“Which direction you choose matters little. The important thing to know is you can only look forward.” B. E. S.

They had agreed to meet at the city garage. Sam wandered the city aimlessly for an hour. Then, he remembered Raul. The boy was staying in the northern suburban sprawl. It would be a long walk in the crisp morning breeze and sure to clear his mind. Besh had gone above and beyond to help him, friendship like that was rare. His ship, now safe in military impound, would be there when he returned to her. He was resigned to the loss of his ship, but he missed her. She was not the biggest, newest, or fastest ship in service to the King, but her padding was ample and her fit snug.

Besh had readied himself for one final meeting with the King. His trousers were loose and his suspenders secure. He wore a warm vest under which was hidden his multicolored bag. He carried a backpack on one shoulder in a cavalier manner as he approached the throne room. The door stood open and the guards standing on either side gave him no more than a perfunctory assessment as he passed through. Besh was impressed with the scale and decor of the room. The high ceiling and arches dizzied him.

As he walked down the royal red carpet, he noted the stained-glass windows to his left. They would have glowed magnificently with reflected sunlight from the Grand Mountain Range, but that would come later in the day. In the middle seat of a row of white chairs beneath the expansive windows sat Beasley. He was slumped morosely forward, with forearms on knees, looking at the travel bag by his feet. Besh thought it strange but turned his attention to his friend. David stepped from the office space behind the gilded, lion-clawed throne and hailed him.

“Ah! Besh,” he said, waving him in. “Come.”

Besh followed him behind the throne into an area of desks, lights, and cabinets. An elderly clerk sat among the cabinets toward the back. His desk light was dim, and he adjusted his glasses at the end of his nose while pausing to look up from his work monitor. At a desk piled with official papers stood the King and the Queen sat beneath him in an ornate chair. They were casually dressed as if only visiting briefly.

Elisabeth stood and embraced Besh, leaving a kiss on his cheek. She whispered in his ear, “I hope breakfast was to your liking.”

Patting his paunch, Besh replied, “I had to loosen the belt.”

Beaming, David called, “Look here.” He rustled among the papers, found what he sought, and held it out for Besh to take. He said, “This authorization will carry you through my kingdom. Don’t lose it. Anything you need, this will provide.”

Besh took the rolled paper noting the royal seal on the tape that held it fast. A small dragon coiled around a writing quill. “I shall guard it at all cost.”

David said, “I am sending Beasley with you. He is familiar with our son and may be of use.” He leaned close and whispered, “I give you a boy. I expect a grown man on your return.”

Elisabeth took Besh by one arm and led him around the throne. She said with cheery bravado, “We expect to hear from you soon.”

Well, that went well, thought Besh. He stood outside the sealed throne room adjusting the straps on his backpack. Beasley stood beside him holding his travel bag. The guards stood silently behind them. Maids hurried down the hall, pressed sheets in their arms. The day was off to a good start and Besh felt he was ready for whatever lay ahead of him. Yet, Beasley seemed downcast.

Besh asked, “What’s on your mind, young man? You seem sort of glum.”

Beasley looked up with sad eyes. “I have failed my King,” he said. “I am cast out of the palace in ignominy and disgrace.”

“Oh, stop,” Besh replied. “If anything, you’ve been honored. You are Albert’s friend. The King has placed the well-being of his son in your hands. I see a promotion upon your return.”

“Really,” asked Beasley, lifting his head? “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” answered Besh. “I was there. Remember? Now. What say we rescue a Prince?”

Reaching the city garage from the Palace took them an hour. They had walked south along the broad Boulevard of Knights and, as the edifice of its warehouse came into view, they could see the large figure of Captain Sam Barker standing by a corner bench, dressed in casual brown slacks and a white long sleeve shirt. With a wheeze, Besh fell into the wooden bench beside Raul. He held up a finger as he caught his breath before addressing his band of not-so-merry men.

“Made it,” he said at last.

Sam asked with a nod toward Beasley, “What’s this?”

“Oh, well,” replied Besh. “The King has asked the friend of Prince Albert to assist us in our quest.” He turned to Raul with a smile and said, “It’s good to see you again, Raul. How are you this fine mid-morning?”

Raul returned the smile and answered, “Oh, I’m fine, sir. Muy bueno.”

Sam said, “Raul doesn’t have his own place here.”

Raul said, “I stay with my aunt but my uncle never came home last night. Have you met my uncle? He is the King’s Chef.”

Besh answered with a short laugh, “Have I met him? Your uncle and I set foot on this world practically hand-in-hand. Oh, yeah, we go all the way back.”

Beasley asked, “What now?”

Sam answered, “Now, we go inside and get some transport.”

They cruised the coastal highway at a decent clip, south toward Port Arthur. Besh and Sam sat in the forward bubble of a Tread Boy while Beasley and Raul made due in the rear storage compartment. As the boys squeezed together in the opened compartment, holding on with white knuckles, Sam whistled a happy tune and Besh watched fields of corn and wheat go by. The farms that nestled on the slopes sported fall colors; the seaward fields of grass and shrub held fat sheep and the occasional donkey.

“Just out of curiosity,” Besh turned to Sam and asked with a smile, “why did we not choose the Air Skid?”

Caressing the padded steering handles, Sam replied with a broad grin and a quick side-glance, “We’re just as seated as if we had. The ride is smooth and the speed is about the same, don’t you think?” He turned and looked; Besh was not buying it. He said with a laugh, “Oh, come on. I always wanted to try one of these. And, the price was right.”

Besh answered, “I’m happy that you’re happy. I’m just worried the boys might fall off the back.”

“Builds character,” replied the Captain.

The miles flew by in a blur of green pines and brown fields. Besh settled into the long sojourn content to count the odd sheep. At times, farmers and their children looked up in amazement. They shielded their eyes from the sun and pointed. Besh adjusted his backpack between his legs and reclined the seatback. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the comfort. He felt himself drifting pleasantly when the Captain’s deep voice brought him upright in alarm.

“Damn,” said the Captain in a booming baritone. He worried the scar in his right eyebrow as Besh looked his way. “I miss my pipe.”

“Oh,” asked Besh? “You smoke?”

“In the long haul,” replied Sam. “Now would be a perfect time.”

Besh noted the evening shadows and said, “Perhaps we can find one at a shop.”

Sam answered, “Don’t think there is anything until Port Arthur. Unless we see an inn, we’ll be camping out.”

“I guess it’s a good thing,” said Besh, stretching his arms between his knees for lack of room, “I borrowed Rico’s tent. Perhaps you should go ahead and pick a spot.”

Backed into the woods, facing south, the Tread Boy finally sat on its haunches, engine idle. With the bubble popped back and steps extended, Besh, with bag in hand, made his way to the ground, thankful for not falling from the narrow steps. The Captain stood and stretched while Besh walked behind the parked vehicle to check on the boys. Beasley sat on the lowered storage door while Raul stood between the folded machine legs stretching.

“Chingaos,” Raul complained! “My butt hurts.”

Sam walked around the side of the Tread Boy and said, “No whining.” Then he snapped, “Beasley.”

The young man called down, “Yes, Captain.”

“Come down and help Raul find firewood.” Sam spoke while he cleared an area with his boot.

Besh said, while Beasley dangled awkwardly from the storage door, “Well, I’m going to be a bear in the woods. I advise all to stay clear.”

Setting up for camp was a tedious chore for two young men as they searched among deciduous trees for dry wood. Raul carried three medium-sized branches in his left arm while Beasley followed, kicking morosely at the dry shrubs. The sun was setting over the mountains, casting long shadows toward the sea. A gentle breeze blew from the south, occasionally stirring brown and yellow leaves. Sam walked past them to a small dead tree, took hold, and pushed it over with a loud snap.

He called to the youths behind him, “We’re going to need a lot of wood, boys. Come and help.”

Besh stopped to tuck in the corner of his shirt and check his suspenders. From his vantage on the hill, Besh could see Sam, Raul, and Beasley pulling the limbs from a toppled dead tree. They seemed like small industrious ants. Then, something caught his eye. He saw masked men sneaking through the trees toward his party. He quickly hid his pack in a shrub, then removed his multicolored bag and placed it inside. He needed to find one item before he headed down.

“Sir,” prompted Beasley.

Sam was furiously twisting a limb back and forth. “What,” he snapped.

“We have company,” Raul informed the Captain.

Sam stopped and turned. Three masked men pointed illegal pig blasters at them. Raul and Beasley were backed against an oak, hands in the air, covered by two men whose weight showed through ill-fitting clothes. The black masks that covered their heads entire, bore three white vertical stripes.

The third man, taller and stronger than his companions, stepped toward Sam and brandished his weapon. His voice was deep and raspy as he commanded confidently, “Hands up, you.”

Hands raised, Sam and the boys marched back to the Tread Boy at the constant prodding of their assailants. Sam cast his gaze here and there but no opportunity availed him by which he might turn the tables. For now, he thought, best to play along. The man with the gravelly voice called them to a halt and walked past them to assess the shiny new Tread Boy.

He whistled, and crowed, “Now, here’s the cup! Whatcha say, boys?”

One of the masked men behind Sam returned, “You was right, boss.”

The leader of the brigands said, turning, “Take it down the road.”

As the lackey sprinted to the Tread Boy, Besh walked around from the back of it calling, “Captain? Is that you?”

Surprised, the sprinter stumbled back. The boss jumped forward and snapped his gun to the ready. “Hold,” he commanded!

Besh threw his hands in the air and stopped in his tracks. The masked leader waved his pig blaster through the air, saying, “You. Over there with your friends.”

Besh joined his friends while the Tread Boy was fired up. The bubble closed and the machine lumbered haltingly south beneath the uncertain hand of the bandit. The leader, keeping his gun on the party, waited while the third bandit searched their pockets. It was nearly dark when scant booty was displayed to the leader. He snorted in disgust. Then he stepped suddenly forward and struck the Captain with his gun. Sam fell hard.

In his gravelly voice, the leader said, “Remember the mask. We are the Badgers.”

Sam rolled to an elbow, wiped blood from his lip, and spat. “More like skunks,” he shot back.

The leader stood over the Captain, aiming the pig blaster at Sam’s head. He thumbed back the safety so that the gun whined. It was charged and ready to fire. One shot would put a large nasty hole in Sam’s head. It was a long tense moment for Besh, Raul, and Beasley, but Sam did not flinch. The leader pulled his gun up and back. He laughed.

“Even the skunks fear us Badgers,” he said. Lowering his gun, he thumbed the safety forward and nodded to his subordinate. They turned and ran into the night.

Sam spat out his anger, startling Besh. “Damn! I’m gonna find that weasel and crush his pointy little head!”

Besh proffered a hand and helped the Captain to his feet when a loud thud from behind had them spinning on their heels. Beasley lay passed out on the hard earth while Raul stood nearby, his hands clasped above his head in consternation.

Besh commented, “And, then, there’s that.”

Sam snarled an angry command to his crewman, “Don’t just stand there; bring the firewood.”

Massaging his face while Raul walked into the darkness, Sam turned and strode angrily to the spot he had cleared. He crouched before it and Besh joined him, standing to his side.

Sam complained, “Something else the King can hold against me.”

Besh knelt beside Sam, at great expense, and called him away from his dour brooding. “Sam,” he said, gaining his attention. “I placed a tracker on the back of the Tread Boy.”

“You did what?” Sam was surprised.

“I was coming back when I saw them sneaking up on you.” Besh could take the kneeling no longer. He sat and continued, “There was little else I could do but, at least, I could do that.”

Sam said, smiling, “You certainly come well-prepared.”

“Now,” said Besh, with a grin, “If I can remember where I hid my backpack, we’ll set up the tent.”

The morning air was brisk but not cold. They had been on foot for an hour, tracking their stolen ride, and the morning fog was beginning to lift. To the east, a warm orange light lit the bellies of small cirrocumulus clouds. Besh walked quietly beside Sam whose brooding anger had returned with the light. Raul and Beasley walked ahead side by side. Among the autumn trees, small birds, flitting from branch to branch, warbled their melodious challenges like crystal shards falling together.

Raul, with arms wrapped around himself, complained, “I can’t believe what nasty gas you have!”

Beasley, his travel bag slung over his right shoulder, replied, “I said I’m sorry. What do you expect? Instead of life in the Palace, fulfilling my purpose, I’m out on the road getting robbed. I get nervous. Gas happens.”

“A la madre la madre,” Raul answered. “Tents need windows.”