Chapter 08 – Dinner with Destiny

Corporal Lucas Baudet pressed into the embankment and turned his head to the side, just one of the thirty Gaullian soldiers hiding in the ditch under dirty tarpaulins. The grenade went off and the Argan motorcar was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and shrapnel. He leaped up out of the ditch with his rifle pointed ahead. There was a second truck behind the first, harshly applying its brakes.

Baudet fired at the driver; his shot broke through the window and hit its target. Thirty pale-blue coats swarmed the convoy, and another grenade went off on a third truck in the rear. Men tried to jump out of the truck before him, but they were cut down by the gunfire of the soldiers who were already prepared for battle.

Baudet turned to his right and began firing at survivors from the first truck. He followed behind Sergeant Dubois as they swept around to the far side of the truck, looking for more Argans to kill. There was nothing on this side. A few more shots were fired as the platoon of Gaullian soldiers completely surrounded the convoy from all sides.

The sound of gunfire slowed and stopped. Baudet lowered his rifle and looked at the sergeant. They both smiled. The battle was over before they could even lose their breath.

Suddenly Dubois's chest ruptured into a spray of blood as the sound of a gunshot began echoing. As the sergeant began tumbling to the ground, Baudet looked toward the other side of the road; another score of Argan soldiers stood in the field, opening fire on the exposed soldiers.

There was no time to wonder how they had got there. Baudet pulled back against the end of the truck, seeking the paltry amount of cover it provided. He fired at the one olive-green-clad soldier still in his view, and the soldier fell to the ground behind the short stone wall that lined the derelict farm where the enemies were coming from.

Baudet leaned forward to get a better view. He didn't like this scene at all; the Argans had them in a pinch. The battlefield was too open; half the platoon was exposed on the wrong side of the trucks, and an unpleasant number of bodies were already fallen to the ground. The Argans were fewer in number – at least initially – but they were crouched behind the short cobblestone wall, plus another handful peeking behind the dilapidated wall of the old homestead. He could even see another soldier in the shadow of the derelict windmill.

The corporal took aim, fired, and another Argan dropped down. But another two soldiers next to him popped up from behind the wall, and they both took aim at him. The one on the left jittered and dropped his rifle as a bloody hole opened up on his sternum. The one on the right quickly turned and dropped back down beneath his cover with only a part of his helmet still visible, but then a thin cloud of blood sprayed up from him, and the top of his helmet dropped completely out of view.

'But how... Who shot him?'

Baudet looked back toward the old windmill. It was hard to make out in the shadow, but yet... This soldier was not wearing the same olive-drab as the other Argans, in fact, it looked more like a dusty gold. This tan-colored soldier pressed his back against the wall of the windmill, loading another clip into his rifle while creeping his way back out of view. Tiny puffs of dirt popped out of the stone from a few missed shots.

Corporal Baudet turned back toward the rest of his platoon and yelled out “There are Norlan soldiers by the windmill! Norlans by the windmill! Back them up! Catch these bastards in the crossfire!”

As the call went out the Gaullian soldiers grew emboldened. Another half-dozen swarmed out from behind the truck; Baudet ran up to the stone wall and quickly dropped to a knee. He fired at the nearest soldier and then ducked beneath the wall to begin reloading his weapon.

When he peeked above the wall again he saw another Norlan soldier on the other side of the windmill take down another Argan. Baudet spotted another Argan, just barely in sight through a collapsed portion of the old building. The Argan was taking aim at the Norlan, but Baudet fired first. The shot connected with his shoulder; not fatal, but it kept him down sure enough.

More blue coats pressed forward. The remaining Argans scampered around the field, trying to find cover from the crossfire. Less than a minute later, the greater numbers of the Gaullians prevailed.

A few relieved cheers began cracking up from the remaining soldiers, but Baudet's relief was short-lived. Sergeant Dubois was down, and he didn't see the lieutenant anywhere. 'Shit, that means I'm in charge, doesn't it?'

Baudet called out to a couple privates near him. “You two! Sweep the compound for any more of them! Yell out immediately if you find anything!” 'Okay, that takes care of that. What's next?' He looked over to some more soldiers by the trucks. “Check the survivors! Tend to the wounded!”

He paced his way around the abandoned homestead toward the old windmill. One of the Norlan soldiers was making his way toward him. Baudet yelled out to him, “I can't even begin to say how glad I am that you guys made it! The Brass said we couldn't expect you guys to get this far! You sure showed them, huh!”

A couple other soldiers began approaching him as Baudet finally got a good look at the fellow. Despite how euphoric the corporal was, the more he saw of the Norlan soldier, the more peculiar he felt. He wasn't wearing a standard uniform, but an airman's flight suit. There was a gash on the man's chest, and dried blood on one of his arms. His hair was dark blue like a mage, and to top it all off, he was carrying an Argan rifle. His appearance was so odd that Baudet didn't even register that he had a birthmark around his eyebrow.

The Norlan called out, “No, uhh... No Gaullish!” His accent was unbearably thick.

Baudet turned back towards his comrades. “Who speaks Norlish?” he yelled.

Faces looked around at each other. After a moment, Private Gérald tepidly raised his hand and began moving toward him. He didn't seem very confident in his new role.

Baudet looked back toward the Norlan and the windmill. 'Wait, where are the other Norlans?'

When Gérald arrived he decided to make that his first question. “Ask him where the rest of his platoon is.”

Gérald tried his best to put together a cohesive thought in Norlish. He paused frequently, sounding as if he were speaking in sentences no longer than two words each.

The Norlan responded, and then paused before repeating himself in a slow and staccato manner.

Gérald looked back at Baudet. “He says he's alone.”

Baudet scowled. “What? How?”

The Norlan didn't seem to need a translation, and began speaking in the same slow and staccato manner.

Gérald nodded when he got it at last. “He says he got lost.”

“Lost?” Baudet broke out into hearty laughter and slapped the Norlan on his back jovially.

* * *

The scent of stale beer was almost overpowered by the scent of cigarette smoke. Indiscriminate Gaullish chatter and occasional laughter mixed in with the familiar smells. On the far end of the pub the sound of billiard balls clinking against each other pierced through the ambiance.

Captain Weston stared a little nervously at the Gaullian lieutenant as he spoke a bit more into the telephone, relaying the information Cedric had given him. After a moment the lieutenant nodded slightly and looked back at the captain. “Yas, they can make that co-nection.”

Weston smiled broadly.

The lieutenant continued. “It will cost 25 livres.”

The smile instantly disappeared from Cedric's face. “Twenty-five livres?!”

The lieutenant grew visibly annoyed. “This call is personal, yas? I spot you for the military bissness, but for personal you haff to pay, nyo?” He took another drag from his cigarette.

Weston tried to swallow his irritation as he dug into his pocket. “Fine, but... I only have crowns.” He pulled out a handful of money decorated with the faces of Norlandy's finest rulers.

The lieutenant looked at the fistful of foreign currency and then began yelling at the barkeep in Gaullish. The two exchanged words for a moment. The barkeep yelled back with an irritated tone, but then the lieutenant responded with what sounded like pleading as he motioned his hand toward the soldiers Cedric had been with for the past week. After a few more words between the two, the lieutenant nodded and then looked back at Cedric. “Okay, you get to make the call.” He then spoke something into the black funnel protruding from the wooden box and then handed the receiver to the foreign captain, grabbing the foreign money as he walked away.

A few short moments later, Cedric was speaking with an operator who spoke Norlish. A minute later the line was connected and the burring sound of a telephone-ring resonated within the receiver.

The faint click of the connection sounded and a young girl's voice spoke an unrecognizable word. A moment later she began speaking again. “Hello, Weston residence?”

Cedric Weston recognized the voice of his daughter. “Mary?”

“Papa?”

“Oh Mary, it is so good to hear your voice! How are you, how are you?!”

“Papa, you're alive?”

“Yes Mary, of course I'm alive! Oh, I promised you I'd come back home, didn't I? I'm sorry, it's taking longer than I was really expecting.”

Mary's voice grew soft but raised, as if she were yelling out into the house instead of the telephone. “Mama! Papa's on the phone! He's alive!” Her voice returned to normal. “Papa, where are you?”

“I'm in a pub on a Gaullian Army base.”

“Gaullian? Oh, I'm sorry Papa, maybe I should have learned Gaullish with you instead.”

“Oh no, that's quite alright Mary; learning Argish... It came in real handy, let's just say that.” He softly chuckled and then changed to a more serious tone. “Mary, what's with all this 'you're alive' business you keep saying?”

The lieutenant returned and handed Cedric the remainder of his Norlan crowns. Cedric nodded at him with a grateful expression.

“Papa, there's a man here from the Army, he says–” Mary's words were cut short and the telephone resonated with the sound of a tinny crinkling as if the neck of the telephone were being grabbed.

A man's voice came through the telephone. “This is Colonel Rye. Who is this?!”

“Colonel Rye?” Cedric repeated. It did indeed sound like his voice. “This is Captain Cedric Weston!”

“Weston?” Rye didn't sound very phased. “Where are you?!”

“I'm on a Gaullian base near Anverpa!”

“What the f-... what the devil are you doing there?!”

“What are you doing in my house?” 'Oh shit, I shouldn't have said that out loud.'

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Rye, listen, I've already called the office and told them everything! Go back and talk to Harris; he'll tell you everything. Please, let me speak with my wife! This call is costing me twenty-five livres! I don't even know how many crowns that is!”

“Harris?” There was the sound of wind huffing out of Rye's nose. “...Fine.”

There was more of the crackling of a man-handled telephone and at long last the voice he longed to hear came through. “Hello?”

“Nesma!”

“Cedric!”

“Oh Nesma, it's so good to hear your voice!”

“Cedric, zere's a man here who's saying you were killed in battle!”

“Oh Nesma, I'll tell you the same thing I told you on the banks of the H'teru: I'm not the kind of man who dies in a war.”

Gleeful sobbing echoed through the receiver.

* * *

Colonel Rye sat on one side of the table, gently pressing the ridge of his nose into his hand while exhaling loudly. Next to him Major Harper was quickly writing notes on his papers while Rye's secretary seemed to be avoiding the captain's gaze. Captain Weston felt as if he no longer had any friends with him in this room, and began to wonder if he should have lied.

“A girl,” the colonel second-class repeated.

“Yes,” Weston affirmed.

“No more than eight years old.”

“Yes.”

“Single-handedly wiped out one of our best squadrons with some of our most experienced mages.”

Weston did not feel as if it was a compliment. He wondered if Rye would have described them that way had they come home safely.

Major Harper looked up at the captain, his eye contact magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. “What I don't get, Weston, is why she left you alive.”

“As I said,” Weston quickly defended, “she was having a breakdown!”

Harper waved his hand dismissively. “Yes-yes-yes, I get that part; I believe that.”

Believe. That was the word he used.

“What I don't understand is why she did so before going after you. Why didn't she perceive you as a threat?”

Weston's mind balked. “I'm sorry?”

Harper continued. “In my experience, people don't have that breakdown until after the battle has subsided. I've seen men completely collapse, even. But their body won't let them do that until after the situation is over, not until they feel safe.” And then he added, “...on some level.”

Weston shifted in his seat. “With all due respect, sir...”

Harper interrupted him. “I just want to know why she didn't perceive you as a threat.”

Weston thought for a moment. “...I suppose it was because I wasn't holding a weapon at that time.”

Rye's eyes narrowed. “No? Then what were you holding?”

Weston flatly stated “Lieutenant Reuben's severed head.”

The secretary stirred unpleasantly in her seat.

* * *

Cedric had not even reached his front door before it swung open and the two women he loved ran outside. He barely managed to brace himself well enough to keep from falling over as Merideth jumped on him. Nesma had her arms around him almost as fast. Cedric mumbled his warm greetings into his wife's thick hair.

The statements they made were repeated over and over while in tender embrace. They were not strong words nor delicately-crafted poetic words. For all it seemed to matter, the words the three of them spoke could have been non sequiturs or even gibberish, but they all connected directly from their hearts.

When their emotions had subsided sufficiently enough to walk back inside, Nesma stopped and looked back at her husband. “Cedric, what is zat you are wearing?”

“I had to borrow some clothes from some very nice Gaullian soldiers. My flight suit was filthy and had a few new holes in it.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

With a wry smile Mary asked “New holes? Did you pick up any new scars while you were out there?”

Cedric promptly pulled back his right sleeve and pointed to a thick red line above his elbow pit. Small black stitches crossed the red line at periodic intervals.

The wry smile on Mary's face quickly turned to shock.

Cedric smiled tenderly. “Don't worry, I still managed to see a medic-mage soon enough to get it healed up pretty well. I just can't lift anything heavy for another week.”

They walked back into the home. Nesma paused for a moment at the entrance to the kitchen and looked back at her husband. “What would you like for dinner tonight?”

With a soft smile Cedric replied “Honey, I'm just so excited to not be eating field rations, anything you cook will make me happy.” He looked down to his daughter. “Or even if Mary wants to make her 'tikka masala' again, nothing could make me happier.”

Cedric paused for a moment. Merideth's face didn't look so happy. With worried eyes she asked “Papa, are they going to send you back out into the war again?”

Cedric gently nodded. “Yes of course, dear, just as soon as my arm is better. I'm too valuable to stay at home.”

Merideth walked up to him and clasped her hands around the loose folds of his shirt. “Papa... I want to help.”

Cedric playfully scoffed. “You want to fight in the war?”

Merideth shook her head. “No papa, I want to help keep you safe.” Her eyes began watering. “Papa, when I thought you died... Oh papa, it was worse than I had imagined! I lost Darren, I can't lose you too!”

Cedric dropped to a knee and wrapped his arms around her. Mary held him tightly. “I'm so sorry, Mary...”

The young girl continued. “But... Since then, I've been thinking... I want to help, Papa.”

Merideth pulled back out of the hug to look her father in the eye. “I'm an engineer! I know how to build things! I can help! I can help the Army's engineers to build things!”

Cedric smiled and stuck his thumb out toward the kitchen. “What, like that water heater?”

Merideth held a stern expression. “How ironic that you pointed to a tank. No; Papa, look at all the new advances being used on the battlefield now! All the new airplanes, machine guns... Have you started using armored battle cars yet? The ones with artillery guns mounted to the top?”

Cedric squinted his eyes with an expression of confusion. The description sounded like...

Merideth continued. “But all these things you're using, they are all rough and imperfect; the first incarnation. People are still figuring out the designs that work best. But I've already seen the final designs. I can help, Papa! I can help build the tools you need to win this war, and to keep you safe!”

Cedric exhaled slowly as he thought about what his daughter was saying. He shook his head. “I don't think I can get you in with the Army's engineers.”

Merideth pouted slightly. “You're an officer; even if you don't have the direct authority, you still know the people who do.”

With a slow breath and a defeated expression, Cedric put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. “Mary, I'm not so sure that I have the clout for that kind of thing anymore. I just lost an entire squadron, and somehow I'm the only survivor. I don't know what kind of a career I'm going to have anymore.”

Merideth looked up with some pain in her eyes, but said nothing.

Cedric stood up and looked over to the kitchen where the small water tank sat by the sink. 'She did build that thing... After all, she is an engineer...'

As Cedric's mind began whirring, the silence was broken by the sound of a brass bell being struck with mechanical precision. Cedric walked over to the telephone nook and lifted the receiver out of its hook. He picked up the telephone and lifted it up to his chest. “Weston residence,” he stated.

A tinny voice resonated in Cedric's ear. “Weston, this is Colonel Rye. We have more that we need to discuss. Come back to my office, on the double.”

Cedric nodded, “Yes sir.”

* * *

When Cedric walked into the room he was surprised to find that the trio had changed. Major Harper was seated in a chair facing the desk, and he promptly stood up when Cedric walked in. Colonel Rye was standing behind his desk speaking to the third person in the room. But the third person was not his secretary, rather it was General Hudson. All three men looked at Weston as he opened the door, and he saluted them nervously.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

The general returned the salute in an almost casual manner. “You're Captain Weston?” He started walking out from behind Rye's desk. He had a clean-shaven face with youthful features. This close up Weston could see the faint crow's feet around his eyes that betrayed his real age. There was a strong charisma to the man.

“I am, sir.”

Hudson pulled the chair that was facing the desk. “Have a seat, Captain. I want to talk to you about this girl that wiped out your squadron.”

Cedric didn't dawdle, but he felt as if he was moving slowly, the weight of his worries bearing down on his limbs. 'I'm done for now. They won't trust me anymore. What does that even leave for me?'

The general pulled out a newspaper he held under his arm and began unfolding it. “This is an Argan newspaper that one of our spies brought us. Tell me, Captain...” He slapped the paper onto the desk in front of Cedric. “...is this her?”

In the center of the paper was a photograph of an Argan soldier, standing stern-faced as an officer bent over profusely to pin a medal on her chest. The face was unmistakable, and even if he could have forgotten it, the stature removed all doubts.

Cedric didn't even realize how wide his mouth had gaped open. “That's her!” he gasped. He read the headline out loud. “...”

“Do you know what that means?” Colonel Rye asked.

Weston offered his best translation. “World's most powerful mage... defeats something... first something.” He put his finger to the text of the article. “Amber...a dark wood was... to decorate? Oh! Not a dark wood, that's her name! Amber Verrivelt was decorated with... I guess that's a medal of some kind. Err... Something about a battle...” Weston looked up at his seniors. “I'm sorry sir, I thought my Argish was better than this, but I guess reading a newspaper is different than a textbook.”

Hudson nodded. “It's quite alright, Captain, I have dedicated linguists who have already translated this for me. That Verrivelt girl is quite the figure.”

Weston's eyes were drawn to a number printed in the text; it stood out boldly among the foreign concoction of letters. “A hundred and fourteen? What's this about? That's certainly not the number of kills she made...”

Hudson looked down at the paper. “That's her power level. Or at least that's what they are claiming. It's a bit far-fetched, but you saw her in action, you tell me. Are they bolstering that for propaganda purposes? Or is she the real deal?”

Weston stared off into space for a moment as he recalled the battle. Bivin's words echoed in his memory. “Shit, she's fast! I can't cut her off from here! Damn, how's she so fast?”

“She's probably got an insane power level,” Ward said, “I can't see why they'd make her a soldier otherwise.”

“She was fast...” Weston said softly. “And she made impeccable decoys...” How many did she make at once? He clearly saw two... But he never saw her until it was too late, so were there... three at once? “Do we know what kind of power level they need for their flight packs?”

Harper chimed in. “65 over 50, I'm pretty sure. Unless they have newer packs now.”

Weston thought carefully. At last he looked up at the general and stated “Sir, while I would suspect that the newspaper has exaggerated its claims, it is my humble opinion that we still take that claim seriously. Bolstered number or not, I suspect she really is the most powerful mage alive.”

Hudson nodded slowly. “Very well Captain, we will take note of that 'humble opinion.'” He picked up the newspaper again and looked at it. “Honestly, I've been suspicious of this whole thing ever since we got this paper. I'm quite pleased to find that we have a survivor who can tell our side of the story.” He began folding the paper back up. “Getting back home when you were behind enemy lines must be quite a tale, too.” He looked back up at Weston. “Actually, I wouldn't mind hearing that tale firsthand. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight, while you regale me with your adventure?”

Weston politely smiled and nodded gently. “I would be honored, sir! I'll just need to call home real quick to let my wife know to not expect me.”

The general was quick on his reply. “Why not invite her over as well?”

“Sir?”

“Unless you don't want to share your story with her? Too violent for one so delicate, perhaps? Otherwise I'm sure she would want to hear about it too.”

“No sir, that's quite alright. I haven't had the opportunity to tell my wife nor my daughter.”

“Daughter? How old is she?”

“Eight, sir. Err, sorry, she's nine now.”

“If she is well-behaved you may bring her as well. I'll leave that to your judgment. I shouldn't want to deprive you of any time spent with your family.”

Weston nodded his head as if it were a small bow. “Thank you sir!”

* * *

Cedric led his wife and his daughter into the dining room of the officer's mess. The three officers were already waiting in the room; Major Harper was sitting in the corner with his spectacles fixed on a book while Hudson and Rye were seated casually at the corner of the table.

The general stood up with a welcoming grin. “Ah, there he is! The man of the hour!” He took a few steps over and looked over at the women accompanying the captain. His glanced darted between the two for a moment. “So this is your wife?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cedric nervously held his breath for a moment. How was the general going to react to his dark-skinned wife? Would it be a joke about Weston 'firing his gun' in Kumer? Maybe it would start with just some reasonable confirmations about her origin before devolving into comments on Weston's 'love of chocolate;' it had been a while since he had heard that one. Perhaps he would get lucky with a mere disapproving glare. Or perhaps Hudson would rescind his offer for dinner.

The general took Nesma's hand and began shaking it. “So sorry we've been keeping your husband from you, but he has been very valuable to this war.” He motioned to the table. “Come, sit down; we've got a nice meal prepared.”

Nesma looked over to Cedric. With a comforting look in her eyes she nodded at him almost imperceptibly.

The dinner was pork cutlets served with a creamy garlic sauce, along with scalloped potatoes and some steamed vegetables. Wine was also served to the adults, but only in small portions just to accent the flavor of the meal. A glass of lemonade was provided for Merideth, although it was prepared merely from a packet of dried powder swiped from the common mess.

Being the main object of everyone's attention, Captain Weston began telling his story before the plates had arrived, starting with his triumphant defeat of a group of eight mages of the Argus Empire. In the informal setting, Cedric added more emotion and flavor into his tale than he had in his debriefing. The story had continued past when most had finished eating.

“And then, after I finished calling back here, I thought, if the phone line connects to the base, perhaps I could call my home as well? So I spoke with the lieutenant, I forget his name, and he talks with the operator to see if it can be done. But he says that since it's a personal call, I have to pay the fee. Twenty-five livres, if you can believe it.”

“How much is that in crowns?” General Hudson asked.

Major Harper chimed in. “One crown is about seven livres, so it's around three crowns, fifty shillings.” The man was a walking encyclopedia.

Colonel Rye spoke up, “For a telephone call? Are you sure he wasn't trying to scam you?”

“I don't really want to speak poorly of the man,” Cedric continued, “it's a fair thing, for a personal call. And I'm not sure, but I think he had to convince the pub's owner to accept my money, since all I had on me were crowns.”

“Bah!” the general huffed. “They should be honored to take our money! That was in Anverpa, wasn't it? A hundred and fifty years ago, that land was Norlandy! Why shouldn't they take money graced with the face of one of their own kings!”

Rye and Weston offered their polite chuckles.

Harper politely interjected. “Actually the only note with someone from the Old United Kingdom is the one-hundred crown bill, and I should hope that he wasn't trying to pay for the call with one of those.”

Weston found the major's knowledge to be quite welcome today; his random insight was one of the few moments he got to take another bite. With all the talking he was doing, he was the only one with food still on his plate.

“Ze call came just after he came to our door,” Nesma said, motioning toward Colonel Rye.

General Hudson's eyes piqued. “Oh, what's this about?”

Rye lifted his head slightly. “Oh! Well, it had been ten days since we heard from him, so we were officially marking him as MIA, presumed dead.” Rye made little gestures with his hands while still keeping them held together with his elbows on the table. “Given his rank and how close-by his apartment is, I thought I would deliver the news personally. And as she said, he called the same moment I was there; it was quite the coincidence.”

Rye looked over to the Westons. “I never met your wife before; I never knew you had a love for Kumerian chocolate.” A wry smile appeared underneath his mustache.

'And there it is.' Cedric decided that the best response was to put his last piece of potato in his mouth. Silence hung in the air across the table while he chewed. He wondered if Harper would chime in about how they don't have chocolates in Kumer because it's too hot, but a quick glance in his direction showed an uncomfortable face; even Harper wasn't going to say anything.

When he had swallowed, he finished his tale. “After that, there's not much to tell. I had to wait for the next boat coming back this way, and then I got back here this morning.”

“How was ze boat ride?” Nesma asked.

“Fine, mostly boring I guess. I didn't have anything to do or anyone to talk with.”

There was a momentary pause in the conversation. Merideth spoke up, “Excuse me, General Hudson?”

The general turned to face the child with a soft smile. “What is it, little lady?”

Merideth replied “I had an idea I was hoping I could discuss with you. I was reading about the war, and I was thinking of ways we could break the stalemate going on in the trenches.”

“Oh, and what might that be?” The general remarked in a polite but teasing manner.

There was an unnoticed mature glint behind Merideth's eyes. “I think the best solution is to develop an armored vehicle.”

Hudson lifted his glass. “An armored vehicle, you say? Sounds like a good idea.” He took the final sip of his wine.

Merideth could only hide part of her smile. “The trick is that you don't want to use conventional wheels; they would get stuck too easily in the mud with the weight of the armor. But if instead you had a thick track that rolled around a series of wheels, it could easily travel over any terrain; it could even roll right over trenches to break enemy lines, if you just angled the front tracks properly. Put a turret on the top with a large gun, and you'd have a very formidable weapon.”

The senior officers looked at the girl intently. Hudson started a reply. “That sounds like quite the...”

She didn't wait for permission to continue. “Of course the weight of the armor is a tremendous concern. However if you angled the sides, you would effectively increase thickness without increasing the overall weight, as then direct fire would have to penetrate a greater distance. Additionally it would make it more immune to small-arms fire by deflecting the bullets.”

“That's quite the...”

Merideth pulled out a paper she was hiding in her dress and quickly slapped it on the table, unfolding it in the same motion. “Now, how you arrange the internal components is quite important. The tighter you can pack everything, the smaller and lighter you can make it, so you want the smallest crew you can manage. You'd need the ammunition to be stored in a manner to prevent it from igniting. If a shot gets through, you don't want stray flak setting off the shells. Storing them in mineral oil should help with that.”

The senior officers looked at her drawing with perplexed expressions. Hudson looked back at the child, and then to the captain.

Cedric's eyes locked with the general's, his face fumbling with a sheepish expression. “My daughter... she's very smart. Gifted, you could say.”

The general raised an eyebrow. “Does she attend school at Spring Hill Academy?”

The child answered the question herself. “Oh no, I only went there for a couple weeks. Then I got bored so I took the graduation exam. I only failed the history portion.”

The general looked over at the girl. The claim seemed just as dubious as the ones about the Darkwood child. Yet those had turned out to be true.

She spoke again, now in a softer and gentler tone. “I just really want to build things. And, well, I really would hope I could build things to help keep my Papa safe in the war...”

“You don't say...” The general stared silently at the child for a moment, pondering deeply.

* * *

Amber stood in the field in front of the Army's offices along with a small handful of other soldiers she had never met. A major directed them on where to stand and had them line up; Amber stood furthest on the end. They were just a stones-throw away from the group of reporters, huddled together while the photographers double-checked their equipment. Another crowd of civilians were gathered just adjacent to them, waving at soldiers who only nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

Amber looked up at the officer. “Excuse me, Major?”

The major looked down to her. “Yes?”

“I've never done this before, just what exactly is the procedure?”

“Well it's nothing that special; when he calls your name you walk up to him, he gives you the medal, you salute, and then come back here and take your place in line. When that's all done, he'll say a few more words and then dismiss everyone.”

“Is there any special custom? Like am I supposed to take the medal with one hand while I shake his hand with the other?” she asked. 'That's how we did it back in the Boy Scouts.'

The major's face grew slightly illuminated. “Oh, no he won't hand you the medal, he'll pin it to your chest.”

“Oh,” Amber stated with a slightly defeated tone. “So then... Am I supposed to salute while he does that, or...?”

“Just salute when he salutes.” A moment later a casual smile graced the officer's face. “Just take it easy; there's really no way to screw this up.” He motioned his head toward the group of civilians. “You just want to look good in front of your parents?”

Amber blinked. “No, sir, my parents are both dead.”

The major tried to hold back the look of shock on his face, but he was not stoic enough to hide it all. “Oh, uh...” He managed to catch himself. “Well, I'm sure they are watching you from heaven.”

Amber politely nodded. 'What Heaven?'

A moment later an elderly man with four stars on each of his shoulders walked out, followed by an aid carrying a black wooden box that was soon revealed to have a red velvet interior.

As Amber watched the other soldiers walk up to the general, particular members of the audience clapping as they did, she couldn't help but think about what it might be like if there was someone in that crowd who came to see her.

...What if Odessa were here to see it?

She tried to imagine Odessa in the crowd. She pictured her dressed for this world in a modest dress with a floral pattern, and even one of the stylish new flapper hats, with her long black hair flowing from underneath it, graced with a streak of silver on either side. Amber decided that her dress had pockets, just because she knew Odessa would like that. Her rich Indian skin made her stand out against this crowd. Between just the two of them, she'd be the taller one now....

Amber tried to imagine her smiling and waving, but... Amber looked at her hands for a moment; she thought she saw dried blood splattered on her hand, but it was only her freckles. 'Odessa? No, I couldn't have her see me now... Not after what I've done...'

The old general called Amber's name and she stepped forward. The man reached into the finely crafted box and pulled out the piece of metal affixed to some ribbon. He gave his short statement about 'in recognition of' and 'serving with honor' and all that pomp, and then leaned over profusely to reach Amber's chest. He placed the medal with hands slightly shaking with early-stage Parkinson's and Amber heard the sound of a camera's shutter click. It was easy to hear as only a couple people in the crowd were politely applauding.

The remainder of the ceremony followed as the major had described.

When the ceremony was officially concluded and the soldiers began scattering into the crowd, Amber discovered that there were indeed people who had come to see her: the reporters.

“Excuse me, Miss Darkwood?” came the voice of the one fastest on his feet. “August Sheffel, Westelt Post; could I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Miss Darkwood, what is it like knowing that you are the most powerful mage in the world, with a rating of a hundred and fourteen?”

'It's like having a hundred-thousand watts of 'I-don't-give-a-crap' surging through my pants every day.' “I'm just humbled at the chance to be able to use that power to serve my country.”

“What made you decide to join the military?”

'Bitches love a man in uniform.' “I wanted to make sure this nation stays a good and safe place where a man can raise a family without the heel of oppression on his neck.”

“What are your plans for the future?”

'War!' “I'm starting officer training tomorrow. Once I'm a lieutenant, it's back to the frontlines to protect more Argan lives.”

“Ah, I mean, what are your plans for after the war?”

'MORE WAR!' “Right now I just want to focus on the task at hand. There will be plenty of time to think about the future when it is safe to do so.”

A photographer was about to take a picture. Amber quickly faced the camera and threw up her hand with her fingers raised in a V. She could hear Tony Stark's voice in her head: “Yeah, peace, I love peace. I'd be out of a job with peace.” The camera clicked and then its operator began twisting the knob on the side.

Eventually the reporters had their fill and then moved on. As they walked away Amber found the field to be much more barren. The crowd was gone, as were the other soldiers. She spied a couple of them still visible in the distance, walking away with the people who had come to see them. Amber was left alone.

She tried to imagine Odessa again, standing there, waiting for her. Perhaps Darren's parents could join this imagined gathering. Sara could be there too, and she looked the least out-of-place since she was actually part of this world. Darren's brothers would be there of course, and some of his friends, Elliot, Garret, Daniel... They could all stand there, as if Darren would now recognize their faces from the straw-stuffed and tin-clad characters he had traveled with in his adventure in this magical land...

Perhaps Garret would have been the first one to approach him, give a hearty handshake, and then ask if Amber wanted to play the campaign he had cooked up. Elliot might simply offer to go out for some dinner. His simple conversation would probably be the most welcome of the group; he'd be the perfect one to talk to while enjoying a burger and milkshake. No wait, those haven't been invented yet. Ah well.

Daniel... what would he say about this award ceremony? She could imagine him speaking in a playfully-insulting tone since this wasn't the US Army, let alone the Marines. But he would still carry some respect, and maybe... maybe even understanding about the mixed feelings Amber was carrying...

His mind's eye went back to Odessa. He tried to envision her standing there, waiting. Amber took a few steps forward to where he imagined her standing. But what could she say to her? Amber could only envision her staring with trembling eyes...

Her husband was gone now; he wasn't the same man anymore. And he was not referring to the young girl body.

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