"Tuck, my boy! What a pleasant surprise. How happy I am to see you young troopers again! Tell me, what brings you to this place? And you've brought a new one, if I recall correctly."

"You certainly do, Harley," Tuck said, with a grin as wide as the old man's. "This is Brytani Sarliss. Bryt, meet the one and only Harley Baglow."

"It's a privilege," I said with a smile.

"Oh, for me as well, I assure you," he said happily. "And just when I needed a breath of fresh air in this rotten place. So tell me, young missioneers, where is the rest of your mission team? Is that Shahan here?"

Tuck took a slow breath. "Actually," he drawled, "we've had some problems..."

"As can always be expected," Harley said with a chuckle. "Tell me now, what problems have you had?"

One side of Tuck's mouth raised, and he said, "Well, for starters, Captain Shay's in prison."

"How terrible! And I was always fond of that young Captain. Tell me, has he been there long?"

"Months, now." Tuck nodded. I digested the information as intently as old Harley did, for it was as new to me as to him.

"How awful," Harley was now saying. "And the rest of your team? His dear wife and that young firecracker, if I remember correctly? What of them?"

"They've both been in prison, too." I noticed that Tuck's voice wavered dangerously and he now looked at the ground, away from the old man's gray, faded eyes. So Tuck wasn't going to tell old Harley of his teammate's death. I wondered which it had been � the Captain's wife of the "young firecracker."

Old Harley noticed, too. "My dear foolish boy," he admonished affectionately, "you should know that you cannot fool a man of my age and experience so easily. Please tell me what secret you are keeping from me." Tuck laughed bitterly. "Harley, you spend your life alone in this disgusting pac � not to belittle you at all for your creation �" Harley shook his head with a cough and an understanding grimace, "I don't want to come here and only depress you further with bad news. I have good news for you, actually. We had an interesting little encounter with some Barons �"

"My boy, my boy." Harley shook his head with a sad smile. "Have you forgotten that I've lived out my life as a soldier? Oh, yes, I've seen things far worse than what you are so cleverly not telling me. I'm no stranger to pain, nor to death. I'd much more appreciate to hear the full story, as I appreciate your coming to me from the outside world. Now, what of our friend Mina? And...what was her name...Seile?"

Tuck didn't say anything. Please answer, I silently willed him, for I wanted to know the truth just as, if not more acutely than the old soldier.

"Mina's still in prison, I mean, as far as I know," he finally answered. "And Seile's...Seile's..." He looked down.

"Seile's dead," Harley finished for him with blunt sympathy. "A shame. A rare one, she was."

Tuck made no response, but rather controlled his emotions quickly, scrubbing his oddly boned face with his knuckles.

"Understand also, young missioneer," the old man said sharply, with no hint of his previous joviality, "that there is no shame in grieving. Indeed, it is no dishonor for a soldier to cry. Rid yourselves of that notion and never think back on it. Believe me, son, I envy you your sense of loss. It is a feeling to which I have nearly become desensitized."

"Not to feel pain doesn't sound so bad to me," I remarked, mostly for the sake of lightening the conversation.

"No, it doesn't sound bad," Harley knowingly agreed. "Let me say just this: to grieve for a loved one's death is a terrible experience. But not to grieve for a loved one's death...is far worse."

I nodded, with a very slight smile, at the old man's understanding of the world. I could see Tuck doing the same.

"And I believe you've still left my questions unanswered," old Harley continued, shifting his position in his large chair. "What is it that brings you to my happy home, young Tuck? And, eh..."

Tuck cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, "we were on our way to break Captain Shay out of prison." As soon as he'd said it, he started laughing, and didn't stop.

Evidently his laughter was contagious, because Harley started roaring, and I, too, found myself unable to remain composed. It felt good to laugh, even if slightly hysterically; it was something I hadn't done often since I'd learned of my mission.

"You think..." old Harley tried to say. "You two think...you can break into a Baron prison and free your Captain from behind enemy bars! And how did you plan to carry this out, tell me? Oh, I certainly can't fault you for a lack of fearlessness!" He laughed some more, then his voice sobered abruptly. "But remember, children," he cautioned, "that fearlessness is not the same thing as courage. You're a reckless one, lad, if I remember correctly. Listen to an old man now; recklessness will get you nowhere. Stand steadfast, fight with courage, but for the sake of our very cause, don't be stupid!"

Tuck and I still laughed at our own idiocy. Spike, not understanding the reason for the laughter but happy to feel it nonetheless, bounced up and down with her enormous grin wide for all to see. Why, when Tuck had told me we were going to break our Captain out of prison, hadn't I asked him how? Why, in all our journeying, hadn't I ever stopped to wonder?

"It will always escape me why it's fools such as you young rascals that are selected to be missioneers. If you two are the freshest hope for our cause, well, perhaps I just ought to join a pac!"

The old man's joking only sparked further laughter, and we were considerably heartened as we left the infirmary to spend the night in Harley's vacated hut.

* * *

We had planned to leave the pac after a quick stop for fresh supplies early the next morning, but Skye had other plans. It was raining hard and heavily when we woke up, and didn't seen likely to stop all day. So Tuck and I elected to delay our journey slightly and spend the day in the infirmary with the old founder of the War-Pac.

After cautioning us not to tire the old man, the nurse let us into his room, promising someone would bring in some breakfast for us all. We dutifully thanked her and grinned at Harley's wholehearted greeting.

"Why, hello, Tuck! And you've brought your friend again, I see. I must say I'm thankful for the poor weather. Oh, now, I'm sorry to have kept you from your mission, but I must say I'm glad for the chance to have such wonderful visitors for two days in a row. How was your night, missioneers? Did you both sleep well?"

"Yes, thanks Harley," Tuck said with a grin for the old man's effusiveness, even so early in the morning. "Right, Bryt?" he added, and I didn't miss the slight emphasis on my name.

I nodded in accord. "You're certainly bright in the morning," I said with a smile.

"Ah, yes, I've found that rising early has never become a problem with age," Harley told us. "However, I seem to find myself falling asleep earlier each evening, and I must confess that I'll often nap during the day. Come in!" he called loudly at a knock on the door.

It was a nursemaid bringing in breakfast for us all, and also several medicines for Harley. I smiled at the thought of actual food, having eaten little but dried rations and slimeberries for the past week. The hot cereal, fresh fruit, and actual fruit juice smelled wonderful. That must be one of the few merits of pacs, I thought: the time to cultivate fresh food. It was something I missed from Mission Training, in addition to all my friends and the secure environment. I recalled Tuck's reference to Captain Gill's subtly steering his students away from pacs, and could finally begin to appreciate his reasons for doing so. He didn't have to worry about me, I thought. It would take more than good food to keep me at a place like this for long.

I watched in sympathy as Harley swallowed down the medicines, which were obviously foul-tasting, to judge by the twisted expressions that contorted his face.

"Don't like that part of morning much at all," he told us when he'd finished drinking the oddly colored liquids, reaching for a glass of fruit juice to rid his mouth of the taste. "But they certainly do work wonders for all my minor aches and pains."

"You mean you drink those every morning?" I asked in surprise. I'd never known anyone who had to take medicine every single day.

"It comes with age," Harley kindly explained to me. "Never known anyone else to take such medicines like me? Well, young Bryt, I'll wager you've never known anyone as old as me! No, it's rare for a soldier to live to be my age. A soldier is quite fortunate if he lives to be half my age. One of the reasons I founded a battlestation. Not much an old retired soldier is needed for back in old Col country. Which reminds me of a particularly entertaining story that I must tell you, if you're to stay the day. It begins, let's see, before the two of you were born, when I'd first retired from active duty..."

The old man went on and on, but his stories were far from dull, and I found myself having the most fun I'd had since leaving Mission Training. It put me in mind of a time years ago, during my first days of training, when it had poured rain and I'd spent much of our discussion laughing uncontrollably.

It was the best day of my mission so far. All we did was listen to the rain pour down and sit entranced by the old soldier's many adventures. I made some disappointing realizations upon hearing his story, however. Old Harley, who was so wise and experienced, had never become a missioneer. Many of my friends who's just graduated (or failed to graduate) Mission Training would soon find themselves in the same situation. My best friend, Randa, was one of them. Sure, her name would be recorded and she'd have a badge on her uniform, but she'd wear that badge to fight battles, not attempt missions. She was so happy now; she'd spend a month or two at a barracks, in a mission section most likely, but more soldiers were always needed before more missioneers were. So she'd be assigned to a corps and forced to go to battle or abandon her cause. So she'd got to battle. An able missioneer, no doubt, but unneeded. Just like Harley Baglow. Through my depression I realized how lucky I was.

My dreams were odd that night as we slept in Harley's hut. I was in a great valley with my Mission Training class, and Captain Gill was leading us in a discussion in the pouring rain. Suddenly the valley was ablaze, and the bodies of my friends burned, fell apart, and disappeared as they screamed for me to help them. But each time I woke up, in a cold sweat, before I could move.

Why, I wondered the next morning as Tuck and I made our way from the supply shed where we'd stopped to the infirmary once again to bid Harley farewell before resuming our journey, did such a wonderful day provoke such horrible dreams?

But there was no time to worry about that now. (I'd have plenty of time once we began marching into Baron territory, I thought with a grimace.)

"Goodbye, young Tuck and young Bryt. I wish you both strength and luck, and I fervently hope to see you both again," Harley said as we prepared to leave.

I opened my mouth to protest his wording, but Tuck beat me to it.

"Don't talk like that. Of course you will!" he admonished. "You'll still be here when we get back."

"Coincidentally," Harley remarked with a smile, "it is for your safety that I fear far more than for my own."

"We'll make you proud, old man." Tuck grinned.

"Aye, and be careful!" Harley called to us as we exited his room.

And so ended my first visit to a pac. We left the unusually pretty but oddly revolting camp and continued back on our path, whose clarity soon dissolved as mysteriously as it had come into existence. I felt satisfied as well as disturbed by the experience. Not to mention thrillingly terrified by the knowledge that from here on in, I'd be treading deeper and deeper on enemy ground.