who measures up to you. And I am a notoriously hard man to please when it comes to deciding whether some noddy is good enough for my sister."

"What about her late husband, er, your brother? What was he like?" Katie asked.

Darien had to think for a moment before he understood what ‘brother’ she meant. "He was an admirable man in every way, but I must say that I had my doubts as well. He was a career soldier and there is no certainty he would have treated her with the same gentle regard as our everyman Gareth. Oh, Maranta was grand but I much prefer Gareth for her, and that is no mean reflection on either man."

Gareth pondered that statement in silence. He joined Maranta Shanaugh's squadron in the Air Command before Carrol was born and had been with him until the day the general died. Darien was right, Maranta was a career soldier. When Gareth learned of the general's affair with the princess, he wondered what she saw in Maranta beyond his good looks and sterling reputation. Maranta was an ideal warrior, a man who did not flinch from duty or regret; but would he have made a good, loving husband? He had a big heart and a generous spirit, but he also had a stoic outlook and a hard work ethic.

Perhaps Carrol changed that part of him; perhaps she would have softened the flinty edge and encouraged him to relax and enjoy life. But if she had, it would have been late in his life and changes did not always last. Maranta always derisively referred to himself as a "killing machine", a title he did not like but acknowledged as accurate. It was a title that Maribel Duncan scolded the general for accepting as true.

"And why aren't you married?" Katie teased Darien.

"I? Good woman, I am a scoundrel of the first order and have no business spoiling the dream of some hapless well-intentioned skirt! It is best to leave me to the wastelands of domestic existence."

"Aww," Lloyd scoffed softly. "I bet you'll be settled down with some doe-eyed gal before long. Just when you figure you'll never find her, the woman you waited for all your life will be right there in front of you."

"Then she had best get out of my way, or I will trample her with my unrepentant ways!" Darien snickered. He went out to the truck and returned minutes later with a large bootbox-shaped package wrapped in a brown paper bag, flattened out so it could be taped smoothly over the box. A single white ribbon was tied around the package. "And so Small One, it appears you have a gift to place under your symbol of the season." Monica squealed and shook the package excitedly. "Here, now! Is it the custom to rough up the gift?"

"Yes," Monica giggled. She heard a soft swishing sound from within. "What is it?"

"What, indeed." He knelt and turned his face so he could receive a kiss on the cheek. "Give us a farewell buss and we will be gone. Merry Birthday to the Jesus child."

They all exchanged good wishes and goodbyes, and Darien and Gareth headed home.

"I am grateful you favor the idea of courtship for me and your sister," Gareth said eventually during the ride.

"I see no reason not to favor it. Ah! Here is an idea! Let us gather more toes of mistle and drape it all over the roof. Then we can watch Stuart and Glendon squirm with the implication of impropriety between you and Carrinkle and tease them for their salacious suspicions!"

"Us? No! You can gather the toes of mistle; I am going to tune up this truck, it sounds terrible." Darien could not tell the difference, but he knew Gareth could.

On Christmas morning Monica Martin opened gifts from many people, including doting grandparents who inundated her with goodies. Lloyd and Katie lavished their only child with toys and clothes and books. But her favorite gift was a meter-long homemade porcelain doll with skin the color of sand, yellow eyes and delicate features, and had real human hair of a sunny color embedded somehow in the china head at the proper place. The doll was a collaborative effort that could only move its arms up and down and wore an exotic but simple outfit, handmade with delicate stitches. Because the doll was taller than her fashion model dolls, she called her Carrol. She did not put other clothes on the Thuringi doll or move her around; she preferred to keep it nearby to add elegance to the play area. She never let her friends play with it either, but she did let them admire it. Long after the other dolls fell out of favor and put away in lieu of other interests, the Carrol doll remained a beloved decoration.

The snow that had been so lovely and interesting at first, proved to be quite something else the more they experienced it. Darien’s work in the oil fields during the winter was uncomfortable, but his pride in overcoming obstacles would not allow him to quit. The snow turned to slush underfoot and under the weight of the vehicles in the drilling area. The Americans knew how to dress for the weather, and Darien figured it out by trial and error and observation. Once again, he was the target of mild ridicule and found the phrase “dumb Limey” exceptionally irritating. He wore his long black traveling coat because it was made for space travel and kept him warm, but to his fellow oilfield workers it resembled a formal swallow-tailed morning coat.

“Hey, Little Lord Darien, you wanna bring that wrench over here before you head for the embassy ball?” Pete taunted, and Darien had to grit his teeth and concentrate on not throwing the wrench at his head.

“You boys better leave him alone,” Dickie warned.

“Aw, we’re just funnin’.”

It was hard work; the hardest Darien ever did in his life. His was not a sheltered one, not in the least; he endured consue and training in the Air Command, Kellis and battle with the Shargassi. But never before had Darien ever gone out in the cold surrounded by unfamiliar work to draw forth liquid from the ground that made him physically ill and tolerate the teasing of working-class men. So many challenges at once! He was beyond resentment and anger; it was now a point of self-control, to prove to himself he could maintain his cool and do a good job.

One mid-afternoon, dark gray clouds moved in and obscured the sun. The winter chill deepened, and Dickie decided the weather was too harsh to lay any more pipe without someone losing flesh on the cold metal surfaces. The workers packed up and headed for their vehicles, bound for home and warmth.

George and Pete were to ride back to the café with Dickie Forbes, whose truck was parked next to a sharp incline below the site. Dickie had the truck started and intended to drive away from the incline to give them more room to open the cab door. As he did two things happened: the truck’s front wheels struck a slushy spot, and George and Pete lost their footing and slipped down the incline. Pete slid under the midway point of the pickup and was pulled under the back wheels of the helplessly bogged down truck. George’s legs were wedged beneath the slushy mud below and the hot exhaust pipe on the undercarriage of the vehicle.

Their screams of alarm and pain brought men from all over the work area. Dickie stopped gunning his motor as instructed by the bystanders, but the weight of the heavy truck with equipment and supplies and heavy toolboxes was still on top of the two men. The front wheels were bogged down to the axle, and shouts of confusion and helplessness filled the air.

“Get it off of them!”

“He can’t, it’s stuck!”

“Somebody call a tow truck!”

“That’ll take too long! We need to get them out of there now!”

“I’ll tie my truck to the bumper –”

The babbling voices died down as the back end of the truck lifted up, and George stopped screaming for help. Darien Phillipi stood at the trailer hitch, his legs braced against the earth and his hands firmly in place on the underside of the back end of the truck. The cold eddies of wind swirled his hair and strange foreign coattails around, giving him the appearance of a magic sprite come forth from the depths of the earth. He calmly said, “Pull them out from under the vehicle, fools.”

George was swiftly pulled out, but Pete was still wedged under the tire. Darien re-adjusted his hold and stepped forward. The truck rose higher. As Pete was moved, he uttered a high-pitched shriek. “No, no, I’m dying! Oh God, my hips are broken!”

“We can’t move him yet, we need something to slide under him so we don’t do any worse to him,” Lloyd called out.

“Then find something,” Darien instructed. His voice was the only one present that was not pitched with trepidation or pain, and his breathing was easy. He glanced about almost casually, as if he were not holding up a half-ton of metal with his bare hands. “That walkway board over at the drilling site will do. Go get it and try to slide it under him.”

As two men hurried to do as he suggested, Dickie Forbes shouted, “Darien, we’ll get a jack for you, just hold on.”

“It would be simpler if you concentrated on Peter and not waste time with your little tools,” Darien replied. “I am in no distress.”

The walkway board was one of several plywood sheets placed over the soft ground around the concrete rig apron. It was ideal as a temporary stretcher, and the men slid Pete onto it and away from the truck as fast as they could. When the all-clear was given, Darien lowered the back of the pickup to the ground and wiped his hands on a red rag. He went to George and pushed people out of the way to reach the burned black man.

He pulled a kila from his pocket, a small dagger used on Thuringa like a pocketknife. He swiftly cut away the burned pants fabric on George’s legs. He then scooped up handfuls of fresh clean snow nearby and covered the burns with it. “You need medication and unfortunately I have none of the now,” he told George. “The cold snow should stop further damage to your flesh. You fellows, place your coats on his body, he needs to stay warm.” His instructions were followed, and Darien turned his attention to Pete.

Pete was in a bad way, and the first aid kit for the job site was of poor benefit to the injuries. Like George, he was covered in blankets and coats, but little could be done for a broken pelvis. Darien ran his fingertips over the man’s pelvic region and muttered his thoughts aloud. “It is broken, snapped like a twig. The arteries were spared severing, but his vessels are crushed. He must be taken to a medical station immediately.”

This was not his usual Arda gift, but the need of the moment superseded his assumed limitations. Darien placed his palm over Pete’s forehead and uttered a chant in a language that sounded vaguely Grecian. The injured man still groaned, but he closed his eyes and took easier breaths.

“Larry’s got his pickup over by the graveled part of the road out of this section,” Dickie told him. “If we can get them into the back of it, we can drive them to the Cushing hospital.”

Darien got a firm grip on one side of the board and reached over the injured man to the other side. He stood up easily. “Show me which vehicle,” he told Dickie. Dickie led the way, and two other men used a fireman’s carry to bring George to the pickup. Darien stepped into the back of the truck, board and all, and placed it securely in its bed. He then put George beside Pete and jumped down from the truck. “Take them quickly; time is their enemy.” Workers piled into the back to steady the two injured men, and Larry drove away.

Without another word, Darien returned to Dickie Forbes’s pickup and moved the back end and then the front end onto solid ground. He climbed into Lloyd Martin’s truck, where astonished crewmen came to him.

“That was amazing, the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. I never knew you were so strong!” one man said when no one else would speak.

“None of you know anything about me,” Darien snapped at them, his unEarthly yellow eyes flashing with indignation. “You have done nothing but taunt me from the first, amusing yourselves at my expense, and you only show kind interest when it is to your advantage. There is much more to me that you do not know, and I now choose not to disclose it. The way you treat those different from you is appalling and I want nothing further to do with you. Lloyd Martin, let us be away.”

Lloyd got in and drove the Thuringi home. He saw glimpses of Darien’s strength at earlier occasions, but he never dreamed his friend held such power. He did not dare speak since Darien had been so surly, but after a few miles Darien spoke.

“You and your family and the Gentry family are among the few people outside my home who have treated me kindly and not as a freak. Stuart has great confidence in others of your kind, but I do not.” He felt a tickle in his nose and suddenly a sneeze erupted from him. “Waugh! What a terrible sound!”

“God bless you,” Lloyd said automatically.

“God had best do a better job of it,” Darien agreed grumpily. He did not feel good; his throat felt tight, his sinuses made his face feel stuffy, and the top of his head was strangely heavy. He sneezed again. “Chuala detra copus (This nonsense is getting old)!” he exhorted in Thelan.

“Er…what?”

“This is a terrible business. What can it be?”

“Sounds like you’re coming down with a cold. I’m a little worried about the way you strained yourself back there. I heard of times when people get super strong in times of stress, but I never thought I’d see it for myself.”

“That? That was nothing,” Darien told him. “I picked up that vehicle simply because it was the decent thing to do. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have withheld from doing damage to some of those men. Uff! They are lucky they were alive this morning, not accounting for this evening’s events.”

“They are pretty rough on people, I know. I would say ‘they don’t mean anything by it’ but that’s not really true. It’s more like hazing, you know; a way to break in fellas and see how far they can take it.”

“In my homeland, such activity would bring the wrath of several entities upon their heads. In some cultures, they would be slain outright for their impertinence! Bah! Yours is a naïve society. What you consider important I deem foolish, and what you call modern technology is but archaic testaments to timid research and blatant ignorance. But for you and yours, Lloyd Martin, I would deem your entire civilization as slackards.”

“Well, that’s pretty harsh,” Lloyd drawled. “Of course, if I say anything against you, I know you could twist me into a pretzel. But tell me this: what is it about your people, aside from your eye color and your strength, that sets you on higher ground?”

Darien considered the question long and hard and slowly realized his words were harsh and aimed at the wrong man for the wrong reasons. He did not mind Earthians that much, but his body ached in ways he never knew before, and he had lashed out without thinking. He finally replied, “I suppose you could say it is our arrogance, bested only by our astonishing propensity for inappropriate rudeness.”

Lloyd smiled. “Apology accepted.”

He dropped Darien off at the gate and waited until the big Thuringi made it into the house and closed the door before he drove home. Later that evening, he phoned Darien, who sneezed into the phone. “Waugh! This malady has not dissipated,” Darien groaned. “What is it you seek?”

“Didn’t know if maybe you’d like to know about the fellows.”

“Yes, I would. Are they alive or dead?”

“Uh – ha! Well, I guess I should have expected that! George’s got third degree burns but it will heal over. He’ll have some hellacious scars, but he says he would rather that than what could have happened. Pete – well, it’s obvious Pete’s never going to work in the oilfields again. His pelvis is broken, and he’ll be in traction for a long time, but they said he was very calm on the way to the hospital. He told the boys over and over that you saved his life, and he didn’t feel as much pain as he did before you talked to him. His family is sure grateful to you; George’s too.”

“Hmm. Well, a bitten dallah holds more compassion than one who has never felt teeth.”

“Darien, you say the strangest things. Oh, Monica said to say you are a hero.”

“Monica says the strangest things as well.”

An unfamiliar car came down the driveway and stopped in front of the house the next morning. From it emerged a black woman and three small children. She introduced herself as George Foster’s wife and asked to speak to Darien.

Darien wrapped himself in blankets and sat facing her on the couch. The children’s eyes widened in fascination at the sight of the yellow-eyed white man, and they stayed tucked behind their mother. Occasionally they peered out at him. “Good day, Dame Foster. How may I be of assistance to you?” Darien intoned. His voice was even deeper than usual, and he gladly accepted one of the cups of hot tea Carrol offered their guests and him.

“I…I wanted to thank you for what you did for George and Pete. Mr. Forbes said you picked his truck up and saved their lives.” One child looked at Darien from over her shoulder, and the sight made Darien smile.

“Well, it is called a pickup truck,” he replied. This made his guest relax and smile.

“My husband is the breadwinner in our family; I’m a housewife and with our children being so small, I don’t know what I’d do if he had to stay out of work for a long time or if he was killed. He always admired you, but he said he scared your sister one day by accident and that you didn’t like him.”

“The incident has been forgiven, but I cannot say much for the friends with whom he chooses to associate. They are rude fellows, and he would do well to distance himself from them, but then there is no accounting for odd friendships. I have never met people of your color before; we come from a faraway land and the Negroid race is unknown to us.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The brown skin is quite attractive when I see it close to, as now. Will he return to the oil field, then?” Darien’s leap from one subject to another caught her off guard for only a moment.

“Once his legs heal, yes.”

“We are glad to hear his recovery will be complete.”

Glendon was seated at the dining room table with a book in hand. Naradi Famede did not allow their charges to meet with outlander visitors while ill unless the guard was in place. Despite Darien and Stuart's insistence that Glendon had been following all orders correctly, the Naradi felt guilty he had not been on hand to assist his Warrior Prince and somehow prevent his illness from striking. He resolved to at least guard him at home. Glendon wore no weaponry but he needed none on hand, and his pistol was out of sight but handy. The children had this second strange man to study, too.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Dame Foster?” Darien asked. “If your man is yet ill, how will you garner coin to pay your expenses?”

“Oh no, my family and his family are helping us out, we’ll be all right. Really, Mr. Phillips, you have done all I could ask for by saving George. He’s a good man, he really is.”

“I am certain of it. Only a man with righteous footsteps earns the hand of a noble lady such as yourself.”

The easy delivery of this unpracticed gallantry flustered Mrs. Foster a little, and she blushed. “Well, I had best be going. I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am – we all are.”

“Thank you,” her little boy added. Darien smiled, and with that smile came an ease of heart for the family.

At the table, Glendon broke into a smile of his own. This was the Darien Phillipi the Naradi had long hoped to witness. He wished Maranta Shanaugh could have lived to see this day.

Carrol decided to look further into Earthian medical care and took Darien with her after she cleared his sinuses. It gave him enough relief to feel fit enough to go. They visited Pete’s room at the hospital, and George happened to be on hand as well. Pete was not the brash, insolent man who once tormented the Thuringi with unchecked glee. He was pensive and when he spied the man in question in the doorway, he motioned him in.

Darien entered, his large frame dwarfing the door and almost overshadowing the sister beside him. Carrol slipped in and glanced over the equipment and monitors attached to the injured man.

“You do not look as alarming as before,” Darien remarked as they approached the bed.

“Everybody here tells me I’m lucky to be alive, and I agree with ‘em. If it hadn’t been for you…oh, hello m’am. Your brother is a real hero,” he said to Carrol in the strained voice of a man in pain. She smiled, and the monitor recorded the increase in his heart rate. She reached in pretense to smooth down the man’s hair, but she actually wanted to read his physical condition with her healing Arda gift.

“Darien has many heroic qualities, but has had very few opportunities to display them,” Carrol informed him as she leaned against the bed rail to work. “Of course, he has always been a hero to me. Did you not know how strong he is?”

“N… no m’am, I didn’t.” Pete was mesmerized by the touch of her hand.

“Your injuries are grievous,” she murmured. She looked at George. “And are you better, Lord Foster?”

“Oh yes m’am, yes I am, much better,” he stammered in the presence of the statuesque beauty with the brilliant green eyes. “We’d both be goners if it wasn’t for your brother.”

“Pray do not address so much gratitude to me,” Darien said low, nearly in a growl. “It was simply common courtesy, from one man of toil to another.”

“I know I’ve been pretty hard on you. Everybody there said you didn’t hesitate for a minute, you were like ‘Big Bad John’ or something, that Jimmy Dean song,” Pete said, obviously impressed with the large man before him. “They said you picked up that truck like it was paper.”

“Mmm,” Darien acknowledged without enthusiasm.

“I hate to think what would have happened to us if you hadn’t been there,” George put in again, and it was at that point that Darien’s patience broke.

“And if I had never done a thing, if you had never fallen or the snowfall did not soften the ground and conspired with the elements of chance to harm you, you would still belittle me,” he said bluntly. “I would much rather you address remorse for your unkindness rather than gratitude for my actions. Honor stirred my hand, sir, only honor. It is not our way to let the ignorant suffer and die, however distasteful their habits may be.”

“Darien,” Carrol objected mildly, “It is also not our way to boast on our suffering.”

“No, I had that coming,” Pete told her. “I guess I ought to take it like a man if I’m gonna dish it out.”

“Indeed,” Darien said, “at last you speak with a contrite heart.”

“Yours are still terrible injuries,” Carrol told Pete. “Are you in much pain?”

“As long as they keep me doped up, I’m all right,” He wondered at the way he felt no pain at the moment and attributed it to the distraction her looks offered. She, on the other hand, appeared distressed. “It’s kinda wearing off. Uh, Darien never talks about you much.”

“The honorable require no advertisement,” Darien said shortly.

Carrol shook her head at her brother before she replied to Pete. “I am a widow, and my brothers are quite protective of me. There is really nothing more to tell. He knows little of you, as well. We only wished to check on your progress. Darien will not return to the oil fields for a while.” Darien noticed the increased strain in her face.

“He won’t? Why not?” George asked, as surprised as Pete. “We need strong men out there.”

“He has suffered terribly, and our finances do not require him to put his health at risk on an unfamiliar venture. Tell me: does the black oil you extract make you ill?”

“No. It stinks and it’s a bear to wash off, but it don’t hurt any,” George told her.

“It does not suit Darien at all. There is no reason for him to stay continually nauseous. I asked him not to return and he has promised to do as I ask until we find a solution.”

“She is persuasive to the point of nagging,” Darien remarked. “Quite pushy, really.”

“You dance upon your own truths,” Carrol reprimanded before she turned back to Pete and stroked his face gently. “Well, we shall go now and let you get more rest. Do recover well, gentlemen.”

Darien nodded to them and put his arm around Carrol. She walked as if nothing was amiss, but Darien had to support her part way down the hall until she was strong enough to walk under her own power. “I am sorry it took so long. It is harder when I cannot simply place my hand on the injury, but that would have been most unseemly, as Father would say.”

“Father would be right in this case,” Darien said with a grin.

“Did you ever see such a beauty in your life?” Pete asked. “Man, I swear when she had her hand on me, I didn’t feel any pain at all.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere with her if Darien has any say in it, and I wouldn’t cross him if I were you,” George cautioned.

“Oh, hell no! Georgie, he lifted a half-ton truck and just stood there with it! He lifted it off us like it was nothing!” The temporary relief from pain he experienced in Carrol’s presence was gone, and he clawed for the nurse call cord. “I wouldn’t cross him ever again. Boy, sometimes you just don’t know when you dodge a bullet. Damn it all, that hurts!” His right leg twitched with sudden tingling.

George said slowly, “Pete, I thought you couldn’t move your legs at all.”

Pete stared down at his legs. “I can’t. Or rather…” A big toe twitched. “I did that. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. My legs feel like they’ve been asleep and are just now waking up.”

X-rays later revealed to astonished doctors that the bone and muscles in Pete’s legs somehow inexplicably repaired, and the crushed blood vessels were inflated again and carried blood to and from his extremities. The medical records were combed over carefully but they found no explanation for the ‘miracle’ that happened. George’s family believed it was divine intervention, and Pete’s family thought it was some sort of medical cure.

Pete was unsure. In time he could walk with crutches and graduated to a wheelchair, and from there eventually he walked again. He wished he had gotten to know the strange foreigner better before he teased the man and been introduced to his lovely sister sooner. He had found such unusual comfort in her touch. It did not occur to him to put two and two together. Pete was not the sharpest of men.

Carrol got a hot bath ready for Darien as soon as they got home to warm him up. Despite her best efforts, she could not rid him of this particular ailment. He sneezed with great exhortations of expelled air that alarmed them, especially Gareth. Despite the constant warmth of the continually tended wood stoves and heaters, Darien felt chilled. When Darien mentioned that he felt strangely warm of a sudden, Gareth felt Darien’s forehead with his hand and became agitated.

“You must not go back into the field, Naughty Nibs,” he said sternly. “This is nothing with which to play.”

“Oh, it is not that bad.”

“No!” Gareth barked out, and they regarded him curiously. They rarely heard anything so harsh coming from their happy-go-lucky major. “That is how I lost my father and my brother Clive, to weariness and sneezing and the cough. You must stay home, Your Naughtiness. Nibs, this is a dangerous thing.”

Carrol saw how very alarmed Gareth was. “You have an Earthian cold,” she told Darien. “We have no idea how their diseases might affect us. Stay home and let me treat you.” She patted Gareth’s back affectionately. “Don’t worry, Royal We. Earthians overcome this sickness. We will utilize some of their methods as much as we can.”

“Can we overcome this?” Gareth asked.

“Yes. There is much about fighting the cold in their journals and productions,” she soothed. “There will not be a reprisal of Clive’s fate.”

“Who is Clive?” Darien asked after another sneeze.

“My late brother,” Gareth told him, and Darien bit his lip in thought.

“Yes, Clive Duncan. I knew of him. I will stay home for the sake of Major Sword and Fist’s concern,” he agreed.

Carrol made vegetable soup and fed it to her brother as he lay in bed, covered in blankets. He was miserable and felt rather silly at the same time. He was a Thuringi warrior, the Warrior Prince, accustomed to holding his own against any with a sword, and yet he lay bested by a germ. He felt weak and hot, and his head ached.

Stuart was also not well, and Carrol declared that they were all quarantined until further notice. Brent brought back a great deal of fresh fruit from his travels and it made their symptoms bearable. Glendon called the Gentrys and explained about their illness and his subsequent quarantine. Margie promptly brought over a casserole and a pot full of chicken soup with noodles. She also gave them a recipe for a whiskey toddy. Brent kissed her cheek and declared that she was a woman after his own heart. She giggled and went home with a smile.

“We really must do something kind for them in repayment,” Darien said, feverish and near delirious. He waved a hand cloth around like a surrender flag. Stuart brought home boxes of paper tissues expressly to clear their nasal passages and bring relief to their sinuses. They all had need of tissues by the end of the third day. Brent mixed up the whiskey toddy in the enamel pot they used for canning, and they all had a good strong dose of it

Gareth moved around like an old man as he shuffled his feet wearily. Stuart ordered him to bed. Stuart and Glendon had the sniffles and slight coughs as did Brent, but they were not as hard hit as Gareth and Darien.

“It is because they work so hard all the time,” Glendon speculated, “out in the weather and what not. It is why it is called a cold.” Carrol rushed back and forth from room to room, worried.

Brent pulled her aside. “Your great love will not die. There is no sense in making yourself sickly as well. Gareth is a strong man, and he will weather this illness. Little Sis if you do not slow down, you shall come down with it, too. Then I will have to throw you in bed with him, and you can be ill together.” He laughed as he considered his words. “That may be a welcome thing for the two of you.”

They moved Gareth into the princes’ room, and Brent in with Glendon. Stuart slept in the front room in order to keep the stove going. Carrol nursed the two ill Thuringi back to health by plying them with chicken soup, juices, and experimental medicines like the whiskey toddy. Darien awoke one afternoon to see his sister at Gareth’s side. She held his hand and whispered endearments. Gareth still coughed but he looked better than the last time Darien saw him. Stuart entered with hot drinks in cups for them.

“I am told that plenty of bed rest is effective for dealing with this illness,” he told them. “Therefore, as long as this terrible weather lasts, I do not think it wise for Darien to return to working outdoors. No,” he said when he saw Darien stir to protest. “We need our Warrior Prince at the peak of health. Our situation is not dire and does not require you to work in the unaccustomed cold. Gareth must rest more as well. He has completed the Isador and a small reconnaissance version of the Good Lad and almost the renovation of the Naughty Boy with hardly a moment’s rest. After he rises from his sickbed, we must make sure Major Sword and Fist is better rested even if it means waiting until the weather returns to warm. Spring, it is called.”

“Very well,” Darien moaned. His nose was tender and sore from blowing it so often. The thought of returning to the freezing oil fields was dreadful and he was privately relieved not to go. He took the drink from Stuart’s hands. “What is this?”

“It is called hot cocoa. Katie Martin told me how to make it,” Stuart explained.

“Mmm, you did well,” Darien’s throat rumbled in delight at the taste.

“We have a pot full downstairs. Drink all you please.” Stuart handed the other cup to Gareth. The mechanic/engineer sniffed at the brew and cracked a smile.

“Is it a cure of some kind?” Gareth asked.

“No, but as I drink it, I no longer mind being sick,” Darien observed.

Gareth’s fever broke that evening. While he took a warm bath in the tub, Carrol changed the sweat-soaked sheets on his bed. Darien watched her as she hummed contentedly while she worked.

“You are very fond of our good major, are you, Carrol?” Darien asked.

“Why, you know that I am,” she said with a smile.

“You were worried you would lose him, yes?”

She paused in her task for a moment to consider his question, and then continued to make the bed. “I will always be afraid of losing him,” she admitted. “I do not think I could bear it. And he was afraid for you, as well. He did not want to lose a man so much like his own brother and in a similar manner in which he lost him.”

Darien was comforted by the thought and he closed his eyes and snuggled into his bedding. Gareth returned in the loose clothing of slumber, his hair toweled dry and sticking out at all angles.

“I feel much better,” he assured Carrol, his voice gravelly with the cold’s effect on his throat. She turned back the covers, and he got in and let her tuck him in. “Are you certain you cannot join me?” he whispered.

“Why, major, what a question,” she whispered back. “You know I cannot.”

“We rested together in Darien’s apartment before we came here to Earth,” Gareth reminded her. “I do not think he would object.” She leaned over to tuck the covers around his shoulders and took the opportunity to kiss him lightly.

“He might if we picked up where we left off,” she told him. “You need to get some rest now, dear one.”

“Stay a little while?” Gareth insisted, and explained, “I miss your touch, Your Nibs.” She laid her head against his broad chest and curved her arms around his shoulders as she curled up to him. “I do not believe I have ever been so ill before,” Gareth confessed to her. “It is so alarming, this coughing.”

“I understand. It must bring back terrible memories,” she whispered.

“Darien reminds me so much of Clive, it alarms me to hear him cough. Clive was a rascal, a ladies’ man, such a live wire, just like your brother. He was naughty, but nice.”

“I would have liked to have known him,” Carrol said.

Gareth coughed again. “Oh, he would have toyed with your heart, but at the very core of him he was a very decent fellow. He tried to warn me not to take an interest in Lia Neo. Clive collected women even though he never wanted to settle down, but she was one of the few he did not care to add to his collection. When she discovered he had Bran Fitt she lost interest in him and took up with me. Clive said it was a relief. I felt badly, as if she had traded up for a healthier model, but Clive simply moved on to another love interest.” He coughed. “I am so glad neither of us ended up with her. Mother would have boxed our ears. She did not like Lia one little bit. She would have liked you, Nibs. You have quite the nicest bedside manner.”

The warmth of her body against his own, coupled with the comfort of the bed, made him drop off to sleep and she did the same at the same general time. Darien opened his eyes and grinned at them. Stuart came to the door, looked in, and smiled.

“She is a dedicated medical,” Darien told Stuart. “Let her stay, Stuart; it is a comfort to them both.” Stuart put a blanket over his sister and her admirer.