what's wrong with him?' Parilla asked of the medico in attendance.
'Bare minimum, complete exhaustion,' the doctor answered. 'What other problems he may have will take a while to figure out and treat. A nervous breakdown is possible.'
At McNamara's order, four of the men escorting picked up the litter and carried it first to the exit way, then down the long flight of debarkation steps to the tarmac below. There the litter was placed in an ambulance which drove slowly and carefully to a Legion NA-23, parked nearby.
Punta Cocoli, Isla Real
Marqueli and Jorge, and about seventy thousand others, watched the plane come in on the old military strip at the curved, northern point of the island.
The NA-23 cargo plane, in the colors of the Legion and with a picture of Jan Sobieski's Winged Hussars painted on the side, landed on the airstrip on the Isla Real, then turned and taxied to the terminal. There it stopped and lowered its ramp.
Virtually the entire population of the island—over thirty-five thousand soldiers, plus their wives and children—lined the fence at the edge of the airfield or found a spot along the road that led from there to the rest of the island.
Four of the people waiting were Jorge Mendoza, his lovely wife, Marqueli, and their two children. Another child was on the way; Marqueli's belly being impressively swollen.
Jorge's thesis was now the text for a course he taught at Signifer and Centurion Candidate Schools. The basis of the thesis and of the course was an Old Earth bit of science fiction written by a man known to Terra Novans only as RAH, a translation of which Carrera had had printed. Both thesis and course were entitled, 'History and Moral Philosophy.'
'This doesn't look good, Jorge,' Marqueli said after the plane had lowered its rear ramp. 'He can't walk . . . or isn't, anyway. They're carrying him on a litter, with my cousin walking beside. It looks like a funeral procession.' The woman began to sniffle.
'It'll be okay,' Mendoza said. 'Old bastard is too tough to die on us . . . especially when we need him so badly now.'
Carrera was carried down the ramp and placed on the back of a flatbed truck. Lourdes and Parilla had wanted another closed ambulance but the Sergeant Major had insisted, 'No . . . rumors are flying everywhere. Let t'em see he's . . . basically . . . . all right . . . t'at he just needs a long rest. He would want t'at.'
Marqueli wasn't the only one beginning to tear up. Jorge whispered, 'He was my commander. I can't say I liked him, or that many of us did. But we
Women began to weep as the flatbed moved away. What would happen to them and their husbands and families now? Carrera had given employment and care, had given meaning to lives. What did the future hold for them? What about the coming war? Children cried as their mothers did.
With their women and children, the men, too, began to shed tears. This was their commander, the man who had led them to victory upon victory. Would he return to them, return to continue the great war on which they had all embarked? If not, would his like ever be found again? A hard man and a harsh one they knew him to be. Did not the times themselves demand hardness and harshness?
The flatbed moved to the guarded gate to the airfield. Now they could truly see him and the weeping redoubled. Guards lining both sides of the road kept the surging crowd back. The cries grew:
'Give us our commander! Give us our
Something touched Carrera. Where wife and family had not moved him, or not enough, the tears of his men and their women did. From under a draping sheet a single arm emerged and was held straight up.
At the end of the arm was a clenched fist.
Epilogue
The minstrel boy will return one day,
When we hear the news, we will cheer it.
The minstrel boy will return we pray,
Torn in body, perhaps, but not in spirit.
Then may he play his harp in peace,
In a world such as Heaven intended,
For every quarrel of Man must cease,
And every battle shall be ended.
--Anonymous,
Cochea, Balboa, 11/7/471
Flames arose from torches on the green.
Lourdes had not been invited. 'Love, in this one thing, you cannot be witness,' Carrera had told her.
Her eldest was there, the boy Hamilcar Carrera-Nunez. The boy was wide eyed, half at the spectacle and half at being led kindly by the hand by his father. They walked along a path marked with the flaming torches towards the marble obelisk that marked the grave—though it was more memorial than grave, really—of his dead siblings and their mother.
Before moving to the memorial Carrera had shown the boy pictures of Linda and their children, explaining their names and telling him stories about them in life. He'd also told the boy how they'd been murdered.
'That's why I spent so much time away from home, Son,' the father explained, 'hunting down the men responsible.'
'I understand, Dad,' the boy said.
Perhaps he did, too. He was a bright lad, extremely so. Carrera expected great things of him.
Around the obelisk were several close friends: Kuralski, Soult and Mitchell, as well as Parilla. Jimenez, McNamara and Fernandez were in Pashtia, Jimenez commanding the field legion in Carrera's absence. Those present were uniformed and stood at parade rest as Carrera led the boy forward by the hand.
Soult brought out a bible, which he handed to Carrera. Releasing Hamilcar's little hand, the father knelt down beside him, holding out the book and saying, 'Place your left hand on this and raise your right. Now repeat after me.'
'I, Hamilcar Carrera-Nunez . . . '
'I, Hamilcar Carrera-Nunez . . . '
' . . . swear upon the altar of Almighty God . . . '
' . . . swear upon the altar of Almighty God . . . '
' . . . undying enmity and hate . . . to the murderers of my brother and sisters . . . and the murderers of their mother, my countrywoman . . . and to the murderers of all my country folk . . . and to those that have aided them . . . and those that have hidden them . . . and those who have made excuses for them . . . and those that have funded them . . . . and those who have lied for them . . . wherever and whoever they may be . . . and whoever may arise to take their places. I swear that I will not rest until my fallen blood is avenged and my future blood is safe. So help me, God.'
'Very good, Son,' Carrera said, handing the bible back to Soult and ruffling Hamilcar's hair affectionately. 'Now we are going to have dinner with my friends, back at the house. The day after tomorrow we go back to getting ready for the next war.'
Afterword
Warning: Authorial editorial follows. Read further at your own risk. You're not paying anything extra for it so spare us the whining if your real objection is that it is here for other people to read. If you are a Tranzi, and you read this, the author expressly denies liability for
