“Empowerment is a right. You'll find it on page fourteen of the rule book.” Holly.

Chic looked from her open window across the sprawling city of Shravner. Pidgies flew from rooftops while below, in the markets, women hurried about their daily chores, pushing ahead of them reluctant but docile males. The swimming colors of uniforms teased the eye and were in stark contrast to the Ocher walls and black rooftops.

A wind blew through the window as Holly opened the door. Chic turned to her sister, tugging at the pale green uniform jacket with broad black lapels. Holly marched across the room, looked into Chic's eyes, and smoothed the fabric of Chic's jacket. There was no smile on Holly's face, rather, the expression was one of quiet reflection.

“Are you ready?” asked Holly.

Chic answered, “Why must I wear a uniform?”

Holly pressed the black lapels on Chic's jacket. She said, “To live in the Steward's Compound, you must wear a Steward's uniform.”

Chic asked, “And you run this place?”

“Well, yes,” answered Holly, smiling. “I am the Grand Stewardess. Our work is light but necessary. We serve the Queen and the Generals.  You can stay with me until I find you a room.” Holly linked her arm with Chic's. “Come,” she said. “I'll show you around.”

Besh and Sposh sat on the Drafter's roof. The valley was broad, flat, and green. Besh shifted his weight to find the sweet spot. Sposh raised his ale in a merry salute before chugging half of it. He followed with a sated sigh. Besh raised his pale, the drink was cool and tart. 

Besh said, “You have a fine city.”

Sposh raised his mug and cheered, “To Brohm.”

Besh followed suit. “To Brohm.”

Sposh stepped toward the valley and toasted it in silent reverence. Mug still raised, he turned to Besh with a tipsy expression and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

“To the west are the training grounds and tarmacs.” Sposh sipped, sighed, and raised his mug to the west.

“Fond memories?” asked Besh.

Nodding, Sposh answered, “Well, except for the chump work. And all the marching. Hours and hours of mindless marching.”

Besh said, “Tell me about the Regret.”

Sposh sat and stared into his ale. “I don't know much. You have to go past the muff nut farms, the Lazy Dalop, and the northern fortifications. Then, you have to go up into the hills.”

Besh asked, “And then you're there?”

Sposh answered, “No. Then, you have to cross through the wild lands. If you're lucky enough to survive the Woeverns and the Bangers, you'll reach the higher hills. I heard it's a place of abandoned ruins.”

Besh sipped from his pale and prompted, “And then you're there.”

Sposh emptied his mug before he answered. “No. Then, you have to cross the Craggy Pass and go up into the mountains on the east. I'm told there are tunnels of black glass and sharp spires taller than a Terry. That's the Regret.”

Women trained by a wall, wielding spears and swords. Chic looked at the women training by the wall and pointed. “I thought you were stewards,” said Chic. “Do stewards use swords?”

“Of course,” answered Holly. “We are part of the military. Now, over here is the kitchen. We'll get you fed, and I'll find you a copy of the rules.”

Bells were sounding. Sposh jumped from his bench to look down into the street. Dalops, Polops, and Widgins ran in frantic circles seeking their place in the sudden emergency. Merchants packed hurriedly, closing their booths while permanent establishments closed and locked their doors.

Besh asked, “What is it?”

Sposh turned to Besh with wide eyes, stammering, “It's a call to arms.”

A preponderance of armed soldiers filled the streets as Besh and Sposh carved a difficult path to the Papal compound. Soldiers marched and gruff Sergeants barked orders. Sposh gained entrance and Besh followed. Frantic and clipped conversations trailed dashing Dalops and winded Widgins. The throne room was a pandemonium of panicked Polops.

The Queen's kitchen was immense. Chic had never seen the like. Holly pulled her by the arm, giving her little time to stop and stare. They marched past dozens of ovens, and countless cooks at their workstations. The heady smell of roasting meat was overpowering.

Holly said, “The serving rooms are through this door.”

A voice preceded a running steward. She skidded to a stop, breathless. “Grand Stewardess!” she called. “Grand Stewardess! The Queen needs you.”

Holly dropped Chic's arm and followed the messenger at a run. Chic ran after her sister, not wishing to be lost on her first day. She followed with difficulty but kept Holly in her sight. Through doors on the right and the left, she followed. Up and down long flights of stairs she ran panting. She felt a sense of alarm at the messenger's report. 

With the tall alien in tow, Sposh ran through the excited crowd calling, “Where's the Pope?”

The old Widgin pointed, Besh and Sposh wrangled a path through uncertain lackeys and entered the Pope's away room. Scared newbies were attempting to dress the corpulent Pontiff. Sposh approached his cousin. Alabow snatched his helmet from trembling hands.

“Give me that!” commanded the Pope. “Now, scram! Ah, Cuz! What a day. Hurry and put your armor on. We march on Shashr. I'm so excited.”

“I'm just a throne guard,” said Sposh.

The Pope pressed his helmet over his head, the phallic adornment prominent over the Pope's face, and smiled. “Today,” said Alabow, “You're a commander of twenty. I need everyone. Well, all but the Terry. Now hurry. Go to the fitters.”

As Sposh made a path to the fitters through crowded streets, Besh followed quietly. Voices around them were shrill, every individual seemed in his own world of concern.

They stopped at a line to the fitter's window. A wizened old Widgin brightened as Sposh stepped up. “Oh. Hi, Sposh,” said the elder. He slapped folded armor on the counter and placed a helmet on top. “Standard issue. One size fits all. Nothing for the Terry.”

Sposh turned away, his arms full, his head lowered in shame. Besh carried the helmet and as he held it before him, Besh asked, “So, everyone has to wear this thing?”

Sposh answered sadly, “It's the Pope's new design. It's meant to intimidate the female ranks.”

Besh laughed. Holding the shiny brass helmet aloft, Besh said, “I christen thee Chubmet.” He laughed again with a merry shake of his head. “But, maybe,” he said to Sposh, “they'll be so busy laughing, you can just walk right up and capture the flag.”

Chic caught up to her sister in a large and busy room. Attendants ran helter skelter. Chic pushed through the mob to find the Queen addressing Holly while junior stewards dressed her in battle armor. The brass armor made the Queen look twice her size. The tight-fitting helmet bore a vulvic adornment that made Chic immediately uncomfortable.

The Queen spoke in clipped sentences; a fire in her eyes. “Gather your own. Take the usual position. Armor up. Weapon up. By the gods, they'll know the edge today.” She slowed and put both hands on Holly's shoulders in a gesture of familiarity. “We'll be lining up in the flats. I'm counting on you, Holly. There's a covered cage in my courtyard. Do not look inside. Just have it placed on a cart and brought to your camp.”

Holly turned to Chic, took her by the arm, and said, “We must hurry.”

It was all so hurried and confusing. Chic sat in a coach with her sister. The brass armor was heavy. The weapons between them gave little room for movement, and the rule book in her lap was a tome like no other. Chic never knew a book could be so heavy. The insignia over her breast drew her attention, and her fingers wandered idly over its surface. It was an image of a pair of scissors, and everyone knew what that meant. 

“Once we arrive,” said Holly, “it's hurry up and wait. Tents first. Then, stores. After that, there'll be plenty time for you to read the rules.”

“It's so heavy,” Chic complained.

Holly turned to straighten Chic's helmet. “Keep your chin strap tight. The new helmet is our badge of honor.”

“Don't you think it's rude?” asked Chic.

Holly answered, “Of course not. The enemy will take one look and tremble in their boots. They'll know we mean business.”

Holly stretched out her legs as the coach rocked, and crossed her feet atop her tent. “You and I,” said Holly, “won't see a lot of action.  At most, we might lend a hand to the medics.”

Chic asked, “Will there be a lot of blood?”

Holly answered, grinning, “We'll use the catapults first. Thin their ranks.”

Chic lowered her face and sighed deeply. “I hope Sposh is not there. I miss him.”

Holly folded her arms, closed her eyes, and snorted derisively. Chic, with idle hands, opened the rule book to page fourteen. It was at the top of the page; Empowerment is a right. The bold print left little doubt. Males and females would fight, but Chic feared there would be no winner.  She recalled when Sposh repaired the front door, and hit his thumb with the hammer. His heart was good, but he was a clumsy Dalop. If he couldn't wield a hammer, how was he to wield a sword?

Sposh stood before Besh, armored and downcast. Besh tried not to laugh but failed. He managed to say, “It's not so bad. I mean, you sort of stand out, but in a line-up, no one will notice.”

Sposh complained in a sad voice, “Easy for you to say. What if Chic sees me in this? What will I say?”

The troops had already advanced along the paved highway on approach to the flats between Shahshr and Brohm. The Pope and his Generals rode comfortably after the infantry while catapults lumbered behind. Stragglers like Sposh ran past, adjusting helmets and fumbling spears. Sposh sighed deeply and followed.

Besh said, “I don't think any of this will make a favorable impression on the Consortium. Speaking of which, I wonder where Faith got off to?”

On the Consortium Spearhead, the Captain's Steward walked briskly down the hall to The Great Room. In his hand was a missive from the Tappish Emissaries. The message felt ominously important. The Steward felt a brownie point coming on.

Captain Howard looked up from his desk as his Steward stepped in. Standing at attention, The Steward extended an arm. In his hand was a piece of gray paper. The Steward's eyes shone in expectation of praise.

The Steward said smartly, “A message from Shahshian Emissaries, sir.”

Howard took the note and waited. The Steward lowered his hand and stood at attention. Howard sighed a practiced sigh and said, “That will be all.”

“Sir!” said the Steward, spinning sharply to leave.

Unfolding the single sheet, Howard read aloud to himself.

From the Office of the Queen, Uda Con, Shravner of Shahshr,

Be it known to Consortium leadership that the negotiator, Faith, is in the hands of the Shahshian military, her release to be secured by all Terry tech awarded to Shahshr, and none given to the witless Pope of Brohm. Plans have moved forward, and the great Queendom of Shahshr stands ready to defeat the limp king and his minions. With tech awards given to Shashr, the great Queen, Uda Con promises return of negotiator with survivors of Brohm thrown in as free labor on Terry worlds.

Sincerely, Uda Con.

Marken peered past the bars of his cell door. He was alone, and there was no guard. It was the perfect time. Faith was alone in a world of fur and prominent incisors; she needed him. Marken removed his left shoe and dislodged a small wire from the insole. Stealing a glance through the bars, Marken worked the wire into the keyhole. If anyone could pick a mechanical lock, that person would be an engineer.

The lock opened, and Marken slipped through the door, sealing it quietly.  Without hesitation, Marken opened the external hatch, slid through, and closed it. The world was before him, and Faith was in need. His heart and his legs pumping, Marken ran at top speed for the city and his love.

Captain Howard sat at his desk in The Great Room, his dog-eared book of protocols opened before him. His Steward knocked at the hatch and rushed in, a flustered look on his lean and youthful face. “Sir!” said the young Steward. “The engineer has escaped.”

Howard sat back. “Forget that loser,” said the Captain. “We're leaving. Go prepare.”

With a practiced “Aye, Captain!” the Steward made a hasty exit.

The Captain opened a ship-wide channel. He checked the open book before him, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Attention crew. As per regulation, and in accordance with protocol 54-D concerning hostile planets, prepare for departure. Let it be known that the Consortium negotiator, Faith Armature, has been kidnapped by hostile aliens. It is also known that Chief Engineer Marken Pierce has jumped ship. Lift-off is at 0800. That is all.”

Lagging and growing tired of the long march, Besh and Sposh sat on an old stone wall. The highway had turned from pavement to gravel, the afternoon sun was beating down, and the shade of a dapple tree was a welcome relief. Behind them was an overgrown vegetable garden, and a small cottage that had seen better days. The Pope's army was not seen, only a raised dust on the southern horizon.

Three Shahshian Emissaries dressed in bright blue and black walked south on the dirt boulevard east of the run-down cottage. Sposh stood suddenly and waved his arms vigorously, calling, “Over here! We have shade!”

The Emissaries approached, and one called, “Are you deserters?”

Sposh answered, “No. We couldn't keep up. Come. Share our shade and rest your feet. Do you have water?”

The Emissaries viewed Besh, wide-eyed, and sat below Sposh, looking around him. The Polop who sat closest to Sposh said, “No. We hurry home before the war. We heard there was another Terry. I guess we both have one.”

Besh sat straight and asked, “Is the woman in Shahshr?”

“Yes,” replied the same Polop. “The Queen took her and sent us to the Terry ship with her demands. We would still be there, but they chased us away.”

Sposh looked between the young Polop and Besh, then turned to the Emissary and asked, “Do you know the Grand Stewardess, Holly? My wife is with her.”

The Polop answered, “She'll be on the front line behind the Queen's quarter on the west end.”

A deep rumble brought all eyes to the sky. The vibration of a powerful engine was felt in the feet. As the vibration faded, Besh stood and looked northeast. The Spearhead rose lofty and grand like a distant cloud in the sky. The wavering energy below the ship played with the eyes as air rippled and glowed. The Terries were leaving, and Sposh looked up with worry into the face of his Terry friend.

“Will they leave you behind?” asked Sposh.

Besh watched the Spearhead suddenly disappear. He looked down at Sposh and answered, “Don't worry, my friend. I have a way home.”

A voice called from up the highway; it was Marken. “Besh! Besh!” he called.