haunt him, and not just him, but the thousands of men, women, and cyborgs under his command.
The officer paused to look out over the densely packed domes collectively known asNaaTown . As darkness fell, he saw squares of buttery yellow light, fingers of dark gray smoke, and the wink of the occasional torch. More than that, his supersensitive nostrils could pick up the odor of incense, burned to cover the smells that emanated from the fort, and the faint scent of slowly drying dooth dung. A valuable source of fuel.
And it was out there, beyond the edge of the slum, that his mother and father, both of whom had served in the Legion, had given up their lives in order to free the fort. The plaque, which he had visited only two days before, bore a single line:
They died that others might live.
Was it colder? A chill ran down his spine. Booly scanned the horizon, watched another two-hour and forty-two minute day come to an end, and turned toward a door. A private held it open. His office awaited as did his work. Plans, requests, appeals, budgets, promotions, reports, and more. All the stuff that he hated . . . but was forced to do.
Booly thought longingly of Maylo, wondered what she was doing, and stepped through the doorway. His responsibilities closed around him.
A staff meeting plus three hours of administrative work passed before Booly rewarded himself with a break He rarely ate in the officers’ mess, preferring the chow hall instead. That’s where the troops were, and while they weren’t about to spill their guts to a general, they didn’t have to. Like most good officers, he could learn a great deal about how the legionnaires felt, what they were thinking, and their general stale of readiness by simply looking at them.
Booty had named Colonel Kitty Kirby to command the fort, and she was tough but fair. She, combined with the efforts of the officers and noncoms who reported to her, had been good for morale. The results could be seen in the way that members of various units sat together, the buzz of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Things had improved a great deal since the mutiny and the bloodshed that accompanied it.
The mess hall featured bright lights, artificially cheerful colors, and odors left from the previous meal. Something that Naa troopers never stopped griping about. When you eat lunch they reasoned, it should smell like lunch, and not like breakfast. Fans had been installed—but the complaints continued. Booly joined the chow line, joked with the cooks, and headed out into the hall. A table of heavily bearded Pioneers started to rise and the officer shook his head. “At ease . .. How ‘bout it. Sergeant? Is there room for one more?”
The legionnaire grinned. “Yes, sir! Watch what you say though. . . we’re talking about sports. Cramer says that Earth is going to win the next powerball playoff—and Rober favors the clones. It could get violent.”
Booly laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” The Pioneers made room—and the hour passed quickly. Booly returned to his office to find a package waiting on his desk. His adjutant turned from a pile of printouts. Her name was Tan. She had served under Cadet Leader Voytan during the battle forLos Angeles , survived, and been posted to Algeron. She had short black hair, serious brown eyes, and quick little hands. “That came while you were away, sir. A cub gave it to one of the sentries and said it was for you.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. The relationship between the Legion and the Naa was complex to say the least. Even as some of the tribes encouraged young warriors to join the organization, others continued to fight it Just as they fought each other. Patrols were subject to ambush, sentries had been killed, and the occasional SLM slammed into the fort. Many of the chieftains would like nothing better than to bag a general. The box could contain anything ... including a bomb.
Tan read his expression and shook her head. “No, sir. The package is clean. I had the demolitions folks check it out.”
Booly nodded his thanks and took a moment to remove the protective wrappings. The gar wood box had been decorated with crudely cut semiprecious stones. Such containers were common among the Naa, and he had seen hundreds of them. But not like this, not with the cap badge of the 13thDBLE
carved into the lid, above the motto:
“Legio patria nostra.” (The Legion is our country.)
Booly had watched his father bum the words into the wood with a laser pen. Then, long after his mother had opened the present, and remarked on how beautiful it was, he had seen it on her dressing table, next to her bed, and on her desk. For this was the box in which Connie Chrobuck kept small treasures. He remembered them welt: one of her mother’s earrings, a rock her son retrieved from a riverbed, a holo of her sister, some small, extremely sharp scissors, and, Algeron being what it was, some stray rounds of ammunition. Those and other things had lived in the box. Now, at long last, they lay before him. The officer turned, discovered that Tan had left the room, and was grateful. Generals weren’t supposed to cry—everybody knew that—but the tears continued to flow.
Booly closed the door, wiped his face with his sleeve, and sat at his desk. Was the box empty? Did it contain the odds and ends she had kept there? Or had they been looted? Or more likely lost? Treated like what most would think they were: junk.
Carefully, lest his suddenly clumsy fingers betray him, Booly opened the box. It was empty, except for his mother’s scent, and a note written in her neat hand. “I knew you would return as surely as a brella must return to its roost. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t born on Algeron, and lack your father’s blood, his mother taught me many things . .. Among them was the importance of a peaceful heart, the beauty that dwells around us, and the way of the Wula sticks.
