“So yes, call me the Leader if you want. But in a few days, when we begin to assign jobs based on your specific skills, each of you will have a title, too. Our doctor and nurses will be known as Healers. Our agricultural experts, those who will raise the crops that will sustain our Family over the long haul, will be called Tillers.”
A man interrupted, “Is this really necessary? It strikes me as absurd.”
“We are all equals, remember. There will be no artificial distinctions in the Home. No presidents, no senators, no kings or queens, and by extension, no commoners or average citizens. We are as the ancient Spartans were, peers. We will honor that equality with titles for each of us.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
Carpenter saw nods and smiles and forged on. “In the days to come I’ll talk mote about how I hope to see our Family organized, with your approval, of course.
“But there is one issue that won’t wait, one we must deal with now for the safety of all.” He paused. “You know about the incident in which our Home was invaded and we losr one of our own. You know that if not for the heroism of Mr. Slayne and Mr.
Anderson, more lives would have been lost.”
Out on the grass, Toril took Soren’s hand in hers and gave him a tender squeeze. Magni grinned and patted his leg. Freya looked troubled.
“The attack has demonstrated a need. I blame myself for Mr.
Richardson’s death. I should have foreseen this contingency.”
Diana Trevor spoke up. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I’m the Leader, aren’t I? It’s on my shoulders.” Carpenter stopped. “But enough of my oversight. What we need is a small group whose sole purpose will be to defend the Home and protect the Family. I believe nine should do to start, but we’ll add more as conditions warrant. In keeping with out new rule about titles, we’ll call them Warriors.”
Someone laughed. “Isn’t that a tad pretentious?”
“No more so than calling me the Leader. And if you’ll recall, the concept of the warrior has a long and noble history. The Spartans I’ve already alluded to. There were the samurai. The Minutemen. Special Forces. I could go on and on. Calling our fighters Warriors is more than appropriate.”
No one disputed him.
“We’re agreed? Good. I hereby choose Patrick Slayne to appoint the team of Warriors. With his military and security background, he is ideally suited to the task.”
A woman raised her hand. “Is that all they’ll do? Fight? What if he picks someone who is one of those Tillers you talked about? Who will fill the Tiller’s shoes?”
“We’ll make do as best we can. The Warriors are crucial to our survival. We can’t just pick people and shove guns in their hands. They’ll need to practice working together, so if and when the Home is attacked, they’ll mesh as a team. If it develops that we don’t need the Warriors to be on alert 24-7, then of course they can perform other duties as required. Does that answer your question?”
The woman nodded.
Carpenter glanced at Slayne. “Patrick, is there anything you’d like to say? Do you want to choose your people now or later?”
Slayne stood. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, and grinned as he said it, “as head of security—pardon me—as a Warrior, I’ll do my best to safeguard the life of every Family member. As we’ve already learned the hard way, the job calls for constant vigilance, and as our Leader pointed out, and Alf Richardson found out too late, it takes more than good intentions. For the Warriors to be effective, they must be true warriors in every sense of the word.
They must be fighting machines.”
“We’re people, not machines,” a woman said.
“Exactly. And because we are living, breathing beings, we tend to make mistakes. We slip up. We don’t pay attention when we should. We forget to do things.” Slayne paused.
“But I ask you to consider that mistakes cost lives. For our Warriors to make as few of them as is humanly possible, they must be carefully selected and just as carefully trained. We’re not talking a few hours of target practice and hand-to-hand combat. No. For our Warriors to best serve and protect, for them to be the best they can be, they must train each and every day. I’ll develop the program myself. We’ll have them hone their skills to where they are the equal of any special ops unit in this country or any other.”
A man coughed. “Aren’t you asking a lot? I mean, I doubt many of us have combat experience.”
“I’ll find out exactly who does and who doesn’t soon enough.
But that’s not all that important. The real issue is that those who become Warriors realize the depth of the commitment they must make.”
“How will you select them?” a woman asked.
“I’ll ask for volunteers. We can’t ever force someone to put their life on the line against their will. Whoever applies must want to do it. They must be willing to fight and die for the Family and the Home. So any of you who feel in your heart that you can make that sacrifice, feel free to see me. After a sifting process, we’ll pick those we deem best suited.”
“We?”
“Our Leader, Diana Trevor and myself. Dr. Trevor, as some of you know, is an eminent psychologist and educator and has a say in all important Home matters.”
A subdued ripple spread, prompting Kurt Carpenter to step forward and say, “Is something the matter?”
A burly man with arms as thick as tree trunks stood. “Sam Richter, Mr. Carpenter. I’m a blacksmith, remember?”
“Call me Kurt. A blacksmith and a weapon smith, as I recall.”
“I’d like to know if you meant what you said about us being equals and peers?” “Of course I did.”
“Then how is it that you and Dr. Trevor and Mr. Slayne, there, get to
