“I love her and I trust her. Chic is not like the rest.” Sposh.

A plan was decided as Besh searched his bag. Wandering Generals spoke freely without offering the trio relevant information.

Besh said, “Not there either.”

Marken turned to look at the hairy face of a fellow lover. He said low, leaning close, “I'm confused, my tiny friend. Why do the men and women wage war?”

Sposh looked into the earnest eyes of the alien. “The edge. Opposing bone plates,” said Sposh, extending a hand to imitate the action of scissors. “Men can't be men. We have such an urge, it's frightful, and the women hold that over us. We either kowtow or kiss the manhood goodbye.”

Marken whitened at the news, a gasp covered with a cautionary hand. “You don't mean it. Surely.” Sposh nodded.

Besh whispered, “I'm sure it's here somewhere.”

Sposh motioned for the alien to lean in. “We live in fear,” whispered Sposh. “The old saying is true; It's a woman's world.”

Marken said, “And I thought a woman's tongue was her sharpest tool. How do you go on?”

Sposh whispered, “That's what the war will decide. Who rules, the women or the men? The Pope wants to have the edge surgically removed. The Queen seeks nothing less than absolute domination.”

“And your wife?” asked Marken.

Sposh said, “I love her and I trust her. Chic is not like the rest.”

“What a relief,” said Besh.

Two faces turned to him and asked, “What?”

Besh smiled and answered in a hush, “I found our distraction.”

In the Pope's quarter, a winded rider entered the riser and threw himself on his face. The Pope left the throne in guarded excitement. “Well? Well?” he snapped.

The rider spoke without lifting his face. “We found the Drafter.”

“And?” asked the Pope, his voice rising.

The rider answered. “No sign of the throne guard.”

Alabow turned, clenching his fists. Bludgeon, stood by the throne and shook his head. The rider looked up and trembled to see Bludgeon standing over him. Alabow sighed explosively, and struck the throne, knocking it over. His tantrum ended in pain, as he held his throbbing fist with his other hand, and cried out.

Alabow said, “That weaselly cousin! That traitor! I'll build a catapult just for him. I'll fire Nerfels at him whenever I get indigestion. That'll show him. And after all I've done for him.” Alabow turned to Bludgeon and noticed the rider. He flicked his throbbing hand and winced, then used his other hand to better effect. “Front line,” said the Pope.

The rider fainted. Bludgeon lifted him by the back of the collar. As he turned to leave, the Pope hailed him.

“Bludgeon?” a serious expression spread across the Pope's dark face.

Bludgeon stopped to look over his shoulder, his response a rumbling “Sir?”

“Who built the throne? Do you know?” The Pope turned to scowl at the overturned chair.

Bludgeon answered, “Handy Work, sir.”

The Pope flicked his good hand and said, “Front line.”

Faith sat with her back to the southeastern wall. She and Chic were squeezed between a crate of pickled Smargs and the eastern exit. The wheel was just above Chic's head. Faith rubbed the blister on her hand. Chic sat pressed against Faith, her head bowed, her eyes closed.

Faith considered the sad sight of the small hairy woman, took in a brave wind, and said, “I'm sorry.”

Chic answered, “You said that.”

Faith, embarrassed, replied, “I really mean it. I shouldn't have gotten you involved. You don't deserve this.”

Chic answered with a sigh, “True and true.”

Chic looked up into Faith's eyes. “It's not your fault,” said Chic, hoping to comfort the alien. “Well, it is, but I'm just as much to blame. Do you think your friends are worried about you?”

Faith said, “The stowaway if you can call him a friend, seems genuine. He's a good sort but he's just as helpless as I am.”

Chic said, “What of the other?”

“Marken?” asked Faith. “I guess he's on his way back home. Now that he's gone, I miss him. Just a little. He was a pest, but he wasn't that bad. What about your husband?”

“He's not like other men,” said Chic. “He fears the edge, but I'm sure his love will win out, and I would never use the edge against him. He's shy, slow, and sometimes stubborn but he loves me.” Chic lowered her face, then raised it with a bright smile. “I've been sitting here imagining Sposh coming to my rescue. I see him waving his spear around, holding off the soldiers. Then, he breaks the chains, and sweeps me up into his arms.” Chic giggled. “I'm being silly.”

Faith leaned her head over, a smile on her lips. “You're a romantic; a beautiful, sweet, and helpless romantic. I envy you. I've never met a man that made me feel the way you feel. If there's a man for me, he'll be the type to cross minefields for love. Barefoot. While mixing a martini.”

Chic said, “Ask a little less. I like you, Faith. For an alien, you're a lot like me, and I think there's a man for you somewhere. But you have to let him be his own man.”

“You're sweet,” said Faith.

Besh divided his find between inside pockets. When Besh looked up grinning, Marken asked, “Has Faith spoken to you of me?”

“Yes,” whispered Besh.

“What does she say?” asked Marken.

Besh steeled himself to answer. He considered Marken's high expectations. Should he say it? “She,” Besh began slowly. “Well. She finds you annoying.”

Sposh turned to Besh and said, “She seems to like you.”

“I've been useful,” said Besh.

Troubled, Marken turned between the stowaway and the beaver, reserving a scowl for the stowaway. “I can be useful,” said he.

Besh replied, “Faith is a beautiful woman. I've taken note of her better assets. Love is a tender blossom, my friend; it opens slowly to the brightest light.”

Marken gasped several times, seeking words, but finding none. Sposh asked, “Does she have feelings for you?”

Besh said with an easy smile, “She's stranded on a world with two men. If she makes a choice, it will be based in practicality. A man who follows her like a puppy might be the second choice.”

Marken stammered as he asked, “Did Faith say I was a puppy?”

Besh tilted his head to the side and said, “Yeah, but I put in a good word for you.”

Marken said, “Sir. Do not tease the tender heart. I am beside myself.”

“I know,” said Besh. “The pining is way out front. Take some advice. Realize it's not just you. Let's go over the plan one more time.”

Uda Con sat on her throne atop the riser. She scratched beneath a fold, flicked a crumb from her loose gown, and took her field glasses. She wanted to see his face when he looked at her fortification and saw the large adornment in the shape of scissors. She looked from one end of the battlement to the other. She dropped the glasses and looked languidly down the length of Alabow's front line. She counted thirty catapults, all with their buckets tethered.

Uda snapped her stubby fingers, and Holly stepped from behind to stand at attention. The Queen looked up into Holly's face. She was a good girl; obedient, and hard-working. She owed her a man night. Uda cleared her throat and said, “Go count the catapults. If I don't have thirty-one, make me another.”

Uda sat alone on the riser. She considered the battle ahead. She turned to the table beside her and touched her list of insults. She said to herself, speaking with adamant resolve, and glaring at the enemy line, “I'll make you give me pups. I'll tie you down and take what's mine.”

Alabow climbed into the riser and sat heavily. He snapped his fingers, and Bludgeon dropped field glasses into the Pope's hand. “Where is that cow?” asked Alabow. “There she is. I'll remove your edge, and then we'll see who has the last laugh. I'll take what's mine, and make you like it. Victory is the point I'll drive home. Often.” The Pope giggled. Bludgeon rolled his eyes.

Conversation ceased when a ranking trooper led several underlings to the stacked crates. Besh signaled for his friends to pull their cloaks tight.

A nasal voice sounded. “General Widespread wants a case of jam. Find it. Be quick, and jam it in her tent.”

As the underlings began their search, one of them whispered to another, “I know where I'd like to jam it.”

A voice said, “Here it is. Let's hurry and find a quiet corner.”

Besh peeked out from his cloak and met the eyes of Sposh. Sposh smiled and whispered, “Broadly speaking, Generals love to eat.”

Besh said, “We'll need to pick our timing carefully.”

Sposh replied, “When the horn sounds, all eyes will be on the front lines.”

Besh said, “I guess we wait for the horn.”

Marken said, “When I rescue Faith, I'll become a pioneer, build a log cabin, and hunt for food. I'll bring home the bacon, kiss the wife, and pat the baby Marken on the head.” He turned to Sposh with a smile.

Besh said, “Idyllic. Don't forget; Faith is a headstrong woman.”

Marken narrowed his eyes as he met the innocuous gaze of Besh. “I will give her all she needs. I will make her the center of my universe.”

Besh replied, “Just saying.”

Sposh said, “Love is the way. There's nothing so grand. I feel it with my Chic. Once we free our women, we must take them away from the strife. Who knows how this war will end? What kind of life will men and women share? I shudder to think.” Sposh paused and looked closely at Besh, saying in a small earnest voice, “I will have my Chic, and Marken will have his Faith, but I fear you will be alone.”

Marken said, “You should set him up with one of yours. Maybe a retired General with jam on her lips.” He turned from Sposh to Besh and continued. “Seriously, sir. You'll want a wide hairy pillow to warm you in the cold days of your exile.”

Sposh snickered at the thought, then stilled himself at the alien's hooded gaze. “Sorry,” he said.

Besh replied, “Thanks, but as soon as Sposh leads me to the Regret, I'm out of here.”

Sposh said in alarm, “The Regret is dangerous. I never said I'd go there. Why the Regret?”

Besh answered, “Somewhere in the Regret is a gate off this planet. Seriously, I thought we were friends. Never mind. I'll find it on my own.”

Marken said, “Sir. If you have a way off this planet, you must take us with you.”

Besh replied. “My gate isn't public transportation. If I do take you, it will be under my rules. No exceptions.”

Sposh asked, “Do you truly have the means to leave?”

Besh sighed. “Yes, my friend. I'll be saying goodbye at the gate. Of course, I'll be sad to leave you in this crazy world. Where will you and Chic go?”

Sposh paused, wide-eyed, in thought. “West,” said Sposh. “Maybe we can live with the Mudders.”

Marken whispered testily, “How long must we sit here speaking as if my love can wait?”

Besh said, “When the horns sound, we'll rescue the women and slip away unseen, just like we planned. Then Sposh and Chic can live with the Mudders, while you and Faith can go pioneering, but I'm going north.”

Marken released an anxious breath, and conceded, “I know my part. I want only to rescue Faith.”

“And I Chic,” added Sposh. “Oh, my stolen Chic. Be strong.”

Marken took up the lover's chant. “My dearest heart. Be patient. Faith and Chic, your men are here for you.”

Besh shook his head in wonder. On the one hand, they were pathetic. On the other hand, love was the universal struggle. It built civilizations. It thrived in the cracks of harsh reality and turned its face to the stars. Besh considered his lost love, and thought, if he ever got another chance, he would hold on and never let go.

Uda watched languidly as Generals Spesfic and Widespread seated themselves in the riser. She saw fresh jam in the hair by Widespread's mouth and sighed. Spesfic sat straight in her chair and cleared her throat.

“My Queen,” said Spesfic. “All matters have been resolved. The great Shahshian army has thirty catapults, and another nears completion. Medics have donned their gloves and masks. We are confident in our Queen, and nothing remains save the horn.”

Uda lifted the field glasses and looked across the valley. “There's that pig,” said she dropping her glasses. Noting the wind-driven sand, the Queen squinted in calculation. The winds were beginning to blow north; Uda relished the timing. She drew a deep breath and turned a sovereign smile upon her Generals.

Spesfic sat even straighter and asked, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I have a delightful thought,” she said. “Our winds strengthen. We will strike first. And, we will strike second. After the initial volley, reset the catapults. Put soldiers in the buckets and send them over while their medics are mopping up. They'll never expect it. If this works, I'll give you man nights for a month.”

Spesfic and Widespread hailed, “Our Queen is all-knowing.”

“Go, now,” said the Queen. “When you're ready, sound the horn.”

Alabow sat in his riser, his helm in his lap. He polished the adornment with his sleeve as three fat Generals filed up the steps. They stood on the platform and bowed deeply. A General cleared his throat. Alabow looked up; it was the General whose name he could not remember.

The General spoke. “Oh great and magnanimous spiritual leader. The winds turn against us. We fear that if we fire prematurely, our shots will fall short.”

Alabow said, “That's the thing about premature shots. But, never fear. Your fearless leader has an idea. While you make your Pope wait, busy yourselves adding Trimbol dung to the catapults. That scissor-butt will rue the day. Make sure you aim a catapult at the Queen.”

The Generals turned on their heels, lifting their voices in unison. “The Pope has spoken.”

Alabow suddenly called out, “You. On the end. Remain.” As the better-fed General turned back, Alabow said, “Hand me your helmet.”

“Sir,” said the General, removing his helm.

Alabow held the helms at arm's length. The General's helmet had a larger adornment than the Pope's. He gave the General a hooded scowl. “Tell you what,” said Alabow. “I'm going to let you wear my Helm. If anyone doubts your authority, you point to the helm and say, I am fully authorized. Got it?”

Alabow handed his helm to the General, who struggled to make it fit. The Pope stood to help, pulling hard on the straps. The General, at attention, said, “It's too tight. It won't fit.”

Alabow said, “Stand by the throne.”

The General moved, while Alabow climbed into the throne with an unused chamber pot in his hand. Finding his balance, the Pope used it to hammer the helm down. He said as he hammered, “We're men. We always make it fit.” Alabow hopped down, tossed the pot, and turned to the General to tie the chin straps. “Now, go,” he said.

Uda looked through her field glasses and snorted. “What a clown!” she said. “I always knew you're a loser. But, you wait. You'll soon know the taste of victory.” The Queen laughed out loud.

“I'm so tired,” said Chic.

Faith said, “Lean your head on my arm and rest.” Then she asked in exasperation, “Why are they making us wait? I mean, does anyone know when this war is supposed to start?”

Chic leaned her head against the alien's arm. “Horns will blow,” said Chic as she closed her eyes.

Faith leaned her head against the rough wall. “So,” said she, “just sit and wait.”

Suddenly, horns sounded.