Harold Cynbel carried Lark’s sleeping form back to the bus.
Conan fell in step beside him. “Sir, are you all right?” He nodded to some burn marks on Harold’s suit and to where Lark had struck him with her fevered flailing.
“The suit did its job,” Harold said. “I might have a few bruises, but nothing a little time won’t cure. She was close enough that her hits didn’t have very much momentum behind them.”
“It’s a good thing you had the suit programmed in the nano-cloth. Not knowing what to expect made preparations difficult.” Conan sighed.
Harold gave him an understanding smile. The Spur Corps was Conan’s most important command, and it came with unprecedented difficulties. “We’ll stop at the river. It means we won’t get much farther today, but I don’t want to be close to anyone until she
