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Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Endings and Beginnings

Captain Vardok was not in charity with the universe at the moment, nor had he been for some time, and it rankled that he had been forced to return to Parzurak as a passenger on a courier shuttle, rather than at the helm of his own ship. Not that his own ship was of any use to him now, orbiting a gas giant in pieces as it was. His heart mourned for that ship, blasted by its own commander and left for dead along with its crew, abandoned to the mercies of pirates and monsters. One of the casualties of that battle had been Vardok's faith in the Emperor and the Crown Prince, and the breaking of that trust still hurt; the Prince might be forgiven, maybe, for his rash actions during the last fight against the pirates. After all, he was still young and relatively inexperienced, the pirates had been much tougher than anyone could have anticipated, and Voltron was a deadly foe. Vardok, however, could not forgive the Prince for abandoning them like that, nor could he forgive the Emperor for not sending anyone to confirm the Prince's claim that they had all been killed.

Which they had not! The pirates had proven to be far more merciful than he'd had any right to believe, even if they'd all been kept drugged and caged for the better part of two weeks. The Elikonian was a kinder Captain than the Juskoran had been, Vardok was grudgingly willing to admit. They'd been well-fed, the wounded had been cared for, the pirates had been forbidden to taunt their captives, and the green Paladin—the green Paladin herself, for gods' sake—had insisted that they not be disposed of at the nearest slave market! Instead, she'd taken the trouble to convince the pirates to release their prisoners to an understanding Governor, or to the colony of their choice. It baffled him that the enemies of the Empire might show him more mercy than his own kind would, and had even arranged for safe transport and enough money for each survivor to start a new life with.

Vardok was among the fortunate ones; his sister had refused to believe that he was gone, and had welcomed him home with a show of relief and joy that had humbled him further. He would have been perfectly willing to stay at home for the rest of his life, helping her manage her tourist liner business, but he'd received a summons from the Military High Command that even the dead could not ignore. And so it was that he'd booked passage to Parzurak on one of his sister's own passenger liners, then transferred to this mail boat in order to get past the public levels. He was still required to help the surly pilot, who hadn't appreciated getting surprise orders from on high to ferry live cargo, unload and sort the various mail packets before he could continue up to the official levels. To his enormous surprise, he was met halfway up by a familiar face. “Kerraz?” he gasped. “You're alive?”

Kerraz gave him a twisted smile, appreciating his surprise. It was all too true that those summoned by Lady Haggar tended not to be seen again. “I told Lady Haggar what she wanted to know. Once she was done with me, General Pendrash spirited me away as his aide. Come on, he wants to see you, too. The General has reason to believe that the Prince has not been entirely truthful in his reports.”

Vardok's breath hissed between his teeth. “Very good reason. Some of the rumors I've heard... no. Have you summoned the other ransomed officers? Pendrash is too careful not to get as many sources as he can.”

Kerraz nodded and waved him into a private lift. “We have, and a few of the soldiers as well. You're just the last one we were able to locate, is all. They've told us a rather remarkable tale. Heh. Engineer Dhraas even admits to developing a liking for the pirate's chief medic, who gave him a sip of some of the best horath he'd ever tasted.”

Vardok snorted. “Fit to polish the silverware of the mighty, eh?”

“Or burn down a palace, yes. In here, sir.”

Vardok looked around in surprise at the dim, dusty room that obviously hadn't been in use for decades. “This isn't... Kerraz, what is going on here?”

“Privacy, sir,” Kerraz replied. “This isn't an official interview.”

Vardok gave him a horrified look. “Kerraz, if this is against the Emperor's--”

“It isn't.” Vardok gasped as a shadow in one corner resolved itself into the awesome shape of General Pendrash. “He isn't aware of this, and neither is Lady Haggar. Powerful as they are, they are both a little too unsubtle for this work. This is my own project, and I would like to think that they would approve of it, for I am hunting for plots against them... among other things. I am also planning for the future. Report, Captain Vardok. You more or less vanished from sight months ago, when your ship was first taken by the Osric's Quandary, and you and your crew were ransomed by the Prince. Kerraz was able to tell me some of it, but I eagerly await your version of the following events.”

Vardok bowed his head in acquiescence, marshaling his thoughts. It was a relief to unburden his mind to a superior officer, and he left out no details; Pendrash allowed him to do so without interruption, his face growing grimmer and grimmer as Vardok went on.

At the end of it, Pendrash sighed disgustedly. “The Prince relies too much upon his rank to protect him. Two planet-busters, both lost. A naval academy stripped of its best students, most of those lost as well, to say nothing of the training ships. At least a dozen Governors filing complaints for his high-handed behavior, several reports of a Hoshinthra warship—was it really the Night Terror?”

Vardok shuddered. “Yes, sir. I've studied the Histories, and the ship we saw matched the records exactly. It's said that they don't die of old age.”

“Or much of anything else, really. One of my ancestors was among those who went to neutralize that threat, and his journals have been used to terrify the cubs into good behavior for five centuries.” Pendrash bared his teeth at the memory. “Worse, the Prince has nothing to show for his excesses, and the Empire may stand to lose control of that entire Sector. Not a crippling loss, considering the sheer scale of the Emperor's holdings, but should they succeed in wresting themselves loose, the effect could cascade across that entire region. Levels of unrest are already high; the Throne has shown a weakness, and Voltron remains uncaptured.”

Vardok nodded; his ship had been shot out from under him because the Prince hadn't been able to blow the huge robot apart. “The Emperor does not forgive failure, not even in his sons. Has he recovered yet, by the way? I've been somewhat out of touch.”

Pendrash nodded grimly. “Yes, or mostly. He is awake, although he was groggy for a time, and much of his attention is taken up with one of Haggar's projects at the moment. I'm not sure of the details, and I'm not sure that I want to know. Things are returning to normal, however slowly, but the Prince is going to have to watch his step from now on. Haggar wanted very much to get her hands on certain of the Paladins, and Lotor let them slip through his fingers.”

Vardok rubbed nervously at his neck, where on bad days he could still feel the weight of a collar. “I've heard that she's taken other princes into that lab of hers before. They tended not to come out of there alive.”

Pendrash turned away, eyes narrowed. “You heard truly. Some plotted against their sire. Others failed once too often in their assigned duties. Others were just the hapless tools of certain ambitious power groups. I had real hopes for one or two of them... alas. We must deal with what we have, and so must others. Had you any plans for the future, Vardok?”

Vardok shrugged. “My sister has offered me work in her business, piloting her new luxury liner. It doesn't pay quite as well as piloting a warship, but I won't get shot at by giant robots quite as often.”

Pendrash unbent enough to smile. “And you'll be allowed to wear a comfortable outfit. I envy you that, at least. I will offer you another option, if you haven't yet agreed to take your sister up on her deal. You are a skilled pilot and a good captain, and have learned caution, and prudence; we have just added a few new craft to the elite courier corps, and need good men to captain them. You will keep your eyes and ears open, and you will report directly to me, should you agree to this offer, and yes, you will be well-compensated for the service.”

Vardok gulped. The Courier Elite! Only the best, most trustworthy pilots were allowed anywhere near those ships, which carried the highest officials and the most sensitive items and information. “Sir... I... I don't know what to say.”

“Yes or no,” Pendrash replied easily. “Either will do. There is no penalty for refusing.”

“Then yes, sir.” Vardok sighed and felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He would have work, and a future, and would not have to rely on his family's charity. “I will do this.”

Pendrash smiled. “Very good.”

Allura was enormously proud of herself. Her first major diplomatic assignment had been concluded successfully, with all parties satisfied and all details seen to, and with remarkable dispatch. She could say this for pirate captains—they weren't anywhere near as in love with the sound of their own voices as government officials were, and so tended to get right to the point. Other than that, she privately observed, there really wasn't much difference between them. She could, however, admire Yantilee's unwillingness to allow a dispute to last for more than five minutes; Allura could remember sitting in on a diplomatic session where two parties had wrangled for hours about one unimportant subclause, simply because of an ongoing rivalry between them. She made a mental note that Elikonians made fantastic referees and continued her work.

The result of her efforts was on the table now, that being a large and beautiful traditional scroll with the terms and conditions of the Ghost Fleet's residency hand-written in Halidexan Royal Script, with hand-painted illuminations and ornate capitals. Oh, everybody had an electronic version in all of the necessary languages, but it had been agreed that something a little more formal would be nice to have lying around. As the whole world watched, King Trosimon of Halidex took up a genuine capia-feather quill pen and put his signature and seal upon the contract. Yantilee, in his capacity as Admiral, added his signature next, followed by the other Captains of the Fleet, although the Hoshinthra's signature was nothing more or less than a drop of the warrior's circulatory fluid. Allura wasn't quite willing to call that liquid “blood” because she was fairly sure that blood shouldn't glow with its own pale luminescence or cause chemical burns on the parchment. Kolivan laid down his Order's glyph after that, as did Allura, and she had her teammates add their odd, scrawly signatures as well. There was a cheer from the crowd of spectators that had crammed into the audience hall to watch the ceremony, and then everyone headed into a nearby ballroom for dinner and drinks.

Not too many drinks, she was pleased to see, the Halidexans being quite sensibly unwilling to have to deal with a roomful of drunken ex-pirates. She did, however, see Coran slipping the Quandary's medic a bottle of something pink. A bottle of her father's Special Reserve, from the label. She chose to ignore that; the peculiar alien was as valued a crewman as the cook was, and any more friendships that tied the Ghost Fleet to the Voltron Alliance were welcome. In any case, it was time to circulate. She had done the duties that her father had trained her in, and now she would give the lessons her mother had given her a turn. Decked out in her formal gown, she partook of the refreshments, smiled regally, engaged in sparkling conversation, and kept a sharp eye on her fellow Paladins. Those four, alas, had never participated in any sort of official function, ever. At the very least she'd managed to persuade them to dress for the occasion, and Hunk and Pidge had managed to persuade the Castle's Autotailor to produce a version or two of Altean formal wear that made them look at least moderately presentable. Some more than others. Keith, with his fresh-faced and youthful good looks, appeared rather dashing in his scarlet-accented dress formals, and Pidge managed her own gown, a simplified version of Allura's in green velvet, with acceptable skill. Hunk was imposing in gold and black, but nothing on this planet or off of it could make Lance look like anything but a gawky schoolboy. Still, the local girls didn't seem to care, and he soon had his own cluster of giggling young ladies to preen at. At the moment they were behaving themselves. Keith was talking with a few of the surviving Halidexan military officials, Hunk was discussing sauces with one of the kitchen staff, Lance was telling war stories to his clutch of pretty girls, and Pidge was sitting at one of the tables with a few of her pirate friends. A very oddly assorted bunch, even in that small group. A Human, a Vontakle, a caterpillar-like Palisoor, an Abyoran, and an Unilu, all of them chattering and laughing together like old comrades.

Allura bestowed a dazzling smile upon a Halidexan Minister, offered a few compliments in the approved manner, and looked around for the others. Coran and that medic, “Doc”, Pidge called him, were sitting at a table with the bottle and a pair of cups, and seemed to be discussing the relative merits of their wine. Modhri, dear man, was listening with all the grave concern of a favorite uncle to something that the Crown Prince was telling him. Zaianne, from the evil grin on her face, was sharing dirty stories with some of the pirates. Lizenne... where was that woman? Oh, there she was, observing Captain Tchak's odd habit of involuntary levitation. The scaly pirate was outwardly calm and collected, but apparently you could tell if he was excited by the way small objects started to fly around unassisted. Tchak must be very excited about something, for he currently had a halo of silverware orbiting his head. Kolivan, Helenva, and Kolanth were standing at the far end of the room, speaking quietly with the Halidexan spymaster and, oddly enough, the Queen.

She could see the other Ghost Fleet captains here and there around the room, surrounded by their best crewmen and crowds of Halidexan admirers, all of them on their best behavior, thankfully. Admiral Yantilee was near the center of the room, listening politely to the King with the little Princess sitting on her (his?) shoulder. The Night Terror's representative was also present, veiled in pearl-gray silks and standing in a little circle of open space; its Captain's fearsome reputation and its sheer size guaranteed that it wouldn't be crowded. As it was, the grand ballroom was packed; Allura was a little glad that her mice, the dragons, and Kelezar had opted to stay in the Castle. There simply wasn't room for them.

Allura wondered to herself whether or not the party would take a familiar course as the event wore on. On Altea, it was expected that the guests would sample more of the wines and less of the snacks as the hour grew late, and certain of the less-wary dignitaries would wind up getting drunk and doing silly things. It was one thing to have Coran's uncle swinging on the chandeliers, but quite another to have someone like Captain Zorjesca, who was big, semi-insectile, and quite fearsome-looking, going on a drunken rampage. Or the Hoshinthra. Allura gazed dubiously at what her teammates had dubbed a “doom moose”. Could Hoshinthra become drunk? If so, what would get them drunk? Allura remembered the hiss and the puff of vapor when that single glowing drop of pale blood had hit the parchment, and decided that she didn't really want to know. Glittering and smiling nonetheless, Allura carried on.

Pidge, on the other hand, was more interested in the future than in politics, and was discussing what features their new hometown here on Halidex should have. Zoallam had thoroughly examined the proposed site for their residence and had been working almost constantly on the plans for the last week and a half. Everyone agreed that a good road system, an efficient and easily-serviced utility grid, and comfortable housing was necessary, but opinions differed widely where it came to entertainment, shopping, recreation, and education. Each and every one of the vast variety of aliens serving aboard the Fleet ships had different needs and preferences, and fitting them all in was a very interesting challenge. Fortunately, there were only so many environments necessary to the well-being of oxygen-, nitrogen-, and hydrogen-breathing temperate-world life forms, and Zoallam was able to face the puzzle as he faced so many other things—artistically. Pidge sat back, nibbled from her plate of snacks, and listened a little enviously to Nasty trying to persuade Zoallam to add a zero-G obstacle course to one of the training facilities. She knew very well that she wouldn't be present to see the town built; after today, she'd be back aboard the Castle with her team, thwarting the Empire's evil aims as part of the Voltron Force. They'd visit, of course; the team had responsibilities to its allies, and they would have to come back anyway, if only to drop Nasty off when their month of being honorary Unilu was finished. Pidge leaned her chin on her fist and gazed fondly around the room at her friends while they mixed with royalty. What a trip it had been! Six months ago, the Quandary and its crew had been just another pirate ship. A big, lumbering, poorly-maintained and poorly-led crowd of cosmic misfits, keeping a slippery half-step ahead of the law and doomed to an eventual and ignominious end. Now it was the proud flagship of a fleet that had kicked some serious Imperial ass and was soon to become a major force for liberation and freedom in this Sector, and possibly more. Something special was being built here, and it was a real privilege to be part of it. This is my life now, she thought, and it's pretty awesome.

The only thing that kept the evening from being perfect was the nagging feeling that she was forgetting something. It was something important, something to do with a friend, and she simply couldn't remember what it was. It had been picking at her thoughts for days, she realized, possibly weeks, but since they had left the Stronghold, she had been far too busy to think about it. She sipped her juice, listened to Zoallam explaining why he couldn't possibly put a diving platform on the cliff above the lake on the eastern side of the land-parcel with half an ear, and pried at the stubborn thought. Something about someone who was far away...

There was a crash, a lot of indignant shouting, and a cry of “Varda!” that broke her concentration. She jumped to her feet, looked around, and spotted an altercation over by the buffet table that featured fresh raw vegetables, dips, and fondue pots. A portly Halidexan Delegate was trying to berate Captain Ketzewan's First Mate, who was shouting furiously right back. Also shouting was something green and sauce-covered on the Halidexan's plate. Pidge realized that the noisy greenery was actually Ketzewan himself, and someone was in danger of causing an Incident. Or possibly already had, for one of the fondue pots had already fallen from the sideboard, spilling something bluish and savory all over a sizable section of floor. She sighed and relieved the Halidexan noble of the sauce-drenched plateful so that he could make crude gestures at his adversary more efficiently, and headed for the drinks counter. There was an urn of fresh spring water there, and plenty of paper napkins, and poor Ketzewan, who had been dressed to the nines for the occasion, needed all that he could get.

She grabbed a large bowl, emptied the napkins out of it, and set that down with the plate in it under the tap. “An error of judgment there, Cap'n?” she asked, turning the spigot so that it sent a brisk stream of water over the muttering pirate.

Ketzewan doused his florets with a gasp of relief, wiping at his soiled jacket with disdainful leaves. “On Both Our Parts,” he grumbled in his movie-star voice. “More Mine Than His; I Should Not Have Lingered By The Vegetarian Option. Morbid Curiosity Has Its Dangers. Ah, Well. Truly It Is Said: 'A Salad Doesn't Fret When It Swims In Vinaigrette, But Personally, I'm Not Pleased To Be Smothered In Bleu Cheese.' Truer Words Were Never Spoken, Although I Think It Loses Something In Translation. Whatever Is Wrong, Young Lady?”

Pidge was staring at him as though he'd grown tentacles. “Captain, that little poem is a throwaway line in an extremely old computer game where I come from. How the heck did it get from your culture to mine?”

Ketzewan humphed, removed his ruined jacket, and swirled it around in the growing puddle in an attempt to get the sauce out. “Haven't The Least Notion. Some Might Cite Parallel Evolution, But That's Nonsense. It Is Merely The Universe Being Ridiculous Again. My People Believe That It's A Living, Sentient Creature, And, Alas, It Believes That It Is Funny. Quite Mad, Really, But There Is Nothing To Be Done About It.”

Pidge thought about that for a moment. “That makes a lot of sense. It sure explains some aspects of physics. And Australia.”

“I Am Certain That It Does. Damn,” Ketzewan said, holding up his sodden garment. “That's Done It For This Poor Thing, And Cantral Worked All Night To Finish It, Too.”

“Who?” Pidge asked, frowning at the stains.

“My Tailor. She'll Be Livid At The Waste Of Good Vontakle Silk, And Will Shout At Me For Allowing Some Half-Drunken Fool To Besmirch It. Please Pass Me Those Napkins, And Then Would You Mind Carrying Me Over To Our Admiral, Varda? I Would Like To Have A Word With Him.”

Pidge stared at him, but did as she was told. “You've got a pirate tailor?”

“Yes,” Ketzewan said, patting himself dry. “A Rogue Bolumnere Fashionista. Very Rare, Very Temperamental, But Well Worth The Trouble Of Keeping Her Supplied. Swashbuckling Is Far More Enjoyable When One's Attire Does Not Chafe, You See. Why Should You Be Surprised At That? You've Got A Pirate Artist!”

“He's not really a pirate, and neither are the rest of us, now,” Pidge said, lifting the little Captain carefully onto her shoulder. “Freedom Fighters, remember? It's all official and everything. Besides, he's going to be busy designing our home port.”

Ketzewan tutted. “Yes, And I Will Probably Have To Deal With A Similar Project From Mine. As A Recognized And Legitimate Force For Good, She Will Doubtless Decide That We Will Need Uniforms, Rather Than Our Motley Collection Of What She Refers To As 'Rags And Tatters'. Especially If Grand Duke Dablinnit Doesn't Wish To Retire After This. She's Always Wanted To Outfit Both Military Commanders And Royalty, And Now He Is The Two Made One!”

“Huh. And his opinion on that?”

Ketzewan chortled. “His Words, And I Quote: 'Run For The Hills!'. Dablinnit Enjoys Casual Wear.”

Pidge snorted a laugh. “Casual wear” was putting it mildly. Grand Duke he might have been, but Captain Dablinnit had a marked preference for his people's version of cargo pants and T-shirts with snarky logos printed on them. Usually ones with puns, come to think of it, which he generally wore until they were more holes than shirt. Wrestling him into the formal outfit that he was currently wearing must have been a challenge. “Maybe she can make him a version that won't make his back itch,” Pidge said, making her way through the throng toward Yantilee. “I don't know, can you make cargo pants and a gross old T-shirt look like a uniform?”

“I Shall Present The Challenge To Cantral At The First Opportunity,” Ketzewan promised.

On their way across the room, they passed King Trosimon, who looked to have been imbibing the wines perhaps just a little too much, since he was approaching the Hoshinthra with a slightly blurry but determined expression. Pidge suddenly felt a sense of impending doom; while the creature was standing apparently at its ease, the antennae were twisting and turning above its head like a sea anemone's tentacles, and Pidge couldn't tell whether that was from interest or agitation.

Ketzewan seemed to feel the same as she did, for he nudged her gently in the ear with a leaf and muttered, “Trouble Brewing On The Port-Side, First Mate.”

It was already too late, unfortunately. The antennae had swung around to fixate upon the King, and the long head turned toward him. “The King has a question?”

The hollow, echoing whisper caused a lull in the nearby conversations, and eyes all around turned to view this bit of unfolding drama.

“Yes, actually,” the King said pleasantly, eyeing the spreading antennae. “I grew up with a great many legends of your kind, and have no idea if any of them are actually true. What does a Hoshinthra Warrior look like under its veils, if you don't mind showing me?”

Pidge, who had actually seen one unveiled and didn't want a panic in here, hurried forward. “Your Majesty, I'm not sure that you really want to--”

Too late. Perhaps Shussshorim wished to test the courage of her new allies. Perhaps she was bored and wanted to see how well they stampeded. Either way, her representative bowed its head, murmured “The King's wish is granted,” and whisked its veils away with a single sweeping gesture. The room went abruptly silent at the sight of the glittering Hoshinthra, every Halidexan present staring at the lethal apparition with sagging jaws and bulging eyes.

“Well, Now You've Done It,” Ketzewan said sourly into the silence. “What Do You Have To Say Now, Your Majesty?”

King Trosimon of Halidex raised a trembling finger and indicated the proud Warrior. “That,” he said breathlessly, “is the most beautiful thing other than my wife and children that I have ever seen in my life.”

“What?” Pidge and Ketzewan chorused.

“What?” echoed the suddenly perplexed Hoshinthra.

The King began to circle the Warrior, taking in every detail with all evidence of delight, while all of his people hurried to the center of the room for a better look.

“It's gorgeous,” he breathed. “Look at it! Perfectly in proportion to itself. The shining scales, the gleaming antennae, the supple strength, the accents lent by those glowing things... This is the pure, proud epitome of predatory perfection. Why have you never graced us with your beauty before?”

The Hoshinthra began to pose prettily as imagers flashed. Coquettishness and Hoshinthra did not mix well. Pidge and Ketzewan shared a baffled glance, and then Pidge ran a hand over her disbelieving eyes. “Ketzewan, what were you saying about the Universe being silly?”

The broccoloid alien sighed. “I Must Admit That This One's A Doozy. To Yantilee, If You Would, Please, While There Is Still Some Sanity Left In The Night. What Other Strangeness Do These Late Hours Hold For Us, I Wonder?”

Pidge shrugged the shoulder that didn't have a starship captain on it. “I don't know, but here's a good one. You look exactly like a vegetable from my homeworld, Captain. It's called 'broccoli'.”

Ketzewan humphed, but didn't sound displeased. “How Interesting! That Word Is Very, Very Similar To A Word In One Of Our Classical Languages, And Means 'Heroism'.”

“Seriously?” Pidge asked, and at Ketzewan's nod, said, “There's a smaller version called 'broccolini'.”

“'Paragon'.” Ketzewan replied happily. “I Say, This Is Fun! Any More?”

Pidge nodded. “Yeah. There's a related plant that comes in white, yellow, or purple, and it's called 'cauliflower'.”

“'Notoriety', Although The Emphasis Is Positive Rather Than Negative, And It Would Take All Night To Describe The Significance Of The Colors. Very Good Colors, Though. Very Symbolic.”

“That's nice, because there's a hybrid called 'broccaflower', and it's a nice light green,” Pidge said.

Ketzewan scratched a floret with a leaf. “Not A Proper Word, But I Like The Sound Of It. A Strange Coincidence, But At Least This One Isn't Insulting. Getting To Know Your People Will Be A Grand Adventure—So Long As I Stay Away From The Vegetarian Option, Eh?”

Pidge cackled. “Actually, I can't wait to see it when your people encounter the Vegans for the first time. They get very smug about not eating or using any animal parts or products at all, and they can be a pain to be around.”

Ketzewan chuckled. “We Have A Number Of Interest Groups Much Like That At Home. Pure Leafmould Or Compost, With Or Without Animal Matter, And That Doesn't Even Begin To Describe The Screaming Arguments Between The Mushroom-Mulch Enthusiasts, The Manure Aficionados, And The Symbiosis Leagues. Ah, Yantilee, I Need A Word...”

Pidge passed up her passenger onto Yantilee's shoulder—now vacant of princesses—and was about to head back to her table when a pair of familiar voices were raised in drunken song. It was a venerable ditty that had been popular among the Fleet's crews, and was frequently heard in taverns and in barracks all over the universe. There were dozens, if not hundreds of versions, but the opening verses were always the same, and instantly recognizable. It was the people singing it that surprised her.

“Mistress Mekkle was a stoker, and we knew her very well...” Coran and Doc yodeled cheerfully over their empty bottle of Royal Reserve. “But she had an old oil pump that was noisier than hell!”

Pidge cast a glance up at her Captain, who looked amused. “I thought singing was sacred to Doc's people.”

Yantilee smiled. “They've got a wine god and a fertility god and a whole library of dirty songs. Holiness is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone's eyes are different.”

“Thump! Thump! Thump! Went the pump!” Coran and Doc bellowed drunkenly, banging their cups on the table; Pidge took out a recorder, for one should never pass up an opportunity to gather blackmail. “You could feel it right through the sump! She said it was the weather, but all of us knew better, 'specially when we ALL got together and...”

The rest of that verse made her ears burn, as it was supposed to. It really was very amusing to watch the crowd. All of the pirates were grinning unashamedly, the dainty, delicate-mannered Halidexan nobles were staring aghast at their guests, and the Hoshinthra was listening with considerable curiosity. Not surprising, since Lizenne had told her that they reproduced via cloning vat. Doc managed to get through the first three verses of the song with reasonable grace, but then Coran, surprisingly, embarked on an epic of lyrical lewdness, loudly and with gusto, that made even the pirates gulp and stare. Blushes in a dozen different colors suffused hundreds of faces as Coran laid upon their maiden hearing apparatus verses that had been banned and burned not only centuries, but millennia ago. Allura had gone white under her nut-brown complexion, and she was staring at her courtier with unalloyed horror.

“Pidge!” she hissed, catching at Pidge's sleeve. “Stop them! Get them out of here before they cause an incident! There are children present!”

Pidge was made of sterner stuff and was grinning without shame, and her hand never faltered on her recorder. “Are you nuts? This is great, and I'm getting all of it. Hey, Ketzewan, how's this for cosmic silliness?”

Ketzewan vented a dry laugh. “Like Those Two Men Over There, I Think 'Tis Drunk And Needs To Go Home.”

Allura glared at her. “Pidge, you have spent far too much time among the pirates.”

Pidge grinned at her, completely unrepentant. “Yeah, and I had a lot of fun doing it.”

Coran retrieved the empty bottle, drained the last few potent drops, and bellowed out a verse so universally explicit that even Zaianne turned pale. “Sir!” she she said in a horrified voice, “Your language!”

He grinned evilly at her and waved a wobbly finger in her direction. “Aha! Got you, Madame, and all it took was half a bottle of Alfor's Special Reserve and the dirtiest ditty ever to slime its way up from the Altean infantry barracks. Just think of what we might achieve with Keith's bottle of Rejolian brandy! Grand bunch, the Rejolians. Now, there was a people that took fermentables seriously. Never a fruit, grain, leaf, twig, or root vegetable grew on their homeworld that wasn't tested for its potential potability, and when they discovered genetic engineering, it wasn't long before their entire sphere of influence was one big binge-drinking party. They found a whole nebula made of chemically pure ethyl alcohol, and the winter shandy they made from that was one of the best bits of brewing that the universe had ever seen. Why, half of the parties in the Castle...”

Pidge turned off her recorder. “Okay, now we take him into the back and pour a bucket of cold water over his head, or he'll be like this all night. Doc's already out and we can just flop him down on a couch somewhere. I hope that we've got lots of numvill on the Castle, Allura, 'cause Doc's going to want more.”

“And the more of that stuff we get out of the Castle, the better,” Keith said, coming up behind her and making a face. “Gimme a hand here, Hunk, I had a Society matron faint all over me just now, and those are heavy.”

Protesting drunkenly, Coran was gently but firmly removed from the room, and by general agreement—since nothing was going to top his performance except if the Hoshinthra were to eat someone—the party broke up. There was one last call on Pidge's attention before she was allowed to go back to the ship, however; the Hoshinthra laid an upper hand lightly on her shoulder and asked what one of the more complicated procedures in Coran's song involved.

Pidge, who by virtue of having been in close contact with a very wide variety of rough characters for the last six months knew the answer to that, but it had been a long day and she was not about to spend the rest of the night explaining the birds, bees, weasels, giant hissing cockroaches, fruit bats, and squid to a creature that probably wasn't equipped to enjoy that sort of thing anyway.

“You're not old enough,” she growled, stepping away from its touch.

“This individual is nearly two hundred years old,” the Warrior replied.

“Still not old enough.” Pidge said.

“The Talssenemai is more than five hundred years old,” the Warrior pointed out.

“She's not old enough either.”

“We will research it,” the Warrior threatened.

“Good!” Pidge said, longing for her bed. “Google is your friend, Doom Moose.”

“What is 'google'?”

Pidge glared at the Hoshinthra. The word meant a lot of things out here in the Universe, and one of those definitions had been mentioned frequently in verse 23 of 'Mistress Mekkle's Oil Pump', which Coran had belted out lustily only a short time ago. “Look that up, too,” she replied. “I'm going home.”

“Home” in this case meant the Castle. She knew that she'd be saying her goodbyes to the Ghost Fleet in the morning, but she wanted the quiet and privacy of the Castle right now... and some time alone with her long-lost family. It felt strange; the meaning of family had changed and expanded in her mind, from the simple and involuntary ties of blood to the best friends in the universe, and the heart-deep bond between her, the Lions, and her fellow Paladins. She saw all of them with new eyes now, and she liked what she saw.

Even if there was a giant in the Castle, sprawled on the floor on his belly playing Dix-Par for cookies with Tilla and holding his own, surprisingly enough. Pidge had been told that he was only a temporary guest until the Castle came within range of one of the Marmoran hideouts, but that didn't obscure the fact that he was here. Rather remarkably here. All three meters or so of him were inarguably here, and looking very much like a certain Emperor. Could be worse, she thought, he could have been a girl and looked like Haggar. A giant Haggar. Yuck.

“Need something, Miss?” he rumbled, sounding so unlike a crazed tyrant that she relaxed.

“Just wondering about something. What's so bad about Golrazi clams?”

Kelezar snorted a laugh. “They have axes.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

He turned his head and flashed her a quick grin. “Oh, yeah. Golraz Beta's got only one ocean, and it's shallow and hot and full of things with bad attitudes. A lot like the society you'll find there, to tell you the truth. The clams can get as big as my hand--” and he held up an enormous paw to illustrate, “--and they dig themselves into the sand by the shore. The shells are as hard as blast armor and the muscle inside has these two little chips of it, sharp as razors, and if they feel something big walking nearby, they'll rocket right out of the strand with axes waving and will chase you right down the beach. They're delicious if you steam 'em, but you have to wear special armor to do the cooking.”

Pidge pictured a bag of huge, angry, axe-murderer clams and reflected that, yes, she'd met a few people who'd fit that description. “Sounds like an exciting place to live.”

“That's one word for it,” Kelezar sighed, cautiously taking a card from the deck and adding it to his hand. “It's actually pretty nasty if you aren't Golrazi, and gods help you if you aren't Galra. Stay away from there, Miss. It's bad ground. Your move, Tilla.”

Tilla grunted, considered her cards, and nudged over the stand that held them. It was a very respectable Admiral's Honor, but not quite good enough to beat Kelezar's Returning Scion. Tilla let out an astonished squawk as Kelezar collected the pot. “That'll teach you to fiddle the deck, you bad girl,” Kelezar chuckled. “She cheats. I cheat better. Your guys are in the kitchen, by the way, 'cause Hunk wanted dessert. Weren't there nibbles at the party?”

“Yes, but we got more drama than nibbles.” Pidge said, grinning at Tilla's affronted expression. “Halidexans think Hoshinthra are pretty and Coran knows the dirtiest songs in the universe, both of which—that's Coran and the Universe—and I have this on the very best authority, are drunk and need to go home.”

Kelezar handed her a cookie. “Some folks have all the fun. Go and be with your team, Miss, Hunk's trying to make something he calls 'ice cream', and he'll want someone to test it on.”

Enticed by this pronouncement, Pidge scampered off kitchenward. Kelezar smiled, then cocked a sly glance at the dragon. “'Nother hand, Tilla? Clean game this time, I promise.”

Tilla gave him a look of deep disgust, but nudged the deck in his direction.

“That man is a genius,” Hunk declared, scooping out something smooth, creamy, and swirled in orange and green into five small bowls, “and his dad and his uncles were idiots to throw him out. Full stomachs are what civilization is all about, and he's a master.”

Lance scooped up a spoonful of something that tasted a lot like eggnog, a little like nutmeg, and slightly like the rotgut brandy that one of his uncles made in a hidden 'still on his back lot. It was totally delicious, and he dug in with a will. “No argument there. I'm sorta jealous of you, Pidge. You got this for half a year.”

Pidge swallowed a spoonful in a somewhat bittersweet mood; it was comforting that a part of her uncle's artistry would be present aboard the Castle, but it was no substitute for having the old man himself around. They'd visit the Quandary, if only to drop Nasty off in a month's time, but it wasn't the same. “Not all the time, Lance. What the crew ate depended a lot on what was available. We got a lot of the food by raiding ships, and it was the civilian craft that had all the best stuff. The Galra military doesn't really feed its soldiers very well, and after Yantilee had us going after mostly Galra ships, we had to go shopping at whatever ports wouldn't turn us in. Those could be kind of unreliable at times, so Ronok really had to learn to compromise. It's a good thing that we've got Doc on the crew to help him, or there would have been all kinds of deficiency diseases and cases of food poisoning going on. Part of why Yantilee wanted to free Walmanech is that they're a major producer of mettic paste—that's the peanut-butter stuff—and I practically lived on the cookies he made with it. Half of the crew likes it, too, especially the Nantileeri. You did leave Lon back at the Quandary, didn't you?”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “He shouldn't have stolen his boss's snacks. She's got him on terrarium-cleaning duty. I got my shirt back, but he'd been using it to scrub out the tanks.”

He jerked his thumb at one of the sinks, where that badly-stained item of clothing was soaking in a basin. Allura sighed and licked her spoon. “We'll have to see if we can get the autotailor to make you a new one. You'll have to tell us of your adventures, Pidge. However did you manage to befriend that whole crew?”

“It wasn't just me, and I won't tell it tonight,” Pidge said firmly. “It's been a crazy-busy couple of weeks, and I'm going to need a lot of sleep, and soon. Right after dessert, in fact, or I'm going to face-first it into the custard.”

Keith grinned at her. “Watch out, Pidge, Hunk redecorated your room.”

Pidge shot a suspicious look at Hunk. “You what?”

Hunk scraped the last of the ice cream out into her bowl. “Hunting trophies. Just finish that off, and we'll show you.”

Ten minutes later, Pidge was staring at the walls of her bedroom in mild astonishment. “You framed them?”

There were a lot of frames, each one proudly presenting a translated printout of her exploits, taken from a great many sources. Mostly tabloids, she saw, and couldn't help but blink in perplexity at one particularly bad drawing. “Is that my Lion?”

“As drawn by someone who'd never seen a robot cat in his life,” Hunk said fondly. “It was too awful to pass up. These were the first clues we had of how you were doing, and where you were. I'm kinda jealous, actually. It looked like you were having fun while we were still too sick to stand up and wear armor at the same time. How'd you manage that, anyway?”

She shrugged and ran her hand over the page of the Blagblah Enquirer that had given the Fleet its name. “I don't know. Maybe I acted instinctively to pull the poison out. Maybe it's because Doc had a really good-quality healpod. Maybe something that Ronok fed me was an antidote. None of you guys lost your memories, right?”

“No, just our health,” Keith replied, glancing at the others. “Allura took it better than we did, but she's a Perfect Mirror. We all felt like train wrecks, though, and Lizenne looked like one.”

“It took us a long time to recover,” Lance added, “and the Empire was chasing us the whole time. We couldn't do anything about it, so Zaianne had to vanish us like the ninja every fifteen minutes. I don't think that she or Coran got a whole night's sleep for months!”

“Modhri nearly exhausted himself keeping everyone fed and cared for, and Kolanth searched the newsnets for word of you without letup,” Allura murmured. “We could not find you through the Lion-bond, so we had to go with the tabloids. Here—these showed us for the first time that you were not dead, but thriving despite everything that had happened.”

Pidge grinned at the headlines. “Yeah, that was just after I'd fitted Osric with the cloaking system, and Yantilee wanted to try it out. Poor Tamzet, we scared him pretty badly.”

Allura giggled. “I'm going to want to hear that story sometime soon, Pidge. Every time you touch an ear, it seems that you leave a healthy dollop of luck in it.”

Pidge considered that, and then yawned hugely. “Maybe. I'll test that hypothesis later. Gotta sleep now, guys. G'night.”

The others murmured their goodnights and turned to leave, although Hunk grabbed her up in a bear hug for good measure. After that, she changed into her pajamas, sniffed at the air and missed the spicy scent of thelwisk, then fell into bed and let sleep claim her.

The following day was very busy, full of last-minute projects and errands, and far too many tearful farewells. Pidge and Hunk spent the morning in Maozuh's stockrooms, putting together a series of machines that would produce the tokens that would mark them as friends to the Hoshinthra: one for the Castle, one for the Fleet, another for the Halidexans, and one for the Blades, and several spares in case one should break. The little tokens thus produced were actually pins, with special fasteners that the old Quartermaster had guaranteed would not fail unexpectedly, or damage anyone's clothing; it seemed to be the most efficient way to arrange it, and allowed Hunk to make the obligatory joke. “Badges?” he said at one point, making her laugh, “We don't need no steenking badges!”

Pidge remarked that if that surly Mexican bandit had ever seen a Hoshinthra, he would have run off immediately and gotten all the badges, if he hadn't simply had a heart attack on the spot. Before they'd left Earth, the fashion for sci-fi movie space aliens had involved a lot of scantily-clad, ethereal-looking, vaguely female humanoids or big maneating bugs. Hollywood was going to freak when it got its first look at what was really out there. And probably be disappointed. The only really large, buglike, and potentially maneating alien they'd seen so far was Zorjesca, and she would only have been that sort of a threat to Ketzewan's people. The fact that Zorjesca and Ketzewan were fast friends would have driven the average Hollywood horror-movie producer into a blue funk for days.

Everybody got two token machines and a manual for their upkeep, and then Pidge had to go around saying her good-byes. This took some time, considering how many people had become dear to her over the past six months, and she would not be hurried. Leaving Ronok was especially wrenching for her, even though he promised to write to her every week, and that he would be fine now since he had Tamzet to look after. He would also be helping Zoallam with his current project.

“You're leaving the Quandary?” Pidge asked, amazed at him.

He nodded. “It's time. Kaslep and Trogeth know everything that I do about keeping our crew fed properly, and Zoallam's promised to design a culinary academy for me. We're going to be drawing on the Halidexans for crew in the future, and that means that some of them must be taught cosmic cookery. I've been promised a very comfortable house by the Minister of Offworld Relations, and a very comfortable job in teaching their youngsters my secrets. Apparently, my cooking was the only thing that kept the Royal Family's stay in our brig from being totally unbearable. Indeed, their guard captain's already asked for my recipe for baked loshak.”

Pidge giggled. “You bake the best loshak in the universe. Are you going with him, Tamzet?”

Tamzet nodded. “I like cooking, and I want to learn everything he's got to teach. Besides, Helenva will only be able to visit now and again, and someone's got to look after our Uncle. Maybe later I'll join a crew again, but I think that I've had enough of the glories of space travel for now. It's a nice planet, and you'll always know where to find us.”

She'd hugged them both, then made her farewells to the Halidexans, and then went to Nasty's quarters aboard the Quandary to see if Nasty was ready to go yet. He was indeed, as it turned out, with his belongings zipped up into two large bags and an eager expression on his sly face. As much as he'd bemoaned her forcing him into this awkward situation, the prospect of hanging around with genuine heroes on a heroic ship and teaching them definitively unheroic things was enormously attractive to him, and he couldn't wait to start this new adventure. In truth, she'd be glad to have him around. The Castle was going to seem even bigger and emptier than before because Kolivan had already been by and had spirited Kolanth, Helenva, and Kelezar away. Zaianne was staying, of course. Kolivan wasn't stupid, and he knew how determined the woman was to stay with her son, and how necessary her role was as Allura's copilot.

“Okay, Nasty, just drop your stuff behind the pilot's seat,” she said when they reached the green Lion. “Hold on tight to the chair, all right? Shechethra's not really built for carrying passengers. “We'll fly nice, we promise.”

“Aw, don't I get to drive?” Nasty said, looking all around the cockpit in fascination.

Pidge paused; her Lion had just sent her a mental image of Nasty being spat out onto the decking. “Nope. The Lion says, and I quote, 'thpppppttt!'”

Nasty grinned at her. “Yeah, that's what Kezz said the last time I offered to fly his fighter. It's pretty much the same thing. Okay, Varda, launch this cat! I want to see some Altean architecture that isn't in ruins.”

Pidge responded to that request by sending Shechethra surging forward in vast bounds, grinning like a demon while Nasty tumbled back yelping onto his bags. They shot out into space in a wild rush, spinning into a series of barrel rolls to avoid the other craft in this crowded orbit. She did pause for a minute or two to look back and catch an image of the grand scene behind them for her image collection: the Ghost Fleet superimposed proudly upon the great mottled orb of Halidex with the sun blazing behind it. She would miss those fine ships and all aboard them, but there were other things that she had to do now. Home, Shechethra told her, pack. Family. At last.

Pidge swallowed a few traitorous tears and headed toward the ancient blue-and-white ship that hung up in the next orbit out. Her family was waiting for her.

Shechethra soon settled back down in her hangar with almost palpable relief, allowing her Paladin and their guest to dismount as soon as all four paws were on the floor. Pidge took that as a hint, and helped Nasty get his luggage to the nearby lift that would take them to the main tower of the Castle.

“Well, this is a good start,” Nasty muttered as the lift took them upward. “I've discovered the one elevator in the universe that doesn't spew bad music at you.”

Pidge giggled. “Would you like some?”

“Nah, gives me hives, and I'd have to stab the speakers.” Nasty smirked. “Got thrown out of three malls for doing that, and got declared a hero at three others. I swear, they use that stuff as mind control. Where's my room?”

Pidge indicated the level selector. “Allura told me that they'd fixed up suite #28 in the west wing for you, level six. It's got a comfy bed, an entertainment center, a first-class bathroom, and plenty of room to set up an exercise space in, although Allura says she'd prefer it if you used the training deck for knife practice. We'll get your luggage stashed there, and then the guys want to meet you on the engineering deck.”

“Huh. Okay,” Nasty said, giving her a suspicious look. “How come?”

She winked at him. “Best place to explain the house rules, and to show you your off-duty objective. Diplomat, right? She wants to get off to the best start possible.”

“Great,” Nasty said, and hefted his luggage as the lift hissed to a halt.

He was well-pleased with his quarters, which were rather nicer than his dim little cave of a cabin aboard the Quandary, and followed her back down to the engineering deck in a cheerful frame of mind. There they were met by the four other Paladins, the mice, and both dragons, who were very curious about their guest. Allura waited until Nasty had been well-whiffled and approved of before speaking in order to get his full attention; being sniffed over by two elephant-sized pseudolizards was very distracting, as she knew well from personal experience.

“If I may have your attention,” Allura said, once Tilla and Soluk were satisfied, “I believe that I must acquaint you with the house rules. They're quite simple and sensible, really, and there aren't all that many of them.”

“Best kind,” Nasty said. “Lay 'em on me, Princess, and I'll decide which ones to ignore.”

She gave him a stern look. “At your own peril, so be warned. Rule One: do not attempt to steal the ship. You, as far as I know, do not have the ability to operate a teludav system, and in any case the AI will probably fry you if you attempt it.

“Rule Two: no duels of honor in the lounge, please. I can't replace the furniture easily.

“Rule Three: do not attempt to steal the Lions. They will probably kill you and then laugh about it.

“Rule Four: do not attempt theft of anybody's personal belongings. I know that I, at least, will kill you and then laugh about it. The others may or may not do the same.

“Rule Six: do not play Dix-Par for anything other than cookies, especially not when playing with Tilla. She tends to win.

“Rule Seven: you are here for a reason, and that is to teach. That means that you will hunt about for these--” she drew something long and silvery out of a belt pouch and flipped it through the air to Pidge, “--on your own time. Am I clear?”

Nasty's grin had gotten wider and wider as she had spoken. “As crystal, Lady. Let's just have a look at that, Varda. Ooh, nice pattern.”

Pidge had caught the butterknife easily, which was heavier than it looked. Solid silver, just as Nasty had demanded, with a very attractive, sort of art nouveau motif on the handle. Pidge remembered that her mother had always wanted a dinner set of this nature, and made a mental note to send her one the next time they were anywhere near Earth. She twirled the knife around her finger, fixing her knife instructor with a stern look. “Got that memorized, Nasty? Good. There are twelve full settings, a soup tureen, a sweetener bowl with attached tongs, a gravy boat, four ladles in four different sizes, and a pickle jar; there is only one pair of jitlan tongs, and all of the pieces have the same motif. The mice have been given full authority to make this really difficult. We'll start you off with an easy one.”

So saying, she turned and dropped the knife down a bottomless pit.

They had met at the core nexus of the upper engineering deck, where huge sections of the floor were missing in order to allow mechanics to service the larger and more inconvenient of the ship's systems. This one went down for at least seven levels, and while it didn't surprise her when Nasty vaulted over the rail after the silver knife with a whoop of glee, the others were aghast.

“Holy crow! Pidge, you killed him!” Lance yelped, scrambling over to the rail to peer down into the pit.

“Don't be silly,” Pidge replied, leaning casually on the rail next to him. “Who do you think taught me how to leap catwalks? Compared to some parts of the Stronghold, this pit is nothing. Besides, this shows him that we take his skills seriously, and we both get extra points for using the local terrain. Believe it or not, I'm being polite.”

“Maybe,” Hunk said, “but you're not supposed to--”

“Found it!” Nasty's voice echoed cheerfully up to them. “Hey, there's half a Sentry down here.”

“Really?” Pidge said, leaning over the rail, trying to get a look. “I thought that I'd gotten them all.”

“You missed one. Want me to bring it up? It's the top half, so you'll be able to make a tea-server out of it, or something.”

Pidge made a face. “Sure, bring it up, but I'll pass on the tea.”

“Suit yourself. Can I have it? It'll make a great demo-drone for Crude Gestures 101. Seriously, Varda, how do you guys manage with only two arms?”

“Badly, and no, you can't have it. I'll break it down for parts later.”

“Aw, you're no fun. Flipping the other guy off is half of Discourse.” Nasty hauled himself back over the banister a few minutes later and dumped a very dead Sentry at her feet, flipping the butterknife in one of the other hands. “Here you go, one handy-dandy tin can. At least wire it so that it pokes people unexpectedly, huh? So, when do you want to start—hey!”

Plachu, the tallest of Allura's mice, had leaped off of Soluk's nose and nipped the knife right out of his fingers, taking off at top speed toward the ducts with the other mice right behind him. “Foul!” Nasty yelled, taking off after them as fast as he could go.

It is truly astonishing how quickly a rodent can run if it really doesn't want to be caught, and the Paladins and dragons watched the chase with interest. Keith sighed. “Well, at least we won't be bored.”

“Boredom and Nasty are mutually exclusive,” Pidge said, and then shouted, “Plachu, that really was a foul. Once he's found it, it's off-limits. Give it back.”

Plachu passed the knife to Chuchule, who whipped around and hurled it point-first at Nasty's head. He caught it, naturally enough, but didn't have the time to yell at them before he spotted fat Platt, the biggest of the mice, saunter past wearing a napkin ring like a belt.

“You!” snarled Nasty.

“Eeek!” mocked Platt, and took off running.

Nasty gave chase, of course, and did not pause even when Platt ran right up Soluk's tail, over his back, and leaped off of his nose; he followed the mouse up and over the dragon, who let out an affronted gronk that echoed off of the walls. Both mouse and Unilu paused at that, looked over their shoulders at the charging dragon, and then scrambled away with nearly identical squeals of terror. The Paladins watched them thoughtfully as they raced around the hub a few times, picking up the other mice and Tilla as they went along, and then as the whole horde of them headed out in the general direction of the docking bay. Pidge yawned. “They'll be thundering around all night at this rate. Have you guys already had dinner? I ate with the Quandary's crew.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance said happily. “Hunk tried out that recipe for those crunchy eggroll things. Seriously good stuff. Thinking about turning in?”

“Yeah, it's been a hard day.” Pidge stared around at the hub, both familiar and unfamiliar to her now, and missed her second uncle. “Except... except I really don't want to sleep alone.”

She giggled then, for Hunk's, Lance's, and Keith's ears had turned red in unison. “It's not like that. I used to sleep in the Quandary's pantry, in my own little fort. Ronok's cabin was only a few steps away, and there was always someone working in the kitchen. I was lonely all last night in my room... and I've missed you guys.”

She looked up at them with huge, sad golden eyes, against which none of the others had any defenses. And her Dad and her brother are a zillion lightyears away and probably won't find out, thought the male members of the party. “Well,” Allura said delicately, “Hunk once described the concept of a pajama party to me. It sounded interesting. Snacks, gossip, pillow fights... you could tell us of your adventures among the pirates.”

“In the dragon's nest on the training deck,” Hunk suggested. “Tilla and Soluk stole all the spare blankets and pillows again anyway, and if they aren't going to be using it tonight--”

There was a rumble from one of the side doors that made them look around. Soluk thundered by with the mice sitting on his head, one of them waving the napkin ring. Giving chase was Nasty on Tilla's back, brandishing his butterknife as though it were a saber and shouting inventive threats. Lance laughed. “Nope, I think they're busy. Fanlen made me a copy of the Book With No Pictures as a farewell present. Hunk, you want to get the snacks?”

“Sure.” Hunk grinned happily. “Allura, Keith, c'mon and help me with the fizzy drink packets and stuff. Meet you there, Pidge.”

A little while later, they had made themselves a comfortable spot in the middle of the chaotic nest of blankets and cushions that the dragons had piled up, complete with large baskets of various nibbles and drinks, they were lying clustered together and enjoying each other's company. The Book With No Pictures was indeed a success, sending them all into hoots of laughter, and now they were enjoying an unexpected treat. Lizenne had forgotten to move the file of media that she'd gleaned from Earth on her brief visit there out of the Castle's data banks, and Hunk had spent the last six months poking through it all. Hunk had chosen a classic for them—Mel Brooks' Silent Movie, which was hilarious, even though they had to pause it fairly often to explain some of the humor to Allura. Even so, she found it very strange in spots.

“Could be worse, Princess,” Hunk said with a sly grin that looked out of place on his genial features. “She's also got the Director's Cut version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in that file, and that one's too weird for a lot of Humans to handle.”

Lance dissolved into a fit of snickers. “Got that right. Me and my family went on vacation once, and we wound up staying in the same hotel as a science fiction convention. They were playing that crazy film in the movie room, and I snuck in to watch... Wow, did it ever expand my worldview, and my vocabulary. The next day I got a swat across the bottom with my Mom's shoe when she heard me using some of the words I learned in there.”

“And the songs,” Hunk chortled, “and then you taught all the little kids how to do the Time Warp.”

Keith let out a hoot of laughter. “You didn't! Didn't you grow up in a mostly Catholic neighborhood?”

Pidge began to giggle uncontrollably. “Oh, wow! They must have thought you all had demons of iniquity in your underwear!”

Lance winced and rubbed his behind in remembered pain. “Yeah, and you can bet that my Mom and my Aunts all tried to exorcise them. Often with the same shoe.”

Allura laughed. “That sounds like quite an amusing dance. I wouldn't mind seeing it myself.”

“It's fun,” Hunk said, tugging at his pajama bottoms. “I'd demonstrate, but the pelvic thrusts make my pants fall down. Not something you want to have to deal with right now, unless you can sew me some suspenders, Lance.”

Lance made a face. “I can't sew anything right now. Pidge still hasn't lifted her evil influence from my sewing machine yet, and it keeps trying to get loose and savage what clothes I do have. Or staple my butt to the wall. Or turn my room into a live-fire acupuncture range. Way to go, Pidge—Kolanth wanted to borrow the thing for a combat practice drone, and I just might give it to him the next time he visits!”

Keith hummed thoughtfully. “I might steal it first. You know, people used to be really scared of machines achieving sentience and killing everybody... the Singularity, they called it. After you've seen a Sentry doing the Macarena, the idea kind of loses its punch.”

Allura waved a hand grandly at her teammates. “We have met the Singularity, and her name is Pidge. Hello, Pidge, are you Singular today?”

“As Singular as a black hole,” Pidge declared, reaching for just one more fistful of popcorn. “No one and nothing is like me, past, present, or future, and that's just the way I like it. You guys are pretty cool too.”

Hunk flopped down on his back in a drift of pillows. “Sounds lonely.”

She chewed her popcorn, yawned hugely, and flopped down next to him. “Yeah. That's why you've gotta have other Singularities around. Ever notice how comic book superheroes and villains, the ones who worked alone, they tended to go crazy a lot? Nobody to hug. Bam. Right there, that's the reason that they go nuts and blow up a city or something. I bet that a lot of trouble could have been avoided if somebody went back in time and gave people like Magneto or the Joker a big hug at just the right time in their lives. Hugs save worlds, guys.”

Hunk snapped his fingers. “I like that concept. That's a good concept. I need to put that on a T-shirt. Hugs Save Worlds. You guys want one? I want one. I want all the hugs.”

Everybody was of the opinion that hugs were a good thing, and cuddled together to share some of the best. Warm and comfortable in their mutual embrace, they soon dropped off to sleep.

Later on, very much tired out from chasing mice and silverware thieves, Tilla and Soluk ventured into their nest, only to find it occupied. The two dragons shared a perplexed look, shrugged, and tucked themselves in around the cluster of sleeping teenagers—pausing briefly to finish off the remaining snacks, of course. A little time later, Zaianne, Coran, and a weary but triumphant Nasty, butterknife and napkin ring in hand, happened by and paused to gaze at the communal napfest. Coran viewed the scene with great satisfaction and tugged at his mustache. “A proper polychromatic cuddle convention, with two bonus dragons. Still in pajamas, I'm afraid, but it's a step in the right direction.”

Zaianne caught his ear between thumb and forefinger. “Quiet, fool. That's a cub-huddle, not a love nest. The girls will make their claim in good time. Thinking about commenting, Celenast?”

Nasty waved his hands in a warding gesture. “I wouldn't know what to say. How do Humans breed, anyway? I'm still not sure how many genders they've got.”

Zaianne's lips twisted into a wry smile. “Two sexes, roughly a dozen genders, and a very long history of enthusiastic experimentation if half of what I saw on their entertainment vids was to be believed. As for actual attempts to procreate? Ask Coran here. I do believe that verses seven, ten through twelve, and nineteen of that filthy song of his describes the process fairly well, although they usually leave out the high-wire act. Now, shoo. They need their rest and so do we.”

Pidge came awake very slowly. She was very warm and very comfortable, and for some reason she had the peculiar, dreamy notion that she was one of a set of Cuddle Bears. Those had been the “it” toy for little kids just before she'd left Earth, and they had been stupidly popular. Emphasis on the stupidly, she'd thought; Cuddle Bears were nothing more than miniature plush teddy bears sold in sets of five for way too much money and were made in third-world countries by underpaid natives. They were cutesy-sweet and brightly-colored and had a simple device implanted in them that made them grab onto just about anything and cuddle it; sort of like tiny, neon-colored, sex-crazed koalas hopped up on heavy-duty euphorics. Some of the special-edition ones had cooed, squeaked, and purred as well, which was just creepy. Pidge had scorned the whole concept as an insult to robotic science, and rightly so.

That didn't make her feel any less fuzzy and cuddled.

She opened one suspicious eye, ready to scream if she saw any huge, Disney-esque plastic eyes staring back at her, and was enormously relieved to see Tilla sprawled on her belly instead. There is nothing like a sacked-out Zampedri prairie dragon to bring a person back to reality. Pidge considered that thought, reflected on her life goals and current situation, and gave it up for a bad idea. Her stomach, on the other hand, was an organ that was made of solid reality, and it wanted breakfast. Pidge tried to sit up, only to have someone whiffle in her ear and hug her closer. Hunk, she realized. Well, that was all right, since she had a grip on Keith's pajama top, and someone else had draped an arm over her waist, and someone else had a good grip on her leg. When she tried to wiggle loose, there was a chorus of grunts and mumbled protests, and a general closing of the ranks around her. She lay still for a little while then, staring meditatively at the ceiling, although she eventually felt inspired to voice a warning.

“Guys, if I don't get to the little Paladin's room soon, parts of me are going to make their own arrangements, and I am not going to clean that up.”

There was a snort, a couple of groans, and a mutter of, “Sure. Now whose leg is this?” from Lance.

“Mine, I think,” Hunk said around an enormous yawn.

“No, it's mine,” Allura said blurrily. “Hands off, Lance.”

“You sure?” Lance asked. “It looks sort of Pidgey from this angle. Let's just find out. Kootchie-kootchie-koo...”

Keith let out a squawk and jerked his leg out of Lance's grip. “Stop that!”

There was a general snickering, mostly from Lance. “Didn't know you had ticklish feet, Keith. How much more of you—mrph!”

Allura had pushed his face down into a handy pillow. “Stop that. If you hadn't noticed, we're surrounded!”

Everyone looked up at the living wall of spikes all around them. Parts of it were snoring.

“Wow,” muttered Hunk. “Well, I think we can get out over their noses, but first we have to get untangled. Um. Whose arm is this? I don't think it's mine.”

“Well, it isn't mine. Mine's trapped under Lance,” Allura said, shoving at his rump, “and I can't feel my fingers!”

Keith grunted and tried to pull himself loose. “And I can't feel my right arm. Pidge, you're actually going to have to let go. Try wiggling the fingers a little, Allura, that should get the blood moving again.”

Lance yelped and lurched to one side as something in the general vicinity of his navel began to wriggle and flopped over Hunk; his own leg had gotten tangled in a blanket, which in turn was anchored by Hunk's not inconsiderable bulk. Hunk sat up, spilling teammates right and left into a couple of smaller heaps, and forgot to look where he was putting his hands.

“Hunk,” both Pidge and Allura chorused warningly.

Hunk snatched his hands back. “Sorry.”

“Clear off, Twinkle-toes,” Lance said, trying to disentangle himself from Keith's stockier body.

“Twinkle-toes?” Allura asked curiously.

“Someone who's fast and nimble on his feet,” Pidge said, “often used sarcastically when someone's being clumsy.”

Allura grabbed Keith's left foot, lifting it up and overbalancing him face-first into a pile of pillows. She spread his toes and drew a finger down the arch, eliciting loud but muffled protests from the other end of her teammate. “I don't know, he's got quite nice feet. Quite graceful, as such things go, with a nice high arch and a narrow heel. Very dainty, in fact, for a young man. You'd think he'd only have two toes, though.”

“Still mostly Human!” Keith protested, clawing himself free of their bedding and trying to pull free of her grip with rather less luck.

Lance patted his head. “On the outside, anyway. Now, c'mon, Fairy-Feet, I want breakfast.”

“Oh, I'll give you 'fairy-feet', Sasquatch,” Keith growled and grabbed Lance by both ankles as he tried to stand up, sending Lance once again into the pillows.

This devolved into an enthusiastic wrestling match that continued until Hunk pulled them apart, holding them tightly against his chest in a big hug. “My god, you guys are cute. Now, c'mon, you two, Pidge isn't the only one who's gotta use the facilities. Just help me lift the girls over Tilla's nose, okay?”

Sighing and grumbling, the two grumpy Paladins moved to comply, Lance taking advantage of his long, lanky legs to leap over the dragon's huge spiky head. Hunk boosted Keith over next, who landed neatly on his perfectly normal feet. Hunk then picked Allura up and tossed her to Lance, then passed Pidge to Keith, who caught her neatly and set her down to help Lance steady Hunk as he stepped carefully over the lowest part of the barrier. On the whole, Pidge thought as she and her team put on their slippers and padded out of the room, that was one of the better morning experiences she'd ever had.

Assuming, of course, that the definition of “morning” meant “a period of four hours after waking up”; they'd all slept very late, according to the timepiece that Hunk had placed in the kitchen. None of them felt particularly guilty about that. After all, hadn't they just brought together a convocation of powers that bid fair to change the fate of an entire Sector? Yeah, the Universe owed them a late morning or two, and when Hunk declared it to be a pajama day, not even Allura could object. He was soon humming happily as he turned out a meal that was both breakfast and lunch at the same time, which he and his teammates attacked the moment that it hit the table. It is not widely known, but one of the best accolades that a skilled cook can get is the crowded, busy silence of a group of people devouring his work.

Eventually, Lance slowed down enough to vent a prizewinning belch. “Wow, that's better. Having fun with Ronok's cookbook again, Hunk?”

“You betcha,” Hunk replied smugly. “Artistry should be honored, and I took the opportunity to do some grocery shopping on Halidex. They're a major trade hub around here, which was why the Galra wanted them. They didn't have everything, though. Sorry, Pidge, but I couldn't get any thelwisk seeds. They're really rare, and Ronok said that he'd been sort of hoarding his.”

She sighed and gazed sadly at her empty plate. “I know, and not just because I was sleeping in them. He said that thelwisk was super hard to grow anywhere but its home planet, and was picky about where it grew even there. I'll deal. I'm really going to miss Ronok, though.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a really cool guy,” Keith said sympathetically, “him taking you under his wing like that. I sort of wish that I had an uncle like that. Uncle Jake did his best, but his job didn't really leave him a lot of time for me. It would have been nice to have someone around all the time to hold onto.”

“Especially after a nightmare,” Allura shuddered. “You had some bad ones, Pidge, and we got them too—right through the Lion-bond! That one where you were on the Hoshinthra ship--”

Pidge groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Don't talk about that ship. I did not like that ship. There was nothing about that ship to like. Shussshorim's awesome in a fight, but as a person—our sort of person, anyway—she's horrible, and yes, I know that she was designed that way, but it really doesn't help. And the Halidexans think her sons are pretty. Yuck.”

“There's no accounting for taste,” Hunk said, nibbling crumbs off of his plate, “but if you want my opinion, the Queen of Yuck is still Haggar. I mean, we caught glimpses of what she looked like on the flipside from your dreams and--”

Pidge's fork clattered onto her plate as she had a sudden epiphany. “Haggar. Oh, tushwa, that's what I've been forgetting! Shiro! We've got to save Shiro! She's got him, I just know it! But how could she... I don't know! Lizenne. I've got to talk to Lizenne!”

Pidge sprang up from her chair and took off running so fast that she left her slippers behind. Concerned, the others followed, Hunk pausing only long enough to grab her abandoned footwear. He soon wound up carrying not only those, but his own and those of the others, too; it is very difficult to run in slippers, especially at the breakneck pace that Pidge was setting. They scrambled into the bridge in a panting, sore-footed rush in time to hear Pidge demand, “Coran, where's Lizenne?”

“Aboard the Chimera,” Coran replied, with a look of surprise for the pajama-clad and breathless group. “They wanted a little privacy after last night, and—wait! What's the rush?”

Pidge had spun on her heel and flown out of the room, her teammates close behind her. She kept up that blistering pace all the way down to the docking lobby, where she spat a few sizzling swearwords when she found that the docking tube between the Castle and the Chimera had been retracted, barring her way. The big blue-green ship was clearly visible from the lobby's screens, revealing the Castle's stepsister-ship to be well within her range. She reached for the Hanifor craft's AI and found it with ease. It wasn't the same as the other ships she'd touched, lacking the purple taint of Galra craft or the clear pale blue of the Castle, or even the subtle colors of the civilian craft that Plosser had forced her to steal. The Chimera burned with the same lively golden-orange of a good campfire, and it regarded her with a healthy interest that was very much like Osric's. This was a friend, not a servant, and Pidge acted accordingly. “Chimera, I need to talk to your boss. Right now, this is really important! Extend the docking tunnel please.”

The Chimera hadn't been forbidden to do so, and the Paladins watched in mild awe as the ship adjusted its angle and formed the bridge. “Wow,” she heard Hunk say. “That's almost scary. No, wait, that is scary, but only if you're the bad guy. That's too cool.”

Pidge paid little mind to that compliment, but flung herself down the passage as soon as the tube had gotten a good seal on the hatch. Once across, however, she was lost, having never set foot on this ship before. “Chimera, I need help! Where is she?”

“Tertiary chemistry lab,” the precise tenor of the AI's voice said primly, “Follow the hall to the first lift on the left. I'll take you right down there. Please observe Shipboard Laboratory Rule #37: 'No Running While Flailing Like An Idiot'; some of those chemicals are dangerous.”

“Okay,” Pidge said, observing distractedly that the Hanifors were a sensible people, and took off running again.

Lizenne peered closely at the old-fashioned titration rig that she'd set up on one of the lab benches. It was an awkward, rather primitive apparatus, but it was the only way to get the mixture of chemicals just right; sintras were finicky bushes and insisted on an abundance of certain nutrients that would surprise most biologists very much. While obtaining these nutrients naturally was simplicity in itself back on Zampedri, it wasn't particularly feasible in the envirodeck—the main source of those nutrients happened to be the dung of a Zampedran predator that could easily devour her dragons. Compounding the fertilizer by hand was therefore a tedious but necessary job.

Carefully, she measured a clear fluid drop by drop into a large beaker of purple liquid, and not until the final droplet had turned the beaker's contents to a rather unsettling reddish-pink did she stop, and was capping off the beaker for the following fermentation process when the lab's door flew open and a crowd of half-frantic teenagers piled through. Lizenne soon found the green Paladin clinging to her lab coat, babbling something about needing to rescue someone.

“Girl, calm down!” she said sternly, “if I drop this, it will explode, and we will spend the rest of the day treating each others' chemical burns. Didn't my ship warn you about Rule #37? And how did you get here, anyway? Modhri's taking a nap and I know that our ships weren't connected.”

“She just looked out the window at the Chimera and told it to make a bridge,” Lance panted. “I'm not sure what this is about.”

“It's Shiro,” Pidge said, letting go of Lizenne's coat and stepping back, “We have to rescue him!”

Lizenne gave her a puzzled frown and set the beaker safely into the fermentation cabinet. “Good trick. Where, or should I say, when is he?”

“I don't know! He was in my dream!” Pidge said fretfully, “Haggar almost had me, but he stopped her, and he wouldn't follow me when I ran. She's got him, and she'll do something awful!”

“Dreams,” Lizenne muttered softly, “and the rest of you were picking up on those handily enough through the Lions... and those weren't ordinary nightmares. Damn.” She pointed one finger at a chair that had been shoved under one bench. “You will sit down on that and tell me every single dream that you can remember since you joined those pirates. All of them, even the boring or weird ones.”

Grateful that she was being taken seriously, Pidge pulled the chair out and plopped down in it. “Even the ones I got from the fish salad?”

Lizenne smiled wryly. “Was it lurix-fish salad?”

Pidge shrugged. “Most of the time. It was easy to get, and most of the crew really liked it. Why?”

“Because it's been scientifically proven that lurix-fish protein can boost precognitive ability in most carbon-based lifeforms.” Lizenne leaned back on the lab bench with a smirk. “Delicious, nutritious, and it helps with forward planning. Speak, girl. Tell me everything.”

Pidge complied as much as she was able to, although most of her dreams had clearly been the product of stress and fatigue. The ones spent running through the tall grasses, however, were something else again. The last one in particular was significant.

“You what?” Lizenne said, very surprised.

“I declared kheshveg,” Pidge replied. “I could feel everything that she was going to do, everything that she'd already done, and it was the only possible response. I didn't really know what it was at the time, but it felt right, and it made her really mad.”

“As well it should,” Lizenne said, scowling into the middle distance. “If you'd had just a little more training, you could have erased her with a word. You're strong, but untrained. Haggar's been practicing the Art for ten thousand years and would have known that.”

Pidge glared at her hands. “Damn.”

“But what about Shiro?” Allura asked plaintively. “How was he even able to be there, and where is he now?”

Lizenne sighed, and was silent for a long moment as she considered that. “I can't say; that's more your ability than mine. Try to find him through the pack-bond, and ask the black Lion to help you.”

“What if he's dead?” Hunk blurted.

“Then there is nothing that we can do.” She said simply. “Get to it. We need confirmation, lest the pack dissolve into chaos. The pack is as one, and no packmate may be abandoned.”

Keith nodded. “Okay, guys, let's do this. One way or another, we have to know.”

Lizenne watched as they closed ranks around Allura, closing their eyes and going still and silent. Her more esoteric senses felt them searching along vectors that did not exist in the material world, and she waited patiently until they were finished. Toward the end of their search, her sensitive toes felt a faint vibration through the floorplates that puzzled her until she saw the answering wince crease Allura's brow.

“Well?” she asked when they surfaced again.

“He's alive,” Keith said, “we could find that much, but we don't know where he is.”

Allura nodded. “The black Lion can't find him, and he's upset about that. Oh, dear, poor Coran! He gets nervous when the Lions roar unexpectedly like that!”

“Shiro's being blocked somehow, like he's in a bubble or something,” Lance said unhappily. “Is that possible?”

Lizenne nodded. “It takes a great deal of work, but it is possible to isolate and conceal a member of a soul-bonded team. Haggar has more than enough power and helpers to do it, and she won't cry any tears if those spells damage him. Damn. I'm going to have to talk to him about this 'damsel-in-distress' problem he's got. He can't function as a proper part of the team if he's forever getting himself abducted, lost, and abstracted.”

“Focus on finding him first!” Pidge shouted, waving her arms in frustration. “Haggar's already taken chunks out of him, and after that shiner he gave her, she might kill him!”

Hunk stared at her. “Seriously? He punched her in the face?”

“Robot hand,” Pidge said, indicating the appropriate eye. “I bet she's still sore.”

“And deservedly so,” Lizenne said, removing her lab coat and hanging it up neatly in a closet. “She won't kill him. He won't get off that easily.”

The Paladins stared at her in growing horror. “What do you mean?” Allura whispered.

Lizenne shook her head. “She knows how much we value him now. He's too useful as bait, or as a hostage, or as leverage. There are all sorts of implants, both aetheric and mechanical, that she can set into his body to confound us if he does manage to escape. She can take him down for parts and rebuild him into something vile, or convert him into a Robeast and send him to destroy us. He has also had the poor taste to lay hands upon her, and to thwart her capture of an extremely rare and dangerous specimen. Oh, no, she will not kill him. Whether or not there will be enough left of him to salvage once she sees fit to dangle him temptingly before us, that's the question.”

“You rebuilt Modhri, didn't you?” Hunk pointed out. “He was really messed up.”

A look of pain crossed Lizenne's features. “He was, and I did. It's not something that I would like to have to do again, however. Even with your help, the help of the Lions, and perhaps even that of the dragons, there are limits. The sooner we find him, the better.”

Lance groaned. “Does this mean that we're going to have to crash the Center again?”

Lizenne shrugged. “It's possible, but she'll be expecting that. There are other labs, and I have no idea where they might be. Some of them are aboard starships and may move about at will. The Blade of Marmora may know more.”

Keith's eyes glinted. “We'll talk to Mom. I'm not going to let Haggar destroy him!”

“Good.” Her grave expression developed a smile. “You might want to get dressed first, though. One doesn't pilot ancient, legendary war machines to attempt daring rescues while in one's sleepwear.”

They looked down at their rumpled pajamas, flushed in embarrassment, and filed out. A moment later, Pidge stuck her head back into the room. “I can if I want to,” she said snippily and then ducked back out of sight before anything could be thrown at her.

Chuckling, Lizenne turned back to her work.