Free No Sorrow Like Separation (The Commander Book 5) by Randall Farmer

getting him to improve it.
    “Outside,” Keaton said.  She had her emotions locked down tight, which made Gilgamesh tense.
    The elder Arm had set up a huge picnic dinner on a patio overlooking the ocean.  The setting reeked of formality, down to the good china in use, china Gilgamesh had washed too many times.  Keaton was an excessively disciplined person, and she had put work into teaching Gilgamesh the same.
    “Ma’am, if I may ask, what’s the occasion?” Gilgamesh said.  Carol sat down, quiet, following a pattern that started after her visit to Focus Rodriquez.  She wandered, lost in her own head, remembering, thinking, emoting, planning and recovering.
    “Eat first.  Talk later.”
    So they ate at the wrought iron patio table and enjoyed Carol’s exquisite preparations.  He relaxed a little as he ate, again thinking about how his time as an Arm pet hadn’t been anything like he had feared.  Of all things, his time with Keaton reminded him of his time in Philadelphia, although the emphasis here in this grouping was on the practical, not the theoretical.  Special, none the less.
    The moon rose in the east, four days past full.  As Major Transforms, this provided more than enough light for all of them.
    “Perfect,” Keaton said.  “I’ve made a decision.  Gilgamesh, the Crow powers-that-be have given you a mission.  It’s time you started on it.”
    Just like that, his Arm pet days were over.  “Thank you, ma’am.”
    “You may not thank me in a moment.”  She turned to Carol.  “You are not to help Gilgamesh on his mission.”
    “What?” Carol said, half standing.  Enraged.  “Who are you to say what I can or…”
    Keaton was on Carol in a flash.  Pleased, happier than Gilgamesh had ever metasensed her.  The elder Arm picked Carol up and went full predator.  Gilgamesh practiced his chanting, his latest trick for handling inadvertent Arm induced panic.  Damn but he had so many occasions to practice it.
    “Respect,” Keaton said, edging over into the Skinner.
    Carol, held in the air by the much shorter elder Arm (a strange sight to behold in the best of circumstances) paled in terror.  “I apologize, ma’am.  I won’t lose control again.”
    “Damn straight you won’t,” the Skinner said, and put Carol down.  Carol groveled and apologized some more.  The Skinner grew tired of Carol’s ministrations three minutes later and aimed a swift kick at Carol’s head.  Carol twitched out of the way, still humbled and groveling.  A moment later she stood up into a half bow, then carefully took her seat.
    Rituals, Gilgamesh realized.  At least half of what he had sensed the Skinner do to Tiamat in Philadelphia had been rituals, not random egregious torture sessions.  The grovel followed by the swift kick at Carol’s head had clearly happened dozens of times before.  He even faintly sensed juice in the ritual.
    “Ma’am, may I have permission to ask a question?” Tiamat said.  After the ritual, or during it, she had slipped over into her Tiamat-hood.
    “This is a night for questions.”
    The juice in Keaton’s statement shivered the air, but it didn’t panic him.  He was in this gang, not outside.  Which, he predicted, was likely at the core of what happened here tonight.
    “Why are you separating Gilgamesh and I?” Tiamat asked.  She paused and tacked on a belated “Ma’am,” a carefully calculated pause.  Not quite an insult, but as close as possible without the actual insult.
    This was true Arm social behavior.  Gilgamesh put some work into remembering every nuance here, physical, psychological, and juice.  This he must remember.  He had been full up on juice for so long he didn’t even worry about using the juice any more.  He would, soon, if he was off without Carol, he realized.
    “You’ve grown emotionally dependent on him.”
    “I thought that’s what you wanted, ma’am.”
    “I did.  Until now.  But you’re nearly recovered, and in my