Gilbert Guttlebocker,

Defender of Dragons

2. The Copenhagen Affair

Lady Gertrude pushed open the door of the Tercel and pressed the heel and toe of a tall, laced leather boot onto the pavement of the parking lot. As she slid her graceful upper body, clad in an elegant Berengaria gown, out of the doorway, the fair lady was forced to bend backward in a distorted limbo position to keep her steeple headdress attached to her noble crown. At one point, swinging her arms wildly in an attempt to grasp the top of the door for support, her chivalrous husband slammed his door and rushed to her aid, each step accompanied by the thunderous clanking of steel on asphalt.

“Here, my lady, let me help you,” he insisted, wrapping his leather-clad palm and fingers around her flailing hand.

After rescuing his beloved from the clutches of the white Toyota, Sir Gawain lifted the handle on the side of his wife's seat to pop the contraption forward so that his son could climb out as well.

Exiting the vehicle, the boy felt the exhilarating joy of standing back up after the grueling 15-minute drive to the station.

Breathing in deeply, he was greeted with the rich scent of horse manure, coming, no doubt, from the parking spot next to them, where two white stallions stood together, peacefully awaiting the return of their master. Gilbert's father smiled, noticing that the cart behind the twin horses was loaded with Honda tailpipes.

“You see that, my boy?” Gawain asked his son, gesturing towards the loaded cart.

“Yeah,” Gilbert replied. “Are those for Hondas, Dad?”

“They sure are, Gilbert. They sure are.”

Gilbert smiled as well. He wondered what Siberia held in store for him. Would there be carts filled with Honda tailpipes there? Would there be white stallions in parking lots? Would there be 5-speed Toyotas and noblemen in full body armor?

As he looked around the parking lot, his gaze returned to the old Toyota his father had been driving for the last 8 years. It would certainly be a long time before he had the chance to ride in the family car again, he realized. Cramped as it was, he would miss the little thing.

“Dad,” he asked, “how will I get around in Siberia?”

“Well, Gilbert,” his father replied, “you'll live on campus. There won't be much need to go anywhere else. You'll occasionally take a field trip somewhere, but then the school will provide transportation. You should be able to climb to church, and if you need to go somewhere else, you can rent a horse. Or a Llama. I'd recommend the horse though. They're a little more comfortable and don't spit as much.”

“Climb?”

“Excuse me?” his father queried.

“You said I should… climb? To church?”

“Yes, climb. The church is on top of the mountain, Gilbert, like all good holy places ought to be. You'll need to climb the mountain every Sunday morning to get there.”

“Why did they put the church on top of the mountain?” Gilbert asked.

“Well, how else could you climb the mountain to get to the church unless they built the church on top of it? See, Gilbert? Foresight. Planning. That's what it's all about. Come on, let's get your stuff out of the trunk.”

The shining knight stepped around the back of the car and slid his key into the slot in the trunk. With a quick twist, the trunk popped open and revealed Gilbert's luggage, packed for his journey. In his black backpack was a change of clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, dagger, and laptop. Next to it was a locked wooden chest packed with clothing, books, tennis shoes, gold and silver coins, a coiled rope, a toolbelt, and a family photograph. The box was so heavy that the young man could barely carry it on his own.

“Let me help you with that,” his mother offered, taking one of the two side handles protruding from Gilbert's luggage, as Sir Gawain shut the trunk.

Walking back around to the front of the car, Gawain opened the driver's side door again, reached around the seat into the back, and withdrew a rondache and a broadsword. After strapping the shield around his left arm, the knight thrust the sword forward towards the station.

“Onward!” he shouted and began marching toward the entrance.

Lady Gertrude and Gilbert dutifully followed their patriarch, awkwardly lugging the large chest across the parking lot.

“Well,” the lady murmured, “I am glad I didn't wear my heels today.”

Gilbert smiled. He was certain he would miss his parents. His mother's selfless kindness was second only to her love of pastrami. She would always give herself fully to anyone in need, always sacrifice any possession she had, even to the point of death, so long as it didn't involve giving up pastrami. And His father was so noble and kind, so brave and strong, even if he made no sense to Gilbert. The man was industrious and inventive and had such a magnificent suit of armor. Though, Gilbert struggled to recall what he actually looked like under his helmet.

As his father approached the large, glass doors, they immediately slid apart with a swish, allowing him and his hobbling entourage into the enormous station. Inside the building, people were everywhere, walking in every imaginable direction, up, down, left, right, backward, and forward. There was a large gathering of individuals covering the right side of the massive hall, busily congregating at the host of food stands, purchasing snacks, drinks, and even full meals as they awaited the next leg of their journeys.

Eyes enlarged with wonder, Gilbert conceived that the majestic and spacious chamber was little different from an ant colony.

In front of him, on the far side of the concourse, was a staircase that stretched across the entire expanse of the hall, from wall-to-wall. Some sections of it headed up to the viewing area, whilst some headed down to the boarding platforms. Over the staircases were two tabular digital readouts, one of arrivals and one of departures, each with a scheduled time in one column, and an expected time in another column in either red or green, depending on whether or not the expected time was later than it should have been. Each line of data had the ship's status indicated in the last column.

As the boy stared at the sign, taking in all of the marvelous possibilities of destinations around the world, reading every line, and attempting to make some sort of mental connection with the place which was named, the entire station began to gently tremble, as if an earthquake had begun. The tremble quickly grew more powerful, and louder, and louder still, until the word “earthquake” was pathetically insufficient to describe the experience.

The entire building shook beyond imagination, and the thunderous sound was so loud that if Gilbert had screamed at the top of his lungs, absolutely no one would have noticed. People collapsed all around him, one after another falling to the ground, unable to keep their footing. The chest he and his mother carried fell to the floor, its crash unheard. Gilbert's father crumpled, after trying precariously to balance himself against the tumult. His mother's legs also buckled. Finally, Gilbert himself succumbed to the movement of the floor beneath him and the young man dropped to the ground as had so many others before him.

At last, the shaking began to subside, along with the roaring noise that had nearly destroyed the boy's eardrums. As Gilbert looked around, struggling bodies lay awkwardly all around the room, some attempting to get back to their feet, while others waited on the floor to make sure the tremors were really over. Near the food stands, french fries were scattered everywhere, along with hamburgers, hot dogs, slices of pizza, tacos, salads, and every other imaginable type of food. Gallons of grape soda, lemonade, iced tea, and more, drenched not only the floor but also the customers who had purchased them.

Yet, as the softening dull roar was still audible, a dozen men in matching gray, button-up shirts appeared from each corner of the building, each pushing a mop bucket and dragging a wheeled trash can in tow. Within approximately 179 seconds and 32.76 milliseconds, the entire mess was cleaned except for the customers themselves; everyone had been helped back up to their feet; and each customer had been given a free replacement for whatever they had spilled in the preceding chaos. If Gilbert had entered the building at that point instead of a few minutes earlier, he never would have known anything had happened.

“What was that?” Gilbert asked his father.

Sir Gawain pointed a metal finger to the departure sign above the stairs across the concourse. As they watched, toward the middle of the board, the status indicator of a voyage to Copenhagen changed from a yellow 'COUNTDOWN' to a green 'DEPARTED.' “That was a departure, Gilbert. One of the rockets just left.”

As if on cue, an explosion could be heard far enough away that, though it was not at all deafening, it was close enough to be a little concerning. Just moments later, the building shook gently once more. This time, no one fell to the ground. Although it was nowhere near as intense as the first episode, Gilbert still needed to know what was going on.

“What was that?” he asked again.

This time, Sir Gawain merely watched the departure board. The status of the flight to Copenhagen now read, 'EXPLODED.'

“Hmm. I guess that one blew up,” he said, adjusting his helmet slightly.

“Gilbert, would you like a snack before the trip?” his mother asked absent-mindedly, brushing off the front and sides of her gown.

“Or one for during the trip?” Gawain added, undoing and redoing the velcro fasteners that kept his shield attached to his forearm.

But Gilbert's mind was elsewhere. His eyes were fixed on the list of arrivals and departures. From Copenhagen down, the list of departures read like this:

COPENHAGEN	11:27	11:32	EXPLODED
TBILISI	10:57	10:59	DEPARTED
QUETTA	10:31	10:33	EXPLODED
ANANTAPUR	10:03	10:03	DEPARTED
CHENGDU	09:28	09:31	EXPLODED
HARBIN	09:00	09:06	DEPARTED

The list of past arrivals was similar:

KRASNOYARSK	11:15	N/A	EXPLODED
HELSINKI	10:43	10:45	ARRIVED
MUNICH	10:18	10:20	ARRIVED
TANGIER	09:42	N/A	EXPLODED
POINTE-NOIRE	09:13	09:15	ARRIVED

It appeared as though almost half of these trips ended rather unpleasantly for the travelers.

Gilbert suddenly developed a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that cannot be easily described. It was not unlike that feeling you get when your pet monkey throws your fiancé's hand-made wedding cake through the windshield of Mike Tyson's personally restored Ford Model-T only moments before you say, “I do.”

In my defense, dear reader, I should let you know that I have since gotten rid of that particular monkey.

“Sweetie, what do you think?” Gilbert's mother asked him. “How does a taco sound? You do love tacos.”

Gilbert's eyes flitted away from the digital boards and attempted to focus on his mother. He was suddenly having trouble breathing, and his eyesight had become blurry. He stumbled to the wooden chest that rested on the floor where it had been dropped and sat upon it, bending over, placing his head between his knees.

“Gilbert?” his father prompted. “Are you alright, son?”

“He's probably hungry,” Lady Gertrude insisted. “He hasn't had anything since breakfast. I wonder if any of these vendors sell pastrami sandwiches…?”

“I'll get him a couple of tacos,” Gawain declared.

“Good idea. I'll take a pastrami on rye.”

“Two tacos, one pastrami. And I'll have a leg of mutton. Ale?” he asked, sheathing his sword.

“Yes, of course,” his wife smiled. “And pick up a grape soda for Gilbert, dear.”

As the knight clattered toward the food stands, Lady Gertrude stepped nearer to her son and knelt quietly next to him, gently rubbing her hand up and down his back.

“Don't worry, Gilbert. Father will get you a couple of tacos here shortly. And some grape soda.”

“Mom,” Gilbert breathed, lifting his head slightly and turning it toward his mother, “what if my… what if my rocket ship explodes?”

“Well, sweetie,” she began, her motherly tone soothing the troubled young man, “if it explodes after it leaves the building, the floor shouldn't shake too much. We were able to keep standing when the rocket to Copenhagen blew up a minute ago, remember? So, we should be fine. I think it's been a few years since a rocket blew up on the launchpad. But an explosion like that always provides a great opportunity to freshen everything up. Look around at how clean and new everything is! Isn't it beautiful? That's because this entire building is only three or four years old. It never seems to last more than five or six years, which is why it always looks so gorgeous!”

Hyperventilating, Gilbert bent down again.

“Oh sweetie,” his mother said, concern returning to her voice, “the tacos should be here soon! Where is your father? What is he doing?”

She glanced around, attempting to see Sir Gawain in the undulating crowds of people amassed at the food stands. However, his wardrobe being as nondescript as it was, it was rather difficult to find him amidst all of the other knights in full body armor. Gertrude sighed.

“We'll just have to wait till he gets back. Will you be alright Gilbert?”

“Mom,” Gilbert asked between breaths, “what happens… when you die?”

“Oh Gilbert,” she laughed. “You know I've never died! Where do you come up with these silly questions! Now, when you get to Siberia, make sure to call me right away. Text me some photos of where you'll be staying. I want to see everything!”

But Gilbert just sat there, head between his knees, breathing rapidly.

Nervous for her son's welfare, Lady Gertrude began to sing softly.

A boy on a quest;
Into the dragon's nest
He flies with nary a fear.
He aims and he slays
The beast and then prays:
Says Father, I knew you were near.

The cross it protects
All who genuflect,
As did the great Constantine.
But me, I will fly
In the rocket on high
From Siberian forests of green...

Suddenly, the Lady's voice was joined by a stronger and somewhat rowdy baritone, that of Gilbert's father, who was still some distance away, approaching with three greasy bags of fast food in one hand and a cardboard drink holder with styrofoam cups in it in the other.

To return to my home,
Where I'll ne'er stand alone,
For the glory of Empress Pauline!

“Ah, Gilbert, my boy! Want to go upstairs while we eat and watch the rockets get ready for lift-off?”

“Oh, that sounds like a delightful way to spend our last meal together!” his mother exclaimed. “What do you say, Gilbert?”

Gilbert raised his head, displaying beads of sweat on his ashen face to both parents.

“Oh, you don't look so good, sweetie.”

“Here Gilbert, let me help you up to the viewing deck. Then I'll come back and your mother and I will carry your luggage upstairs together,” his father suggested as he placed the food and drinks on the wooden trunk next to the sickly boy.

As Gilbert's father knelt beside him, the boy reluctantly wrapped his arm around the sturdy knight's shoulders. Lifting him, Sir Gawain all but carried his son across the spacious concourse and together they took the stairs upward, one at a time.

When they reached the top, Gilbert gasped.

The second floor was circular in shape. Not like a disc, but like a ring. Circling the massive center of the second floor was a glass wall, floor-to-ceiling, looking into the middle of the vast building. On the other side of the glass, the tips of six colossal rockets stood tall, pointed at the heavens. And there was plenty of room between them for several more.

Sir Gawain helped his ailing son find a seat at one of the numerous round tables available for any travelers and their families that desired to watch the station's rocket ships take off and land with their own eyes. The boy sat down uncomfortably, looking through the glass with an accelerated pulse as panic began to set in.

“I'll be right back,” Gawain told his son, hand on his shoulder. The knight turned around and headed back towards the stairs he had just climbed.

Directly in front of Gilbert was the tip of a rocket that looked like it had seen better days. Much of it was blackened from atmospheric friction, but there was some evidence that the charred cone in front of him had once been a bright, cherry-red color. Though it had numerous rivets visibly holding it together, Gilbert noticed several spots — indentations at least, possibly even holes in the outer shell — where rivets appeared to be completely missing.

Directly beneath the cone was a fluted cylindrical shaft that bore some resemblance to a classical Greek architectural column, or at least, a classical Greek architectural column that had been repeatedly incinerated. The young man observed that some of the fluting had broken off at some point in the past, making portions of the column far smoother than the original design intended.

How could these things possibly be safe? Gilbert asked himself, eyes darting fearfully from the top of the ship to as far down as the window allowed his vision to reach.

“Are you feeling better, sweetie?” Lady Gertrude called from the top of the staircase, where she and Sir Gawain had only just completed hauling Gilbert's trunk up the steps together. “At least you're feeling well enough to sit up now.”

“Mom,” Gilbert answered, raising a finger to point at the decrepit rocket ship in front of him, “look at the rocket.”

“Yes! I know! Isn't it incredible!” she called excitedly, still lugging the heavy chest over towards Gilbert's table. “And we'll be able to watch two or three of them blast off! We might even see some of them land as well! Won't that be fun?”

“Mom,” Gilbert protested, “it's — it's falling apart.”

“Oh!” She turned to her husband. “Do you think that might be why the other one blew up, honey?”

“Hmm, yes. Probably so,” her husband agreed, glancing toward the rocket ship as he bent and released his grip on the chest's handle, allowing the weighty box to slip the last few inches to the floor with a dull thud. He then placed the cardboard drink carrier on the table.

“Yes, Gilbert — that's probably why the other ship exploded. Now, your father got you two hard-shelled tacos. Is that okay?” she asked as she placed the three bags of food on the table next to the drinks. “I know sometimes you prefer the soft ones.”

“I… um…” Gilbert swallowed hard as he realized this may be his last meal. “Hard-shelled is fine, Mom. Thank you for getting it for me, Dad.”

Not only might this be his last meal, but it occurred to him that this might be the last time his parents would ever see him.

“Thank you, Mom. Thank you for helping me with my trunk. You too Dad.”

“Oh, you're welcome, sweetie!” his mother answered joyfully.

“You've been such wonderful parents,” Gilbert continued, beginning to choke up. “I… I… I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“Well, without us you wouldn't exist, Gilbert!” his father interjected, pulling up a seat next to his son. “Speaking of which, I've been meaning to have a little father-son chat with you about… uh… well… um… the uh… differences between… uh… men and women and… uh… birds and bees… uh…”

But the knight's fatherly instructions were cut off by a rapidly increasing thunderous noise as an arriving ship approached the station. Every eye in the vantage hall turned skyward, to the top of the inner window. But Gilbert and his parents were unable to see the ship yet — the roof of the building blocked their view.

Gertrude quickly sat down in one of the chairs that encircled the table.

The noise grew and the building began to shake, subtly at first, but the movement grew quickly until Gilbert and his parents found themselves grabbing hold of their cups and bags of uneaten food so that they would not fall off the table. As the few people around them who were still standing began to lose their balance, gray smoke began to fill the rocket bay, being pushed down from the heavens in the center of the building and then flowing up and out of the bay around the edges, like an upside-down umbrella.

Soon the gray smoke turned to black smoke as the sound grew virtually unbearable. Then the black smoke turned to monstrous jets of white-hot fire.

At last, the bottom of the rocket appeared, slowly, majestically, moving downward.

As Gilbert watched, a piece of one of the rocket's nozzle extensions blew off.