Carnifex

better if I do what I do in the field; watch but almost never let them know I'm watching. Something to consider, anyway. And, then, too, what the hell is the point of watching something once every two years? I don't know that there is any. Do I get a picture, or just a false picture?

As Carrera turned his sedan into the parking lot for Quarters #2, he sighed to himself. This garrison crap is a new playing field and I probably still have things to figure out. I wish . . . 

He didn't finish the thought. Had he, it would have been, I wish I could go back to the war.

Carrera eased the car under the columned carport to the right side of the white-painted quarters. Once underneath, he stopped the car with a gentle touch on the brakes, turned it off, and exited. Hearing the door close, Jinfeng, the trixie, stuck her brightly feathered head out from a bush and screeched a welcome.

It was eighteen steps along the side and front of the wraparound porch—like the porte cochere, also columned—to the centrally located front door. He'd not had the Legion skimp on anybody's family quarters, and his was nearly eleven thousand square feet on three floors. He didn't need it. Lourdes didn't need or want it and slightly resented having to have domestic help to keep the place up. But there were social obligations that went with command and some of those social obligations involved space. A full half of the first floor was a ballroom and industrial kitchen. Even that was only just big enough to accommodate the occasional dinners he threw for senior legates, their sergeants-major, and their wives.

The household kitchen was much smaller and cozier. He found Lourdes there, hunched over a computer, ordering supplies from the main commissary. Although Legion pay was generous by local standards, it didn't necessarily permit two cars, or even one, per family. He'd made arrangements for a local company to provide a delivery service. For some it was a necessity. For others, like Lourdes, it was a damned nice to have convenience.

Carrera's steps were catlike, virtually silent. It wasn't anything he tried to do; in fact, he'd tried to cure himself of it since it tended to give people unpleasant shocks when he materialized behind him. Lourdes didn't know he was even standing behind her until she felt his hands cup her breasts. She immediately inhaled sharply and leaned her head back against his waist, near his groin.

'Coffee, breakfast, or me?' she asked.

'You.'

'Good, because coffee would make a real mess on the bed.'

* * *

She knew he wouldn't be long. Even on those rare mornings when he came home after physical training he was invariably out the door by 08:15. That left her perhaps half an hour to enjoy the post- coital nearness of her man. Over the last two years, ever since she'd turned up pregnant in Sumer with their second child and he'd put his foot down and insisted she go home where she and the children would be safe, opportunities to be together had been all too infrequent.

Infrequent! She mentally snorted. A couple of weeks twice a year. No, less than that; one year he didn't come home for eight months. Then there was this last Christmas.

And now? Now he's home for a while. Maybe it will be a long while. But it won't—she felt a tear begin to form; she stifled a sniffle—it won't be forever.

The thing is, and the tear rolled across the bridge of her nose and then down the cheek on the other side, that he leaves me because he has to avenge her. He still loves her. More than he does me? I don't know . . . probably. He must because he leaves me even though that will never bring her and her children back.

Then, too, why do I love him. Because the little DNA analyzer in behind my nose tells me he's a good genetic match? Probably . . . . somewhat. Because he's rich and powerful? No, he wasn't either of those things when we met. Because he's good looking? He isn't all that good looking.

No, it isn't any of those things, or not them entirely, anyway. I think it's . . . because he has honor. Honor? What a rare concept now. Who can even agree on what it means anymore? It's not what it once was, in the olden days back on Earth or the early days here, when it was all appearance only. A man was honorable if he had high repute, never mind if he deserved it or not. A woman could screw half the world but, so long as no one ever found out, she was honorable.

No, Patricio has honor inside. He doesn't care what the world thinks of him. He knows what's right. He knows that it's not right to turn the other cheek to a movement of homicidal maniacs, and he does what he can to fight it.

2/5/467 AC, Mendoza residence, Avenida Central, Ciudad Balboa

Marqueli's little hands shook as she opened the envelope from the Legion's higher education board. What it would do to Jorge if his thesis proposal were not accepted . . . she didn't know and was afraid even to think about it.

They must accept. They must. What Jorge wants to do, it's important. Carrera sees that. And even though Jorge's blind, he sees more clearly than anyone with sight.

She inhaled, exhaled, and then forced herself to open the envelope.

The contents were printed on very nice paper; she could feel it in her fingertips. Still not daring to unfold the letter, she wondered, Do they waste good paper on rejections?

With trembling finger she began to unfold. As soon as her eyes reached the line, 'We are pleased to inform you . . . ' she shouted, 'Jorge!'

* * *

She hadn't needed to shout. Since losing his eyesight Jorge had, like many of the sightless, developed remarkably keen hearing. Still, half the joy of the thing was listening to Marqueli's little feet dancing around their small, Legion-provided, apartment in the city. They'd been assigned those quarters when Jorge had entered the BA program for disabled legionary veterans. They would remain in it as part of the new program. The building was both near the University of Balboa and more than large enough to accommodate the eighteen disabled PhD candidates, six per year at a standard three years per course of study. At seven floors with four apartments for each of the top six floors, it could have held twenty-four families.

The apartments weren't huge, each having a small kitchen, combination living and dining room, two decently-sized bedrooms and a small office. Each also had a balcony looking towards the campus. There was an elevator that ran from the parking lot, which was in a stilted area beneath the building, to the top floor. They were furnished, if sparsely, and, all in all, could have been called 'comfortable.' Since all but one of the candidates was anything from disabled to severely disabled, the building was modified for handicap accessibility. The bottom floor was devoted to an academic advisor, on one side, and a 'club' on the other.

For the most part the first six doctoral candidates selected had been free to choose their own subjects. That is to say, those selected were those who wished to study and write on something Carrera wanted written. One candidate would write on 'Combat Ecology,' which had absolutely nothing to do with the natural environment but would deal instead with the way social factors, technology, doctrine and tactics fed upon each other and caused each other to develop, often in odd ways. Other candidates wanted to explore subjects like 'Command in War,' 'Technology in War,' 'Organizing for War,' and 'Supplying War.' (That last candidate was a former supply clerk who'd lost both legs in Sumer to an improvised explosive device.) Jorge's proposal, 'History and Moral Philosophy,' had also been accepted.

Jorge sat on the Legion-provided sofa in the living room. He'd been at his desk, braille-reading a text on Old Earth's ancient Rome, when he'd heard Marqueli's shout.

He couldn't see to read the damned letter, of course; Marqueli had had to read it to him. (Well, that was her job. The Legion also hired the spouses at a small stipend of one hundred and ten FSD a month to be 'assistants' to their husbands. It helped defray the greater expense of living in the city and without making the relatively simple finance and accounting system of the Legion del Cid any more complex than necessary. The one candidate who was unmarried was also given a girl-hire. They would soon be sleeping together.) Still, Jorge Mendoza sat with the letter held lightly but firmly in his hands. The letter made the dream real.

Now I can do some good. Now I can be heard, he thought.