“I just wish… I could have got them all. Y’know? That’s all. But I’m no hero. I’m somethin’… somethin’… that watches over real heroes. But I ain’t one. Okay?”
Rechs studied her for a long moment. Saw she was all out of tears. That she was empty. That she’d given everything to save someone she hadn’t known before it all went down. Only because the person she was trying to save, served. Just like she did.
That was the only reason she’d gone in.
“Wrong,” said Tyrus. And then he opened the old awards case he’d been given so many years ago he’d stopped counting.
He held it out to her.
The Legion’s Order of the Centurion.
The highest award given by the Legion. The end-all that any legionnaire, or service member serving alongside the Legion, can receive. The gratitude of the entire Legion. More dead than living had received it.
He held it out to her.
“You saved my legionnaires,” Rechs repeated. “This is yours now. You earned it.”
Her mouth opened. She reached out when it was clear he would never take it back. And then she held it, studying it.
Tyrus Rechs stepped back and executed a smart salute. The tired, ruined old bounty hunter suddenly became the general of the Legion he’d been so long ago. Always was.
And he held that salute until—cautiously, unbelievingly—the tiny little marine sergeant, dust-covered, bloody, beaten, and hollow, saluted back.
“You didn’t forget nothin’,” said Tyrus Rechs.
* * *
Rechs found the legionnaire Puncher in the Crow’s lounge, kneeling in front of his dog. Rubbing the dog’s furry chest.
“Gotta go now, Leej,” said Rechs from the darkness. Studying the legionnaire’s fine latest-gen armor. Remembering those he’d known who’d worn it. For a moment he could feel something, like old ghosts coming to stand around him.
Puncher stood and turned.
“Yeah, well, we got a problem, Mr. Rechs.”
“Just Rechs,” said Tyrus. “What’s the problem?”
“My dog, this here is Baldur…” The leej stepped aside and Rechs could now see the Malinois who’d leapt through the dust and saved his life in the middle of the firefight. Twice.
Baldur looked at Rechs. Head straight on. Dark eyes staring into the old general. Rechs could almost feel the dog’s mind reaching out and trying to touch his. He knew of the telepathy program from his Legion days.
He’d known other dogs like this one.
“Problem is,” continued Puncher. “He says he has to go… with you, now.”
Rechs shook his head.
“I don’t…”
“He’s been pretty stubborn, sir, this one has,” Puncher said. “Since I started working with him. Yeah. He’s a stubborn one.”
“Okay. So make him go.”
“Won’t take, Rechs. And… believe me, I’m gonna catch hell for losing him. I dunno if you know anything about the breed, but, well… there’s a lot more to them than people think. They believe they got this greater purpose in the galaxy. They’re just working with us because we have common cause. Straight out of the dog’s mind and any handler will tell you the same. I know… weird. But he’s pretty serious.”
“How so?” asked Rechs. Studying the dog who seemed to be studying him back just as intently.
“He says…” Puncher took a deep breath. “He says you’re looking for somebody. Somebody important. Or dangerous. Or both. He’s a little vague on that. Just says ‘real bad.’ He says he’s got to help you find this person. It’s his… uh… his purpose. And I don’t like it. I like him. A lot. Best dog I ever worked with. Not the easiest, but the best. Like me. Know what I mean?”
Rechs did.
“Hell, I can go AWOL, I’ve done it before, and go off lookin’ with the both of you. But… he ain’t goin’ back with me. Says he’s found you. Says… you need him.”
Rechs stared at the dog.
“That true?” asked Puncher after a moment. “You lookin’ for somebody that fits his weird idea?”
Rechs nodded. “I am.”
Puncher lowered his head.
“Thought so. Damn dog is always right.” His voice had gone low and raspy. Like he was fighting back some ocean of inevitability. Losing a best friend forever.
That’s the sound, Rechs thought to himself, of saying goodbye… when you don’t want to.
He knew it well.
The legionnaire’s voice was quiet. Sad. “I’ll… just get a new dog then,” he said, turning to Baldur. Trying to be angry. “One that ain’t crazy.”
The Malinois cocked his head to the side, looking up at the sad legionnaire. Puncher seemed to hear something Rechs didn’t.
“Okay,” murmured Puncher. “Maybe when I get out… I’ll… I’ll find you both. Okay? Help look for this important-dangerous person.”
The legionnaire got down on one knee, rubbed the dog’s chest, ears… all the places Baldur loved.
“You sure?” he whispered to the dog one last time.
And then, after a moment, Puncher stood, gave the dog and Tyrus Rechs one last look, and left the ship.
Rechs heard the strike of an armored glove smashing into a bulkhead on the way out.
Shortly thereafter, the Obsidian Crow lifted off the hangar deck of the Castle and vanished into hyperspace.
EPILOGUE
Palm fronds shake in the predawn dark across the estate. Here on Pthalo it will be another perfect day, as all days on the renowned pleasure world are. Storms are rare. Unpleasantnesses, like cast-aside mistresses, and those whose credit has run out, are also rare. And always easily handled by crack teams of professional security protecting every estate across the world.
Some have suggested that Pthalo itself is the most heavily militarized planet in the galaxy. When you really think about it. Add up all those personal security details and off the books it has the largest standing army in the galaxy. All the muscular boys and girls with real-world skills wearing the latest in dress and athleisure, strapping sophisticated weapons packages. Ready and willing to protect the elite who must be protected. Maintain the walls that must be maintained. Invisible and real. If only to keep the hordes out.
Here in the predawn dark, before another perfect
