025 -- More Orders

Captain Ezekiel Short sat in his office sorting through the larger-than-normal pile of paperwork. With Major Holliday's abrupt departure, the administration of the 303^rd Steam Cavalry fell solely to him, and Zeke was feeling the extra workload after four days.

“Ugh, for Rahm's sake . . . more requisition forms? How does he deal with all of it?”

“Sir?”

Zeke looked up. Corporal Attley was standing in the doorway, carrying a stack of large envelopes.

“Oh, you've brought me more paper. Lovely. Thank you so much, Attley.”

“Sir?” The young officer hesitated halfway across the threshold of Zeke's office.

“Sarcasm, Attley. Sarcasm.”

“Ah, yes, of course sir. Would you like it on the desk?”

“Where else, Corporal?”

Attley deposited the stack of mismatched envelopes on Zeke's desk and made to escape the room.

“Corporal!”

Attley turned back to face Zeke. “Yes, sir?”

“Tell me, was humor outlawed in Slate's unit?”

“Not that I'm aware of, sir.”

“I see. Dismissed, Attley.”

The young man saluted and fled from the room. Zeke sighed again and looked back at his desk, speaking to himself. “What are we going to do with you, Attley?” He picked up the nearest piece of mail and tore it open.

It read:

"From: Maj. Holliday, 303^rd Steam Cavalry

To: Cap. Short, 303^rd S.C.

Zeke -- captain of Hermite seems competent. Orders seem clear enough. Should be an easy assignment. I seem to have misplaced my travel compass -- can you ask around?"

Zeke frowned. “Not like you, writing just to say hello, Isaac.” He turned over the next letter. It was another thin envelope, resealed and with a hand-scrawled note on the front. “Let me know that you've gotten this. -H.”

He slit it open. Inside, the letter read:

"Dearest Helen,

I arrived in Moorehead safely, so don't worry about me. The train ride was a bit rough, but not too bad. This assignment should be a peach -- they tell me it comes from high up but I don't know where.

Give my love to the children, and let them know their favorite uncle will be back soon from Saint Marcos.

As always, your brother,

Isaac"

“Oh, this is not good. Isaac, did you get yourself in trouble already?” The greeting, “Dearest Helen,” was a sign from Isaac that he was really trying to contact Zeke. It was a system they'd been using since their earliest days in the Academy, invented to circumvent some of the institution's more troublesome rules. Isaac hasn't used it in a few years, but the meaning was clear.

Zeke compared the two notes beside one another. It took a careful eye to notice, but part of the first had clearly been rewritten by an expert. He held it up to his desk lamp, but the original message had been totally obliterated.

“Hmm.” He picked up Isaac's letter to his sister again. “What are you worried about, Isaac? The assignment? I thought it came from Agincourt . . . usually there's no trouble there.” He thought for a minute. “Whatever it is, someone in central command is rewriting his mail. I need to talk to the Colonel. Corporal -- !”

Attley reappeared in the doorway. “Sir!”

Zeke scribbled a memo, ripping it off a pad on his desk. “Take this message to Command. I need to see Colonel Agincourt, at his earliest convenience. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Dismissed.”

Attley dissapeared once again, and Zeke continued working through the stack of papers. A few minutes later he uncovered a thick white envelope, sealed with red wax just as Isaac's orders had been. Inside was a thick bundle wrapped in waxed paper. Zeke tore it open and read the contents with increasingly raised eyebrows. After a second pass through the official document, he got up from the desk and headed downstairs.

The 303^rd steam cavalry unit did not have a standard barracks like most units of the Cimbrian military did outside of Oberon. They weren't garrisonned at the palace, either, with the Royal Guard, or at the defense complex with the Central Command garrison. Instead, the 303^rd occupied a converted warehouse on the outskirts of the harbor district. The wide expanse of flat dirt inside the building served as an ideal testing ground for the prototype cavalry units that were delivered to the loading dock in large wooden crates. A variety of obstacle courses and challenges had been erected, as well as a wide ring where pilots could spar (often to the dismay of concerned engineers).

Zeke's booted feet clattered down the metal ladder from the offices above. The floor was quiet today – last week the 303^rd had been testing a pair of Asfarian mounts, captured in the Thyrennian campaign, and as soon as they were finished with the official analysis the pilots had gleefully dueled the two units into scrap in the sparring ring. It had been a slow week since Isaac's departure.

“. . . no lateral controller!”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. They used a D-ring linkage with no lateral controller. I'd rather take an old 37 onto the field than that piece of junk.”

“Maybe Gabe had ripped it off already when he beat you the first time!”

This last statement was met with widespread laughter. The remaining seven pilots of the 303^rd were sitting in a rough circle made of old crates and barrels of lubricating oil. Two of them were sitting at a chessboard, while another was doing pull ups at a bar mounted to the wall.

“Oy there, officer on deck!”

Five men and two women scrambled to their feet. “At ease, you numbskulls.” said Zeke. “We got orders.” He began tacking a series of pages to the cork bulletin board. “Another rush job.”

“Seriously?” There was a shuffle of feet towards the board. “Ah, man, babysitting.”

“Of all the luck . . .”

“The Major gets a paid vacation, and we pull ceremonial duty.”

“Cripes, tonight? Really?”

Zeke nodded. “We meet at the army railyard at 1800. Someone go roust the mechanics, we'll need the S86's ready for transit in two hours. Bring full dress uniforms, too; we'll need 'em where we're headed.”

“Where's that, Captain?”

“Listeria.”

023 -- The Lords' Council

“Order! This meeting of the Lords' council will come to order!”

Two dozen men, each clothed in a richly decorated coat buttoned high on the neck, slowly made their way to a heavy Oaken table. Aides and servants wove between them, like small boats threading their way between ponderous ships of war. Blue was the predominant color, while gold tassels, medals, and ribbons of several colors were in rich abundance.

“Order! Order!” A gavel was struck twice in quick succession from a much smaller table at the larger one's foot. Here sat a pair of clerks and the speaker, armed with the small wooden gavel. The Lords were helped into their seats.

“On this day, the 1^st of August, 1205, the Lord's Council is called to order. Lords of Cimbria in attendance being. . .”

The table was full, with twelve men on each side. At the head was a huge throne, mounted on a star-shaped dais. It was empty. A low murmur of conversation continued while roll was called. Finally--

“First order: old business. Lord Temsworth.”

A gray haired gentleman with a large pot belly covered in small medallions stood slowly. “The Thyrenian situation has been resolved in our favor. For a full report, I present General Alberts.”

The general, wearing a more sparsely decorated and functional uniform, materialized at the foot of the table and bowed. He cut a neat figure, with comparatively subdued gold trim on his shoulder panels and a plain steel sword at his side.

“Lords and Gentlemen, I am at your service.”

“Your report, please, General Alberts.”

The general nodded before beginning his narrative. “Asfar landed nearly ten thousand troops in the capital city of Thyrene, Milos, this past February. According to our intelligence, they landed with sixty units of steam cavalry, eight hundred lancers, and twenty two pieces of artillery. They were joined by nearly thirty-five thousand Thyrenian troops, all foot, under the command of a number of generals. At the end of the month, they marched South along the peninsula to retake land lost to rival Atavia last year.”

Two aides had appeared as well, and were now turning pages in a large diagram.

“Atavia's forces consisted of approximately twelve thousand foot, and our forces of five thousand men. At the end of February, we had two hundred and forty one active steam cavalry units, forty eight pieces of field artillery and twelve siege mortars.”

He gestured to a large yellow and red blob on the map, and a smaller group of blue and purple blobs. A third aide was handing out personalized reports to each member of the council.

“Asfar's forces moved South along the coast. We first met them here on the 11^th of March, and again on the 13^th and the 14^th.” The aides turned the page. “Our first major action occurred on the 17^th, outside the village of Eia. Here, Asfar was forced to . . .”

The low hum of conversation gradually died down as the report continued. At various points a clarifying question was asked, about the precise number of casualties or length of a particular engagement. Gradually the story unfolded, with Asfar's army advancing, beaten and finally forced to seek shelter in Milos. After a little more than a half hour, the general began to wind down.

“. . . and so the situation remains stable. Milos remains under siege, and the naval blockade has been effective. We expect their surrender to Atavia within three to six months.”

There was a murmur of approval around the table.

Lord Temsworth stood. “Thank you, General Alberts.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I call for an immediate vote on continued action in Thyrene.”

“Are there any objections?” called the speaker. There were none. “All in favor of continued action in Thyrene?”

“Aye.” The lords spoke nearly in unison.

“Opposed?”

Silence.

“Motion is approved.” The clerks made a brief notation before handing the next article to the speaker. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Next: New business. Lord Handlings.”

A tall, elderly man rose slowly to his feet, balanced precariously like a model skeleton. A gold monocle clung to one of his eyes. “Lords . . . and . . . gentlemen . . .” he wheezed, “I . . . present . . . Colonel . . . Agincourt.”

Agincourt appeared at the foot of the table, bowing deeply. He was decorated sparsely as well, in the style of the general before him. “Lords and Gentlemen, I am at your service.”

“Please . . . continue . . . Colonel . . .” wheezed Lord Handlings, already beginning to ease back into his high-backed chair.

“As you please, milord.” Agincourt bowed again. “Milords, I present Plan Indigo: the Annexation of Eastern Listeria.”

There was an immediate outburst of indignation from several at the table. “Order! We will have order!” The speaker slammed the gavel down repeatedly, and the room quieted somewhat. Colonel Agincourt, still standing expressionless, took this as a sign to continue.

“Our absorption of Listeria in 1192 was incomplete. More than sixty percent of the nation remains effectively independent despite our occupation of the capital. This is a principal factor in the continuing Listerian unrest.”

The aides had reappeared with another series of maps and graphs. Agincourt gestured to one graph in particular.

“As you can see, the rate of Cimbrian casualty has not declined in a single year since the beginning of the occupation. Listerian rebels have been found armed with weapons clearly provided to them by the Eastern Coalition. East Listeria has become the central theater of their campaign to undermine our gains in East.”

Agincourt gestured to the map. “Plan Indigo will bring the rest of Listeria under our control, removing the source of unrest and stabilizing the Eastern front. The alternative is continued disorder, chaos and needless death.”

A chorus of voices broke out once again. “Lord Chevington has the floor!” cried the speaker.

“With what army, Colonel, do you propose we invade Listeria?”

“The Third Army, garrisoned here in Oberon, will provide the bulk of the force. They will be joined by assault elements of the Fifth Army that have already deployed to Listeria.”

“Won't that weaken our presence in the areas of Listeria that are already in turmoil?”

“The assault units of the Fifth Army consist mostly of steam cavalry and artillery, neither of which perform any active role in the occupation.”

“Point of order!” came a new voice. “Lord Rawlings has the floor.” replied the speaker.

A middle-aged man in fashionable civilian clothes rose to his feet. “I must protest this blatant breach of decorum by Lord Handlings.”

The room quieted at once. “What exactly are you referring to, Lord Rawlings?” said the speaker.

“The invasion of Listeria, regardless of its merits or flaws, does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Minister of Finance. I move that we dismiss the proposal immediately.”

“The continued cost of occupation is a financial matter, and therefore I see no problem with Lord Handling's proposal.” Lord Temsworth had risen to his feet again.

“It also concerns the Minister of State, and yet if I brought an invasion plan to the council it would dismissed on exactly those grounds! Plan Indigo clearly falls under your authority, Lord Temsworth, as Minister of Defense, yet because of the continued action in Thyrene you were forced to use Handlings to bring it to the table. Your blatant political maneuvering brings no honor to this council!”

“You can spout unfounded accusations all day, Lord Rawlings, but unless you have a relevant concern, I suggest you stop wasting this council's time.”

“Very well.” Rawlings turned to the speaker. “Your ruling on this point of order?”

The speaker hesitated, looking to the far end of the table where a figure sat in shadow. The man had been silent until now, but at the speaker's glance he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake.

“Point of order overruled. The proposal moves to discussion.”

Lord Rawlings snorted in disgust. “Fine. As Minister of State, I raise an objection.”

“Go on, please, Lord Rawlings.”

“The stated purpose of this operation is to bring order to the occupied regions of Listeria and save innocent lives. However, I can state with absolute confidence that the Eastern Coalition will view this as act of aggression and respond accordingly. If Plan Indigo goes forward, we will provoke them into a state of war which will result in tens or hundreds of thousands dead.”

“I see no proof of that, Lord Rawlings.” Temsworth was still on his feet as well.

“Proof?!? Ha! The invasion of Listeria would be in direct violation of the treaty of Aser, and if the Eastern Coalition leadership hopes to maintain its power with the upcoming elections it must respond to that violation as forcefully as possible. What's more, the Saric church has condemned our occupation of all coalition member states and are certain to call for war. Once their proclamation is issued, we'll have the entire Eastern front aflame within a week!”

“Which would clearly be a failure of the department of state. You are responsible for maintaining peaceful relationships with Cimbria's neighbors, are you not, Lord Rawlings?”

The Minister of State gaped with incredulity for a moment. “One wonders why the nation of Cimbria even bothers with having a department of state at all when the only tool of statecraft that this council seems to understand is the blunt hammer of warfare! You would see it too, Lord Temsworth, and you, Lord Handlings, if you weren't all Lord Ramsay's pawns --”

“That is quite enough, Rawlings.”

The man at the end of the table sat forward into the light. He was young by the council's standards, just beginning to enter middle age. His jet black hair matched the sole decoration on his rich blue uniform – a pair of stripes across the lapel that designated him Lord Executive, head of the Lords' Council

His voice was low, but it crackled with latent energy like a barely restrained thunderbolt. His brief interjection had brought the entire table to absolute silence; Rawlings and Temsworth even returned noiselessly to their seats. “We will vote immediately.” He sat back into his chair.

“Yes, Lord Ramsay. All in favor?” The speaker looked positively terrified.

“Aye!” came the response, each lord trying to be heard above the others.

“All opposed?”

Silence.

“The proposal passes. Plan Indigo --”

“His Majesty, the King!”

All persons present immediately rose to their feet. A pair of ornate double doors, unused until now, were thrown open and a number of pages hurried into the room. The throne at the head of the table was quickly adorned with a riot of sumptuous cloths and pillows of all colors and shapes, while a garish green rug was laid down the steps to the dias. A second announcement was made.

“His Majesty, King Exeter the Fourth, House of Paels!”

“Long live the king!” was the unanimous response.

A small, elderly man with a hunched back tottered through the double doors. Four young boys carried the train of his magnificent red robe, which clashed spectacularly with the green rug on the dias. He climbed to the throne, one small step at a time, before finally seating himself with a groan (another young boy had just sprinkled the seat with fresh flower petals). He motioned to the aide who had announced his presence, whispering something in the man's ear.

The king's aide turned to the assembled company. “His Majesty wishes that you be seated.” They sat, except for the speaker.

“Your Majesty, we are both surprised and h-h-honored by your presence today. We --” but the king was whispering to his aide again.

“His Highness requests of Lord Ramsay the subject of today's business.”

Ramsay stood. “Your Highness.” He performed an elegant bow. “We had just approved Plan Indigo, a peacekeeping mission to ---”

“His Highness overrules your decision. Plan Indigo will not go forward.”

An icy silence fell over the room. Ramsay bowed again. “May I respectfully inquire as to His Majesty's reasons for this decision?”

More whispering. “His Majesty . . . does not fancy the name.”

To the careful observer, a small muscle could be seen twitching in Ramsay's jaw. He bowed again before returning to his seat.

“Plan Indigo is rejected.” The speaker tapped his gavel once as the clerks scribbled corrections in their records.

The king got to his feet again. “His Majesty, the King!” The lords and attendants rose to their feet once again as the old monarch tottered out of the room. As quickly as they had been laid out, the pillows and carpets disappeared. As the double doors slammed shut, the only signs that the king had been present at all were a few stray flower petals and a slight scent of lilac.

At a glare from Ramsay, the speaker cracked the gavel one more time. “The Lord's Council is recessed until this afternoon.”

---

“He does it on purpose, Agincourt. I swear, he does it just to spite me!”

Agincourt and Lord Ramsay were walking among the grounds of Eatham palace, the seat of the Lords' Council. Agincourt said nothing; Ramsay's fists were clenched.

“The timing was perfect. With the elections coming up, the Eastern Coalition would have had no other option but a declaration of war. The church is feeling hawkish, and the coalition overconfident – oh, how we could have smashed them! Smashed! Forget Listeria, we could've fragmented the entire coalition irrevocably! I could have won the Eastern front once and for all!”

“Maybe the king has some interest in preserving the coalition.”

“The king. Ha!” Ramsay laughed. “The old fool doesn't have interests, Agincourt. He's senile, a doddering old idiot who would do us all a favor by dying. Long live the king – ha!”

“We still have other options on the council. If we move quickly, we can --”

“No. We've been blocked once in the council – to keep muscling it through makes us look weak. No, this will call for a different approach.”

“The one we discussed earlier?”

“Yes. Now do you see why we kept moving forward even after I got to Handlings? I had a feeling something like this might happen.”

“Shall I start as soon as possible?”

“Yes. How soon can you have the players in place?”

“A week.”

“Do it.”

Agincourt nodded once. “Anything else?”

Ramsay shook his head. “Not for now. Everything waits for war in the East.”

“This could still work to your advantage. When war comes, you could call an emergency meeting of the council and cut Rawlings out of the process entirely.”

Ramsay shook his head. “No, it would be too obvious a move. To discredit him completely I need to carry him and his objections through to the very end. The greater our successes, the more foolish his objections will look.”

“He will get cut out eventually, correct?”

“Of course. But I cut the senate out too soon in February, and it was messy. I won't make that mistake again.”

They crossed a small wooden bridge over a pond. A bullfrog, disturbed by their passage, disappeared into the water with a soft plop.

“The king could still cause trouble, even if the coalition declares war. He is unpredictable.” said Agincourt.

“I know. He is getting increasingly meddlesome. I can only assume what little sense the old man has is finally leaving him.” Ramsay brought his fingers together under his chin, thinking. “Eventually I will have to cut him out as well.”

“The king?”

“Yes. It is the only permanent solution.”

“The Lords will not follow you there, no matter how much you bully them. If you strike down the king, their titles are meaningless.”

“I know. Politics alone will not rid me of Exeter. It will come to the sword.”

“Just like it did with the senate?”

“Yes. Perhaps more so . . . but I can't touch him right now in Oberon. If I can get the Third Army out of the city . . . then there are possibilities. I have a few ideas, but nothing solid yet.”

They passed through a small stand of old oaks, carefully preserved when the land was cleared for the Eatham grounds.

“You realize, of course, that we could hang for this discussion.”

“What discussion?”

Ramsay smiled. “Exactly, Colonel. Exactly.”

Agincourt merely nodded and they continued walking. After a few moments Ramsay began speaking again, this time in a much quieter, introspective tone, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

“Sometimes, Agincourt, I wonder if I am the only one who wants to see a strong Cimbria. We are a strong people, Colonel, but the others do not embrace that strength. Why? Why wouldn't they use it?”

“I have wondered that as well.”

Ramsay continued. “I have beaten my enemies so far, Agincourt, but that doesn't mean I understand them. This worries me. Are they like the king – old and weak? Or like Rawlings – cowardly and afraid? Or perhaps they are like the senate was --” he continued, “-- obsessed with idle gossip, grown lazy on their luxuries and unable to change?”

Agincourt continued matching Lord Ramsay's stride, face carefully devoid of expression.

“There is no argument for weakness in this world, Agincourt. No case for any policy other than absolute strength. Why they cannot understand that I am at heart a patriot, not a traitor?”

“Sometimes the truth is not apparent to all until after the act.”

“Perhaps. What pains me most is that we could be even stronger if they would only work with me. It is my own failing, Colonel, not theirs, that I cannot show them the way. I fail Cimbria when I fail them.”

Agincourt focused his gaze on the ground and cleared his throat before replying. “Your successes far outweigh your failures, Lord. Even you are only human.”

“I suppose so.” They had arrived back at the head of the path. Lord Ramsay brought himself back into the present. “Colonel, I trust you have no further questions?”

“No, Lord Ramsay.”

“Very well. Alert me as soon as preparations are complete. I will announce the inspection tomorrow."

“Very well, Lord Ramsay.”

“Dismissed.”

Lord Ramsay disappeared back inside the palace, while Colonel Agincourt bowed and started down the palace drive to call his coach.

022 -- From the Rooftop

Rufus Xeno hit the ground hard. The impact nearly knocked the breath out of him -- it was all he could do to keep from crying out. His body rolled a few times across the uneven paving stones before coming to a rest against a wall.

Rufus lay still for a moment, listening. There were no sounds of pursuit. He unfolded his lanky, awkward body and stood, groaning slightly despite himself. A few quick movements of his arm showed that nothing was broken. This was good. A broken shoulder would have been a considerable setback.

Rufus was also glad that the alley was deserted and no one had seen him jump from the roof three stories above. This kept things simple. The roof he had jumped from belonged to the maintenance wing of the Asfarian palace. Rufus had underestimated the frequency of the rooftop patrols and had been forced to leap from the roof to avoid detection.

Rufus massaged his sore shoulder. Not broken, definitely, but maybe sprained. And he was no closer to finding an opening. He spat on the ground once, glancing back up at the rooftop, before setting off down the street. That was enough reconaissance for one night . . . he needed some time to think.

Rufus' target worked in the palace. This much he knew -- but the Asfarian bodyguards were tougher and more thorough than he had anticipated. Two weeks of searching had not resulted in a single opporunity. He would find something eventually, of course -- he always did -- but time was wasting, and there were so many other things still to be done. It was time to change tactics.

He could strike at the target at home. Rufus considered this option for a moment. It would be less effective, to be sure. The message would be less clear. But he could not afford to spend months stalking his prey here in Asfar. He would look into it, at least. It wouldn't take long to consider the strike, as the target's home would be much smaller than the palace.

He nodded. One day, two at the most, is all he would spend scoping the target's place. If he found an opportunity, he would take it. Otherwise it was back to the palace.

Rufus winced. His shoulder would need at least that long to heal anyway.

021 -- Dockside

"Careful . . . Carefully now!"

Isaac tried not to watch. The left leg and most of the hip assembly of his mount was packed in a large wooden crate, hanging in the air above the Hermite. He knew that he would only hinder the dockworkers in this part of the operation, and so tried to distract himself. Images of the delicate machinery inside smashing apart on the deck and spinning off into the murky harbor water kept springing to mind.

"Quite an operation, eh, Major? I have to say, they're going about it quick enough, for a bunch of fish, at least."

Reynolds had joined him at the rail.

"Yes, they are, Lieutenant. Although I prefer not to watch."

The younger pilot was right -- Oswald's men had been nothing but the model of efficiency for the past day and a half. Holliday suspected that there was some grumbling over the canceled shore leave (as would be only natural in a ship that had been at sea for more than eight months already), but if there was discontent it didn't show.

Doctor Lukas' excavators had been loaded the day before. She had insisted that the more delicate scientific instruments be stored in her cabin instead of below decks, and Isaac felt sorry for the dozen seamen she had hounded for the entire evening with exhortations for care and delicate handling of the scores of weighty boxes. With the amount of instruments she had sent to her cabin instead of the hold, Isaac wondered if Lukas would have to sleep on deck . . . but, luckily, this was not his problem.

The cavalry mounts, however, were. After careful consultation with both Captain Oswald's first officer and chief engineer, it was determined that all four mounts would have to go in the very bottom of the ship (due to their weight) if proper trim was to be maintained. Piles of shells and cambric rods for the ship's boilers lay stacked on deck, all moved to make way for the loading of the rough wooden crates through the forward hatches. A small army of sailors was sweating belowdecks, moving food, parts, and other stores from the hold into whatever space was available to make room for Holliday's squadron equipment. Salted hams hung amongst sailors' hammocks, sacks of flour were stashed beneath gun carriages, and tins of lime juice for the treatment of scurvy were underfoot everywhere like rats. It was the image of barely restrained chaos.

Aft, the cambric tender was pulled alongside the Hermite, its crane lowering fresh boiler rods aboard and removing spend ones. The fresh ones were of course wrapped carefully in asbestos padding to avoid prematurely activating them. If anything, the crew was treating these with more caution than either Holliday's or Lukas' equipment, as they fully knew the danger of a chain reaction. Stories of molten metal eating through the bottom of a ship's hull abounded in the fleet, although the tellers never could quite seem to remember which ship this had happened to when pressed for details.

The Hermite itself was almost brand-new, only in the fleet for three years. From a blunt, knife-like prow, the steel hull stretched back in sleek lines that were the latest style in naval architecture. A third of the way back from the bow, the main deck stepped down to allow the secondary battery (mounted in recessed swivel ports along both sides of the ship) free space to sweep back and forth. The main armament of the Hermite, however, was mounted in two large turrets, one fore and one aft. They looked like upturned wash-basins, except that from each one two large black cannons protruded (covered with protective jackets when not in use). The superstructure was carried along the centerline of the ship between the two turrets, coming up into two peaks forward and aft. Except for the black cannons, the ship was painted a uniform gray, with a bit of red hull showing at the waterline.

"Its good to be on active assignment again, eh, Major? You know, get out into the sun a little bit? Out into the field?"

Isaac merely grunted in agreement.

After a short pause Reynolds tried again. "So, what do you know about Doctor Lukas? Captain Short says you've worked with her before."

Isaac shrugged wordlessly.

Lieutenant Reynolds took the hint. "Suit yourself, then. I'll be below if you need me, Major."

Isaac smiled to himself. He usually liked the young lieutenant, but this was not a good time with the squadron's mounts hanging in midair over the quay. One of the greatest benefits of command was that he could tell his subordinates to leave him alone when he wanted them to.

It wasn't just the precarious state of his equipment that had Isaac feeling antisocial. This operation had obviously been in the works for quite some time, and yet his orders had come extremely last-minute. This meant one of two things. Most likely there had been a fight in high command over his assignment; something that happened with a regularity most officers in the Cimbrian army didn't like to admit. Usually it was some general trying to get his pet subordinate put on a prestigious assignment, or block another general's pick from getting the same assignment out of spite. He could usually count on Colonel Agincourt to fend off these sorts of assaults on his unit -- the man had a way of soothing irate generals that Isaac didn't think he could ever emulate. It had probably just taken longer than usual this time, and so his assignment had been in question until the very last moment.

The other option was more troubling. The only other reason Holliday could think of was that someone was trying to keep him in the dark about the situation. By abruptly plucking him from his post in Oberon to send him overseas, he had no time to make any arrangements in Cimbria proper before his departure . . . not that he had any idea what those arrangements would have been. Isaac was largely ignorant of the political machinations within Cimbrian high command, but being kept in the dark deliberately never meant anything good.

He shook his head in frustration. Isaac had spent the past two days spinning these two ideas back and forth in his head, but there wasn't enough information to do anything more than worry. Perhaps Captain Oswald or Doctor Lukas would tell him more once they were under way, but until then there was nothing he could do.

Unless . . . Isaac's head came up.

Half an hour later he was back ashore in the naval station administration building, dashing off a memo. It read:

"From: Maj. Holliday

To: Cap. Short

Zeke -- captain of Hermite knew about orders before I did. Were issued at least two, probable three weeks before I got them. Probably just squabbling brass -- can you ask around?"

He sealed the envelope, and handed it to the secretary. Pausing for a second, he grabbed an extra piece of stationary and scribbled another brief message.

"Dearest Helen,

I arrived in Moorehead safely, so don't worry about me. The train ride was a bit rough, but not too bad. This assignment should be a peach -- they tell me it comes from high up but I don't know where.

Give my love to the children, and let them know their favorite uncle will be back soon from Saint Marcos.

As always, your brother,

Isaac"

This envelope he kept with him. A quarter of an hour later he dropped it off at the post office, before walking back to the ship whistling. He was feeling much more sociable now; perhaps he'd make up for his earlier rudeness with Reynolds.

020 -- An Early Morning

Isaac Holliday stood at the end of the navy pier in Moorehead, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dress overcoat. Summer came slowly each year to the Cimbrian coast, and even this late in the year a chilly morning wind was coming out of the West. A grey mist floated over the still waters of the bay, but it would soon dissipate as soon as the sun finished rising.

Isaac suppressed a yawn, instead rolling his shoulders back and forth in an attempt to loosen his stiff muscles. The train had arrived in Moorehead late the night before, and most of the lodging houses had been closed by the time he reached the waterfront. Turned away from civilian establishments, he had tried the Moorehead naval station with only slightly better luck. The sentry had let him in, but the officers' barracks was full and so Isaac ended up spending a few restless hours on a wooden bench in the administrative headquarters' waiting room. It not much better than nothing at all, and at first sign of daylight he had gotten up again and set about making himself presentable.

The officers' locker room was still empty when he found it. Stripping to his underclothes, he filled a basin with cold water from the tap and submerged his face in it with one quick motion. Isaac bared his teeth against the stabbing coldness, and forced himself to count to thirty before emerging from the water gasping. He toweled off and examined himself in the mirror above the sink.

A pair of black eyes stared back at him, dark brown iris nearly indistinguishable from pupil. They were a little red from the long night of travel, but Isaac had seen much worse in nearly twenty years of service. His face was starting to show the signs of age and stress, but Isaac didn't mind the small wrinkles. What concerned him was the bit of gut he had started showing after moving from active duty to command of the 303rd. Isaac frowned. "Maybe a trip will be good. Get me back in shape," he muttered at the image in the mirror.

He dropped to the hard tile floor for his customary morning pushups, and between the cold water and the exertion Isaac began to shake aside his morning drowsiness. Opening his campaign duffel, he removed soap and razor for his morning shave. The razor's ivory handle was worn smooth where he held it, but the blade was sharp and the metal free of any rust. Morning ritual complete, he unrolled his dress uniform from the duffel, pleased to see that it was nearly wrinkle free. Years of service had taught him several things, not the least of which was how to pack a uniform when traveling.

He supressed a shiver as he slid a pale leg into the trousers. An hour later, Isaac was standing on the pier waiting for the captain of the Hermite to come ashore.

Isaac had been the first one there, but he wasn't alone for long. A collection of navy clerks had trickled onto the pier, along with a pair of military police officers and a small band. The Hermite itself was visible only as a dim silhouette offshore, a pair of signal masts protruding from the early-morning fog.

Isaac checked his pocketwatch. The ship's captain was due ashore at 6:00 am. At precisely 5:58 an officer's whistle could be heard from the fog, along with the splash of oars. The soldiers came to attention with a click of bootheels, and after a brief countoff the band eased into the national anthem.

A small boat soon materialized out of the mist, moving smartly under the power of four sets of oars. The gold epaulettes of a captain's uniform could be seen in the stern sitting next to the helmsman. The boat pulled up low to the pier's ladder as the last strains of the anthem faded away, and Isaac saw the captain's foot touch the bottom rung at prescisely the same moment that the Moorehead clocktower (still invisible through the morning haze) began to chime. He checked his watch: 6:00 exactly.

The head and then shoulders of the Hermite's captain appeared over the edge of the pier in short order. He was a short man, bald and round-faced, and he was wearing an impeccably cleaned and pressed blue dress uniform. The golden stripes of a full captain were stitched to either shoulder, and an unobtrustive but impressive series of battle tags lined his lapel.

Isaac watched the man scan the faces in front him, cataloguing all of them before returning the soldiers' salute. Instead of waiting for the clerical staff to come to him, he approached the first one himself and began speaking quickly and forcefully, but without rancor. In short order the midshipmen were sent scampering away, the band was dismissed, and the short man turned to Isaac.

"Major Holliday, I presume?"

"Yes sir." Isaac threw a crisp salute.

The captain of the Hermite returned it before extending his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Major Holliday. I am Captain Oswald. Will you walk with me, Major?"

Captain Oswald had already set off down the pier. Isaac turned and took a few hurried steps to keep up with him. "At last?"

"You've been the subject of much speculation in the wardroom aboard the Hermite for the past week, Major."

"And why is that?"

Captain Oswald looked at him. "You don't know?"

Isaac shook his head.

"Hmm." Oswald turned forward again. Isaac was having trouble keeping up with him, despite the shorter man's smaller stride. "A week ago, we were part of Rear Admiral Dunland's squadron, enforcing the Thyrennian blockade. An order came by special courier that we were to rendezvous with you and Dr. Lukas here in Moorehead."

"I was mentioned by name?"

"Yes."

"Odd. I didn't know about the assignment until yesterday."

Oswald nodded before continuing with his narrative. "Admiral Dunland wasn't happy, of course, as the blockade is stretched thin as it is, but the order came straight from the top. The Hermite has been steaming at nearly maximum speed for the past week to make Moorehead by this morning. I was hoping you could tell us what has suddenly become so important to the King."

"I wish that I could. I assume that Doctor Lukas knows more, but she hasn't told me anything."

"What do you know about Doctor Lukas?"

"She's smart. Physics, cambric, archaeology --"

"That would explain some of the equipment we're due to bring on board later today. Excavators, mostly."

"So we'll be digging then. Do you suppose that there's cambric on Saint Marcos?"

Oswald shook his head. "Not likely, and even if there was, why send a cruiser? And the army?"

"Maybe there's unrest. Saint Marcos is an occupied territory, after all."

"Perhaps." Oswald pursed his lips in thought, and then abruptly turned to Isaac. "Well, I'm sure we'll find out in due time. If you'll excuse me, Major, I have a great many things to attend to if the Hermite is to sail again tomorrow evening. My boat will take you aboard where you can talk to my first officer about the necessary preparations for storing your equipment. I know that cavalry mounts can be quite delicate when dissassembled."

"My thanks, Captain. I'll attend to that right away, if you have no further need of me."

Oswald dismissed him with a salute, which Isaac returned before turning back to the boat.

019 -- Rescue

. . . ugh . . .

. . . where am I? . . .

Andrew awoke slowly. He began to perceive a dim light, but the world was too hazy to make out any details. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were leaden and he gave up after a few moments. As his sight swam into focus, he realized that he was lying on his back in a narrow bunk, wrapped in a thin blanket. More bunks were stacked neatly under the low metal ceiling. A gentle humming seemed to fill the air, coming from the walls and the floor.

Hanging from the bunk above him were several bundles of fresh fruit, swaying slowly back and forth. Across from him hung several sausages in a line, and the next bunk down was home to a large wooden crate. In fact, the whole room was filled with assorted food and other junk.

"Thom! Thom, I think he's awake!" came a woman's voice.

A dark silhoutte bent itself over Andrew. "Hon? Hon, can you hear me?" He tried to respond but all he could manage was a hoarse croak.

"Let me get you something to drink, there, hon. Don't move." The woman disappeared, returning a second later. Andrew tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down, instead raising a tin cup to his mouth.

The water helped. Andrew cleared his throat and tried again, this time managing something intelligible. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You were shipwrecked. There's a fishing village on the lee side of Cape Herrod. The fisherman saw your ship against the rocks -- lucky for you we were tied down nearby to weather out the storm."

"I remember . . . the rocks. I tied myself to the mast." Andrew's temples throbbed. "But it's confusing, I thought I saw someone come from above . . ."

"That was me, hon. You were half dead when I found you, I had to cut the ropes just to get you free."

"But . . . how did you get to the ship? Where are we now?"

"We're on the Zeta."

"Is the Zeta another ship?"

The woman looked at him quizzically. "Not exactly . . ."

She stood up from his bed and strode to a shuttered porthole that Andrew hadn't noticed. Grasping a recessed lever, she threw open the metal shutters with one swift movement.

Andrew gaped. They were thousands of feet in the air, suspended above a roiling sea of gray cotton clouds. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, brighter than he had ever seen it. Here and there massive thunderheads rose into the sky, towering far over them and riddled with bolts of lightning. A hard blue sky stretched out to the horizon, cold and brilliant as polished marble.

"Not a ship, hon. An airship. You've never seen an airship before?"

Andrew was still gaping, but luckily the woman continued on talking, saving him the trouble of putting together a reply.

"I'm Emma, Emma Splice -- first mate, chief mechanic, and bookkeeper for the Zeta. I'm sure you'll meet the captain before too long -- he's been busy getting us out of your storm. Speaking of which --" she raised her voice "-- Thom! THOM! HE'S AWAKE!"

A unmistakeably hostile reply came back through the forward hatchway, partially muffled but clear in meaning.

"I guess he's a bit busy still, hon. Speaking of which, what's your name?"

Andrew hesitated. As his vision cleared, he was getting a clearer image of the Zeta's first mate. She was middle aged, with a short, compact stature like a boxer. Her face was wide and friendly, and she had saved his life, but . . . Andrew made his decision.

"My name is Danny. I'm -- I was the cabin boy on the Lydia, three days out of Kumar. We were headed towards Cimbria when we sprung a leak. The storm caught us before we could repair it, and, well . . ."

Emma nodded.

"Did you find anyone else?"

The short woman looked away, shaking her head. "We didn't find the other half of the ship. It was a freak accident that saved your life, the odds of it happening twice are . . . well, I'm sorry, hon. Were you close to anyone on the Lydia?"

Andrew shook his head. "Not really."

The silence was interrupted by the abrupt opening of the forward hatchway. "He's awake, huh?" came a brusque voice.

"His name's Danny, Thom. Danny, this is the captain of the Zeta, Thom Roving."

"Mmm." Andrew and the captain sized each other up. Thom was a nondescript man, of perfectly average height and build. His shaggy brown hair protruded at awkward angles from his head, and a thin layer of stubble coated his chin. His high black boots were scuffed, pitted, and spattered with mud. A pistol hung at a rakish angle from his worn leather belt.

"So this is the kid we went to so much trouble for? Didn't know he was a Tel."

"Be nice Thom, he nearly got killed today."

"So did we! A bit of bad luck and we'd be down on those rocks with him. We were one downdraft away from becoming permanent residents."

When Andrew didn't respond, Thom came closer. He took a seat on an upturned crate, creating a small triangle of faces between Andrew, Emma, and himself. "So. Who are you, kid?"

"My name is Dan--"

"No, I know that already. Where you from?"

"I'm from the village of Kashi, up the river from Kumar."

"Have any family?"

"My mother and sister live alone."

"Do they work for the Cimbrians?"

"No."

"They own a plantation?"

"No. Why do you care?"

"They have any money?"

"Not really. Why is this important?"

Thom leaned back on the crate with a snort. "Real fine one we got here, Emma. What were you doing in that storm, kid?"

"I was the cabin boy on the Lydia. We were caught in the storm and sank."

"Been a cabin boy long?"

Andrew hesitated. "A year or two. Captain Toggart took me on in Kumar."

"What was your run?"

Andrew thought back quickly to Uncle Hamid's business. "From Cimbria to the coast of Tel. We sold iron and other heavy goods along the coast."

"Mmm. A hold full of iron off of Cape Herrod, no wonder the ship sank. Where in Cimbria did you port?"

Andrew named the first Cimbrian city he could think of, the capital and home of the academy. "Oberon."

Thom raised his eyebrows. "Oberon, eh? Your captain Toggart must've been quite the businessman, even if he wasn't much of a sailor." He pushed his crate back and returned to his feet. "Emma, can you find him some clothes?"

Andrew realized for the first time that he was naked under the sheets. The stocky woman shurgged apologetically. "There wasn't a whole lot left when we picked you up . . . the storm tore everything you were wearing to shreds. I'm sure I'll find something that'll fit," she said, turning back to Thom, "although he's pretty skinny."

Thom nodded and turned to leave. "Capain Roving? Can I ask you a question?"

"Hmm?"

"What is the Zeta, exactly?"

Thom paused, already halfway to the hatchway, and turned back. "The Zeta and I get things where they need to go. That's all you need to know."

"We're on an airship?"

This time there was a short pause before Thom replied.

"Yeah, kid, an airship. We've got eighteen cells of lifiting gas above us right now. I've got to get forward." And the hatchway shut with a bang.

Emma stood as well. "Sorry about that, hon. He's still a bit grumpy over what your storm did to his ship. I'll leave the water here while I find some clothes for you -- try and sleep a little more."

Andrew was asleep again before she returned.

---

When he awoke again, it was almost dark outside. The gentle hum of what was probably some sort of engine still permeated the cabin. A slight tinge of purple was all that remained of what must've been a spectacular sunset.

A pair of trousers and rough shirt lay at the end of his bunk, along with a note. "Sorry, these were all I could find. -- Emma" was written in neat Cimbrian, and again in blocky Tel as an afterthought. The trousers were much too big, but by tying the belt snug and rolling up the legs he was able to make them work.

The metal floor was cold on his bare feet and flexed slightly underfoot. In fact, everything in the cabin seemed to be made as thin and light as possible, including the mattress Andrew had been sleeping on for most of the past day. He stumbled to the porthole, stretching as he did to try and loosen the knots in his back.

Looking outside, he got a better view of the sky. There was just enough light still to see the roiling mass of clouds still beneath them. The thunderheads had been left behind, but were still visible in the distance. Chains of lightning still rippled through them with silent fury, illuminating clouds that were no longer touched by the sun.

The hatchway forward had been left adjar, and after thinking for a moment Andrew let himself through. Climbing a ladder, Andrew found a narrow metal gangway that stretched forward through a tunnel of cloth and was lit with a string of yellow electric lamps. At the end was another ladder that led in both directions. Andrew hesitated, unsure which way to go, but he thought he could hear faint voices coming from below and so he went down.

Here was another hatchway slightly adjar. Andrew took hold of the handle to open it when the sounds of conversation made him freeze. Thom and Emma were talking about him.

"Emma, he's not worth anything to us until we know what's really going on."

"You're sure he's lying?"

"There's no way that he's ever been to Oberon and doesn't know what an airship is. And his hands? Working on a ship for a year means calluses, not fresh cuts. He was a passenger, and that means he might have money, but until we know he's nothing but trouble."

"And how are you going to find out?"

"The usual way." There was a pause. "You know . . . I'll convince him."

"Thom!"

"Not much! I'll just shake him up a bit."

"Thom, he's only a kid."

"We don't know what he is. He could work for the Cimbrians, for all we know. He's already almost wrecked my ship once, so as far as I'm concerned he's bad luck."

"Just because you think he's bad luck doesn't mean I'm going to let you frighten the child."

Andrew heard Thom sigh. "Look, if he's worth something, we'll ransom him. You know we need the money. And if he isn't worth anything, we drop him somewhere. Simple as that."

"And if he's connected to the Cimbrians?"

"Not very likely that a Tel is working for Cimbria."

"But if he is?"

There was a pause before Thom replied. "You know what we do in that case."

This time Emma sighed. "Yes, you're right. But Thom, let me try first. I think I can get him to talk to me. If not, he's all yours."

"Sooner rather than later. If the kid is dangerous, I want to know about it."

"Alright. I'll check on him in a minute, he might be awake."

Andrew's heart was pounding as he stepped back from the hatchway. What do I do? Who are these people? He raced up the ladder and back down the gangway as quietly as he could. They're pirates! No, not pirates, but smugglers at least, and kidnappers! What do I do?

I need time to think. Sliding back into his bunk, Andrew closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He had just gotten his breathing back under control when he heard the hatch swing open again. Someone's booted feet came to his bedside, and Andrew could sense a body leaning over him. After a few moments they walked away again, a gentle clank as the hatch swung closed. Then there was a soft click.

She locked the door. I'm a prisoner.

018 -- Isaac Holliday

"Rahm's sake, are they interviewing Reynolds again?"

Zeke slid into the squeaky leather armchair facing Isaac's desk before continuing. "I mean, he's a decent enough pilot, but I didn't know we were hiring a press officer."

"Someone's got to do it, right?" replied Isaac after a short pause, without removing his eyes from the report he was halfway through reading.

"It looks like they brought a sketch artist, too. Are they really going to put his face in paper?"

"Mmm. Probably. What's that new column?"

" 'Faces of Our Heroes' or something like that. What bullshit. Total propagandist bullshit. You'd think we were at war, with the rate they've been putting pretty-boy faces on posters lately." Zeke leaned forward to see through the office window. "Although you should take a look at the artist. She's cute. Maybe I can convince her to come draw me for the paper instead. How's this for a profile?" Zeke turned sideways, straightening up and splashing an outrageous smile on his face.

"That's lovely, Zeke." replied Isaac without looking up. "How will she ever resist you?"

"Spoil sport. You're not even trying."

"I'm not trying to seduce a young artist?"

"What, you don't think she's cute?"

"What I think is that the more time they spend talking to Lieutenant Reynolds, the less of my time gets wasted. And HE actually enjoys the attention -- sounds like a win-win situation."

"Ha. Since when did you become such a grumpy old man?"

Isaac looked up from the report he had been working on to direct a mock glare at his executive officer. "I'm the grumpy old man? Aren't you two weeks older than me?"

"Bah, two weeks is nothing compared to a certain . . . youthfulness of heart. Isn't that right, Corporal?"

A blank-faced young soldier had just entered Isaac's office carrying a large stack of brown envelopes. Unlike the two older officers, he was actually wearing his uniform jacket and was pressed and polished with impeccable precision from head to toe. "I wouldn't know anything about that, sir." he replied, looking carefully at the floor. "Your dispatches, Major Holliday."

"Thank you, Corporal Attley. Dismissed."

The young corporal turned and left quickly, orders safely deposited on Isaac's desk. Zeke watched him leave. "Break another one, eh, Holliday?"

"Actually, no, as a matter of fact." Isaac spoke slowly as he sorted through the day's dispatches. "I haven't done a thing to him. He's been that way ever since he was transferred. His old CO said that the -- "

"Slate? Wasn't Slate his CO?"

"Yeah . . . he asked to be transferred here after receiving a field commendation. Passed up command school to come do clerical work. He hasn't said a word to me in three months. Ah, here's the intelligence brief, let's see who's stirring up trouble this month." Isaac tore open a fat envelope that was marked SECRET in blue ink.

"More trouble in Thyrene . . . some unrest in the occupied territories . . . strife in the Escobar confederation . . . nothing much new here . . ."

Zeke was sorting through the rest of the mail. "Hey now, what's this?" He pulled out a white envelope, sealed with red wax. Printed on the front was CONFIDENTIAL: MAJ. ISAAC HOLLIDAY.

"Huh. I don't know." Isaac accepted the envelope from Zeke. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the envelope and tore open the waxed paper that encased the packet inside. "This is how they usually send official orders, but I don't know what they'd have for us right now . . . I haven't heard of any projects in the works . . ."

"Maybe they found something? Another piece of crap cavalry mount captured in the peninsula campaign for us to test?"

Isaac started reading, his eyes widening after the first couple sentences.

"What? What is it?"

"I'm . . . I've been transferred!"

"What? Where? Why? I don't believe it!"

"Look for yourself!" Isaac handed the thick official paper to Zeke.

". . . are instructed to proceed to the island of St. Marcos -- that's occupied, right? What's in St. Marcos?"

"Keep reading." Isaac stood and walked over to a small cambric hot plate to pour himself another cup of coffee.

". . . rendezvous with someone named Dr. Lukas and his team . . . Reynolds, Smith, and Albans are going with you . . . there's a company of infantry, too -- their CO is Captain Grassland, looks like you'll be running the show . . . Holliday, I don't get it. Who is this Dr. Lukas? And why does he suddenly need a company of infantry and four cavalry jockeys to protect him?"

"Doctor Lukas is a scientist, Zeke -- a very well-known, well-respected scientist. We could be chasing nearly anything. She's an archeologist, a physicist, an expert in cambric metal --"

"Dr. Lukas is a she?"

Isaac took another sip of coffee. "Yep."

Signs of recognition began to spread slowly across Zeke's face. "Waaaaitttt . . . Aderyn Lukas? Didn't you once . . . years ago . . . ?"

"We've worked together before." Isaac sat back down heavily behind his desk. "You were there, remember? The Shropshire assignment . . . I had just made lieutenant."

Zeke's face broke out into a grin. "Now I do. She's beautiful, isn't she?" Isaac didn't reply. "But . . . difficult to work with . . ."

"Yeah, that's one way of putting it. Difficult."

"I wonder if that's how you got transferred . . . do you think she requested you?"

"I very much doubt that. But keep reading, Zeke, there's more." Isaac turned his attention back to his coffee.

Zeke continued scanning the page. "You're leaving today?!?"

Isaac nodded. "I have a train to catch in --" he glanced at the clock hanging from the wall "-- three hours. Reynolds, Smith and Albans leave tomorrow, along with our equipment and maintenance teams. You've been appointed acting CO in my place, so I guess I'm coming back eventually."

Zeke, flabbergasted, finished reading the page and handed it back to Isaac. "They're even sending someone to your place to grab your clothes."

"The squadron should be fine without me for a couple weeks, Zeke. I know you won't have any trouble keeping the 303rd in line."

"I'll go tell the other three right now. Where are you off to?"

"I have a couple things to do before I catch the train. Take care of yourself, Zeke." Isaac had donned his uniform jacket and was buttoning it down the front. "I'm going to go see Colonel Agincourt."

---

"Did you find something unclear in your orders, Major Holliday?"

It had been a short walk from the 303rd's hangar to Defense Headquarters. A quick nod to the sentry and he had passed unmolested under the stone eagles guarding the gate. Luckily Colonel Agincourt had been in, and after only a few minutes he'd been ushered into a spacious, wood-paneled office.

"No, sir, nothing was unclear."

Colonel Agincourt was a fit, active man in his mid fifties. He was clean-shaven, which was odd for a senior military officer, and was mostly bald with neatly trimmed gray hair at his temples. When working at his desk, he usually wore thin wire-frame glasses; they were folded neatly and sitting next to a small vase at the moment.

"Everything has been provided for? You will have no trouble making the train, I trust?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why are you here, Major?"

"Sir, it's just that . . . these orders are highly irregular. Normally my team and I have a pretty good idea of what is coming down through the system to us. This assignment is totally out of nowhere."

The Colonel returned his gaze steadily without replying. Isaac continued after a short pause.

"And I don't understand why my unit has been given this assignment. We're test pilots in the 303rd, and my men are some of the best, but if this is a combat situation I don't see how one squad of steam cavalry are going to make much of a difference. If this isn't a combat situation, then I'm sure that there are engineering units that have equipment and training better suited to assisting Dr. Lukas."

"Major Holliday, surely you understand the need for operational security. Your orders contain only the information that command has deemed necessary for the completion of your mission."

Isaac pursed his lips before replying. "Yes, sir, I do. But should the situation change, I am not confident that I have enough information to act appropriately. I'm working in the dark here, Colonel, at least give me something."

The colonel took another long look at Holliday before standing up from his desk. Isaac watched him absentmindedly gaze at the bookshelves lining the office; he knew from long association with Colonel Agincourt that they contained mostly translations of classics, discussions of military theory, and the odd book of poetry. Isaac himself, while able to acknowledge that someone might actually enjoy reading, found the desire to actually spend money on books puzzling.

"Dr. Aderyn Lukas. You've worked with her before?" began the Colonel finally, still facing the bookshelves.

"Yes, briefly. It was several years ago."

"How long were you assigned to her project?"

"A few months."

The Colonel nodded to himself, and then turned back to Isaac. "We believe that Dr. Lukas may be a threat to the security of this nation."

"Lukas? Impossible!"

"Why do you say that, Major?"

"She's . . . well, from working with her . . . she has no reason to--"

"Surely you're aware of her background, Major Holliday?"

"Of course . . . but her family has been here for generations, right?"

"It is the actions of her family that have put her under suspicion -- more than that I cannot say. I assigned you to this mission because I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on her."

"But -- the idea of Lukas as a spy is ludicrous! It's silly, there's --"

"Major Holliday," Colonel Agincourt cut in sharply. "Do you have personal feelings that will interfere with your successful completion of this mission?"

"No, of course not. No, sir."

"Good." He paused again. "Holliday, I need you to keep close to the doctor. Above all else, keep her safe. Remember that."

"Yes, sir."

"You have a train to catch, Major. Dismissed."

---

"All aboard!"

Isaac caught the footplate of the carriage right as the train began to move. It had been a near thing -- only with a cross-platform sprint had he managed to make the train. Isaac presented his ticket to the exasperated conductor and was pointed back several cars to the coach seating.

He had just squeezed his way past a mother shepherding two small children down the narrow aisle when Isaac heard a familiar voice. It was coming from a nearby compartment with it's door slightly ajar; Isaac stopped to listen. The woman's voice, low yet crystal-clear, was speaking in quick, carefully measured tones.

". . . while in reality, the scientific basis for racial superiority has very little basis in fact. Almost all of the experiments you just cited are significantly flawed in terms of objectivity. They were all conducted by Cimbrian scientists, and in most cases the attributes measured were acquired, not inherent. Thus, even if the experiments had been scientifically valid, the only point they would have proven would have been the superiority of the Cimbrian educational system in producing pupils knowledgeable in the various fields valued by Cimbrian culture as a whole, which is of course a foregone conclusion."

"Why, you . . . are you calling the whole of the Cimbrian scientific community biased?!?"

"All scientific inquiry undertaken by humans has the potential for bias. Perfect rationality is the only defense we have, and humans are not perfect. The Cimbrian scientific community is especially vulnerable to bias, due to the widespread involvement of governmental and military agencies funding this community. When it is in the state's best interest to acquire a certain result, there will always be scientists willing to produce that result for a reasonable price."

A short, angry bearded man stormed out of the compartment. "I will not sit here and be lectured to by some silly housewife -- out of my way!" he added as he pushed past Isaac. Isaac graciously stepped aside before entering the compartment himself.

Sitting alone was a tall woman with long brown hair. She certainly could be called beautiful, but she could also easily be called harsh or severe with her narrow lips and sharp, thin eyebrows. Large blue eyes blazed against her fair skin, and a scientist's notepad lay open on the seat next to her.

"Ironically, even his last assumption is incorrect, a fact that he could have easily have verified if he had taken the time to check my hands for a wedding band. They were both plainly visible through more than half the conversation. What are you doing here, Major Holliday?"

"It's good to see you too, Dr. Lukas. How did you know about my promotion?"

Lukas gave him a puzzled stare. "You're wearing your uniform. Military uniforms exist to inform others of the wearer's status . . . your insignia is clearly that of a Major. There is the remote possibility that you are wearing the incorrect insignia, but given the severity of the penalties--"

"No, you're right. It's Major Holliday now."

"Oh. My congratulations. You haven't answered my question yet." Lukas leaned over to reach her handbag and began rummaging around inside of it for something.

"I received a transfer order just this morning from headquarters . . . they're sending me to Moorehead to catch a ship. I've been assigned to a certain scientist's project on St. Marcos."

"Assigned to --" Lukas looked up from her handbag, right arm still inside of it up to the elbow. "You're my military liaison?!?"

"Do you have a problem with that?" Isaac sat, sinking into the deeply upholstered cushions.

"No, no . . . no problem, I'm just surprised." Lukas' arm emerged, holding a worn and chipped wooden pipe, along with a small leather bag and a pack of matches.

"I'll take it that means you didn't request me personally."

"I saw no reason to. Should I have? Your file doesn't list any special expertise in the area I'm headed to." Dr. Lukas was packing the pipe quickly and delicately with tobacco from the bag.

"No, I was just curious."

"Is the rest of your squad with you? How many pilots have been assigned?"

"They leave tomorrow -- three more pilots and our support staff. Zeke's staying with the 303rd as acting CO, while I've been sent ahead to work with the ship's captain. Transporting steam cavalry can be tricky business."

"We'll need to secure my equipment first; it is extremely delicate and is vital to the success of my project. I will need to make sure it is in the most protected portion of the ship."

"Of course, doctor." He leaned back into the thick upholstery. "So, how have you been, Lukas?"

The tall woman paused with the pipe in her teeth and a match ready to strike against the matchbook. "Why are you engaging me in small talk, Major Holliday?"

"I worked with you for six months, Lukas. You're my friend, I want to know how you've been. This is what friends do, remember?"

Lukas extinguished her match and took a few experimental puffs before replying to Isaac. "You always found it boring when I talked about my work."

"Consider it professional development, then. Establishing a personal relationship is one of the keys to a frictionless work environment."

Lukas smiled. "Your grasp of psychology is . . . suspect at best. And I remember several instances where you actually told me to shut up."

Isaac adopted a comically wounded expression. "What? Me? No, I couldn't have--"

"Does 'Lukas, a bar is really not the place to discuss thermal transfer coefficients!' ring a bell? Or perhaps 'Lukas, I don't care what the acceleration curves look like!' Or--"

"Alright, alright, let's not talk about work. Have you done any traveling lately?"

"Well, I spent a few years doing field work for the academy -- after awarding my PhD, the anthropology department hired for an expedition. We studied several developing cultures on the East side of the Greyspikes. Two years wasn't enough time to finish the project, so I spent my sabbatical continuing my studies of the Daki, a hunter-gather tribe that lives--"

"One thing's for sure -- you still work too hard, Lukas."

Lukas frowned, caught in mid sentence. "That's an opinion, Holliday, not an observation."

"Lukas, look . . . you spend two years in the jungle, working, and you finally get some time off. How do you spend it? Doing more work!"

"I fail to see your point."

"Most people try to relax when they get some time off. Have you ever tried that? Relaxing?"

"I found the study of living beings quite refreshing after a decade of work in geology and archaeology. Anthropology was a welcome change."

"When I think about relaxing, I think about spending a few weeks on the beach, with a little cabin all to myself. Take a quick dip in the morning, sit out in the sun during the day, maybe head down to the bar in the evening . . . most people would find that more relaxing than spending three years in a grass hut eating roots and berries."

"I am not 'most people,' Isaac. I thought you knew that." Lukas blew a perfect blue smoke ring as if to accentuate her point.

"Mmm." Isaac looked out the window for a moment as the train began to gather speed. "So how did you get hired by the military? I thought you just said that one of the biggest threats to impartiality in science was government funding."

"It is. But . . . I made an exception in this case. Their proposal was particularly compelling."

"Why?"

Lukas hesitated. "Subject matter. We're studying cambric."

"And you couldn't resist?"

"It is a complicated project. We could learn an enormous amount, and I'm the only one qualified to lead it . . . if anyone else tried, they would most likely fail."

"But you won't?"

Lukas looked up, surprised at the question. "Of course not. I'm the best."

Isaac laughed again. "You know, Lukas, if anyone else said that, it would sound egotistical."

"Why not me?"

"Because when you say it, it's a statement of fact." Isaac stood. "I should probably be heading to my seat, Doctor Lukas. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow." She had already resumed studying her notes, a haze of blue smoke beginning to fill the compartment. Isaac slipped out, and the door slid shut. He stood for a moment, thinking about the Colonel's warning, before continuing to his seat.