by Frank Morin
"I'd like that," Connor admitted. Even though they'd left most of the town of Alasdair hating them, he was happy his parents had gotten to know Verena a little. He had never really thought about her family, and he suddenly felt eager to meet them. "Tell me about your family."
She shrugged. "They're kind of boring, honestly. Most of them are stuck at court and busy running the country."
"Really? They're nobility?" That surprised him, and not in a good way.
She nodded. "Being related to the queen carries a lot of responsibility. If not for my Builder powers and work here, I'd probably be stuck in the palace too." She shuddered at the thought.
Connor's smile faded, and he felt a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. He'd just spent so much time escaping Shona, the Carraig, and the intrigues of nobility. "Why didn't you tell me you're royalty?"
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm a Builder. That's all that's important."
"It might," he said, trying to quell the dark whispers of doubt that began creeping into his mind. Shona had warned him in her letter to be on alert, to watch for the truth to finally be revealed. Had she known? What else might she know? "Royalty makes me nervous."
Understanding dawned in her eyes and she took his hands in her warm ones. "Oh, Connor, they're nothing like Shona and the nobles of Obrion. They won't try manipulating you like that."
"But they're going to want me to do things for them, won't they?"
"Nothing more than they should," Verena said, looking puzzled. "You're here, so of course, you'll help."
"Help how?" Connor asked, an edge of suspicion creeping into his voice.
He hated to think Shona might actually have been sincere in her warning. He wanted to hate Shona, wanted to love Verena unconditionally, but his time spent at the Carraig had taught him to remain on his guard.
Verena shrugged. "I don't know any specifics, Connor." She gave him a reassuring smile. "We risked so much to get here. You know you're safe with me, but we don't live in a world without others. Our powers, our family connections, they all tether us to duty and responsibility."
That was true enough. His connections to his family were a constant worry in the back of his mind. Had he done enough to break with them, or had he left them to suffer at Dougal's hands? It made sense that Verena faced similar duty, but was her duty to bring him to them so they could use him?
Verena added softly, "Connor, you're right. Everyone expects great things from you because you can do great things. It would be insulting if no one asked. And it's insulting to this country that's sheltering you if you don't want to help it."
"I want to help," he assured her. "I've just had too many people trying to manipulate me and my powers to trust people I don't know."
"I'm not manipulating you, and I vouch for my family."
Connor nodded slowly. "All right. I'll trust you until I meet them."
"I think you're being a little paranoid," she said with a smile and a playful jab to his ribs.
He nodded. "It's a habit that's kept me alive."
"Don't forget that we've kept each other alive, Connor. You can trust what we have together."
He did trust her. He forced away the insidious whispers of doubt and squashed the voice of warning that was sounding in the back of his mind from his Carraig-tuned senses. Surely he'd left that kind of political intrigue behind and could enjoy a simpler life in Granadure.
Connor pulled her to him and as they embraced the feel of her in his arms helped dispel his worries. He would keep an open mind about her family until they gave him reason to doubt.
After a moment, she eased back in his arms and stared up at him, her expression questioning. "Are we all right?"
He nodded. "We are. And I hope I'll be all right with your family."
She smiled and rose up on tip toe to kiss him lightly on the lips.
"So, what next?" Connor asked, looking around the workroom.
Verena pulled a wooden box from under one of the workbenches and extracted a hammer and a pry bar. "Now we rip that annoying platform off of the Swift."
Chapter Fourteen
"The whisper of a Pathfinder can cross the plateau, but a single rain cloud may trigger the flash flood."
~Redmund
Jean followed Hamish into his cavernous workroom. The cluttered space reflected the often-transitory focus of his mind. Work spaces were scattered around the huge room, like independent islands made up of several tables, flanked by shelves, cabinets, and crates. Every surface was crammed with gear. Tools, random articles of clothing, dishes, and piles of partially-assembled mechanicals seemed dropped at random.
Rocks were piled everywhere, from large quartzite stones to tiny pebbles. She spotted four separate caches of sweetbreads. They looked stale, but that had never stopped Hamish before. Close to the huge sliding outer door was a broken down windrider and piles of rubble, as if he smashed furniture when he got bored. A tiled room with no front wall was situated in another corner, with several large watermelons positioned on the tile floor.
Dierk had mentioned that there weren't a lot of Builders, and most were stationed at the front to assist the army. Jean had been a little surprised to learn that Hamish was already considered one of the lead researchers. Along with Verena, he explored new concepts and developed new mechanicals while most of the other Builders, under the direction of Dierk, spent the majority of their time in production of existing mechanical designs.
"What do you think?" Hamish asked as he led her to the biggest work area in the center of the room. He spread his arms and turned a slow circle. "This is home. The best place on earth. This is where all the fun happens."
"Even better than the dining hall?" she teased.
"The dining hall is a special place, but here I build things. There I just eat things."
Jean pressed a hand to his forehead. "Are you feeling all right?"
Hamish laughed. "I can eat here too." He dragged a large wooden trunk from under the nearest work table. "This thing is full of emergency rations. When I've got a really difficult problem to figure out, I need immediate access to food."
Jean smiled. "I take notes."
Hamish took her hand and together they explored the various work areas. Several were for enhancements to existing mechanicals. He pointed to a blocky helmet and said, "I'm taking the concept of a healthbed and trying to make it work as a portable healing helmet."
"Healthbed?"
"One of the first Builder inventions," he explained. "Sandstone beds, with the release rate opened a fraction. Anyone sleeping on the beds is surrounded by healing energy. They can heal from wounds ten times faster than normal."
"I need to see one of those," Jean said, eager to explore combining the use of such a bed with her remedies. The results could be miraculous.
Hamish led her to another table piled with quartzite stones roughly cut into different geometric shapes. "Here I'm exploring whether or not the shape of a shieldstone affects the size, shape, and effectiveness of the shields they produce."
In the central work area, he showed her a new mechanical he was working on. He'd wound a long, slender rope inside a cube-like metal framework, lined with quartzite. A type of hinged grappling hook with inward-curving teeth was attached to the end of the rope.
Hamish patted the cube with a smile. "This is going to be the yanksnatcher."
"What does it do?"
He picked it up and moved around the tables and aimed the grapple at the distant windrider. The quartzite lining the box activated with a whoosh and the grapple shot out, dragging the unwinding rope behind. It slammed into the side of the windrider with a loud bang, then clattered to the floor.
As Hamish began winding the rope back in with a small hand crank, he shrugged. "It's not finished. The plan is for that hinged grapple mouth to catch onto whatever it hits and lock into place."
"That's a clever idea. A soldier could scale a wall or a cliff so much faster with that."
"Or I could s
core the last cinnamon roll from across the dining hall."
Jean smiled, imagining what the grapple would do to an unsuspecting pastry. "You should talk with a blacksmith. They might be able to suggest a spring to help with the coiling."
"Of course," Hamish laughed, giving her a quick kiss. "You're brilliant!"
As they discussed ideas for getting the grapple end to close and lock, Hamish led her to a metal construct nearly five feet tall. Its thick steel sides tapered down to a small box. The little compartment was lined with soapstone, and a heavy steel plug hung by a chain above the opening. "This is the smash packer."
"What does it do?"
"I'll show you." Hamish threw back the lid to a nearby wooden box and drew out of it an entire loaf of rather stale bread. He shoved it into the little opening, squashing it terribly to make it fit. Then he touched a quartzite block attached to the top of the hanging plug.
Air howled out of the little stone, rattling the chain as it sought to drive the plug down the tapered sides. Hamish released the restraining lever, and the plug drove down the smashpacker with astonishing speed, slamming into the doomed bread.
When Hamish shuttered the quartzite and cranked back the plug, he drew forth a perfect little cube of bread, about the size of an eyeball, but square.
"Behold," Hamish declared, handing the little cube to her with a bow. It was a bit heavier than she expected, and very dense.
"Go ahead, try it," Hamish urged.
Jean wasn't entirely sure she wanted to put that thing into her mouth, but Hamish looked so eager she couldn't resist. It tasted remarkably good, with a surprisingly vibrant flavor.
"Don't bite too hard," Hamish cautioned. "The smash packer super-condenses everything, so you've got to eat it slowly. It'll soften up in a few seconds."
"This is amazing," Jean said, and she meant it. The flavor intensified as she worked at the cube with her teeth, becoming more savory every second.
Hamish pulled a drawer out of a nearby cabinet and showed her dozens of smash-packed cubes of varying colors. "These are all different meals I've smashpacked. These cubes last for weeks before going bad, and you can carry around a week's worth of meals easily. It could change the way we feed troops."
Jean nodded as she scanned the piles of little cubes. One of the biggest challenges for armies was maintaining supply lines and ensuring their troops ate well. "This is amazing!"
"It's working better than this thing." Hamish led her to another table where a strange contraption rested. It looked like a small grill plate, fastened over a bed of marble, with a thin mesh wire forming a box over the top.
"What is it?"
"I'm hoping it will become the lunchifier. The goal is to super-fast fry foods when we're on long flights, but so far all I've managed is to super-fast burn things to a crisp."
"I'll work on it with you," Jean offered.
When they reached the back half of the room, Jean pointed to a bunch of debris in one corner that looked like a chair had been smashed to pieces. "What have you been doing there?"
"I'm studying diorite. I'm trying to figure out the most subtle uses of its explosive power."
Jean laughed. "Diorite is not exactly subtle, Hamish."
"That's exactly what Verena said," Hamish said with a shake of his head. "You're spending too much time with her."
"I'm spending too much time with you," she teased.
"Not nearly enough," he replied with a smile.
Hamish crossed to a locked cabinet and fetched a tray that contained twelve throwing darts, each with a single grain of sand secured to the tip. "See?" He touched the tip with a finger, then threw it at a nearby overturned chair.
The chair exploded.
The cavernous room seemed to enjoy echoing the thunderous report, and Jean covered her ears.
Hamish grinned. "See. One grain of diorite. Subtle."
"Oh, Hamish, I've missed the way you think."
He next took her to a work area dedicated to his flying suit, which he'd already hung on its custom rack. Jean marveled anew at the amazing craftsmanship. "You really came up with all of this on your own?"
"Pretty much." Hamish fingered the overlapping rows of leaf-shaped granite plates in the breastplate. "Verena did help some."
Jean could barely believe it. Hamish usually lacked the staying power to take a flash of brilliance to completion. His mind worked like lightning, with intense, momentary bursts of ideas. To construct that suit, he had learned to focus his mind more like a fireplace of stoked coals, maintaining a steady burn for the long term.
She felt immensely proud of him.
The suit fit Hamish's personality as perfectly as it did his body. In the air, Hamish was like a bird. A very deadly bird. His Builder powers had unlocked an entirely different aspect of his personality, one that she wanted to explore.
As Hamish began explaining the various thrusters, weapons, and components built into the suit, Jean felt awed that he had managed to integrate such a complex mechanical and make it work so well. "How did you figure out the optimal amount of water to include in that water bladder?"
Hamish shrugged. "I designed the outer layer first, then added the inner jacket. The water bladder fills what's left in between. It seems to have enough of the Bash-Hurt-Disbursal property I need."
"Is that another new word?"
Hamish grinned and nodded. "It means the water absorbs the shock of the impact and spreads it around, dispersing its effect. I invented that term. Pretty good, huh?"
When Jean hesitated, Hamish sighed. "I'm not nearly as good at it as Verena, but I'm getting better. You should have heard some of my early ideas."
"I'll take your word for that. How about all of these thrusters? How did you determine the optimal size of the quartzite blocks for best thrust force without having too much weight?"
Hamish shrugged again. "I used blocks that would fit the boots without getting in the way."
"Okay," Jean said slowly, fighting a frown. "You also have that tiny speedsling on your hip. How did you figure out what the best size was for managing the weight and size against the amount of ammunition you could carry?"
"Easy. That particular speedsling fit my hand best, but when I was cutting it smaller, I sort of knocked the table over and it broke the barrel. I smoothed the edges to make it work."
"So you didn't really do much testing?"
"Of course, I did. I flew it before we fought those rampagers and I told you we already tested the bash-hurt-disbursal property. It works, so why muddle it up with extra thinking?"
It was oddly comforting to know that under the new, amazing Hamish was the old, adorable one she had grown to love. "You and I are going to review every aspect of this suit, and I'm going to teach you how to properly test and calibrate it."
"Why?"
"Because together we can make it better. A lot better."
"But you've never built mechanicals before."
"I've developed tonics and medicines, and that requires the same kind of rigorous testing to make sure I don't hurt someone or fail to cure the disease." She placed a hand on his arm. "Hamish, if we do this right we can probably make this suit twice as powerful."
"Have I told you yet today that I love you?" Hamish laughed as he wrapped her in a hug.
Then he snapped his fingers and rushed over to the work table where he stored his emergency rations. "I need to check something."
Ignoring the crate of rations, he instead extracted a small wooden box, placed it on the table, and opened the lid. The inner compartment was very small and Hamish extracted from it a small glass bottle with a locking lid.
He held it up for her to see. "I left this cream here before I left."
Jean grimaced. "Don't open it. It'll be gross by now."
"This crate is packed with sawdust to insulate it." He reached into the box and extracted a tiny piece of soapstone, ringed with ice. "It's part of an experiment to explore cooling food. Kind of the opposite of the heatston
e ovens. With soapstone we manipulate water. Ice is harder to manage, but it's possible. I left it here with the release rate open just a fraction to keep the cream cool until I came back."
Jean touched the bottle and it was quite cold. In the winter, when they left cream outside, it did tend to last longer. Still not sure it was a good idea, she opened the lid and sniffed.
"It actually doesn't smell bad."
Hamish took the bottle and drank a long gulp.
"Wait! You're not even sure that's okay."
He shrugged. "It tastes all right. So I guess it's okay. I need a cookie, though."
Jean shook her head. "You're incorrigible."
"I think Verena had some cookies stashed in a cupboard. Let's go visit her workroom."
Chapter Fifteen
"Suspicion, like the invisible canker, rots the foundation before bedrock can be made secure."
~Evander
Verena pried off the planks from the supply box on the Swift and surveyed her precious craft. No doubt they'd have to leave again soon, but they needed a better travel plan. Access to the skies granted them unparalleled mobility, but that little platform was not the answer.
She paced around the armored Swift, surveying it for damage. Placing her hands on the main controls, she flicked her Builder senses through the Swift's many components, noting the power levels available in the various thrusters. She had already ordered several hundred hornets to refill the deadly speedslings slung along the underside of the craft.
Standing across from her, Connor placed his hands over hers. "I wish I could feel what you do in the stones."
"And sometimes I wish I could establish affinity with them like you," she admitted.
He smiled, and she felt relieved that he seemed to have accepted her connection with the royal house, at least for now. She should have considered how he might respond to learning that, but it was a fact, and she couldn't hide from it. She loved her family, and she was sure he would come to love them too.
Of course, they didn't know anything about him yet. How would her father and mother react to the fact that she'd fallen in love with an Obrioner? The fact still amazed her too. How would her siblings react, especially her brother Vinzenz? She worried he'd forget he was a Healer when he found out about Connor and instead take up the responsibility of issuing an honor duel as any self-respecting Rumbler would in defense of his sister.
