Ingenious

by Barrie Farris

  Because the law forbade cadets from visiting other bunks during lights out, they rubbed off alone and weren’t shy about who watched or listened. The only approved place for shared sex was the clinic. At night cadets whispered back and forth to schedule appointments with each other. They had ten minutes inside a curtained cubicle in the clinic to reach orgasm. Failure to ejaculate left a cadet with blue balls until he was back in his bunk after lights out.

  The restrictions conditioned cadets into having perfunctory sex by the time they graduated. Tenderness belonged with a wife in their marriage bed.

  The joke played out, the cadets shuffled off before the second whistle sounded. Quiggs found himself alone with Miller and braced for another ribald jab at their approaching appointment. Quiggs had never dreamed he’d have a chance to top the Athletic Champion. Miller, with his blue eyes and cropped black hair, cut jaw, and great body, represented Quiggs’s ultimate fantasy. He longed for some… well… some flirting before they fucked. He couldn’t admit this without drawing ridicule.

  Miller punched his shoulder for attention. “You thinking of ogling all those breasts today?”

  “I had my stitches out yesterday. I can’t ogle anything.” Quiggs sat up and eased his legs off the bed. Today, when all he wanted to do was sit on a cushion in the library, he had several meet-and-greets lined up.

  Yesterday he’d come across a design for a furnace. The combustion valve confused him. It used a brown paste, presumably fuel. If he could figure out how to manufacture the paste, he’d build furnaces and engines to take the Triangle out of its choking sameness. He envisioned powered mowing blades replacing goats and steam-powered vessels hauling cargo around the canal.

  The sputternuts were the key. How could he experiment with them when the moment their hard shell cracked, the insides flared? The oily residue from the charred kernel was nonreactive to his tests. The kernel crumbled to brown dust when touched.

  Miller’s softened voice interrupted Quiggs’s fog. “Being courted for marriage is an honor. You’re lucky you have choices. I’m enlisting to avoid the lottery.”

  “You enlist for three years. Marriage is forever. How do I know who’s right for me?”

  “When you meet a deb who’s gorgeous with big tits and dainty ankles and a plump pink mouth, and your cock starts leaking.” Miller stood and palmed his erection. “Now I’ve worked myself up over big tits. Gotta go see if Colby can meet me this afternoon.”

  Quiggs shaved and dressed. His roomy black tee and pants hid his belly, and the sleeve on his healing cock was greased and tight to withstand the parade of shapely bosoms. He laced up his polished black boots and tied off his braid with a black leather cord sewn with weights to hold the wiggly thing straight down his back. Last was his black cap with the visor positioned precisely midway between eyebrows and hairline. He loved his cap. It symbolized his manhood.

  Dean Cagney intercepted Quiggs in the barracks before he stained his uniform eating breakfast in the dining hall. The dean’s shaved pate showed a nick from his razor. His gray-streaked beard was precisely trimmed. The starched folds of his black robe rustled as he circled Quiggs, inspecting him head to toe. His pompous voice hammered home how important these introductions were.

  Quiggs felt as if he were a plucked rooster inspected for pinfeathers before the cook shoved it inside the pot.

  The dean spritzed him with a light grassy cologne. “Back straight. Head high. Follow me.” He led Quiggs down the maze of corridors to the curved staircase of the main entry. The armed guards on the second-floor landing stepped aside to let them downstairs. Access to outsiders was restricted to the first floor. Inactives weren’t permitted below the second-floor landing, as if the academy housed a band of ferals preying on succulent female flesh.

  Quiggs remembered climbing these stairs sniffling with his first-year classmates, the dean barking at them: Back straight, head high, follow me.

  He limped down the stone steps as the dean reminded him, “The families will press you to commit. Do not sign anything. Though you may gaze upon a deb as if she were a cake frosted with buttercream and sprinkled with sugared berries, do not touch her person. Touch her, and the family will construe the moment as a consensual marriage contract.”

  Quiggs’s stomach growled. “I’d rather eat cake, sir.” His mouth twisted down. His shoulders drooped.

  “There will be cake served. Good. Keep the smile.”

  The unadorned entry hall hadn’t changed in ten years. Same beige walls and floor, unscratched despite the centuries of traffic. Same portraits of past deans hanging along the staircase, all alike with their shaved pates, full beards, and stern eyes following visitors. Same bespectacled monitor at the door checking visitors’ passes against a slate.

  When he reached the bottom, his cock ached, and not in a good way. The dean turned around impatiently once Quiggs lagged behind. “Lose the waddle, cadet.”

  “Sir, it hurts.”

  “Suck it up. Stride into the room like a confident man. Confidence attracts a deb’s romantic interest.”

  “I don’t want to encourage her, sir. I’m sore.”

  “You’ll understand the importance of romantic interest when you meet your first deb.”

  “You never married,” Quiggs mumbled. He followed the dean down a short hallway off the entry, where there were four visitation rooms. He would start with the first one on the right and move up and down the hall until his last meet-and-greet. How long were pleasantries exchanged before he could graze the sideboards?

  The dean opened the first door, and the effusive greeting on his lips broke off. He stood as if he clenched an egg between his buttocks.

  Who besides Quiggs could clench the dean’s buttocks?

  He peered over the dean’s shoulder. His hostess wasn’t the congenial landowner the dean had arranged for him. Standing in the middle of the room smiling at him was Governor Anne Lyre. Her daughter Rosamunde, who was nineteen and should have already been married with a baby on the way, stood beside her with her eyes lowered until properly introduced. Rosamunde’s three fathers, clad in tailored brown jackets and striped pants, lined up protectively beside her.

  “Stay close beside me after you’re introduced,” the dean whispered. Beguiling a cadet into touching a deb was a trick used to snare a husband with land, connections, or fortunes. Quiggs owned all three.

  The dean stepped aside for them to see Quiggs. “Your honor, may I present Cadet Quiggs Fallon, our Academic Champion.”

  This was Quiggs’s public unveiling to outsiders. He stepped forward but remained close beside the dean. Rosamunde lifted her eyes for a quick peek. Her hopeful expression flattened. She lowered her gaze and pasted on a smile.

  Ouch. Five seconds inside the room, and she loathed his appearance. Where was the food? A glance to his right showed a sideboard loaded with an elegant tea service, a decorated tiered cake, and triangular nibbles. Beside the sideboard was a bar with a variety of alcoholic beverages. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he heard Third Husband Palmer snicker. Palmer would have told the First Family all about Quiggs’s extended stay with the inactives.

  Using the warm buttery voice that mesmerized voters, Governor Lyre greeted him. “A pleasure to meet you, Cadet Quiggs.” She wore the outfit from her official portrait, a fitted yellow jacket over a full skirt trimmed with bows. Her finery showed off her elegant figure but contradicted the frugal budget she encouraged her citizens to embrace.

  “Thank you, your honor.” He clicked his heels together and bowed before her as rehearsed with two fingers over his heart.

  The governor smiled indulgently. “Your mother Linnea was my classmate, quite brilliant in her botanical studies. You owe your accomplishments to her.”

  How like a Ruling Mother to belittle a father by insinuating a son’s intelligence passed through the mother’s bloodline.

  “May I present my husbands, William, Cyrus, and Palmer.” Each husband inclined his head as his name was spoken
.

  “Honored, Sirs.” Quiggs bowed low with a click to each man, feeling a little woozy after Palmer.

  Each husband assessed him differently. William, friendly. Cyrus, calculating. Palmer… resentful.

  Quiggs gritted his teeth as the men dropped their gazes to his crotch. Yeah, they knew he wore a tight sheath. The governor and Rosamunde knew. The whole Triangle knew after word had leaked to the heralds.

  Maternal pride filled the governor’s voice. “And now, Cadet Quiggs, it pleases me to present my oldest daughter Rosamunde. She won four Academic Championships before graduating last year.”

  Debs received an accelerated education and graduated earlier than cadets. Rosamunde should have already been married with a baby on the way. Postponing childbearing was unpatriotic.

  The governor gushed on as if nothing was amiss. “My Rosamunde holds a degree in advanced botanicals and manages the family’s farm. She was your mother’s favorite student.”

  Really? Quiggs perked up. Had his mother considered her a potential match? He stopped checking out the sideboard and assessed the first mature deb he’d encountered in his sheltered life.

  The official portrait failed to capture Rosamunde’s exquisite beauty. She wore the pale pink dress of a virginal deb, with dark blue ribbons gathered beneath full breasts easily meeting Miller’s approval. Her wide-brimmed straw hat symbolized her graduation, and soft golden ringlets framed her oval face. He was more fascinated to hear his mother had taught her. To ease the ache of losing her only child, she’d taken young girls with exceptional promise under her wing.

  And here he’d worried over what to talk about during his first meet-and-greet. He bounded over, careful to keep at arm’s length. “You knew my mother?”

  Rosamunde wet her lips and lifted her cool blue eyes to his. She was tall, her head reaching his chin. Her voice held a sweet musicality, a youthful version of her mother’s. “Indeed, quite well over four years. Professor Linnea was absolutely brilliant. She dedicated herself to converting the sputternut into fuel. She taught me persistence produces results. Experiments require documented preparation, then analysis. Each failure closes the distance to success.”

  His mother had preached those words to him when he’d sat on a stool in her workshop watching her. He wished he’d paid attention to her experiments, but botanical studies bored him. Then, as now, he loved mechanical puzzles.

  Rosamunde’s face lit up with memories. “Your mother performed hundreds of trials before I enrolled, then hundreds with me assisting her. The tests weren’t complicated but required attention and patience.”

  “Linnea doted on her,” the governor said. “She often remarked how Rosamunde’s inquisitive brain reminded her of you. Your mother loaned her journals to the library at the Ladies’ Academy until you showed an interest in pursuing her work.”

  “No one told me I inherited her journals,” he pointed out with an edge to his voice bordering on insolence.

  “Rosamunde, dear, it’s time to explain.”

  Rosamunde drew a deep quivery breath. “After Linnea’s unfortunate… disappearance, I continued her work. I stole sputternuts from her trees and planted a secret orchard on my mother’s farm. Planting a nonessential crop without a permit accrues substantial fines. And then there is the charge of theft you can file against me. And years of falsifying reasons for missed quotas for the acreage devoted to the orchard.” Her breasts heaved from distress. “My family helped me when I convinced them I was close to creating a new fuel. We can’t repay you.” She spread her arms wide, offering herself. “I am at your… mercy.”

  Quiggs held his hands stiffly at his sides, resisting the urge to console her. “Thank you for continuing my mother’s work. You don’t owe me marriage. I’ll gladly pay the fines and absolve you of wrongdoing.” He turned to the governor. “Rest assured I am perfectly willing to collaborate, but I insist on reading the journals. Draw up a reasonable financial agreement. I’ll sign it today and submit it to my trustees.”

  A ruthless note hardened the governor’s buttery voice. “We seek a permanent collaboration. Sealed by a marriage contract. Today.”

  Today? Like now? Quiggs suddenly found himself standing on a bridge of cracking toothpicks. How did he say no to the most powerful Ruling Mother in the Triangle? What if she damaged his mother’s journals before giving them to him?

  Rosamunde’s tongue licked her pink lips. Her fingers toyed with the blue ribbon beneath her breasts. Her heavy-lidded eyes beckoned as she tilted her chin up. The flirting should have inflamed an inexperienced cadet. Knocked out his wits and had him burying his face in her bosom, begging her in front of witnesses to marry him.

  “Don’t be shy,” she whispered. She’d mistaken his terror for nerves. She held out her right hand and rotated her palm up. A chaste kiss on her palm would commit him to marriage.

  A cold sweat broke out over his face. He froze, afraid any movement would be construed as a marriage proposal. What if he fainted and Rosamunde caught him in her arms, and they collapsed on the floor with him sprawled on top of her?

  He must have swayed because the dean jerked him back by his braid and held him tightly against his chest until he steadied.

  The dean managed an affable tone. The governor had the power to remove him from the academy. “With all due respect, your honor, the boy is not interested in a marriage contract until his senior year.”

  The idea of a refusal amused the governor. “Every cadet aspires to marriage if the academy trains him properly. Cadet Quiggs is eighteen. He doesn’t need your consent. If he refuses a good match, the Assembly will replace you for failing his training.” Her blue eyes glinted with icy determination. “Step aside and let Cadet Quiggs speak for himself, or I will summon my guards to arrest you.”

  The dean rolled up his sleeves. “Bring them on. You can see Cadet Quiggs hasn’t cut his braid. By law, a cadet who has sex with a woman before he graduates is executed, even if the woman is his legal wife. For that matter, if married, he can’t visit the sex clinic. He’d be executed for infidelity. Forcing him into a marriage contract today is a cruelty your Assembly will condemn.”

  “Perhaps my Assembly will condemn you for letting a cadet turn eighteen with his braid intact. Cyrus, call the guards.”

  Quiggs held his breath, his gaze bouncing back and forth.

  “Please do. Then explain to your Assembly why you can’t pay the fines.” The dean stepped aside. “Cadet Quiggs, speak your mind.”

  He did. Baldly. “No fucking way I’m waiting two years to cut my braid.”

  The dean closed his eyes at the profanity.

  William poked an elbow into Palmer’s ribs to stop the guffaws. Rosamunde’s blue eyes held a spark of genuine interest in Quiggs for the first time. The governor and Cyrus shared a determined look.

  Quiggs went to the sideboard and sliced a huge wedge of cake onto a plate. Spice cake studded with currants, his favorite. “Sorry, Rosamunde. I’ll pay the fines if your family signs a business collaboration. But I’ll never sign a marriage contract before I cut my braid.”

  The governor joined Quiggs at the sideboard. A stiff smile deepened the faint lines around her mouth. “Let’s start over with the understanding that the end justifies the means.” She pulled a round purple object from the side pocket of her skirt. “Recognize it?”

  Around a mouthful of cake, he said, “A sputternut.” He pointed his fork at it. “What are those brown speckles?” The nut’s hull was impermeable. It resisted moisture and blight and required a vise to crack it, and then it flared and sputtered out.

  “The speckles form during a curing process Rosamunde perfected.” She set the nut on the table and pressed it with her finger, denting the hull. “Watch.”

  He gasped as she smashed the softened nut with the heel of her hand. A thick goop squirted but didn’t flare. Why not? He rubbed a finger in it. The stuff was drab brown, sticky, apparently inert. When he circled his finger in the air, he got a whiff
like spoiled meat and sneezed. On contact with the sprayed air, the brown stuff emitted a brief, warm florescence.

  The governor wiped off his finger with a napkin. Though it seemed sticky, the goop peeled smoothly away from his skin. “Rosamunde’s curing process breaks down the hard shell and reduces the oily kernel to a harmless brown pulp. It’s fuel, but it can’t flame without an infused, regulated airflow, like your sneeze. You’re a wealthy inventor. Rosamunde needs an invention.”

  The pieces snapped into place, and Quiggs could have trilled like Beau. “I studied a combustion chamber for infused air in a tome yesterday which described a brown paste.” As he moved about the room, he babbled off possible schematics, and pages rolled across his mind’s eye. He lifted fragments and assembled them. He assessed, scrapped, or added to the design until it appeared functional. When it functioned without shooting him out of his boots into the sky upon ignition, he surfaced from his fog, yelling at the top of his lungs, “I know how to make that shit burn!”

  The dean started to reprimand his language, then broke into a laugh. “Well done, cadet.”

  The First Family hugged each other.

  Rosamunde gazed at Quiggs as if he were a cake frosted with buttercream.

  Quiggs kept his distance. “Can we agree there’s no need for marriage? Rosamunde will supply the fuel for my furnaces, and I’ll finance the entire project from my trust fund.”

  Cyrus broke away from hugging Palmer. “Your trustees must approve any request to tap into your trust fund.”

  Quiggs laughed. “It’s for fuel. They can’t object.” Fogs stoked his appetite. He went to the sideboard and saw the food was gone. His face fell. “How long was I out of it?”

  “It’s almost noon,” Cyrus answered. “We need the funds this afternoon.”

  Quiggs shook his head. “It’ll take my trustees a week to bicker over the contract.”

  “By this afternoon, or there is no contract,” Cyrus said quietly.

  Quiggs sighed at the First Family’s persistence. “Then there’s no contract. My trustees live in Port Lourdes.”