Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel

Thumbnail art © Tatsunoko Prods. Reproduced under Fair Use.

Part Fifty



Matt:

The ship shuddered again, threatening to roll sickeningly to port as the damaged wing started actually mattering now that the air was getting thicker. Fortunately the shields and the ablative armor were working as intended, and we weren’t losing any bits.

So far.

Another shudder and part-roll to starboard as the helmsfur tried to compensate caused a member of the auxiliary control crew to give an almost girlish cry.

“Damn it, Agata,” I snapped, “act your age.”

“Sorry.”

The ship jerked, pitching up slightly, and the sound of breaking glass could be heard. "What was that?" I snapped again.

The auxiliary helmsfur shrugged. "Sorry, sir, it's traditional."

I growled. "Seaman Foley, knock it off. We have enough problems."

Foley, standing next to a stack of plate windows, looked disappointed but put down the pane he was about to break.

“Having a hell of a time getting her under controlled descent,” the helmsfur said, the wolfess brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Main helmsfur and I are still trying, Sir.”

I nodded. They know their jobs; if I tried to intervene directly, it would likely make matters worse. “Have we determined the impact point yet?”

“On screen.” The main display showed a long ellipse superimposed on the planet, which, like Leon, was getting larger. “That’s the best guess?”

“CEP is measured in kilometers, Sir. We don’t have complete control of her,” the helmsfur said.

“Hmm.”

The southern boundary of the impact footprint included the entire city of Persoc Tor.


***


Winterbough:

“{Znzn!}”

I wanted to walk up to Windimere’s den, but I found that Westinghouse wouldn’t stay put at the Master’s Lodge. If I started walking, the baby ice-wyrm would try to follow.

And he couldn’t keep up with me.

So, yes, I carried him a good portion of the way to the den north of the [Star-Mirror], and while I made my way up I had time to think.

I’d never held my son or daughter when they were infants; they had been born in secret to avoid scandal (in Anastasia’s case) and an extended stay in Alkali Tor (in my case), and I first encountered them when they were five years old. I understood, and understand, the need for secrecy, but Elves Don’t Lie, I missed being there for my mate and our fawns.

Right now, fresh out of his shell, Westinghouse is about the size – and weight – of a seven year old buck-fawn, based on my recollection of how much Sixth weighed at about that age. But I could probably expect Westinghouse to get a lot larger a lot faster, which brought up more problems.

Teaching him to fly would likely require me to transmogrify into wyvern-form for an extended period of time, with all the dangers inherent in long-term transformation-magicks. It’d certainly be awkward if I got summoned by Marshal Roland while stuck in my draconic form.

[Note appended to manuscript: “But the look on Gawain’s face would be priceless, and you know it.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Um, well, yes, there is that.”]

The sight of a fish leaping at the lake caused Westinghouse to cry out “{SRRFU!},” wriggle out of my arms (nearly shredding my clothes in the process), and galumph to the water, plunging in in hot pursuit of lunch. His excited cry brought Windimere out, and she watched bemusedly as the ice-wyrmling thrashed about in the water until he emerged exultantly, his meal in his jaws.

Windimere and I exchanged greetings as Westinghouse tucked into his meal, and while he ate I laid out my misgivings and thoughts about raising him.

When I was finished, Windimere snorted one word, and not above one word.

“What do you mean, ‘No!?’” I demanded, lapsing into Standard.


***


Low:

“Low?”

“We’re busy up here, Matt.”

“I know. You see where we’re heading.”

“Yeah.”

“I . . . I think it’s time for the Party Trick.”

Every person on the Bridge turned away from the looming disaster to stare at me, and I swallowed hard against a dry throat.

For the uninitiated, the ‘Party Trick’ is a last-resort kind of manual control of a major fleet unit, and when I say ‘manual’ I mean it – you directly access the flight controls through biocybernetic implants in your hands. Well, paws, in this case.

Never been tried before – oh, sure, it’s been tried in simulators and some training exercises, but never under real-world conditions.

And I’m the only person aboard fitted with the correct interfaces.

I could see the senior officers looking at me and I say, “Hang on a bit, Matt. Gonna poll the room.”

“Better make it fast, sweetheart.”

“We will.” I looked over my command console. “Well? Opinions, people.”

The First Officer cleared his throat. “Never been done while anyone’s transformed, Commodore.”

“By all accounts, it’s painful,” a lieutenant chimed in, “even under ideal conditions.”

I took off my gloves and tossed them aside. “Still, it’s my decision. Stations, everyone; get Dr. Delgado up here.” The bridge crew returned to the posts as I got up and crossed to the helm controls. The helmsfur stepped out of the way and I accessed the computer. “Computer.”

“Working.” Kai, did they have to use her voice for this?

“Emergency manual control access,” and the control handles shed some security panels to reveal the access points. “Accept command code Nero aleph four one two.”

“Accepted. Interface ready.”

I took a breath, rubbed my paws together, and gripped the control handles.

“AAHHHHHHH!”


***


Windimere:

(translated from Draconic)

Men, I ask you . . .

You know what I mean, right girls?

I forced myself to be tactful and diplomatic - something, I tell you, that dragons aren't very well-suited for - and I explained to Westersloe that his son (giggle) is just out of his shell and needs his 'mother.' Abandoning him, even to leave him with me, at this stage would not be healthy for him.

Skies Above, look at him eat. Messy.

Typical male.

I only really have my own childhood to go by, but I told Westersloe that Westinghouse would need to be with his Mama (giggle) until at least Spring, when his wings started to get strong enough to bear his weight. I did tell him to bring the cute little dickens up here at times so I can teach him Draconic.

Westersloe looked disappointed, but he agreed with me, and asked how our egg was doing.

Our son's doing just fine, and should be hatching about the same time Westinghouse will start wanting to flaunt his wings and fly. When that happens, I told my mate, I'd be happy to foster him.


***


Matt:

“I . . . I think it’s time for the Party Trick.”

There was a discordant, jarring noise, and I glared at Foley. He had the good grace to at least look embarrassed as he lifted the needle from the phonograph record.

But when I heard Low scream, I took off at a run.

Auxiliary Control’s several decks and half the ship away from the Bridge, but I think I teleported without benefit of tech. I stormed onto the Bridge and the sergeant-at-arms tried to block my path.

I barely broke stride.

His nose, arm, and tail will heal up. Wonderful what they can do nowadays.

First Officer Kitsurabami was standing there looking worried, while the rest of the bridge crew were back at their stations.

Low was sitting at the helm position, bare paws gripping the flight controls.

Her face . . .

I hadn’t seen her in that much pain since . . . never mind; it’s not a pretty story.

“She’s got access,” the helmsfur reported.

Without taking my eyes off my senior wife I asked, “Is it working?”

There was another shudder . . . and the feel of the deck under my feet seemed to stop shivering like it was made of gelatin.

“Yes.”





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